Forbidden To Want. JC Harroway

the seat, holding me prisoner a short distance away from his mouth, which I want back on me. My breast, my lips, anywhere that helps to slake the burning need he’s unleashed so effortlessly.

      ‘Is this what you want?’ The bulge at the front of his trousers tells me he wants it too, despite the harshness of his tone. Despite his stupid Wednesday rule.

      ‘Yes.’ I’ve never been more turned on in my life. Perhaps it’s the dress and the glamour of Kit’s London and limo. Perhaps it’s a comedown from the elevated adrenaline I’ve suffered since my plane touched down in this foreign city, a place I’m tied to through family, both biological and real. Perhaps it’s just Kit, as sexy as sin in his tux—impersonal, unreachable, the ultimate in temptation.

      With an impatient grunt, he slides his fingers between my legs. His hooded eyes command my stare, which wants to hide from his brooding, detached perusal. But a pulse hammers in his neck, he’s steel between my legs and his chest works hard, I suspect to stave off a similar light-headedness to that currently rendering me incoherent.

      ‘Fuck. No underwear?’ He probes my slickness, this time with a gentleness I’d have denied he was capable of two minutes ago.