He didn’t shave today, and his stubble scrapes the tender skin of my inner thighs, contrasting sharply with the soft sweep of his tongue over my clit. He slides his hands under my ass and pulls me against his face. I have to lean back on one hand to steady myself, but the other goes to his hair. I take a fistful as my hips lift off the table, climbing toward pleasure without my consent.

He looks up at me through thick lashes as he slides his finger inside me for the first time. My body instantly squeezes around him, and I pull back, resisting the pleasure that steals my control.

“Don’t. Don’t quit on me now,” he whispers. “I’m not leaving this room until I’ve made you come.” As he slides another finger inside me to join the first, he lowers his lips to my clit and sucks.

Closing my eyes, I throw my head back and surrender to his lips and tongue on my clit, his fingers fucking me and making me crave something more, something deeper. Climbing, climbing, until—“Stop.”

I stumble back onto the table, away from his mouth and touch.

When he looks at me, his honey eyes have gone dark. “Where do you think you’re going?”

My breathing is shallow and ragged, and my body is completely unsatisfied. I swallow hard. “I was afraid I might scream.”

He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against him, guiding me off the table and to my feet. My breasts press against his chest, and his erection presses into my stomach through his jeans.

He lets out a gravelly moan. “We can’t have that.”

“Sorry.”

He cocks a brow. “You think I’m done with you?” He skims his lips down my neck, that rough stubble scraping my skin. “You can scream later, but right now I need you to come quietly. Turn around.”

The little piece of my brain that had me backing away from him moments again disintegrates as he spins me in his arms and bends me over the table. His hand snakes up my shirt, tracing the length of my spine down to my ass, all the way to my center. His cock nudges my entrance, and I arch my back instinctively to give him the right angle.

“You make me lose my mind,” he whispers.

He places his fingers over my mouth in a reminder of our need for silence. Then he slides inside me, and when I want to scream, I bite instead, tasting the salt of his flesh as he drives into me from behind.

He keeps one hand on my hip, guiding me with each thrust. I look over my shoulder, and he’s watching us where are bodies are joined.

His hand loosens its hold, and I draw his finger between my lips, tasting, biting, sucking. He thrusts harder and I meet him, stroke for stroke until he pulls his hand from my mouth and finds my clit with his wet fingers.

I bite down on my own arm to keep from crying out as my orgasm slams into me. Seconds later, he comes with a violent thrust.

I rest my head on my forearms, catching my breath, and feel him withdraw.

When I turn back around he’s zipping his jeans, his lips twisted into a mischievous grin.

I find my jeans and hurry into them. I’m being reckless. I’d probably lose my job if Sabrina knew what we just did. “Are you done with me now?”

The grin falls away, and he cups my face in his hands. “I could never be done with you, Rowdy.”

Chapter 18

Liz

I don’t want to be watching as Sabrina Guy and Samuel Bradshaw choose an engagement ring. Unfortunately, the event has been picked up by one of the national morning talk shows, and watching has been deemed relevant to my job. So here I sit in a room with half a dozen other staffers watching as cameras follow the “couple” into a jewelry store, as if their choice of ring were as important to our talking points as Christine’s position on matters of foreign policy.

Just yesterday, Sam was stripping me in the conference room. Today he’s on national television, buying another woman a ring. Sleeping with him while he’s pretending to be engaged to my boss’s daughter is worse than risky. It’s foolish.

Sam looks handsome this morning. I’m sure someone told him exactly what to wear and exactly how much to spend and exactly how close he’s supposed to be to Sabrina. I’m sure someone told him how much he’s supposed to smile, practiced the best way for him to look thoughtful, and happy, and relieved that his secret romance is out there in the world. But none of that changes the fact that my heart aches when I see him on the TV screen, grinning at another woman.

None of that changes the fact that I still wish that smile were being directed at me.

“Thank you so much for letting us tag along this morning,” the journalist says. They’re in a limo in front of Tiffany’s in New York City. “I imagine you two have had quite a week.”

Sam and Sabrina exchange a look, and he chuckles softly.

“You can say that again,” Sabrina says. She’s wearing a blue dress—something modest and perfectly cut for her figure. She looks sexy and classy all at once. I’m sure the idea was to make it clear that this isn’t some floozy wild-child daughter of a politician. Her outfit is all about understated sexiness.

“So have you two looked at rings before?” the journalist asks.

“We have,” Sabrina says. She grins at Sam. “He’s got good taste, so I have no doubt he would have picked out something I loved.”

“But she should have exactly what she wants,” Sam says. “Which brings us here.”

I can’t tear my eyes from the screen as they go into the store, his arms wrapped around her shoulders.