by Stacey Lynn
She walks to my desk, fingertips running along the edge of it until she’s at the side, within touching distance. I slide into the desk to hide the erection I’m starting to sprout. Long, sexy legs that go on for miles, nipples hardening beneath her pale blue shirt—I could reach out and yank her right into my lap and hold her against me.
“You okay? You’ve been in here awhile.” Her voice is so quiet, melodic, as if she doesn’t want to disrupt the air around us. And her eyes are narrowed. Worried.
For me.
“I will be. Had some things with work to take care of.” Like walking away from my destiny. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “What are you doing here?”
I stop resisting what I feel for her and reach out, brushing the back of my hand down her thighs. Goosebumps pebble on her soft flesh and she gasps. She doesn’t jump and run, which is a good sign.
“I was worried about you, wanted to see how you were doing before I went to bed.”
“I’ll be good, Teagan.” I look up at her. The worry is still vivid in her brown eyes, but there’s something else there now, too. Something like desire. And I can definitely work with that.
I run my knuckles back up her thigh, grazing her flesh. Her breath quickens, lips part.
Yeah, she wants me.
I’m tired of holding back.
I stop running my hand up her leg and wrap my hand around the top of her thigh. She gasps again, eyes darting to my hand on her and then back to me. “Is that the only reason you came to see me? Just to check on me?”
Her breath catches and she swallows slowly.
I wait a beat, then two. I’ll give her four before I push her away.
My body is buzzing, blood heating, rock-hard cock pounding against my zipper. If she doesn’t want me, she has to get out of here.
“Corbin,” she says, and it’s a plea. A question.
I push away from the desk, slide my chair in front of her, and grab her hips, sitting her on the corner of my desk so I can move in between her spread legs.
And holy shit. Her shorts are so short I can see everything. She’s not wearing panties.
And she’s wet.
“You wet for me?” I ask, my gaze on her thighs, the seam of her shorts, the trimmed tuft of hair I can see hiding her most private places.
I like the fact she’s not shaved bare. Different, but simple, like her.
My fingertips ache with need to touch, my mouth to taste. My dick to feel.
Jesus.
I look up at her. “If you don’t want this, don’t want what I’m about to do to you in a few seconds, you have to get out of here.”
Her cheeks are flush, eyes dilated. Her chest is heaving and her nipples tight points almost begging for me to wrap my mouth around them and suck. Hard.
“What are you going to do to me?”
She’s breathless. Hoarse voice that declares her need and desire.
“Mine.” I all but growl like the savage beast I am. “I’m going to make you mine.”
Chapter 20
Teagan
I’d been in bed for hours before I came down to Corbin’s office. After he disappeared behind the door, I tried watching television. Found a silly romantic comedy on Netflix that did nothing to distract me.
When it ended, I went upstairs and took a long, soaking bubble bath. The warmth didn’t relax me. The scent of lavender and chamomile did nothing to calm me. And once I climbed into bed, I was no longer able to distract myself from what I really want.
Corbin Lane.
I want his body and his hands. I want his smiles and his gentle touches. I want his arrogance and playfulness. I want to spend hours sitting in the rocking chair Eleanor used and read while he works on his passion. I want his mornings and his nights.
I want him. The man I see when he’s not in front of the cameras. I want his frustration, and most of all, I want to be the one he turns to for comfort on shitty days and bad nights with his mom. I want to be the one with whom he can unleash his anger about his dad, the burning hatred he has for the man whose seed created him and neglected him.
I want everything.
Now, in his office, his “Mine” echoing in my ears, I’m terrified.
I’d given my heart to a man who ended up tossing it to the side when it no longer suited his purposes, and a part of me is worried Corbin will do the same.
The other part, the louder part, is screaming at me to take the risk.
I’ve never been a risk taker, but with Corbin’s intense gaze on me, and the heat pouring off him, it doesn’t seem like much of a risk at all.
I cover his hands on my waist with mine, relaxing in the moment.
I’m already wet for him and he’s seen it. There’s no use hiding it. It has nothing to do with the fact I haven’t had sex in months, but everything to do with the man in front of me.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, amazed I can sound confident and at ease.
My body is pulled tight like a live wire, electricity buzzing through my veins with desperate need.
“When it comes to you, I’ve had over a hundred different visions of you naked.”
His truth makes me gape at him. And he grins up at me, a sexy smirk I’ve seen on the cover of tabloid magazines in the grocery store checkout aisle, but now I know what’s different about them. When Corbin smiles for the camera, his eyes are blank, a perfunctory smile with no emotion.
There’s emotion in his eyes now. Hot, flaming need, and it’s for me.
Yes.
I lick my lips, opening my mouth to speak, to ask which one he’d like tonight, when he stands, fingertips pressing in just above my hips.
“I want you in my bed. For the whole night.”
“Anything you want, Corbin.”
His forehead drops to mine and we stay like this, his hands on me, his forehead pressing against mine. Our breathing is heavy, and I run my hands up his arms, feeling his strength and tension.
I mean it. I’ll give him anything he wants. I only hope he returns the sentiment.
“We have to move if you want me in your bed,” I tease.
“I know. Are you sure you want me?” He kisses my forehead and pulls back, gaze close enough I can see my reflection in his eyes. “I don’t want to take anything from you you’re not willing to give, and this isn’t pretend, Teagan. Everything I’m feeling for you right now is more real than anything I’ve ever felt.”
His words slash through me and I surrender. To him. To us. To everything I want that runs deeper than signed names on a contract.
This isn’t for show. We’re past that.
My hand settles on his chest, over the pounding of his heart, racing beneath his dress shirt.
I pull my gaze off his chest and meet his eyes. “It’s real for me, too.”
He heaves a deep breath and lifts me, and I’m forced to wrap my legs around his hips to hold on.
He slides one hand to cup my ass, the other onto the back of my neck, and I’m so close to him, bodies pressed together, no hesitancy, no alcohol and no anger affecting this moment, I press my lips to his throat and kiss him.
“Jesus,” he groans as I slide my lips up his throat, to his jaw. My eyes close and I lose myself in the feel of him, his scent of fresh air and forests, which I now know is from so much work done around wood.
It’s not even cologne, it’s just him and his passion that’s as alive as his racing pulse beneath my lips at his ear.
He carries me up the stairs and down the hallway to his room, passing mine, and I barely notice before he’s laying me down on his bed, covering me.
My hips are moving, legs spread wide, and my center is soaking. I arch, searching for him, for comfort, when he untangles his hands from beneath me to cup my cheek.
“God, you’re beautiful. I stepped out of my car when you hit me and thought I was seeing an angel.”
His thumb presses against my lips, preventing me from speaking, but there’s no time before hi
s mouth descends and I press my hands to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
He swipes his lips over mine and I am gone. Done for. This is not the kiss we shared in the car on the way to the gala. This is not like the kiss we shared in his workshop where we lost ourselves for a moment in frenzied passion.
His kiss is slow and it feels like he’s savoring the taste of me as his tongue licks my lips, tasting me like I’m his most succulent dessert.
I open to him, widen my legs and wrap them around his hips. He presses his hips against my center and I gasp at the sensation of him. He’s completely covering me, giving me his weight, and our kiss turns heavier, his hands sliding down my body as he leans back and pushes my shirt up.
Raising my arms above my head, I breathe out, amazed at this man touching me in such a gentle way. His hands tremble, as if the gentleness he’s showing me is costing him everything. He discards my top, tosses it to the floor and grazes his hand down my side, thumb brushing over the side of my breast, but his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, are fixed on me.
“I want to be gentle,” he says in a guttural voice, as if the words are being ripped from his throat against his control. “I want to be kind and sweet, but I want to be rough and wild, and I’m having a hard time remaining in control right now.”
Wow. I want it all. Hard and gentle. Soft and rough. Slow and frantic.
My chest heaves, thinking of all the things we can do, but everything he describes is beautiful. Perfect because it’s him, this enigmatic man who wants me.
“I want you however you come,” I whisper.
He blinks and shakes his head once, bending down to kiss me while his hand smooths the expanse of my stomach, running up to my breasts. “You mean that. You’d take me, however I came, wouldn’t you? Even if I wasn’t a millionaire. You’d take me if I lived in the slums and barely had two pennies to my name.”
He’s gutting me, pain in his voice and desire in his eyes, and it’s all a beautiful, ugly combination baring the torture he’s dealing with. The pain of his mom and his father and the weight of everything that belongs to him and his passionate woodworking that fits into none of it. And shit. Yes. I’ll take him however he comes, as long he comes to me at the end of the day.
“Please,” I say, my hands falling to the hem of his shirt. I tug on it, lifting it as far as I can and running my fingers along his muscled and thick abs as I do.
Beautiful and thick and carved, a man who works out and works. His body is honed, but not purely with the grace of a man who spends hours in a gym. He’s earned this body, with the beauty of pure, hard work, and he’s so vastly different from anything I’ve read about him or seen of him.
He’s so purely opposite of Drake with his runner’s body and soft hands.
He pushes to his knees, ripping his shirt off with a hand at the collar at his neck, that sexy, one-handed move men can do that makes muscles flex and jump and veins pop from his shoulders down his arms, and I want my hands on all of it. I want to trace the map of his veins with my tongue and my fingers, and I want his rough and calloused hands on my nipples and my core, and I want it, need it all, to happen as soon as it possibly can.
I sit up, fingers going to the button at his pants and pop them open, ripping the zipper down, showing my visible need and rush to have him. He sits back on his knees, letting me slide my hands into the front of jeans, until I reach deep inside, his thick, heavy weight pulsing in my hand.
“Fuck,” he groans, and his hands skim my waist, thumbs dig into my hips. I can’t look at him. My desire is overtaking me and I lean forward, brushing my lips over his chest to his collarbone. I kiss him wherever I can reach, massaging his thick erection.
“Harder,” he grunts, and I squeeze the base of him, shoving his denim down his hips to give me more room. “Fuck, Teagan. You’re going to make me blow my load before I’m in you.”
“Good.” I want that. I want him to lose control. I want him to be as desperate for me as I am for him. I need it. I need the confirmation I’m not the only one crazed and insane and overcome with emotions and realizations and hope that this is real.
That we can be real.
I slide off him, to my knees, and I shimmy out of my pajama shorts, baring myself to him with no shame. My fingers tremble as I kick off my shorts and he’s off the bed, standing at the side of it, dropping his jeans and his boxers to the floor. He’s in front of me like a Viking marauder, and I am the treasure he’s won, the prize he’s about to plunder.
His large hand wraps around his dick, stroking it harshly, and I can’t take my eyes off the sight of him, so beautiful, majestic, and all for me.
I move to the edge of the bed, and then to the floor, at his feet.
“Teagan,” he says, as my hand covers his. “I’m not sure—”
“I have to taste you,” I say, stilling his hand. I peer at him, tilting my head back, and lean forward, licking around the tip of him, and God he’s beautiful and delicious and thick and I won’t be able to take him all, but I don’t even care. His abs contract. His hand tightens at his base. I press a kiss to the head and then take him in my mouth.
“Fuck.” His knees buckle.
If I could smile around him, I would, but I press my hand to his thigh and together we stroke him, finding our rhythm together while I take him as deep as I can. My lips kiss our entwined fingers every time I go deep.
I’m dripping wet, and I slide the fingers of my other hand against my clit, my hips arching and pressing against my own hand as his grunts and groans heighten. His thighs clench, his words a mixture of fuck, yes, harder, God, damn, Teagan.
I’ve reduced him to nonsensical chants. There’s something so thrilling about it, a turn-on unlike anything I’ve experienced, before a shiver rolls down my spine, my orgasm beginning to build.
His fingers of his free hand dig into my head and he halts my movement, pulling me off him. His hand tangles in my hair and we stare at each other, chests heaving, both of us ready and wanting.
“I’m not coming in your throat the first time I have you.” He growls at me like an animal.
I’ve done this to him. I’ve turned this man into someone desperate. It’s all I can do to bite back my smile as he leans over and yanks out a condom from his nightstand, handing it to me.
“Put it on.”
My fingers shake as I rip open the foil packet and I take him in my mouth, one last time, one last delicious taste of him before I slide it down his shaft.
“Lie down.”
I listen without hesitating, not even bothering to climb to the bed because his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me to the floor. And yes. This is better than his bed with the thousand-count sheets and luscious down comforter.
This is us, pure, just as we are with no pretense.
“You ready?” he asks as he climbs over me, his fingers going straight to my sex.
“Yes.” I gasp as he touches me, fingers circling my clit, and then his lips are at my nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
I arch off the floor, hips pressing into his fingers, shoving my breasts in his face and my fingers cling to his hair, the sides of his head.
“Stop,” I pant over and over. “Close, I’m so close.”
“Come for me,” he says, taking my other nipple in his mouth and pushing two thick fingers inside of me. The heel of his palm grinds against my clit, his fingers curl inside, and I’m so close. He sucks my other nipple, bites it and flicks it. It’s too much.
“Corbin!” I grasp him, holding him close and trying to push him away as my body quakes, and I lose control, reduced to chanting as he’d done.
“Beautiful,” he says, skimming his lips over my breasts. I shiver, my climax receding. He brings me down, slowly and painfully. I’m overly sensitive, but still wanting.
Still craving.
“Please,” I say, wrapping my hand around his erection. “I want you.”
“Good.” He grins, and he’s so blindingly beautiful, tak
ing me on the thick, soft rug on his floor, unable to place me in his bed like a gentleman.
He presses into me, filling me slowly, so at odds with how he’s already taken me it makes my heart race. Slow and fast, rough and gentle. Yes, I want it all with Corbin Lane.
A pauper, a prince. I couldn’t give a shit, as long as I get all of him.
“Oh,” I moan when he’s inside me, filling me in such tenderness I quiver.
“Goddamn, you’re tight.” He falls to his elbows, knees spreading me as wide open as I can get, and his forehead hits mine. Our eyes meet and I grin.
“It’s been awhile.”
His hips pull out, taking him from me, and I cling to his firm backside, not letting him leave. “I don’t want to think about that guy when I’m inside you.”
He’s all but growling at me again, and then he slams back in, snapping his hips with a fierceness that evaporates any reminder from anyone ever entering my mind.
“Corbin.”
“Shit.”
“Yes.”
“Harder?”
“Please.”
We’re gripping each other’s hands and speaking at the same time, and it’s messy and gentle and rough. Sparking pleasure that takes me to the peak all over again.
“Yes,” he grunts, hips slamming me harshly against the floor. Every time he pushes deep inside me, his hand at my shoulder pulls me back against him. I’ll have carpet burn down my spine and I couldn’t care less.
I hold on as much as possible, kissing him sloppily, tongues tangling together, mouths fused, and his coarse chest hair abrades my nipples with every thrust.
And it’s wild and beautiful, and more than anything I ever hoped for. When I come again, clinging to him and throwing my head back so his lips press against my throat, marking me, I scream his name and I call him a god, and in my head I’m chanting Mine. Forever. Please. Mine. Please.
He follows me over, his dick pulsing as he spends himself inside of me and then collapses, giving me his weight, crushing me.
I don’t care.
He’s giving me everything and I just want it forever, as long as I can possibly have him.
Real.
Please, let this stay real.
