Niall was at his desk when I walked in, and I closed the door behind me. His pen stopped moving midsentence, and he set it down, slipping off his glasses to look at me. His eyes moved from the tips of my patent leather pumps to the top of my hair. Heat curled in my stomach and slithered lower.
“Where have you been?” he asked. Not accusing, not upset. Just wanting to know.
“I had coffee with Max and Will.” When his eyebrows rose, I added, “They found me taking selfies in Midtown.”
“Did you have a good time?” he asked.
“They’re . . . nice.” Tucking my hair behind my ear, I added quietly, “We talked about you. He’s quite a fan, that big brother of yours.”
Niall’s smile curled one side of his mouth and he pushed back from his desk and stood, walking around to face me. I expected him to ask what we’d said, but he didn’t. He simply let his attention move over my face. I’m sure it was obvious that we’d talked about my feelings, about Niall and me together; I could feel how warm my cheeks were.
“How was your meeting earlier?” I asked, out of breath. I’d taken the elevator; it wasn’t from exertion. It was the nearness of him, the way he was looking at me as if he was reeling through every touch from last night. This morning he’d been so brusque, and with the intensity of his stare now, I was able to acknowledge without triggering an internal panic that Niall had seemed to be freaking out—as if fleeing the scene of a crime.
But had I misread him entirely?
Had he simply wanted it to feel familiar? Or had he needed to know that I was okay, that this was okay?
“It was good,” he said. “We’re very nearly done with our proposal.” His eyes barely strayed from my mouth.
“That’s good,” I agreed.
“Quite.”
I bit my lip, pulling in a nervous smile before saying, “You seem a bit distracted.”
Niall nodded, reaching up to carefully touch my bottom lip. “I’ve never seen you wear this color.”
“Is it too red?” I asked.
He blinked, shaking his head in two tiny movements. “No. Not too red.”
Was this how I chipped away at the outside? By reminding him again and again that I wasn’t Portia, that I wanted him, and that it was okay to want me, too?
My heart hammering, I turned to the door and locked it as quietly as possible before turning back to him. Pulling my purse up, I dug inside it for my lipstick. I still had no real idea what I was doing, only that he was transfixed by the color of my mouth and I felt physically unwilling to redirect his attention.
While he watched, rapt, I uncapped it, rolled it up, and reapplied it.
“You can’t be real,” he whispered.
My pulse pounded so powerfully beneath my breastbone that I still couldn’t catch my breath. I set the lipstick behind him on the desk and then reached up, undoing his tie, releasing the top two buttons of his shirt. He stood completely still as I bent, pressing my mouth to the warm skin just over his heart.
I lifted my head to look up at him, catching his expression of wonder.
“Again,” he rasped.
I leaned forward, kissing lower, releasing another button, and then another. I kissed over his rib, bending to kiss again where chest turned into stomach.
He remained silent, breaths coming out in sharp exhales that jerked his abdomen beneath my mouth.
I looked over the red marks along his chest and stomach, starting to relish the idea of Niall walking around the rest of the day wearing me beneath his clothes. But I didn’t want to be done with this, and he didn’t seem to want it, either.
“I can keep going,” I told him.
He wants my kiss there. I can see it in his eyes.
My fingers toyed with his belt, eyes studying his expression. If it tightened, if I saw even an inch of retreat there, I would back off.
Instead, I saw relief, acquiescence, something just shy of desperation.
His belt came free with a tiny clang of metal on metal. His zipper ticked down in the silent room. And then I waited, my fingers holding the open fabric of his dress pants. The straining tip of his cock pressed up against the elastic waistband of his boxers. The quiet was sliced apart every time he exhaled in a gust.
I saw his eyes flicker to the door and then return to my face.
I shook my head. “I can st—”
His “no” was sharply hissed.
With a little nod, I kissed the soft trail of hair on his abdomen, licked it.
“Dear God,” he gasped.
I slid my hand into his boxers, nearly undone by the dip of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, let his head fall back. I was struck all over again by the weight of him, the heavy length I pulled free as I kneeled in front of him.
“I probably need more lipstick,” I whispered.
With effort, he raised his head, looking down at me, and then blinked into awareness. “Of course.” His fingers fumbled behind him on the desk, knocking pens and papers to the floor before finding the silver tube.
The cap came free with a tiny pop and Niall blinked away, to his own hands shaking in front of him as he twisted the lipstick to reveal the brilliant red.
With one hand cupping my chin, he reached down and pressed the lipstick to my bottom lip, carefully sliding it from middle to left, middle to right, before even more gently repeating the action on my top lip. “Ruby.”
I smiled, holding his gaze as I bent to kiss the underside of his shaft, just in the middle.
Niall’s grunt was rough, hands grappling behind him to grip the desk. “Christ.”
“Okay?”
He nodded.
I kissed lower, leaving perfect red prints down to the base.
I studied him in a way I hadn’t bothered to last night, looking at how he strained forward, filling my hands. “You’re so perfect I’m not sure what to do with you.”
Tell me, I meant. Direct me.
“L-lick,” he rasped. He understood. “Please, darling.”
I smiled, darting my tongue out and sweeping it along his shaft. Niall groaned, low and broken.
“There?” I asked.
“No. No, please.”
I smiled into another kiss in the middle of his cock. “Where?”
His eyes closed for a second as he swallowed, and then said, “The head.” His eyes met mine again. “Lick the head.”
I felt nearly liquid, chest thrumming with need, desire a wild pulse between my legs. When I slid my tongue over the wide crown of him, I tasted sweet and salt, earth and man, and felt more than heard his relieved moan vibrate through him.
Long fingers ran over my jaw and into my hair, turned into a fist when I opened my mouth and took the entire tip inside, sucking down a few inches and back, surrendering the game in favor of giving him what I suspected was his first blow job in years.
And what a tragedy. He was thick, intimidatingly long, but where his cock felt nearly savage in its size and need, his hands were gentle in my hair, shaking as he sweetly encouraged me.
Down and up, sucking, wet. I didn’t care about the sounds I made or the way I lost my breath when I took him deep, coming back with watery eyes and a gasping, wet mouth. He stared at me as if I was a glowing star in the middle of this room, and it made me want to give him every drop of pleasure a man could possibly feel.
My hand cupped him lower, the other gripped his hip, silently telling him take take take. I urged him to flex forward and he did, first a shallow thrust of relief, and then deeper and deeper with careful precision, helping me work him in and out of my mouth, across my tongue, between my lips.
I wondered if he loved the crude sound of it as much as I did, my unintentional gasps and moans when he went deep, when he jerked forward in a small loss of control, when he pulled my hair in tiny flashes of frenzy. It sounded wet, and good, and the tiny pop of him in and out of my mouth seemed to make us both frantic.
He let himself enjoy it—slowing down, speeding up, slowing down again—until he grew determined: knees bent, hips rolling easily. I watched his face as, against my tongue, he grew tighter somehow, his brow tight with what almost looked like pain, his fingers finding handfuls of my hair.
“Oh,” he gasped, and I remembered his words, could see in his eyes that he did, too: I want it. For you to suck my cock, and suck it so hungrily that you beg me with your eyes to let you swallow.
I held his eyes with mine, and begged.
“Oh, darling, I—oh. Oh, God.”
Yes
Yes