When He's Dirty, стр. 28
“That’s a yes. My God, you never cease to surprise me. You can’t do anything honestly. It always has to be sneaky.” I stand. “Go home, Logan. Call me tomorrow at work and we’ll discuss your client’s potential dilemma. Maybe we can make a deal if he can give me something to use against Waters.”
His eyes bore into me. “When did you become such a bitch?”
“I’m pretty sure it happened about the time you buried yourself in my secretary on top of my desk.”
“Step away from the case,” he bites out.
I read beneath the words and say, “Or what?”
“I can’t promise to protect you.”
“You never did. I protect myself. Go home, Logan.”
He scowls and seems like he might argue, but finally turns on his heel and marches toward the door. I follow, and when he exits, I shut the door, locking it and leaning on the hard surface. Adrian is there almost instantly—tall, dark, and alluringly dangerous. His hands settle on the door on either side of me and I’m suddenly aware of how on display my past defending people like Waters is right now. “How much did you hear?”
“All of it,” he says, but he doesn’t comment further or ask a question. He just watches me with his dark brown eyes, unmoving, more stone than man, and I want to reach inside him and dig for his thoughts.
“What are you thinking, Adrian?” I whisper.
His hands come down on my neck, over my hair and he drags me to him. “What do you think I’m thinking, Pri?” he asks, his breath a hot tease on my lips, a promise of a kiss that doesn’t come.
My fingers curl in his T-shirt. “I don’t think I want to know right now.”
“No?” he challenges, stroking my hair from my face and tilting my gaze to his. “Well, here’s a hint: none of it includes giving your panties back.”
Heat flushes my skin, and I push to my toes. “Then kiss me already,” I say, not ready to face the blade from my past that just keeps cutting.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t kiss me. His mouth lingers above mine, the air pulsing around us, time ticking like an old man walking a mile up a hill, so incredibly slow. I’m confused. I’m uncomfortable. I’m desperate in ways I don’t remember ever being desperate.
“Or don’t,” I say. “And just let me go.”
Chapter Seventeen
ADRIAN
“You may wish I did,” I say softly, “I may, too.” And then I do as she’s bid. I kiss her, licking into her mouth, and damn, she is like tasting heaven while I’m being pulled into hell. Because while she clearly believes she’s sinned, she has no idea what that even means. She is good and I am not, but damn it, in that one stroke, I’m drowning in Pri, lost in her, molding her closer.
And she doesn’t need to be won over. She’s kissing the hell out of me, tugging at my shirt. I yank it over my head and toss it aside, reaching for her blouse. We’re all over each other, ripping at clothes. Touching. Tasting. I scoop her backside, squeezing that sweet little ass of hers, and drinking her in, savoring her as I do.
My lips part from hers and for a moment we just breathe together, and I swear right then, I feel something with Pri I have not ever felt in my life. I don’t even know what the hell she is doing to me. I know I should stop. I know she’ll hate me later for a hundred reasons, but I can’t seem to care right now. I shove the lace of her bra down and pinch her nipple, swallowing her gasp. I reach for my pocket and a condom. She’s working my zipper and then her hand closes around my cock, and I’m long gone, past the point of no return.
My pants stay put. So does her shirt. Everything that can be shoved aside is shoved aside and my fingers slide into the wet, slick heat of her sex before my cock follows. And holy fuck, she feels good, hot and tight and soft in all the right places. I lift her and her arms come around my neck. I’m not doing this here, with her against the hard-ass wall. I carry her to the living room and lay her on the long lounge chair, going down with her, on top of her. And that’s all the willpower I have. I thrust into her, my hand under her backside, squeezing and lifting, arching her into my pumps and grinds. She moans and bites and kisses. She’s as wild as I am, present, accounted for, and so damn hot. But I’m present and accounted for as well. I’m aware that she’s Priscilla Miller, with intelligent blue eyes, long brown hair, a runner who smells like flowers with a stubborn, tormented personality, and a love for a white mocha. And even now, fucking her, driving into her, somehow knowing these things only makes me want her more. I don’t want that little bitch Logan to fuck her. I don’t want anyone but me fucking her. And that’s crazy, so fucking crazy, but still, I slow down and revel in that craziness. I slow us down. I slow me down.
I kiss a path down her jaw, to her neck, to her nipple—I lick it, suckle it, move to the other side, and repeat. She moans, her fingers diving in my hair, her back arching. Our bodies sway nice and easy now, and when she breathes out, “Adrian,” I smile against her neck and whisper, “At least you didn’t call me Rafael.”
“Rafael never fit you.”
I pull back and stare down at her, and it torments me, how well she once would have fit with me, the old me, the me before the Devils and I can’t bring that me back. “No,” I say.
“No?” she asks.
“No,” I say and I don’t