Page 14 of Dissonance

“Eight.”

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him. The elevator jolts to life, and I sway, his hands already closing around my hip, the warmth of his palm bleeding straight through the fabric of my dress. His fingers span my waist, the sheer size of them against me impossible to ignore.

God.

He doesn’t move away, instead steps closer, the solid press of him along my back, the difference in our heights, and I watch it happen in the mirror. Watch his head dip, watch his lips ghost the shell of my ear, eyes on mine.

“For the record,” he murmurs, a rumble I feel in my bones. “Whatever happens tonight, gentlemanly won’t be the word for it.”

His stubble scrapes slowly along the curve of my neck, blunt teeth catching the sensitive skin, and the sound that escapes me is embarrassingly unsteady.

“Oh God,” I breathe, and then I’m moving, spinning in his hold, arms going around his neck, pushing up onto my tiptoes until my mouth finds his.

The kiss lands like a match struck in the dark. Hot and immediate, like he’s been holding back since the bar, and the closed elevator has finally given him permission to take what he wants. He makes a low sound against my lips—surprised, maybe, or satisfied, I can’t tell—and then his hands are at my jaw, my waist, and there’s nothing tentative about any of it. His mouth moves over mine, slow and certain. Every caress of his tongue, I feel everywhere; at the base of my spine, between my thighs, in the unsteady way my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

“Please,” I pant when I pull back for air, not entirely sure what I’m asking for, too far gone for coherent thoughts.

“Aye,” he says, like that settles it, and his mouth is back on mine.

And God, he can kiss. It’s deeper this time, his hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head back, and I stop thinking entirely. I’ve kissed men before; it’s always been fine, but I have never been kissed like this and felt the ground shift. Never felt my own heartbeat in my fingertips or made sounds I don’t recognize as my own against a stranger’s mouth in an elevator.

“Jesus…” he breathes, hand curling gently around my throat. Not squeezing, not rough, just there. An unmistakable hint of possession I absolutely did not know I was into until this exact second.

He tears himself from my lips, dropping to my neck instead. The first press of his mouth makes my head fall back against the mirrored wall, my stilettos barely keeping purchase on the floor.

When he finally pulls back enough to breathe, his forehead drops to mine, both of us slightly wrecked, his hands still cradling my face. “Still want that escort to your room?”

“Yes,” I half-laugh, half-pant, and right on cue, the elevator opens.

He steps out first, arm snapping back to hold the doors, and I walk past him on legs that are mostly cooperating. I tremble as I dig through my purse for my keycard, his hand finding the small of my back. When we reach my door, his nose trails along that spot below my ear, and I nearly drop the card. My eyes flutter shut as he exhales a quiet laugh against my skin, his fingers gathering the fabric of my dress near my hip, the material creating a delicious friction against me.

I’ve never acted like this before. I’m more of a five-dates, vanilla-sex kind of girl. The men I date are perfectly nice. Perfectly fine. Perfectly dull.

This is none of those things.

“Having trouble there, lass?” he murmurs, and before I can answer, he slips the card from my fingers and holds it to the reader. The mechanism clicks, unlocking it, allowing him to push it open.

For half a second, I almost reach for something—a name, anything to hold on to when this is over. But asking feels like it would break the spell. The strange freedom of being nobody to each other for one night. So I let it go and step inside.

His hand catches my wrist, pulling me back into him as the door clicks shut, the world outside ceasing to exist. My purse hits the floor, his jacket somewhere behind us, the dim glow of the city through the curtains all the light we need.

Our mouths meet again, hotter, hungrier, every pretense of restraint gone. We move together, slow one second and devastating the next, his confidence so absolute it makes my knees genuinely unsteady. My hands fist his shirt, dragging him closer as one of his arms slides up my spine, the other grabbing a handful of my ass. I gasp, the hard outline of him against my hip making my own roll forward without permission, his low grunt in response only spurring me on.

Fingers blindly search for the zipper at the back of my dress, the metal catching as he tugs. Fabric pulls tight across my ribs, a rumble sounding from his chest, half-frustration, half-amusement, his lips ghosting mine as he mutters, “Bloody thing.”

“Just rip it,” I laugh breathlessly, not caring how desperate I sound.

He goes still. For half a second, I think he’s going to argue, then the corner of his mouth curves.

“You sure about that?”

“Ye—”

One sharp tug, the sound of silk splitting is enough to send heat rushing through me from head to toe, my dress loosening and pooling at my feet before I’ve fully processed what’s happened.

Cool air washes over my skin, my nipples pebbling in a heartbeat. He steps back slightly, his eyes moving slowly over me—nothing between me and his attention but my panties—and the look on his face when he reaches my eyes stops my breath completely.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself, thumb dragging along his stubbled jaw.