The dull hum of the hotel’s climate control was the only sound in the corridor, a white noise that did nothing to quiet the storm raging in Lena’s chest. She stood before room 734, her key card a foolish, flimsy piece of plastic in her trembling hand. Three years. Three years of stolen glances across the office, of inside jokes that felt like secrets, of a magnetic pull she’d convinced herself was one-sided. Three years of watching Ben from afar, cataloging the way he ran a hand through his dark, perpetually messy hair, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his voice, a low and soothing baritone, could cut through the clamor of a hundred-person conference call and speak directly to her.
And now, here she was. At a work conference in a city that wasn't theirs, in a hotel that felt like a world away from their cubicled reality. The company had booked them on the same floor, a coincidence that had felt like a cosmic joke when she'd seen the room assignment list.
She’d spent the entire day in a state of heightened awareness, her skin buzzing. During the keynote address, she’d felt his gaze on her profile and when she’d dared to look, he hadn’t glanced away. He’d just smiled, a slow, private thing that had sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to her core. At dinner, their knees had brushed under the table, and neither of them had pulled away. The conversation had flowed, fueled by a glass of wine and the low lighting of the hotel restaurant, the professional veneer finally beginning to crack.
He’d walked her to her door. The air between them had been thick, charged with everything unspoken. He’d leaned in, and for a heart-stopping moment, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, his lips had brushed the shell of her ear, his breath warm and sending shivers down her spine.
“I’m in 734,” he’d murmured, his voice a low rumble. “If you get tired of your own company.”
Then he was gone, leaving her standing in the hallway, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She’d stood there for a full five minutes, her mind a whirlwind of ‘what ifs’ and ‘shouldn’ts’. This was Ben. Her colleague. Her friend. The man she’d secretly, desperately wanted for years. This could ruin everything. Or it could be everything.
Her hand, seemingly of its own accord, slid the key card into the reader. The light flashed green. The lock clicked open.
The room was a mirror image of her own, but it smelled like him—a clean, masculine scent of cedar and something faintly spicy. The lights were dimmed, and a single lamp on the desk cast a warm, golden glow. He was standing by the window, his back to her, looking out at the glittering cityscape. He’d shed his suit jacket and tie, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms.
He didn’t turn around. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.”
His voice was quiet, but it filled the space between them. Lena closed the door softly behind her, the click of the latch sounding deafeningly loud in the quiet room.
“I wasn’t sure I should,” she admitted, her own voice barely a whisper.
He turned then, and the full force of his gaze hit her. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, were dark and intense, any trace of their usual professional warmth replaced by a raw, undisguised hunger that made her knees feel weak.
“And what did you decide?” he asked, taking a slow step toward her.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m still deciding.”
A slow smile spread across his face, the one that had haunted her dreams. “Let me help you.”
He closed the distance between them in two long strides. He didn’t touch her, not yet. He just stood there, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the fine lines around his eyes, the dark stubble shading his jaw. He reached up, his movements deliberate, and gently tucked a stray strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. His fingertip grazed her earlobe, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
“I’ve wanted to do that for three years,” he murmured, his eyes tracing the contours of her face.
The confession, so simple and stark, broke something inside her. The dam of denial she’d so carefully constructed shattered.
“Ben…” she breathed, her voice trembling.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice a low command. “Tell me to walk away, and I will. But God, Lena, I’ve spent three years pretending I don’t think about you every minute of every damn day. I’m tired of pretending.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He lowered his head, his lips finally, finally meeting hers. The kiss wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was a claiming, a raw and desperate expression of years of suppressed longing. His mouth was firm and demanding, his tongue sweeping against her lips, seeking entry. She gasped, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against hers in a deep, intoxicating dance.
She melted into him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted of the single malt scotch they’d had after dinner and something uniquely, addictively him. His arms wrapped around her, one hand splayed possessively on her lower back, the other tangling in her hair, holding her head exactly where he wanted it. He kissed her like he was a drowning man and she was his only source of air.
He walked her backward until her back hit the cool wood of the door. He pressed into her, his body a hard, unyielding wall of muscle. She could feel the evidence of his arousal, a thick, insistent pressure against her stomach, and a fresh wave of heat pulsed through her, settling low in her belly. Her nipples, pebbled and sensitive, ached against the lace of her bra, straining against the confines of her silk blouse.
His lips left hers, trailing a scorching path down her jaw to the sensitive column of her neck. He nipped at her skin, then soothed the sting with his tongue, drawing a moan from deep in her throat.
“You have no idea,” he rasped against her skin, “how many times I’ve imagined this. How many meetings I’ve sat through, watching your mouth move, wondering what it would taste like.”
His hands moved from her back, sliding down to cup her ass, squeezing firmly and lifting her. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her. He carried her easily, her weight nothing to him, and laid her down on the king-sized bed. The crisp cotton duvet felt cool against her heated skin.
He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at her, his chest heaving. The lamplight sculpted the planes of his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the undeniable lust darkening his eyes. He began to unbutton his shirt, his movements slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. He was putting on a show, and she was his captive, mesmerized audience.
He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, revealing a broad, muscular chest dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a tantalizing trail disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. He was beautiful, powerful, and utterly masculine. Her mouth went dry. He undid his belt, the clink of the buckle echoing in the silence, then unzipped his pants and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them. He stood before her in only a pair of dark boxer briefs that did nothing to hide his impressive erection. It strained against the fabric, thick and long, and she felt a dizzying combination of nervousness and pure, unadulterated need.
He crawled onto the bed, stalking her like a predator. He settled his weight over her, his legs bracketing hers. He lowered his head and kissed her again, softer this time, but no less potent. His hands went to the buttons of her blouse, his fingers surprisingly deft as he undid them one by one. He parted the silk, revealing the lacy edge of her black bra, the swell of her breasts.
“God, Lena,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to the valley between her breasts, his tongue tracing a hot, wet path along her skin. She arched into him, a breathy sigh escaping her lips. He reached behind her and with a flick of his wrist, unhooked her bra. He slid the straps down her arms and tossed it aside.
His eyes feasted on her. Her breasts were full and round, her nipples a dusky rose, tight and begging for his touch. He took one peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before he drew it in deep, suckling with a gentle, insistent pressure. A sharp, electric jolt shot from her breast to her core. She cried out, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
He lavished attention on her other breast, his hand cupping and kneading the soft flesh, his thumb stroking the wet, pebbled nipple. She was writhing beneath him, a mindless, needy creature. The years of denial, the careful control, were gone, burned away by the inferno of his touch.
His hand slid down her stomach, his fingers finding the button of her trousers. He unfastened them and slid them down her legs along with her panties, leaving her completely bare and vulnerable beneath his gaze. He sat back on his heels, his eyes roaming over her, from her flushed face to her heaving breasts to the neat triangle of auburn curls at the apex of her thighs.
“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” he said, his voice husky. “And I’ve imagined you. A lot.”
He positioned himself between her legs, his shoulders pushing her thighs wide apart. The cool air of the room hit her slick, heated flesh, and she shivered. He didn’t make her wait. He lowered his head, his breath warm against her most intimate parts.
The first stroke of his tongue was a revelation. It was a slow, deliberate lick from her entrance to her clit, a long, flat stroke that made her gasp and buck her hips. He groaned against her, the vibration adding another layer of exquisite sensation.
He was relentless. His tongue explored every fold and crevice, tasting her, devouring her. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, then flicked it rapidly, before drawing it into his mouth and sucking gently. She was lost. Waves of pleasure crashed over her, one after another. She fisted the sheets in her hands, her knuckles white, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.
“Ben… oh God, Ben… don’t stop…” she begged, her voice a broken sob.
He slid a finger inside her, then two, curling them upwards to stroke a spot deep within her that made her see stars. He pumped his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm while his tongue continued its devastating assault on her clit. The pressure built, a coiling tension deep in her belly, a tidal wave threatening to consume her.
“I want you to come for me, Lena,” he commanded against her flesh. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”
That was all it took.
