“Hold on,” he murmurs between licks up my neck. “I’ve got you.”

He’s slow, torturously slow, pumping in and out of me in deliberate strokes that are the antithesis to the frenzy in my blood. His thumb scrapes over my clit as his finger gradually drives deeper and deeper.

Some modest part of my mind worries I should slow the thrust of my hips against his hand or quiet the wanton pleas slipping from my lips. I ignore it and beg him to move faster. I tell him how good it feels, how close I am to coming on his hand, and oh God please, yes, like that, please.

Carter.

When I can’t hold back anymore, he presses his thumb to my clit with the perfect pressure and slides a second finger in. Deep. Stretching me. Pushing me over the edge the moment his mouth opens over mine.

And I fall apart.

Carter

I can’t stop tasting her. Touching her. I trail more kisses up the side of her neck as she comes down from her orgasm. She shudders in my arms, and I want to make her come again and again. I want to drink her desperate moans, let them fill my head until they block out the rest of the world.

Her hands are up my shirt, one on my back, the other on my stomach, stroking lazily, her fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of my dress pants with each pass. It’s all I can do not to thrust into her touch, to guide her hand to my aching cock and feel her there.

But I don’t want this to be a quickie in a vacant office. I’ve wanted her for too long to settle for that. “Come home with me.”

“What?” Her eyes are unfocused, heavy—from the alcohol or the pleasure? Maybe both.

“Come home with me. Spend the night with me.”

I see the fog clear, and she stiffens in my arms. She pulls her hands out from under my shirt and shakes her head. “I shouldn’t. I mean, we . . . shouldn’t. I’m sorry, I . . .” She searches my face. “Carter, we’re friends, and if I go home with you . . .”

I wait, giving her time to finish that thought and willing myself to see it as a bad idea. But I can’t. Right now, that’s all I want. Teagan in my bed, in my shower, under me, over me, in front of me. I squeeze my eyes shut as the images roll through my mind, as thrilling as they are tormenting. “It’s your call,” I say, but I want to beg. I need her in a way I can’t explain.

Her eyes search my face. “I’m scared of what happens if I do.”

And I’m scared of what happens if you don’t. But I nod. Even if I want her more than I can remember ever wanting anything, I won’t push. “I’ll get a cab. Let me see you to your door, at least.”