His heavy footsteps are quick behind me. I lock my playful expression in place.

“What seems to be the problem, Big Man?”

He shuts the door behind him and is on me in a heartbeat. He dips to hook his hands underneath my knees, lifting me onto the desk and pushing me back in one motion. He steps between my thighs and wraps his strong arms around me. His movements are purposeful—aggressive even, but his touch is feather soft.

He has one arm holding me to him while he explores me with the other. He traces along the racing pulse in my neck with rough, cool fingertips before dipping to tickle the exposed skin at my collarbone. I get lightheaded at the gentle caress, fisting a handful of his shirt to keep from flying away. I lift my chin and his lips take over from his fingers, worshiping me with languid kisses.

He slips his hand into my hair, massaging the nape of my neck. I hold his wrist, desperate to keep him, and arch my back, pressing into him. My mouth falls open. Ragged, shallow breaths are all I can manage.

He hasn’t said more than a few words to me all week, but his actions speak so much. He missed me. I can feel it. And I’m not talking about the giant hard-on pressing into my thigh. It’s the possessiveness in his touch. The obsession in his eyes. The pleading in his kisses. I feel it too. A need for him. It’s consuming me.

He’s leaning forward and my back is going to be pinned to the desk any minute now, at his mercy. He slides the hand at my back under my shirt and with a quick flick of his wrist, my bra pops open. Damn, that’s sexy. I want him to take me. Right here. Right now.

Then what?

Then, I have no idea. If the tease is what keeps Devin coming back, I need to slow this way down.

“Whoa. Easy, Tiger.” My voice is thicker than maple syrup.

Devin growls in my ear, but doesn’t pull away. I push him away with my fist still balled around a handful of his shirt. He leans back, not fighting me. He locks his arm around me, holding us together. He grinds his hard length against the apex of my thighs, making me see stars. I want him, but I want there to be an us more.

I slide both my hands to his chest, smoothing out the wrinkled shirt. Again. I’m staring at his pecs, refusing to meet those coal-dark eyes that I’m sure are burning embers. I clear my throat, shaking the lust out of my voice before I try to reason with him.

“I’m not a sex-on-the-desk-before-the-second-date kind of girl.” I’m trying to keep it light, despite the torture we’re subjecting ourselves to. The truth is I am a sex-on-the-desk kind of girl. Let’s get real. When it comes to Devin, I’m a sex-wherever-the-hell-we-end-up, dear-God-just-take-me-now kind of girl. But I’m aiming for girlfriend status here. And if he’s half as good in bed—or on desk—as he is at kissing, I’ll slip over the edge from pushy girlfriend into obsessed stalker.