Page 79 of Cut Off
“Stunning.” It comes out rough. He pulls back half an inch, eyes black, and just looks at me. Bra. Underwear. Heels still on, because neither of us has bothered to take them off. “Stunning.”
“You said that.”
“I’ll say it again.”
He reaches behind me, finds the clasp, and the bra’s gone in one practiced motion that I’m choosing not to think about, and then his mouth is on my breast, and he makes a noise.
“Shh,” I say.
“You shush.”
“Jonah.”
“There are people on the other side of that wall.”
“Fine. I’ll be quiet… until you’re not.”
“Deal.” His hand slides down, hooks into the side of my underwear, and tugs, and they go too, just like that, and I’m standing in a hotel lounge in nothing but black strappy heels with Jonah Holt’s mouth on my throat and his hand low between my thighs and I am, frankly, fine with all of it.
He’s still fully dressed. I am not okay with that.
I shove at his suit jacket—he shrugs out of it, lets it fall, doesn’t even look at where it lands—and my hands go to his belt. Iam not graceful. I get the buckle on the second try. The button. The zipper. He helps. He kicks his shoes off in a way that I will replay in my head later. The pants go. The boxers go. He pulls a foil square out of his wallet before the wallet hits the carpet, and his hands are shaking just enough that I notice and feel a surge of triumph about it.
“You came prepared.”
“You’re wearing the dress, Lane.”
“Was wearing.”
“Was wearing.”
He gets the condom on. I don’t watch him do it because if I do I’m going to combust on the spot, and instead I put my hands on his chest—still in the white shirt, which he hasn’t bothered to take off, just unbuttoned somewhere along the way and shoved open—and I push.
He goes. He sits. He drops onto the leather couch behind him with a low sound, head tipped back, and looks up at me with an expression that I am going to carry to my grave.
“Come here.”
I come there. Heels on.
I plant one knee on the couch beside his hip. Then the other. The leather is cool against my shins. He’s hot under my hands, warm everywhere, his palms sliding up the backs of my thighs like he’s trying to memorize the route. His mouth finds the curve of my breast again. I shudder.
“Slow,” he says, hands on my hips. “Slow, Zoe.”
“You’re the one who—”
“I know. Slow.”
I lower myself onto him by inches, eyes locked on his, and his breath comes out in a long, careful exhale, and his fingers dig into the meat of my hips. I stop halfway. I have to. My whole body is a live wire, and the angle is doing something I was not braced for.
“Okay?” he breathes.
“Yeah.”
“Take your time.”
“I don’t want to take my time.”
“Zoe—”
