Page 55 of Ruled By Rivalry

“Feel free to take your dress home. I think it’ll be good practice to fix the cinching and flow when you get a free minute.”

The door fell shut behind Oliver, and the last thing I wanted to think about again was my failure of a dress. “Alright.” I cleared my throat. “So, the sand idea is off the table, I guess—”

It didn’t seem like Elliot wanted to think about his failed idea, either. Because his lips were on mine before I could finish the sentence, leaving me no time to remember how stupid we were being.

How I probably shouldn’t have kissed him, shouldn’t have let him touch me, and definitely shouldn’t be going back for seconds of either scenario. But here we were. Touching, kissing.

Not regretting it.

Ten minutes ago, there’d been nothing but a simple slipup between us and detection. We were deep in ass-on-printer and sex-in-supply-closet territory—with nothing I could do about it.

I should tell him. That having sex in a meeting room wasn’t a great idea. But his hand slipped below the hem of my skirt again, and a single swipe of his finger against my core drew worse sounds out of us. Needy, breathless, and entirely surprised in the best way. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Oliver had left the room barely a minute ago, and Elliot was already pressing me against the table.

“You’d rather small-talk a little?” he asked, nudging me on top of it. “Talk about how you can’t look at me without thinking about this?”

His teeth along my skin. His hands all over my body.

“We’re in the office,” I tried to reason.

“We are.”

“Anyone could walk in,” I added.

“Nothing scheduled after six.”

I wanted to protest. The door wasn’t locked, and it was only just six. But he continued exploring, and I didn’t have it in me to complain. With his hands between my thighs, his mouth sucking my skin, the embarrassment of my design was wiped from my memory again.

Two minutes was all it took.

My hands had slipped below his shirt, greedily tracing up and down his abs, noticing what sounds and words and touches would make him tense.

Realizing, with some sense of finality, that this was happening. For real and actually happening, and I needed the spinning of nerves in my stomach to stop and tell him—

“Not to ruin the mood,” I said.

Between one kiss and the next, he shook his head. “You couldn’t.”

Laughing against his mouth only encouraged him. His lips traced down my neck, back to a spot behind my ear that made me moan. Hooking up in public places and kissing necks until his partner was sighing against him must’ve been casual for him. But it wasn’t for me.

Now. I needed to say it now, before we were both too far gone.

“I’m—” Just that I didn’t know how. His fingers tracing up the inside of my thigh, lips along my neck. “I’ve never—”

In the pitch of my voice or the way I stuttered, he must’ve realized it was serious. Somewhat, at least. His hand stilled right by my core, and he emerged from the crook of my neck to look at me. Pupils wide, panting. “What is it?”

“This,” I said, then trailed off when I added, “I’ve just never . . .”

“Had sex in an office before?”

“Had sex.”

He was waiting for me to finish the sentence. For me to confirm I’d never had sex in an office, or with a billionaire, or that I’d never been this turned on before.

All of those things would’ve been correct. But I had finished my sentence already.

I’d never had sex. Had never really felt the need or desire for it.