I bite my bottom lip and hook both thumbs into my panties. They’re not fancy—black cotton with a lace waistband—but I’m not going to second-guess them because I don’t think he cares; he just wants them off. I slide them to mid-thigh with both hands, then let go with one and step out of them one leg at a time until they’re dangling from my fingertips in one hand. I let them go and try to stifle the shiver that wants to run through me, both from my nerves and the temperature in my apartment.

 He prowls towards me. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s only a few steps but he’s taking his time. He reaches me and brushes my hair over my shoulder, then leans close, nipping my earlobe between his teeth. He drops his hand to my waist, his fingertips splayed over the upper swell of my ass. It makes me wet instantly, which is ridiculous but true all the same. I’ve never been this ready to go this quickly. My nipples are hard and pressed into the fabric of his suit jacket. I’m glad this isn’t one he wears to the office or I’d have to quit, positive the mere sight of it on a Tuesday would cause me to salivate at my desk.

 “Tell me what you want, and I can make it happen,” he says into my ear before moving his lips to my jaw.

 “I want it all,” I respond, feeling bold. And let’s be honest. Gabe Laurent in my apartment? This may never happen again. I want to experience everything he has to show me.

 He laughs, softly. “Be careful what you ask for, Sandra,” he responds, then slides the hand on my back lower, slipping his index finger between my cheeks as far as it will go, then slides it back and forth, his hand anchored by his thumb and remaining fingers digging into my flesh.

 I flinch a fraction, surprised by his bold touch, but then I relax into it and move my hands to his chest, sliding my palms over the fabric of his jacket. I like the feeling under my hands—it’s soft yet crisp and I can feel the strength of him through the layers of fabric. “I want anything you want,” I reply and press myself closer.

 He cradles both hands under my butt cheeks and lifts until I wrap my legs around his waist, grateful for the first time in my life for the length of my legs. I grind myself against him then freeze.

 “What’s the matter?” he asks, pausing in the attention he’s giving to my neck.

 “Nothing,” I lie, holding myself still. It’s not easy.

 He pinches my ass hard as he moves the other hand to grasp my chin and turn it towards him. The pinch hurts—and makes me even wetter. I hold myself stiffly in his arms, trying to stay balanced in just the right way to avoid smearing myself on him.

 “What is the matter?” he demands again, his tone unyielding.

 “I don’t want to get your jacket wet,” I say, flicking my eyes away from his.

 He pauses a second, my meaning sinking in. I see his lips turn up in amusement from the corner of my eye before he speaks. “You’re embarrassed?”

 I shrug.

 “You’re a delight, Sandra.”

 I am?

 Then he lays his arm across my back, his hand on the back of my neck, and anchors me to him, leaving no doubt that he doesn’t care about his jacket. I can still feel the smile on his lips when they cover mine again, so I forget about dry cleaning and tighten my ankles behind his back, unabashedly moving myself against him. He’s walking now and just the movement of his steps is giving me an extra bounce against him that I could probably use to get myself off if the walk to my bed was any longer.

 He finds my bedroom—one of two open doors in my apartment, the other being the bathroom—and bends over the bed until I unwrap myself from him. I scoot back to the center and cross my ankles, feeling like this gives me at least a hint of modesty. I watch him turn, shrugging off his jacket. I think he’s looking for a place to set it in my small room—a hook or a chair, neither of which I have in this limited space—but he’s not. He’s looking for the light switch, I realize as he zeroes in on it and flips it on.

 I glance between him and the overhead light. Do I want that on? On the one hand, I get to see him, on the other hand, he gets to see me. He must sense my hesitation because he uses the dimmer switch—thank God I have one—to lower the light a bit.

 “Do I make you nervous, Sandra?” he questions me from the doorway, loosening his tie as he speaks.

 “A little bit,” I admit, “but in a good way.”

 “A good way?”

 “An exciting way,” I offer.

 He unbuttons his shirt. “In a sexual way?”

 I nod. “I-bet-you-know-what-you’re-doing kind of way.”

 “Do you know what you’re doing?” he questions, brow raised.

 “Probably not as much as you do,” I admit, then pause. That sounded a little judgmental, I think, frowning, but he laughs.

 “Probably not,” he agrees and unzips his pants. They fall from his hips and saliva pools on my tongue looking at him. His body is exactly as I pictured it hiding underneath his clothing—perfectly defined, broad chest, muscled arms. The vein in his forearm catches my attention as he moves his hands to the waistband of his boxers. Slim hips and OMG, that vee thing guys have. Well, not all guys. Not any guy I’ve been with. But Gabe has it, complete with flat stomach and a smattering of hair trailing into the boxers that are sliding down his hips, right now.

Six

 Gabe

 I drop my pants and palm myself, eyes on Sandra. She doesn’t pretend not to look. I like that. She’s braver than I expected with her shy glances and blushing cheeks. Her pupils widen and the tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she takes me in. I keep my gaze on her, watching her slow perusal of my cock before her eyes trail up my torso to find mine. She blushes and glances away. I laugh.

 “Look all you want. I like it.”

 Her eyes fly back to mine, bottom lip between her teeth, and then her breathing increases as I close the gap. Her legs are still crossed demurely at the ankles. I unhook them and wrap my palms around each as I drag her to the edge of the bed.

 “Condoms?” I ask. It’s a dick move, because I have a few in my wallet and I’m only asking so I can see her blush. She’ll either confirm my guess that she doesn’t have any on hand, or she’ll open a bedside drawer and I’ll get a look at what she has.