strokes of her fingertips as she did so.
Heavy pressure swelled through the pit of her belly. Her breath grew quicker.
The cool air of her office kissed her newly exposed flesh beneath her belly button. A shiver raced over her skin. Her nipples hardened more.
She groaned. Aloud this time.
The tormented sound hung in the silence of her office, both an accusation and a plea for more.
A part of Caitlin wished she’d left her classical music playlist turned on. The music would camouflage the sound of her tortured need, if only to her own ears.
But another part—a part that took her by surprise, that confused her and excited her at the same time—wanted to snatch up her iPod, find the most recent album she’d purchased on iTunes and play it loud.
No-holds-barred rock ’n’ roll.
The music of her soul. The music she’d listened to before she met Matt. Before his disappearance in Somalia…
The music of—
Denying the traitorous notion, her breath a rasping echo in the silence of her office, Caitlin slipped her fingers over the lower plane of her belly, past the parted opening of her jeans.
Another ripple of impatient urgency razed her flesh. Another moan fell from her lips. Pinching her nipple through her shirt with her other hand, she feathered her fingertips over the curve of her sex a few times before slipping her fingers beneath the cotton of her knickers.
And touched her clit.
“Ohh…God…”
The words were little but a panted breath. Nothing compared to the intense pleasure of that one simple caress.
Nothing compared to the pleasure firing through her like a frisson of primal need.
The man in her head whose fingers she pretended were touching her chuckled, his grey eyes glinting.
No, not grey. Matt doesn’t have grey eyes. Matt has blue—
Arching on her chair, Caitlin dragged her finger over her clit again.
Exquisite agony shot through her. Sank into her core.
She pinched her nipple, closed her eyes and pictured her imaginary lover’s eyes as he touched her clit again, his dark hair a tumbled mess around his face.
Blond hair. Matt has blond—
Breath caught prisoner in her throat, body held captive to its long denied needs, Caitlin parted her thighs farther, sank her fingers into her wet sex and stroked the sweet spot on her inner wall.
A shudder rocked through her. Claimed her.
She gasped, pressing the back of her head to the edge of her chair rest, eyes closed. She wriggled her fingers deeper inside her, picturing her lover.
Pictured his storm-cloud gaze ablaze with desire.
Blue gaze. Not—
Pictured his lips curling, his dimple showing.
Oh God, Matt doesn’t have a dimple. Please, don’t think of him. Not him . Think of Matt. Think of—
She imagined him lowering his head to her breasts, ached for his lips to circle her nipple the way her fingers were circling her nipple, ached for his mouth to suck on her flesh the way her fingers were pinching and pulling her flesh.
She arched on her chair, knees trembling, and explored the tight walls of her sex, knowing it was her fingers propelling her closer to a precipice too wretched and wonderful and pleasurable to deny even as her starved mind told her it was someone else’s. His fingers.
She squeezed her eyes shut, spread her legs wider and pinched her nipple and moaned, riding the mounting wave of tension in her core. The man in her head was not the one she demanded be there, but a man in black leather, with grey eyes, a roguish smirk and sinfully sexy lips…
She scissored her fingers inside her and shook her head, refusing the image of her imagined lover, furious at its audacity to be there when it was meant to be Matt. Brought herself closer to shattering, closer to splintering into a million pieces of urgent need and want and traitorous pleasure to the thought of a man who had no right being in her head.
She tortured her nipple, her breast, bit her lip, rolled her head from side to side and pinched her clit.
Writhing on the
Heavy pressure swelled through the pit of her belly. Her breath grew quicker.
The cool air of her office kissed her newly exposed flesh beneath her belly button. A shiver raced over her skin. Her nipples hardened more.
She groaned. Aloud this time.
The tormented sound hung in the silence of her office, both an accusation and a plea for more.
A part of Caitlin wished she’d left her classical music playlist turned on. The music would camouflage the sound of her tortured need, if only to her own ears.
But another part—a part that took her by surprise, that confused her and excited her at the same time—wanted to snatch up her iPod, find the most recent album she’d purchased on iTunes and play it loud.
No-holds-barred rock ’n’ roll.
The music of her soul. The music she’d listened to before she met Matt. Before his disappearance in Somalia…
The music of—
Denying the traitorous notion, her breath a rasping echo in the silence of her office, Caitlin slipped her fingers over the lower plane of her belly, past the parted opening of her jeans.
Another ripple of impatient urgency razed her flesh. Another moan fell from her lips. Pinching her nipple through her shirt with her other hand, she feathered her fingertips over the curve of her sex a few times before slipping her fingers beneath the cotton of her knickers.
And touched her clit.
“Ohh…God…”
The words were little but a panted breath. Nothing compared to the intense pleasure of that one simple caress.
Nothing compared to the pleasure firing through her like a frisson of primal need.
The man in her head whose fingers she pretended were touching her chuckled, his grey eyes glinting.
No, not grey. Matt doesn’t have grey eyes. Matt has blue—
Arching on her chair, Caitlin dragged her finger over her clit again.
Exquisite agony shot through her. Sank into her core.
She pinched her nipple, closed her eyes and pictured her imaginary lover’s eyes as he touched her clit again, his dark hair a tumbled mess around his face.
Blond hair. Matt has blond—
Breath caught prisoner in her throat, body held captive to its long denied needs, Caitlin parted her thighs farther, sank her fingers into her wet sex and stroked the sweet spot on her inner wall.
A shudder rocked through her. Claimed her.
She gasped, pressing the back of her head to the edge of her chair rest, eyes closed. She wriggled her fingers deeper inside her, picturing her lover.
Pictured his storm-cloud gaze ablaze with desire.
Blue gaze. Not—
Pictured his lips curling, his dimple showing.
Oh God, Matt doesn’t have a dimple. Please, don’t think of him. Not him . Think of Matt. Think of—
She imagined him lowering his head to her breasts, ached for his lips to circle her nipple the way her fingers were circling her nipple, ached for his mouth to suck on her flesh the way her fingers were pinching and pulling her flesh.
She arched on her chair, knees trembling, and explored the tight walls of her sex, knowing it was her fingers propelling her closer to a precipice too wretched and wonderful and pleasurable to deny even as her starved mind told her it was someone else’s. His fingers.
She squeezed her eyes shut, spread her legs wider and pinched her nipple and moaned, riding the mounting wave of tension in her core. The man in her head was not the one she demanded be there, but a man in black leather, with grey eyes, a roguish smirk and sinfully sexy lips…
She scissored her fingers inside her and shook her head, refusing the image of her imagined lover, furious at its audacity to be there when it was meant to be Matt. Brought herself closer to shattering, closer to splintering into a million pieces of urgent need and want and traitorous pleasure to the thought of a man who had no right being in her head.
She tortured her nipple, her breast, bit her lip, rolled her head from side to side and pinched her clit.
Writhing on the
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