Public Relations by Tibby Armstrong

another finger. Curled the digits against her G-spot. “You want it?”
    Hot, shallow breaths and the susurration of fabric against skin filled the air. The pad of his thumb circled and hit home. She threw back her head on a cry. “Yes!”
    His hand left her to dip inside her décolletage. Warmth and kneading pressure accompanied the lift of first one breast and then the other over the neckline of her gown.
    “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered over her shoulder, having the advantage of height. Though she couldn’t see his eyes lingering on her chest, she felt the heat of his breath rush past her skin.
    The brush of his breath sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with a chill. Every bit of her caught fire from that small spark. Knees that had been jelly before turned insubstantial, completely unable to support her weight. With his thigh poised to catch her, she fell only as far as he desired.
    “Oh no.” His laughter rumbled over her. “Stand up. I’m not finished. Here. Like this.”
    Taking her by the waist, he set her on her feet. She swayed but somehow managed to remain upright.
    “Good girl,” he murmured, and damn her if the scrap of approval didn’t make her flush with pride. “Hands on the wall.”
    “What?” In her lust-soaked haze, the command made no sense.
    His hand encircled her wrist, lifting her arm. At the desired height, he opened his palm and pressed her hand flat against the wall. First her left and then her right. “Don’t move.”
    She could only nod. Skin tightened across her back, thighs, belly. A rush of blood swelled her sex, opening her for him. Readying her for what her body craved. And oh how she craved. Thrums of pleasure traveled in heated waves from her pussy. The rhythm of her pulse pulled at her apex, making each breath a shallow gasp.
    Ever so slowly Peter bunched her dress past her waist once more. Holding the fabric aloft in one hand, he lowered her panties with the other. Satin and lace slid past her thighs, then her knees. “Step out.”
    She looked over her shoulder as he pocketed her thong. His gaze met hers and held. A banked fire within his eyes said this was once again his show. He was the conductor to this symphony of lust, she his only instrument. He’d play her until he hit all the high notes and reached the finish he sought.
    She looked away, at once turned on by but unable to bear the emotional distance with which he held himself.
    A condom packet tore. Crinkled. Cool fingers, deliberate and controlled, said he’d discard her after this. Never call again. Panic welled. Then she remembered who she was and what their relationship really consisted of. He might never want her again like this, but the knowledge she’d be able to see him, at least for the time being, relaxed the ropes of fear.
    He reached for her hips, and she fell into the moment. Pressure against the heels of her palms increased. He lifted her, his invasion of her body quick and complete. A pillaging she hadn’t expected. Barricades crumbled in his wake. A grunt of pleasure, the tightening of his fingers on her hips, said he immersed himself in the act as fully as she. For this moment he was hers and hers alone in an uncomplicated exchange.
    Stretched and filled, beyond sanity’s grasp, she gasped his name. He took her in a frenzy of full-seated thrusts, jarring her clit with each stroke. Her breasts bounced with the rhythm he set, nipples tightening to painful points. She focused on scent—his musk. Sound—flesh against flesh and the pull of labored breaths. Touch—digging fingers and the flutter of her internal muscles in his wake. In the midst of it all, with her cheek pressed against the unyielding wall, she realized he hadn’t kissed her. This was raw, unadulterated passion. Fucking. Yes. Peter Wells was fucking her, and she loved it. Still, she needed the taste of his lips to make the memory complete.
    “Touch me.” She begged for release and an intimacy she didn’t