Obsessed Heir (Billionaire Heirs #4)

Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Abigail

I ’ve had a nightmare about drowning ever since I can remember. In it, I lose my footing and the water rushes over my head. Something unseen drags me into the murky depths, and I reach out, trying to grasp onto anything within reach. Terrified, I open my mouth to scream, but water rushes in, choking me.

The smooth slide of the glass door gliding across the rail brings me out of the whirlpool of fear. Familiar sounds fill my mind, too muted to make them out at first. They gradually return me to the real world, leaving me surrounded by a bubble of safety and tranquility.

I don’t know if this sense of peace is solely because of the quiet. Barron has me cradled in his powerful arms. His hand is splayed between my shoulder blades as he reaches the other arm toward the door.

I’m clutching at his sides, like a frightened child. That’s not too far from reality. I can’t quite believe he’s the one holding me, making me feel safe and protected.

But it’s more than that. My breasts are flattened against the solid wall of his torso. And my inner thighs are suddenly sensitive where his muscular leg is wedged between them.

I pull my cheek away from his shirt, staring at the smudge of makeup I’ve left behind. Swallowing hard, I follow the navy tie, past the knot at his neck, to the neatly cropped beard covering his jaw.

It’s an unusual situation where I can study him up close like this while his attention isn’t on me. As if he hears my thoughts, he glances down, catching me watching him.

My fingers tighten reflexively against the expensive suit. I wait, holding my breath. But the same way I’m boldly studying his rugged features, he’s studying me with an intensity that makes me feel left stripped bare.

He straightens to his full height, bringing both of us to stand with little effort. His hand slides down to settle at the base of my spine while his thigh remains firmly pressed between mine.

My body is taking its own traitorous cues. My most private areas are reacting to the fact I’m indecently close to a man, maybe even to this man in particular. It responds to the intimate brush of his expensive suit against the skin left exposed by the sheer lingerie.

He’s towering above me, but, for once, his overwhelming presence doesn’t feel as if a dark shadow is looming over me. It’s just Barron—the man I’m finding myself inexplicably attracted to, even though he’s made my life hell at every opportunity.

I’m not sure how long we stand there in tense silence, assessing each other without saying a word. Going by how many times my heart beats, it could be hours. Though I’m aware, my pulse is racing with desire and more than a little anticipation.

Barron retreats toward the plush sofa, bringing me with him. He pulls me down to sit on his lap, my trembling legs wantonly straddling his thighs. My breathing is shallow and rapid, barely enough to fill my lungs.

What am I supposed to do about him? And what about this wild situation that has spun rapidly out of control? I haven’t a clue. Though I doubt he has any idea what to do about me either, after all our animosity. Yet here we are, alone, eye to eye, my pulse throbbing in intimate places.

Not even in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I’d find myself here, tangled up with Barron McClelland of all people.

Then again, I never expected to be dressed in virtually transparent lingerie that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Much less in one with a slit at each side. The opening leaves a bare strip along my hips and the tops of my thighs.

The burning in my lungs is a desperate cry for air. I suck in a quick breath, catching Barron’s hooded gaze.

His eyes linger on the swell of my breasts, straining against the sheer fabric. There’s no denying he can see straight through to my skin, or at least the detail from the stiff peaks.

His nostrils flare.

My nipples tighten even more under the scorching attention he’s giving them. I should be embarrassed, wanting to cover up and hide my body’s wanton reactions. But instead, I revert to my nervous habit of curling my toes.

Self-conscious, I clench my thighs and tighten the muscles in my calves, all the way down to my pointed toes.

I have a crazy thought. Nobody’s there to see the French pedicure I was trying so hard to capture in that fateful photograph.

Barron reclines against the cushions, appearing more at ease than I’ve ever seen him. His large palms settle on either side of my torso. Meanwhile, I’m perched in his lap, my heart beating against my ribs so loud it echoes in my ears.

I’m waiting for…I don’t know what. For him to make a move? For me to regain my senses and extract myself from this compromising position?

Without warning, his hands cup my breasts. Although his thumbs move over one hardened nipple then the other, the tingling within me doesn’t stop there. No, the aching need pools much lower, between my legs, where I’m sitting across him. Nothing more than a thin string and a couple of beads separating my sex from his slacks.

One hand moves lower, branding the skin at my hip. He trails down to the curve of my thigh in a scorching path. I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to beat any harder.

Breath stuttering, I wait for whatever comes next. My lips part as his thumb fans across the feverish skin of my inner thigh. I swallow hard, intending to tell him I should get up before this goes any further.

He shifts, distracting me. Now I’m struggling to keep my balance as he spreads his knees wider, forcing my legs apart. I set my hands on his chest to steady myself.

The fine cotton slips between my thighs, sending a shiver of pure need through my core. His thumb dips, following the edge of the fabric covering me.

The tips of his fingers settle beside the tiny panties, and I miss my chance to say something. My skin is flushed and especially sensitive from the waxing, heightening my awareness with every brush of his fingertips.

One finger is on the material; the other pad is directly on my bare flesh. They follow along to the bottom of the V at a torturously slow pace that makes me want to scream.

Reaching the tip of the triangle, he pauses as if he’s trying to figure out what happened to the rest of the panties. The hitch in his breathing tells me he realizes there’s nothing else there—I’m completely exposed to him.

Keeping still is torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.

I narrow my eyes at him, knowing he’s deliberately stretching out this delicious torment. There’s barely a twitch of his lips when he finally moves again. He hooks his finger under the flimsy string of my panties, pushing it aside to reach my slit.

I fist the material of his suit, my knuckles whitening with the strain as he strokes the swollen folds of my pussy. The bolt of pleasure he sends through my spine bows my back, the exquisite sensation ricocheting in my head.

My lids press shut of their own accord as a whirlwind of desire takes off inside me. I should protest. I should move. I should wonder what kind of depraved person I am to allow a man who can’t stand me to touch me this way.

Instead, I run my tongue along my lip then set my teeth at the inner edge and bite down hard. I lose the urge to do anything but let myself enjoy what he’s doing. Stroking. Discovering. Shocking me to my core with how much I’m craving this.

My hips jerk ever so slightly of their own volition. I loosen my grip on his suit jacket, my palms pressing against the firm, solid wall of muscles as the onslaught of sensation threatens to overwhelm me.

Opening my eyes, I find his gaze centered on me. He’s watching my every reaction as he continues to stroke me methodically.

Part of me is still aghast at the fact this is Barron touching me so intimately. Meanwhile, everything inside is shamelessly crying out for more delicious pressure right where he is.

The sound of him gliding through my drenched folds penetrates the depths of my consciousness. I’m wet. Embarrassingly, shamefully, undeniably wet for him. And he’s aware of exactly how my senses react to his skilled touch.

The rise and fall of Barron’s broad chest draw my gaze. But it’s the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palms that keeps me focused on the knot of his tie.

I try to shift, to regain some semblance of control. But when he spread his knees wider, he took away any bit of leverage or balance I could have given myself.

I’m at his mercy, more a creature of sensation than of rational mind and thought. He plays my body like a master, stroking me until I’m vibrating with a pleasure so intense I’m afraid I’ll shatter into a million pieces.

On the heels of that thought, he pinches my aching clit, triggering an explosive release deep inside me that seems to go on forever.

Tension dissipates in waves, the ripples expanding outward, leaving me boneless and weak, ready to collapse against his solid frame.

The jarring sound of the door opening snaps me back to reality. I’m sitting on Barron’s lap, coming down from a mind-blowing orgasm, and Holly has just walked in on us in this unbelievably scandalous position.

“Oh hell,” I whisper in mortification, my face flaming hotter than it ever has before.

Barron simply leans back farther on the couch cushions, utterly relaxed and annoyingly smug with a maddening smirk. Then, as if to rub salt in the wound, he brings his glistening fingers to his lips and licks my arousal from the tips in a deliberate display.

I want to die of embarrassment as I pray for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

How did I end up in this situation? And where can I possibly go from here after this sizzling, unforgettable encounter with Barron McClelland?