"Don't stop," Braxton breathed, and his mouth covered mine before I finished the sentence.
"Brax—" I tried to pull back, hand hunting for the lamp switch that sat just out of reach.
He hooked a palm under my chin and tipped my face up. "Tell me I'm wrong," he said, voice low, teeth at my lip.
"I'm tired," I said. "I'm working tomorrow. Sleep." My fingers found the switch and brushed it. He clamped my wrist with casual force and smiled like he was enjoying a private victory.
"No lights," he said. "Stay."
"Braxton," I protested. "Seriously."
He kissed me again, harder. He didn't wait for the protest to die. He crossed the room in two long steps and pushed me back against the headboard until the mattress protested. The lamp clicked back on, because I needed it, because the hand I couldn't free found the switch again, and he barely flinched.
"That's not how this goes," he murmured between words, not asking. He slid his hand into my hair and his other hand flattened against my sternum, holding me steady as if I had been the one liable to float away.
"You're being dramatic." I laughed, a short sound. "Very theatrical for a boardroom man."
He softened for a breath. "What if I'm just very dramatic for you?"
"Then order the theater seats," I said. I pushed at his shoulder and felt the exact answer in the heavy set of
