Her heart thumped under his lips, and slender fingers speared into his hair. He eased back a fraction and drew his fingertip along the top of her thigh, inching her skirt up as he went. “Tell me, what do you have on under here?”
“Nothing. You—” She broke off and inhaled as he swept his tongue along the swell of her breast. “You didn’t bring me anything.”
“Did you get a secret thrill out of sitting across from me, eating a civilized dinner while pretending not to know you were teasing my cock?”
Her eyes locked with his, and she stared for so long he didn’t think she’d answer, but then long lashes swept down, veiling her gaze, and pink tinged her cheeks. “I did.”
That demure admission had him hauling her out of the chair to get his lips on hers. He was already working her dress down to her waist and walking her backward toward the bedroom when she flattened her hands on his chest and said, “Wait.”
“We’ve been over this.” He kept moving until he had her backed up against the bed. Another small push and she landed on the mattress with a bounce. “I’m not here to wait.”
“I was thinking this could be my treat.” She reached out and ran her fingers along the front of his shorts, killing him with the delicate touch. When those fingers latched onto his zipper, he covered her hand.
“Wait.”
The irony pulled a smile out of her. “I’m not here to wait.”
And he wasn’t done hearing her cry his name while she came. The thought of those full, soft lips sealed around him held all kinds of appeal, but he’d promised to satisfy her every need, and fulfilling that promise held even more appeal. She needed a break from his energetic cock? No problem. Time to remind her he had other skills. “If you recall the agreed-upon agenda, we’re concentrating on pleasing you tonight, until you can’t handle any more.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked up at him while the pink in her cheeks turned into a full-blown blush. “I can’t handle any more.”
“You’re wrong.” With his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her down until she lay on the bed, legs hanging over the side. He used one arm to brace himself over her and watched her face while he lifted her skirt. “Care to tell me why you think otherwise?”
The blush turned fiery. “I’m suffering from an over-use injury.”
“Poor baby. It’s entirely my fault. I owe you an apology.”
“It’s not your fault. I’ve just never spent an entire afternoon—”
He knelt and draped her legs over his shoulders.
“W-what are you doing?”
He held back a laugh and bestowed a kiss high on the inside of one thigh. “Apologizing.” So saying, he opened the nightstand drawer and took out a tube of Tradewinds’ Tropical Passion Edible Massage Gel.
She propped herself up on her elbows. “We charge sixty dollars for that stuff.”
“You can’t put a price on forgiveness.” He kissed the other thigh.
“I forgive you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept words.” He lubed his fingers. “Now, tell me where it hurts. Here? Or here?” He drew a leisurely figure eight, around and around, until her head dropped back and she lifted her hips to meet his touch. He hoped she had her eyes open, enjoying the view of his head framed by her thighs.
“That feels like heaven. I definitely forgive you.”
“I need to know your forgiveness runs deep. I need to hear it ringing in my ears. I need to taste it.”
“Oh, God…”
His first long, slow apology had her grabbing fistfuls of his hair. The second loosened her tongue. “I forgive you. Completely. I swear.”
He kept the apologies coming, slow and steady, until she planted her feet on his shoulders and lifted her hips. Signal received. He apologized faster, and faster still when her heels dug into his collarbones like stirrups. She practically levitated with forgiveness.
The second he closed his lips around her clit she stiffened, threw her head back and granted him something that sounded like complete and total absolution.
Moments later, as he kissed his way up her still trembling stomach, over her still pounding heart, and claimed her pliant, still parted lips, a strange thought floated through his mind. He didn’t believe in fairytales like happily ever after, but if such a thing did exist, it might feel a lot like this.
Chapter Fifteen
Jan. 10
1:15 p.m.
Chelsea,
Is the Tropical Passion massage gel gluten free??? Miss Simmons in room 202 wants to know.
Thx.
Lynette
She blushed. Couldn’t help it. Intensely aware of Rafe prowling her tiny office, talking into his cell phone, Chelsea hit reply and typed, Thank Miss Simmons for inquiring and please assure her every flavor is gluten free.
She glanced up and took a moment to admire him in profile while he stared out her window and listened to whatever information his assistant summarized for him. Steel gray trousers and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms looked unreasonably good on him. Then again, everything looked good on him. Nothing looked even better.
He shook his head in response to something his assistant asked. In the process, his gaze snagged on hers, and held. His lips curved into a smile that said, Caught you.
Guilty. She shifted her attention to her computer screen and swept her hair up into a loose knot while she scanned the rest of her emails. She’d been looking her fill at every inch of him for four days, not to mention three incredible nights, but her eyes kept coming back for more. So did the rest of her. Even sitting next to him in her office, doing something as dry and analytical as isolating trends in forty-eight months of reservation reports, rendered her half seduced. Sharing the small space left her susceptible to his cologne, his body heat, and the inherent magnetism of the man. He made it hard to concentrate on work.
Other than a bad case of sexually-induced ADD, she had zero complaints. Her newly adopted philosophy worked better than she’d dared hope. Thumbs up to fun, attraction, and mind-blowing sex. She could do this. Was doing it, and the knowledge put a happy glow in her heart, not to mention a few other places.
She scanned the rest of her emails and listened with half an ear while he wrapped up his call.
“Thanks, Vanessa. You can toss the messages from my father. He’s going through you because I’ve stopped answering his communications. I’ve reminded him this is not my first time at the rodeo, and the only bullshit I’ve encountered so far is his expectation that I update him at his whim. That should convince him to stop pestering you, but if he persists, reiterate that I’ll call him on Friday when I’m back in L.A. If he wanted to be closer to the action, he should have done the deal himself.”
His voice remained level, and not particularly frustrated, but she stole a peek at him anyway. There it was. The brooding frown. Inspired by his father, but damn, the sight of those assessing eyes staring at her from beneath dark, lowered brows made her pulse quicken. The corner of his mouth tipped up, suggesting he knew exactly the effect he had on her. Apparently his father’s expectations didn’t bother him overly much. Not nearly as much as the mention of his returning to California on Friday bothered her.
You’ll be waving good-bye to the man who showed you the meaning of multiple orgasms. Of course it bothers you. You’ll miss the sex.