Читать книгу Keeping Her Up All Night - Anna Cleary, Anna Cleary - Страница 6

GUY WILDER took his leisurely time. When he finally stood framed in the entrance he seemed even more physical than she remembered. More hard-muscled and athletic. He didn’t speak, just raised one arrogant black brow.

‘Er …’ Her mouth dried. She’d underestimated the sheer, overwhelming force of his presence. Bathed in that cool, merciless gaze, she felt her confidence nearly waver.

‘Look,’ she said, moistening her lips, ‘I think we can be adult about this.’

In a long, searing scrutiny his eyes rested on her mouth, then flickered over her, leaving a scorching imprint on her flesh that wasn’t altogether unpleasant, to her intense chagrin. He kept her pride toasting on the spit for torturous seconds, then opened the door just wide enough to admit her.

In the sitting room he leaned negligently against Jean’s mantel, his bold gaze surveying her with amusement. ‘What did you have in mind?’

It was the moment to apologise. She was a gentle person—too gentle, some said. Far too willing to accommodate the male beast. Be more assertive, Amber. Don’t be a doormat, Amber. Those were the sorts of things girlfriends had said to her in the past.

Normally she’d have begged his pardon, flattered him with a few waves of her lashes and been charmingly apologetic. But not this time. At the sight of him looking so insolently self-assured, his cool, intensely sensuous mouth beginning to curve in a smile, as though enjoying, relishing her discomfort, she felt her feminine pride challenged. ‘I merely wish to reiterate the point,’ she said coldly, ‘that the walls in this building are thin. Now your singing is keeping me awake.’

He smiled, eyes lighting and creasing at the corners. ‘You know, it concerns me that such a healthy woman—a woman so lithe, so supple and apparently fit …’ He put his head on one side, his mouth edging up just the tiniest sensual bit as he wallowed in his contemplation of her body. ‘In such excellent condition as yourself, should want to spend so much time sleeping. Do you ever do anything active, Amber? Go to the gym? Go clubbing? Dance till dawn?’

The irony of that. When she knocked herself out three mornings a week at dance class, ran a shop, studied, seized on any gigs going to keep the wolf from the door. ‘That’s none of your concern.’

He lowered his lashes, smiling a little. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve come to beg forgiveness.’

‘In your dreams. O’Neills never beg.’

There was a glint in his eyes. ‘No? Do they sing?’

He moved swiftly, and before she could protest grabbed her and pulled her down with him onto the piano seat. She gasped, braced to pull free, until his deep, quiet voice pinned her to the spot with a direct hit.

‘Is it music you’re allergic to, Amber, or men?’

She gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Oh, what? Don’t be silly. I like—love music.’ He slid a bronzed arm around her waist and pulled her close against him. She made a token attempt to break away, but his body was all long, lean bone and muscle, iron-hard and impervious to her resistance.

The clean male scent of him, his vibrant masculine warmth, the touch of his hand on her ribs, sent her dizzy senses into spinning confusion. She should have pushed him away, should have got up and walked out, but something held her there. Something about his touch, her excited pulse and wobbly knees. Her pride. Her need to win this game if it killed her.

‘What sort do you like?’ Up close, his growly voice had an appealing resonance that stroked her inner ear.

‘All sorts. Chopin. Tchaikovsky, of course.’

‘Oh, of course.’ He smiled.

‘Don’t mock,’ she said quickly. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their own taste.’

‘Sure they are. If you prefer to listen to the dead.’ His breath tickled her ear. His lips were nearly close enough to brush the sensitive organ.

‘They might be dead, but their music will live for eternity.’ She flicked him a challenging glance. ‘Can you say that about yours?’

He looked amused. ‘Now you’re really going for the jugular.’

A random thought struck her. She could, actually. His jugular wasn’t so far away. With just a slight lean she could lick his strong bronzed neck and taste his salt. Relish him with her tongue.

Adrenaline must be screwing her brain.

‘Chopin, of all people.’ He continued to scoff, mischief in his eyes. ‘Isn’t his stuff a bit wishy-washy for you, Amber? A bit …’ He made a levelling gesture. ‘Flat?’

Of course he would think that. But there was no use pretending she wasn’t a total nerd. Even before a firing squad her conscience wouldn’t let her deny her true colours. Not with all the ways Chopin’s piano works spoke to her. How subtle they were, and poignant. How they wound their way into the warp and weft of her most tender emotions.

‘No. Those pieces just—seep into my soul.’ She turned to look at him.

Guy met her clear gaze and felt the kind of lurch he should avoid at all costs. He should. But there were her eyes …

He heard himself say dreamily, ‘You know, you’re soft. Such curly lashes. And those sensational eyes …’

Amber felt a giant blush coming on. Unless a new heat-wave was sweeping Sydney.

Perhaps the man needed glasses or was a raving lunatic. She started to say something to that effect, and stopped. His mouth was gravely beautiful, and so close she had to hold her breath. His lips were wide and curled up at the corners, the upper one thin, the lower one fuller, more sensual. Lips made for kissing a woman into a swoon. Some poor hungry woman. Lips that could draw the very soul from that poor hungry, famished woman’s …

For goodness’ sake, Amber. Fatigue must be distorting her perceptions. Just because he had a lean, chiselled jaw and a stunning profile it didn’t mean she should forget the male/female reality.

She gave herself a mental slap. Feet on the ground and an eye to the door. That was a woman’s survival kit. That was what her mother had always told her, and Lise O’Neill had known better than most. When the going got tough, men disappeared.

Just because Amber had failed chronically to apply her mother’s wisdom on certain other crucial occasions it didn’t mean she had to fail now. Here was a prime opportunity to start inoculating herself against the cunning wiles of the wolfhound.

She didn’t have to be susceptible. She could resist.

‘Now, let’s see, Amber.’ At this distance she could almost feel the rumble of his deep voice in his chest. ‘Your lips are like cherries, roses and berries.’ He studied them appreciatively. ‘Although maybe softer, redder and juicier. I guess I’ll have to taste them to get that line exactly right …’

She tensed, waiting, pulse racing, but instead of delivering the anticipated kiss, he continued examining her.

‘And your eyes …’ He paused to inspect them. ‘What rhymes with amethyst?’

He rippled a few tunes, then settling on ‘Eleanor Rigby’, sang softly. “‘Amber O’Neill, mouth sweet as wine. And her eyes are like clear am—e—thyst. Never been ki—issed. Amber O’Neill. She’s twenty-nine and she goes to bed early to pine opp—or—tun—i—ties mi—issed …”’

He didn’t sing the next line, just played it. He didn’t have to. She remembered how it went. ‘All the …’

Her heart panged. ‘Very funny. It’s not even true.’

‘Which part?’

‘Any of it.’ Her breasts quickly rose and fell inside their confining bra. Anyone would be lonely in her situation. Of course she missed her mother every minute of every day. It was only natural. They’d only had each other. After she’d left the ballet company and all her friends there she hadn’t had much opportunity to make new ones, apart from people who worked in the mall.

And she knew why he thought she looked twenty-nine. It had to be her clothes. If it had been any of his concern, she might have explained about her work costumes. The only thing wrong with them, apart from being relentlessly floral, was that they weren’t all that shiny new.

Oh, this chronic lack of funds was approaching crisis point. There wasn’t much more she could do about it—unless the vintage shop around the corner had a sudden influx of barely worn clothes with flowery patterns.

She was signed up for Saturday night gigs at a Spanish club in Newtown for the next few weeks, though she’d planned to use those earnings for her stock explosion. She hadn’t planned on it—the shop must always come first—but maybe she could use some of her show earnings to buy something modern. Some new jeans, maybe? A little jacket?

Then she remembered Serena. She’d promised to give her an advance on her salary in return for an extra Thursday evening. And Serena deserved all the help she could get.

Amber noticed he was examining her with a serious expression while those dismal musings were flashing through her head faster than the speed of light. Then his face broke into a slow, sexy, teasing smile. It lengthened his eyes, made them do that crinkling thing at the corners.

She risked a glimpse into the silvery depths. ‘I’m sorry I swiped you with that sonata.’

He nodded gravely. ‘Okay. It’s a long time since I was smacked by a beautiful woman. Exciting, though.’ His voice was a velvet caress. ‘Do you often …?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. You’ve got quite a good wrist action there. I’d have thought you’d had a bit of experience.’ He saw her quick flush and, though his mouth grew grave, the smile still lurked in his eyes. Rueful, not unkind. Anything but unkind. ‘Never mind. Apology accepted.’

Her heart quickened and she dragged her gaze away. She shouldn’t have looked. She was, after all, Amber O’Neill, notorious push-over for charming heartbreakers. Next thing you knew she’d be starting to flirt, indulging in a little verbal sparring, giving him the husky laugh, luring him in, laying sultry glances on his mouth …

‘Tsk, now look. You have dark smudges here … and here.’ He lightly ran his thumb-tip under each eye. ‘You’ll have to cut out all this partying, Amber. You need to get some sleep.’

She ignored the soft imprint his thumb left on her skin, though lightning flickered through her skin cells and her sexual sensors went into a swoon. She hoped they didn’t lose their giddy little heads.

She tried to distract him with conversation. If she didn’t mention anything sexual, said nothing at all to do with his lips … Hers dried, and though she fought the urge she couldn’t resist running her tongue-tip around them. She noticed how the wolf gleamed at once from his knowing eyes. Oh, Lord. He was reading her like a traffic light.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ She kept her tone polite. Not too interested, just neighbourly. ‘Jean never mentioned you’d be staying.’

He nodded. ‘It was pretty last-minute. A builder’s knocking walls out of my house and it’s currently unlivable. Jean’s honeymoon has come at the right time.’

She frowned, thinking. ‘I don’t remember seeing you at the wedding.’

His face smoothed to become expressionless. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Oh. What a shame you missed it. It was fantastic. What a party. Jean must be sorry you couldn’t make it.’

He shrugged and gave a brief harsh laugh. ‘She’d have been surprised if I had.’

His knee brushed hers and she momentarily closed her eyes. At least he sounded fond of Jean, she thought, savouring the sparks shooting up and down her leg. That was one thing about him. Another was his voice. It was so deep and dark, and in its way musical, as soothing to the ear as a lute.

She noticed with some surprise her headache had just about departed. That might have been down to the lute effect. Or even the knee factor. The truth was, sound was not her only sensitivity. Like the beguiling Eustacia Vye, she’d always had this intense vulnerability to certain masculine knees.

Face it, there were times she felt like a sensory theme park. Right now the lights were on, the music was playing and she was glowing from the inside out.

‘It could be fantastic being here with you, Amber, or it could be … fantastic. What do you think?’ His lean, smooth hands rippling the keys made the notes sound like velvet water. She could imagine those hands playing along her spine like that. Gentling her, caressing her. Stroking her languid limbs, her hair. Better than a dangling twig any day.

She gave a throaty laugh—not her day-to-day one. ‘I wouldn’t say you’re with me, exactly.’

‘Getting closer, though. Don’t you think?’ His arm curved around her and he patted her hip.

‘You wish.’ She shifted away a little—though not as far as all that. ‘I don’t think you’ve demonstrated your desirability as a neighbour yet, Guy.’

He responded with a low, sexy laugh that demonstrated confidence in his abilities, if nothing else. ‘I’m working on it. Let’s see. Can I tempt you to some wine?’

She rarely drank alcohol. Fruit and veggie juices were her preferred drinks. Wine was not the ballerina’s friend. But, having assaulted him, she could hardly afford to be churlish. Besides, he smelled so deliciously male.

She lifted her shoulders. ‘Wine would be—fine.’

He was gone a few minutes. After a short while she heard him in Jean’s kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards.

She drew some hard, deep breaths to fill her lungs. Her exhilarated blood felt all bubbly. She felt pleasantly high and in control, as she sometimes did on stage. It gave her the same sort of out-of-body freedom—as if she wasn’t so much Amber as Amber’s avatar.

Looking more devastating by the minute, Guy returned with two glasses of red, along with the bottle. Amber recognised the glasses as Jean’s special wedding crystal. She accepted hers with a twinge of guilt. But, hey. She wasn’t the police. And she wasn’t in charge here, was she? Sometimes it was best to go with the flow.

They clinked glasses, Guy watching as she held her wine to her lips, his eyes shimmering with a warmth she knew only too well. Her blood quickened.

Desire was in the air.

‘Tell me about yourself, Amber,’ he said. ‘What do you do besides worship the dead?’

‘I’m a— I have the flower shop down in the arcade.’

He wrinkled his brow. ‘Don’t think I recall a florist’s. Where is that? It must be tucked down an alleyway.’

‘No, it’s not.’

He set down his glass and started rippling the keys again.

She tried not to watch. The less chance she had to obsess on the lean hand finding a tune with such casual expertise the better. Or the other one. The one absently stroking so close to her breast.

‘It’s right at the end, near the street entrance. I—haven’t had it long. There isn’t much stock yet so it’s not quite up and running. When I have more stock—more flowers, et cetera—you’ll be likely to notice it then. I’ll open up the street doors and put a lovely awning out in the street to catch the passing trade. Maybe in six months or so.’ With loads of luck, time and dancing gigs.

He frowned and put his head on one side. ‘Yeah? How does that work?’

She looked quickly at him. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Just that. When you start something off you need to start as you intend to …’ He hesitated, his eyes calculating something she couldn’t read, then all at once his gaze narrowed and he looked closely at her. ‘Ah, now I can see why they called you Amber.’ His voice deepened, as if he’d made a thrilling, almost arousing discovery. ‘Look at that. They’re not straight violet, after all. The irises have the most beautiful little amber flecks.’

Stirred, she felt herself flush, and gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Oh, honestly. Guys like you.’

Though he smiled, his eyes sharpened. ‘What about guys like me?’

‘You’d say anything. No one has violet eyes—except maybe Liz Taylor.’

‘Hush. Where’s the poetry in your soul? Anyway, that’s only half true.’ Absently, he took a lock of her hair, ran it through his fingers as if it were made of some rare, precious silk. Her hair follicles shivered with joy. ‘There aren’t any other guys like me. I’m the original one-off.’

Certainly better than a twig. With the wine warming her cockles, she was starting to feel quite languorous. Voluptuous, even. Gently she removed the tress from his fingers. ‘They all say that.’

‘Do they? I’m starting to wonder what sort of guys you know, Amber.’ Then glancing at her, he gave a quick, rueful smile. ‘Oh, sorry. I guess a woman like you … You’d be used to men wanting to impress you.’ He flashed her a veiled look. ‘Do you receive a lot of offers?’

She supposed there’d been a few. Though always from people no one in their right mind would consider viable—apart from Miguel. Especially Miguel.

Not caring to boast, she made a non-committal, so-so sort of gesture. ‘Oh, well …’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said warmly. ‘There are so many of these blokes about. Operators looking for a beautiful woman to hook up with.’ He nodded, sighing. ‘Yeah, I know the type. First they use the old sweet talk routine to soften you up. Then they manoeuvre you into a clinch.’ He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘Or is that where they start these days? With a kiss?’

As if he didn’t know. Her heart bumped into double time.

This conversation was heading in a certain direction, but it was undeniably thrilling. It had been ages since she’d felt on the verge of something truly dangerous and fantastic. All right, so he was an operator of the worst kind. She could be too, if she had to be. She hadn’t taken a celibacy vow yet, had she? Why else was she wearing a push-up bra?

Right on cue Amber’s avatar sashayed into centre stage and met his gaze through Amber’s lashes. ‘I’m already pretty soft, Guy,’ she breathed through Amber’s lips. ‘There are times I prefer to go direct to the kiss.’

His eyes lit with a piercingly sensual gleam. He studied her, eyelids half lowered, reminding her even more of that sleek, smiling wolf.

The summer evening tensed. A shivery excitement prickled along her veins.

With his grey eyes shimmering, in dreamy slow motion he raised a bronzed hand to push a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. In the spot where his fingers connected her skin sprang into tingling life. Softly he trailed one finger over her cheek, down her throat to the hollow at its base.

Sensation rippled through her every nerve cell. Her lips parted as he stroked the delicate skin of her throat. Her skin fell into an enchantment. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth and darken and her heart gave a great bound.

She tilted her head, for a moment teetering on a magical edge of anticipation, then swiftly she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. His sexy mouth felt, firm and so electrically alive, and tasted of wine. She moved her lips against his and a delicious fire sprang to life and danced along them.

His smooth hands slid up to cradle her head, and she leaned into him to gain a more comfortable position. He seized the initiative from her, intensifying the kiss to a searing, sensual charge. She felt something like a deep gasp whoosh through her, and her body shot into electric response as the tip of his tongue slid through to tangle with hers and tantalise the delicate tissues just inside her mouth.

Then, just when she thought desire was a pleasant hunger, his mouth took her tongue captive and sucked.

Oh, baby. Desire was no gentle longing. It was a raging furnace. She gave herself up to the mindless sensation. His beard rasping her skin, his vibrant chest firm and solid under her restless palms.

Liquid quivers shuddered through the top of her head, roused her through her breasts and thighs, down the backs of her knees to the tips of her curled up toes. His hands travelled caressingly up her arms, slid to her swelling breasts, while hers flexed on his biceps. Fire flamed in her blood, stirred all her secret, private places with yearning.

His breath mingled with hers and the masculine flavour of him went to her head like wine. He pulled her closer and she felt the friction of his hard chest pressing her nipples.

The blood boomed in her ears and lust swept her like a flame—wild, searing and erotic.

In the grip of the inferno, she thirsted to be closer. Struggling not to in any way diminish the connection, she kept glued to his lips while she squirmed her way onto his thighs. Straddling that impressive lap, she felt her appreciation of the kiss escalate to a whole new dimension.

As though divining her hunger, he tightened his arms around her and rocked her on the hard ridge of his erection with electrifying results. Pleasure roiled through her in waves.

And her body gasped for more. Much, much more. Until in one impassioned, over-enthusiastic plunge she rocked him right off the piano seat and onto the floor.

Thwack. She landed on top of him in a graceless tangle of arms and legs. Half groaning in a laughing complaint about her roughness, he adjusted his position beneath her. She laughed as well, while every inch of her was aware of the raw, virile flesh separated from hers by a couple of thin layers of material.

There was a moment when their laughter faded and they both stilled. His arms tightened around her again. She could feel his heart thumping against her chest while his masculine scent invaded her head. Or maybe that was her heart pounding in her ears like a jungle drum.

Anything could happen—but just like that? With a stranger? In Jean’s flat?

She scrambled up, her head whirling. Adjusted her top. Smoothed her skirt. She might be a little drunk with that kiss, but parts of her brain were still connected.

Her host pulled himself up and adjusted his jeans. They almost managed to avoid one another’s glances. The air sizzled with incompletion. It tugged at her breasts and feminine loins. Made her feel like doing something dangerous.

Guy felt every part of his body tingle to the imprint of her soft, firm flesh. Was she about to slip through his fingers? Instinct told him not. Not if he played it easy.

He let his glance fall to where glimpses of her breasts tantalised at the edge of her shirt. Arousal had him in its grip. His erection was protesting the confinement of his underwear. Surely she must feel it too? Desire crackled in the air like electricity—a promise propelling them to an inevitable conclusion.

She must feel it.

Amber’s gaze collided accidentally with his and she felt singed. She smoothed her hair. Maybe she should go home before his eyes carried her away. Home to her dark flat, with the sitting room furniture all jammed into the hall. The single lamp she read by. No company.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ he said softly. ‘But you shouldn’t go. Not yet.’

That piqued her pride. ‘You don’t know what I’m thinking.’

His eyes shimmered. ‘Then show me. Let me in.’

As if she wasn’t already intoxicated, she picked up her glass and drank more of the wicked, wicked wine. Glass in hand, she leaned on the piano and smiled. ‘All right, tempter. Go on, then. Play for me.’

He frowned a little at first. She guessed he was disappointed. He’d had other entertainment in view. But he gave in with a gracious shrug and sat down at the piano.

He rested his hands loosely on the keys, then started into a song—some rare, long-forgotten tune that sidled into her heart with a haunting familiarity. He played it against the beat, like a true jazz man, drawing out its sexy sound.

Suddenly a door opened in her memory and a scene came rushing back.

Her mother and father, laughing and dancing in each other’s arms in the kitchen of their old house. When they were still together. When they still loved each other.

Now she knew the song. It was ‘Ruby’, an old number from a Ray Charles album her mother had loved. Lise had continued to play it long after Amber’s father had left her. Left them.

It didn’t even matter now that the lyrics weren’t being sung. From down the decades Ray’s beautiful dark golden voice was still in Amber’s head, recorded there forever in high fidelity, the bittersweet pain of his song as fresh as ever.

Blame the wine or the song, but the music plucked unbearably at her heartstrings. Twisted her most vulnerable emotions and swamped her with nostalgia and regret.

Guy looked up and touched her with his gleaming glance. Something arced between them. Some mutual understanding.

Quickly she lowered her lashes, though she knew he’d seen her tears. But still he continued to play, wringing every last poignant drop from the song as if her response was only natural. Maybe it was then she confused the music with the man.

Fighting tears, she gazed at his lean, strong hands dancing on the keys, on her heart, and her desire bloomed into an intense hunger.

Devouring him with her eyes, she was shaken by a fierce wanton need to bite his mouth, lick his strong neck, feel his warm skin under her fingertips. All at once being near him was both anguish and ecstasy. Yearning for him while at the mercy of the song, she pressed her fingers hard to the piano. Caressed the silky wood, stroked the elegant lines, urgent in her longing to be touched and held.

Guy could hardly keep his eyes from her. Attuned to the quickening sexual current, he switched into one of his own songs. Sexed up the tempo in time with his accelerating desire.

At the change of melody Amber felt both sorry and relieved. At least without the song’s weakening associations her defences managed to firm themselves up again. Good grief, she’d come close to an emotional meltdown. She was conscious of having allowed Guy, a stranger, to see too much, and everything in her scurried to cover up.

For goodness’ sake, this was hardly the time or place for tears. This was the bewitching hour.

Slipping off her shoes, she crawled up onto the piano lid.

Clunk. The music hit a bump. Cool, casual Guy Wilder must be startled. Amber giggled with delight when she saw his stunned face. He was staring at her, his eyes gleaming with an amused and intensely sensual light.

He gave a deep sexy laugh. ‘You bad, bad girl,’ he said softly. ‘What are you up to?’

Encouraged, she slithered across the lid to him, making herself as sinuous as a serpent. A voluptuous serpent, with a longing to feel the contact of hard, muscled man against her skin.

Her ravenous, tingling skin.

He stared at her, eyes ablaze, his hands suspended over the keys.

She rested her chin on her hands and smiled. ‘Did you know I can do the splits?’

The piercing hot gleam in his eyes could have set her aflame. ‘I’d really like to see that.’

The challenge in his husky voice revealed such a depth of wolfish excitement a laugh of pure exhilaration bubbled out of her. Amber O’Neill was flying high, as energised as if she’d just pirouetted right across the stage on points.

Loving her power to galvanise such warm admiration—very warm, judging by the bulge in Guy’s jeans—she ordered him to keep playing.

Guy was happy to accommodate. Eager, one might say. He did his best to comply, continuing to thump the keys while staring, mesmerised. At first she sat up, straight-backed, and tucked up her skirt into her pants’ elastic.

Then, before his hypnotised gaze, she folded her supple self into the lotus position. Each time his fingers faltered on the keys she nodded at him to play on. He started into something—though who knew what? His hands were on an erratic auto-pilot, since every other part of him, from his fascinated gaze to his painful, throbbing erection, was riveted on her.

His brows lifted in disbelief as she smoothly stretched first her right leg, way out to ninety degrees at one side, then her left to the other. All the impossible way. Until both gorgeous legs made a perfect one-eighty. His gaze was riveted to the tender, crucial little bridge touching the piano lid in the middle. His jeans tightened unbearably.

She gazed down upon him like some oriental goddess, her eyes shadowed and mysterious. ‘We call this the straddle position.’

Inside his constricting jeans, the skin of his engorged penis felt ready to burst.

Then, before his lustful gaze, she stretched her right arm over her head and with graceful ease laid her head down on her leg while she touched her left foot with her fingers, the long switch of her hair falling away from her neck.

Then she straightened her taut back and did the reverse, her left arm over her head, fingers touching her right foot. The graceful line of her body, the agonising beauty of her lithe form, her vulnerable neck, dragged at his heart.

It was too much for a guy two years on the sexual wagon.

He sprang up and seized her. With fire thundering in his blood, he lifted her off the piano and set her down on the floor.

Like a wild man, he took her sweet mouth in possession while somehow stripping off his clothes and fumbling with hers.

‘Hurry, hurry,’ she was trying to say through his frenzied kisses, as though he wasn’t rushing as fast as any painfully aroused guy was humanly able.

When she stood naked before him, the beauty of her nude body made his insides tremble. Her breasts small and so achingly perfect. The areolae around the rosy, pouting nipples flushed with arousal. Her waist so slender his hands could have spanned it. The smooth curve of her hips and the pretty triangle of curls sent what was left of his sanity flying out of the window.

Free at last, his rampant erection reached the zenith of rock-hard demand. He stooped gingerly for his jeans and dug for the condom in his wallet, grateful to have one on hand.