Читать книгу Surrender To The Ruthless Billionaire - Louise Fuller - Страница 9
ОглавлениеDOWNSHIFTING THROUGH THE GEARS, Luis Osorio slowed his vintage Ducati motorbike to a standstill and let the engine idle in neutral. As he gazed down the hill at the city illuminated in the late afternoon sunlight his heart did a paso doble inside his chest.
Segovia. Finally he was home.
He had deliberately left the motorway some twenty minutes earlier in order to enjoy this moment—a moment of private communion with the city of his childhood.
A city he loved.
A city he’d shunned for five years.
Five years that had felt like a life sentence.
Although really he’d got off lightly...
His breath caught in his chest and he felt a twisting rush of guilt that made his hands tighten painfully around the handlebar grips.
It was the same guilt that had almost stopped him from coming home. But this time he’d had no choice. His mother’s sixtieth birthday was a celebration he couldn’t miss, whatever the consequences to himself, and so he’d reluctantly agreed to fly in the morning before her party then catch a flight back to California at the weekend.
Her actual birthday was just over a week later, and he knew that his parents had been hoping he would stay. He’d wanted to, and he would have done so only—
Only that would mean forgetting the past and trying to celebrate a present none of them had ever imagined, much less wanted. There was no way he could face that. Nor could he imagine being able to keep his emotions locked down for longer than a couple of days.
It would be better—easier and less painful—to go to the party, so that was what he’d agreed with his parents.
His jaw tightened. He knew they were disappointed but he could live with that. His mouth thinned. In fact he welcomed their disappointment, for he deserved it more than they knew.
But then without telling them he’d changed his mind and instead he’d flown to Athens a month earlier than planned, bought this bike and taken the road trip across Europe that he and his brother, Bas, had promised to do together.
It was the best, the only way he could think to honour Bas’s memory.
His head swam and he felt the same surge of guilt and loneliness that came whenever he thought about his brother. Bas—Baltasar—his best friend as well as his brother. And now he was gone.
On the flight over he’d told himself that it was the right time to come back, that five years of self-imposed exile would be long enough. Only now that he was here he knew that he’d been kidding himself. That nothing—no words, no gestures—could atone for what he’d done.
But he couldn’t just sit there, trapped in the endless maze of his thoughts. Soon enough he was going to have to face his past—but not yet. First he wanted just one last night—not of freedom but of fantasy. A chance to cheat time...to forget who he was and what he’d done.
He breathed out slowly, listening to his heartbeat, and then, twisting the throttle, he leaned forward, feeling the bike move beneath him as he accelerated down the road.
After the wide emptiness of the motorway the city streets seemed narrow and busy. Braking gently to avoid an elderly couple crossing the road, Luis glanced up at the five-star Palacio Alfonso VI hotel. It was tempting to book a room there. Despite his dishevelled appearance, he had no doubt that the roll of banknotes in his back pocket would ensure a warm welcome.
But right now he needed more than a generous-sized bed and a power shower. He wanted anonymity. And he wouldn’t get that in a hotel like the Alfonso VI.
Scooting down the side streets, he found what he was looking for twenty minutes later. This hotel only had two stars, and it was not central. But it was clean and unobtrusive, and the dueño was a keen biker himself. Not only did he have a lock-up for the bike, he offered to pressure-wash it too.
Two hours later, having showered and changed into his cleanest pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt, Luis walked back out onto the street. The dueño had obviously kept his promise—aside from a couple of scratches to the metalwork, his bike looked just as it had when it had left the showroom and, climbing on, he set off towards the city centre.
It was warm enough for him not to need his battered leather jacket, but over the last few days he’d grown comfortable wearing it—he particularly liked the way it seemed to discourage anyone from trying to make conversation.
Although, remembering his reflection in the hotel bathroom’s small mirror, it seemed unlikely that would be a problem anyway. The dark, rough stubble shadowing his jaw and the coolness in his equally dark grey eyes would probably deter all but the most persistent or thick-skinned of people from talking to him.
Outside, the light was starting to fade as he made his way through the crowds spilling off the pavements. He had no real idea of where he was going, and yet for once he didn’t care. He was happy to drift through the streets for it felt so familiar—the warm night, the buzz of chatter and laughter, the smell of oranges and exhaust fumes.
It was as though the last five years had never happened. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that Bas was there beside him, that at any moment he would slap him round the shoulder and tell him to lighten up, because tonight was the night he would meet the woman of his dreams.
Lost in thought, he stared dazedly across the square.
As a child, the four years between them had felt vast. Then his big brother had been so much taller than him, handsome, sporty. The coolest person on the planet, in fact. Of course he’d got older and grown taller himself, until finally they were the same height. But in his head nothing had changed. Bas had always been his big brother, always at the centre of everything, his dark eyes pinballing across the room to whatever beautiful girl had caught his attention.
Whatever beautiful girl had caught his attention...
The words were still echoing inside his head as he sidestepped carefully through the groups of people pacing the pavements like glossy thoroughbreds in a paddock when from nowhere his gaze collided with a pair of soft brown eyes the colour of dulce de leche.
For a fraction of a second heat—unexpected and all-consuming—burned his skin. He registered traffic-stopping red hair, a husky laugh and long golden limbs. And then, just like that, she was gone, swallowed into the crowd funnelling through the doorway into a nightclub.
He stared after her, motionless, another ripple of heat that had nothing to do with the air temperature thrumming across his skin. And then moving swiftly, he did something he’d never done before. He followed her.
Inside, the club was exactly the kind of place he loathed and normally avoided. Hot, loud and crowded, with a dress code and a VIP area. The men were sleek and groomed, the women doubly so.
But he spotted her as soon as he stepped through the door.
How could he not?
Even without the warning beacons of that striking auburn hair and those matching crimson lips, the young men congregating around her like a pack of hungry coyotes made her impossible to miss.
He gritted his teeth. It was easy to see the attraction.
Her feminine curves promised the kind of pleasure that men would fight for with their fists, and she was beautiful and confident in her charms in a way that reminded him painfully of his brother. But that was where the similarity ended, for Bas had never sought the attention he’d received, whereas this woman was deliberately using her beauty and her body to seduce.
His groin tightened as his eyes swept over her.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t completely fair.
Her bright yellow top covered her arms and breasts, and her shorts were actually modest in comparison to those worn by most of the women in the club. But they still revealed an inordinate amount of long golden legs—legs that ended in some of the highest heels he’d even seen. And in fact, now that he was closer, he could see that her top was actually transparent!
His face hardened. Basically, she was sexy and she knew it.
So not his type at all—and yet he had followed her.
Still not entirely sure why he had done that, but somehow reluctant to leave, Luis shrugged off his jacket and pushed his way to the front of the bar.
‘Una sin.’
At least that was something that had changed for the better in the five years since he’d been away. Alcohol-free beer was widely available now, and an acceptable substitute for the real thing.
Not that it would have made any difference if it hadn’t been. He would drink dishwater rather than break his vow. Never again would he risk that loss of control that had ripped his world apart.
Staring straight ahead, he lifted the glass to his lips. He had deliberately chosen to sit with his back to the red-haired woman, and she should have been out of sight and out of mind. But, despite not actually being able to see her, he could still sense her every move. Could picture her hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, almost hear that soft, sexy laugh that hinted not just at fun and flirtation but at a fantasy come true.
Annoyed with the direction of his thoughts, but unable to stop himself, he looked up at the mirror above the bar, his eyes fixing on her reflection. Instantly he regretted his lack of self-control, for she was laughing at something one of the men was saying, her hand brushing against his arm as she leaned in closer to him.
Luis scowled. No doubt he was her boyfriend—for now. The rest were just watching and waiting. Or maybe she was watching and waiting to see which of the men in the room were prepared to make a move.
His eyes narrowed and he felt a swirling anger mingle with his desire as he realised that he himself was included in that demographic.
Why, then, did he find her so damn desirable?
It didn’t make any sense that someone like him would be attracted to someone like her—especially not now. Tonight of all nights he needed to stay detached. Yet, like a bull mesmerised by that flash of red, he could feel himself being drawn to her.
He ran his hand wearily over his face. It must be tiredness...or the heat.
Right, he mocked himself. Or maybe, like every other man within a five-mile radius, he wanted what she was offering.
Glancing over his shoulder at the group of men, he felt his chest tighten. Even from here he could feel their longing, spilling into the dark club.
Like it or not, he was no different.
His heartbeat slowed. Except that he was.
Sure, he’d had girlfriends. No one special, though. And nor was there likely to be any time soon, for more than anything he needed to be certain—and certainty was not a part of the dating equation. Chasing women was definitely not his thing either. It was Bas who had loved the thrill of the chase.
His hand tightened involuntarily around the glass.
The thrill of the chase—even just thinking the words made him feel slightly sick and, tilting his glass, he gazed down at the swirling contents and tried to distract himself from the guilt and remorse building inside his chest.
It didn’t work. And suddenly he knew that it was time to leave. That his little adventure was over.
Keeping his eyes low, he breathed out softly, then still clutching his glass, he turned and—
The glass slammed against his chest, beer slopping down his T-shirt.
He heard a soft cry of surprise, and then the reflexes honed by years of riding motorbikes kicked in. Reaching out, he grabbed the arm flailing in front of him just as his startled brain realised that it was her—the red-haired woman.
* * *
Cristina Shephard gasped.
One moment she’d been taking a selfie on her phone—the next she was falling forward. Her one conscious thought was, I knew I shouldn’t have worn these heels, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, she was being pulled upright, strong hands curving around her wrist and waist.
She breathed out in a rush as those same hands spun her round. ‘Sorry...’
Why was she apologising? she thought dazedly, almost forgetting to breathe. He’d walked into her. But she knew why, and as her fingers curled into warm, hard muscle she gazed up at the man in front of her.
All evening she’d been aware of him. How could she not be? He dominated the whole club—and not just because he was handsome in a way that made you look twice...actually, three times. First to check you weren’t seeing things. Then to marvel at such blatant perfection. And finally just to savour his extraordinary masculine beauty.
He was just so cool. With or without the leather jacket, he had an aura of calm assurance that suggested he was bigger than the sum of his problems. Or hers.
Although obviously not hers. She might never have shared them with anyone, but she knew her problems were too much for most people to handle. Or maybe it was her that was the problem. Her last boyfriend had more or less told her that—shortly after she’d found him in bed with her flatmate.
Her stomach clenched and, pushing aside that thought, she said quickly, ‘Thank you for catching me—and sorry about your beer.’
Luis stared at her. Up close, she was more than beautiful. She was devastatingly lovely. Her huge, melting turrón-coloured eyes with their fringe of probably fake eyelashes were perfectly offset by her flushed cheeks and the scarlet bow of her mouth. He wondered just how soft the skin was on her throat, and then instantly wished that he hadn’t as his brain began tugging him on an imaginary tour beneath her clothing.
Imposing an indifference he didn’t feel onto his features, he shrugged. ‘I was leaving anyway.’
Looking down into her beautiful, curious face, he couldn’t actually remember why that was the case. In fact he appeared to be having trouble remembering how to do a lot of things—like breathing and speaking. It was her fault, though, he thought irritably. Her beauty kept catching him off guard, so that each time he looked at her he forgot what he’d been planning to say.
As the silence grew, Cristina felt her lungs contract.
What was she doing here?
Tomorrow was going to be the biggest day of her life and she should be back in her hotel room, having a quiet night in on her own—just as she’d promised her mum. Only ‘quiet and alone’ were not a great combination, for that was when the thoughts came creeping into her head—thoughts that left her breathless with misery and doubt.
And so she’d come out, bumped into some people at a bar, and ended up here.
With him.
Her mouth felt dry and her breath was suddenly scratchy in her throat. It actually hurt to look at him.
She’d been surrounded by men all evening, but none of them had felt real. They were like chameleons—constantly changing according to their environment. It had made her feel nervous and unsteady, as though the solid floor of the club was actually quicksand.
Her heart tripped in her chest.
And then there was this man.
She liked it that he had ignored the dress code. Liked it, too, that he was happy with his own company. Not that he needed to be. She wasn’t the only women in the club who’d clocked him—for obvious reasons.
He definitely ticked all the boxes in the ‘tall, dark and handsome’ category. In fact his hair was almost black, and so long it curled loosely over the collar of his now damp T-shirt. Stubble that was definitely not ‘designer’ shadowed the clean lines of his jaw, and he had a small infinity tattoo on his wrist.
How on earth had he got past the gorilas on the door? she wondered distractedly. Even she’d had trouble getting in.
But probably he’d just walked straight in. Men with his kind of aura didn’t stop for doormen.
Aware suddenly that she had been staring at him for what felt like for ever, she glanced down at his almost empty glass and said quickly, ‘Please. Have mine.’
She held out the bottle but he shook his head.
‘Okay, then let me buy you another one? To make up for spilling yours.’
Pulse racing, she reached into her bag, pulled out her purse and—
‘Oh.’
Groaning inwardly, she gazed down at the handful of coins. She’d meant to go to the cashpoint on her way out but she’d forgotten.
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
He spoke quietly, but there was a firmness to his voice that cut through his casual manner and made her breathing accelerate in time with her heartbeat.
‘It does.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Look, Tomás will buy you one. He won’t mind.’
Luis gazed at her incredulously. He could hardly believe what she’d just said.
Seriously? She was going to ask her boyfriend to buy him a drink?
His face hardened. ‘There’s no need, really,’ he said tersely.
He didn’t care about the drink. Or his T-shirt. Or the fact that she had a boyfriend. He definitely didn’t care about that, he thought angrily. So why, then, did he feel so wound up?
And then, catching sight of the phone in her hand, he felt a warm surge of relief. She’d been taking a selfie—that was why she’d bumped into him.
Wasn’t it enough that every man in the room was drooling all over her? Did she have to drool over herself too?
Reaching around her, he snatched up his leather jacket from the bar stool.
‘I don’t want another drink,’ he said quietly. ‘But just do yourself and everyone else a favour and look where you’re going next time you come over all narcissistic.’
She gazed up at him as if she couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. Probably she couldn’t. With lips and legs like hers she’d almost certainly never had to take responsibility for her actions before.
Her mouth curled. ‘I was looking where I was going because I was standing still. You walked into me.’
It was true. He had walked into her. But somehow the knowledge that he was technically in the wrong just antagonised him more.
His voice cold, and clipped with a fury he didn’t fully understand, he shrugged his arms into his jacket. ‘You were taking a selfie in the middle of a nightclub. You weren’t concentrating. And that’s how accidents happen.’
He watched her eyes darken to the colour of burnt sugar, her face stiffening with shock and then a fury that doused his.
‘Well, don’t worry—next time I spill a drink all over you I’ll make sure I do it on purpose.’
She stared at him fiercely and then, lifting her chin, turned and stalked off towards the dance floor.
For a fraction of a second Luis stared after her, his heart ricocheting inside his chest. Then, biting down on the frustration rising inside his throat, he turned and strode towards the stairs.
* * *
Out in the street, he felt his fury fade in the still night air. Gazing up at the dark sky, he breathed out slowly.
He hated conflict of any kind. Rarely lost his temper or provoked a fight. Yet tonight he’d almost done both—and with a woman. Gritting his teeth, he cursed softly. He’d been obnoxious and childish—and frankly he’d deserved everything she’d thrown at him and more.
In fact he was lucky she hadn’t thrown her own drink at him too, he thought savagely as he began walking across the square.
The pavements were empty now, almost like a ghost town, and he felt a wrench of loneliness as he unlocked his bike. He missed Bas so much. Living in California, it was easy to rationalise his brother’s absence from his life. All he had to do was pretend that back in Spain Bas was doing just what he always did—teasing their mother, eating empanadas by the plateful, partying until dawn with his friends.
Here, though, it was impossible to pretend.
And it would be even harder tomorrow—he glanced at his watch and frowned—or rather later today, with his parents. His stomach twisted with guilt and grief, and suddenly he knew that he had to move.
Straddling the bike, he pushed the key clumsily into the ignition. It would better once he was moving. On the open road, with the sound of the engine mingling with the beat of his blood, his feelings would spin away into the darkness like the dirt beneath his wheels.
He eased the bike forward and turned the ignition. Pulling in the clutch, he thumbed the starter button—and then frowned as the engine sputtered and died.
Damn it!
He tried again, and then again, over and over, feeling a tic of irritation start to pulse in his cheek. What the hell was wrong with the damn thing? It made no sense.
Trying to stay calm, he leaned forward and took a deep breath. He would check the blindingly obvious. And then...
And then nothing. For anything else he’d need pliers, a wrench, a screwdriver—
‘Do you need any help?’
He sensed movement behind him and, turning, he felt his breath catch in his throat as she took a step closer.
She was watching him warily. Her auburn hair was now tied up into some kind of messy ponytail and she’d changed her shoes. Glancing at the black military-style boots on her feet, he almost smiled. Good job she hadn’t been wearing those earlier or he might not have made it out the club.
He shook his head. ‘Not sure you can,’ he said carefully. Holding her gaze, he gestured towards the high-heeled shoes dangling from her hand. ‘Unless those transform into some kind of toolkit. Or are you planning on throwing them at me too?’
Cristina stared at him in silence.
She had hesitated before coming over. He’d been so patronising and rude to her. But then she had spilled his drink over him, so maybe that made them equal. It was a pretty lame argument, but before her brain had had a chance to object she had already been walking across the square.
‘I didn’t plan on throwing your drink over you—as you yourself pointed out. Now, do you want my help or not?’
Luis stared at her for a long moment. Her voice was husky—distractingly so. Was this some kind of trick? Or a joke.
‘You want to help me?’ he said slowly. ‘I’m—’
‘Touched?’ she suggested. ‘Grateful? Pleased?’
‘Actually, I was going to say surprised. And a little nervous maybe.’ He glanced over at her shoes.
Her mouth twitched. ‘Well, I probably would have broken my leg or my neck if you hadn’t caught me, so I guess it’s only fair.’
‘It’s more than fair. It’s magnanimous, given that I not only walked into you but then failed to apologise for doing so.’ His grey eyes were level with hers. ‘I’m sorry. I was the one who wasn’t looking where I was going.’
As his gaze held hers Cristina felt her heart thud against her ribs. Even though it had been a little awkward, she liked that he had picked up where they had left off. Liked that he was honest enough to admit that he’d been wrong.
And, although he might not say much, she liked that he meant what he said.
‘Don’t you need to get home?’
Home. The word made her breathe in sharply. She shrugged.
‘Right now, I don’t really have one. I’m just travelling.’
Feeling suddenly horribly self-conscious, she glanced down at the Ducati.
‘I don’t know this model, but I’m almost sure you don’t need a toolkit to fix it.’
Watching his mouth turn up at one corner, she felt a rush of heat tighten her skin. It was impossible not to imagine what he would look like if he smiled properly, or what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth.
Feeling his gaze on her face, and terrified that her thoughts might somehow be visible, she frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’
‘No, I’m just tweaking my mental picture of you. I had you down as a party girl, not a back-warmer.’
She took a step towards him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is that right? Then maybe what you need isn’t a toolkit but a little imagination. Or perhaps a little less prejudice. Women ride motorbikes on their own these days, and guess what? They don’t even do it side saddle.’
Meeting her gaze, Luis felt something soft and dark stir inside in his blood as she took another step closer and touched the fuel tank between his legs.
He sighed. ‘You’re enjoying this.’
She nodded. ‘A little. You were pretty mean to me.’
Watching her fingers stroke the warm gleaming metal, he felt his stomach tense.
‘Is this some kind of hands-on healing?’
Her fingers stilled and she cleared her throat. ‘Your bike is really clean. In comparison to your boots, I mean.’
They both looked down at his scuffed and dust-covered boots.
Despite himself, he was interested now. ‘Okay, Nancy Drew, I got my bike washed this evening. And, no, it’s not something I do very often but I have done it historically and I’ve never had a problem. And besides, it worked fine when I rode over here tonight.’
‘Was it washed by hand?’
He frowned. ‘No—pressure-wash.’
She nodded. ‘Okay...well, I could be wrong, but water might have got into the ignition switch. It probably just needs a spritz of some kind of water-displacer.’
He stared at her, his pulse jumping with excitement, his hands tightening in a gesture of pure possession. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman. Only the fact that, however deserted it appeared to be, they were still in a public place stopped him from reaching out and—
Stomach clenching with desire, he pushed aside an image of her splayed against the gas tank and said dryly, ‘That’s good to know. But as I don’t have any—’
He broke off in disbelief as she opened up her handbag and pulled out a small spray can.
‘I know how this must look, but I don’t normally carry this stuff around with me,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that the window in my hotel room is so squeaky that I can’t sleep. Anyway, I complained, and when I was going out this evening the guy in reception gave me this.’ She held out the can. ‘It’s worth a try.’
Luis wanted to ask her to rewind and repeat everything she’d just said, but instead he took the can and sprayed the ignition switch. He waited a moment, and then turned the key. He grinned as the snarl of the engine punctured the silence in the square.
Cristina blinked, and then smiled too. It was impossible not to. For, even though it was a dark and starless night, his smile made her feel as though the sun was rising and it was a new dawn.
She felt her heart skip a beat.
No wonder she’d tripped earlier.
Since finding Dominic, her on-off boyfriend of several months, in bed with her flatmate, she’d sworn off men. But there were men and then there was fate.
And surely that was why she had spilt his drink over him. Why his bike had failed to start. And why she’d ended up booking the worst hotel in Segovia, possibly in Spain.
‘Thank you.’
He was holding out the can to her.
‘It’s okay. You can keep it.’
‘But your window—’
‘It’s fine. I probably won’t sleep tonight anyway. My mattress is really hard, and I think it’s going to storm later. It’s so hot and humid now.’
Luis felt his body tense. Hard. Hot. Humid. Why did every word she said make him think of sex?
Gritting his teeth, he ignored the blood pounding through his veins and forced himself to speak. ‘So how did you know what was wrong?’
Cristina hesitated. Good question. However, the completely truthful answer was not one she was about to share with a perfect stranger—no matter how tall, dark and handsome.
It would take too long, and—her skin tightened over her cheekbones—it would be too humiliating to reveal the mend-and-make-do life she and her mother had been forced to live for so many years. But, just as she always did, she would tell him one truth.
Her eyes met his. ‘My dad had a motorbike. Not like this one, but I took it over for a bit and I got to hang out with bikers—and they can’t shut up about ignitions and sparks.’
She winced inside. What was she doing, rambling on about bikers as if she was some kind of Hell’s Angel?
‘Anyway...’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘I should probably be going. It’s late, and I want to get back to my hotel before it starts to rain.’
That wasn’t true. The thought of her bedroom, dark and quiet, filled her with dread. She didn’t want to be alone. But tonight was not the night to mess up, and how could taking this handsome stranger back to her room be anything but a risk not worth taking?
She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye,’ she said woodenly.
He took it, and at the touch of his fingers heat flared inside of her—and something bittersweet. A sense of what might have been if they’d met at some other time.
‘Let me give you a lift. Please. It’s the least I can do.’
His voice jolted her back to reality and, swallowing down the ache in her throat, she shook her head.
‘No, really—it’s fine.’ She pointed at one of the side streets off the square. ‘My hotel is literally down there.’
He looked at her for the longest time, then frowned.
‘I don’t even know your name.’ He sounded surprised.
‘It’s Cristina.’
He nodded. ‘Lucho.’
There was a low rumble of thunder overhead, and as they both looked up at the sky she took a deep breath. ‘You should go or you’ll get soaked.’
He nodded and dropped her hand, and quickly, before she could change her mind, she turned and began to walk away as the rain started to fall.
At first it was soft and light like tears but then almost immediately it changed. Heavy, fat droplets hammered her head and shoulders so that in seconds she was soaked and the pavement was awash with water.
Don’t look back, she told herself. This wasn’t meant to be. Just keep walking.
But she couldn’t just walk away. And, really, what difference would it make if she took one last look?
She turned, and suddenly her heart was hammering louder than the rain.
He was still sitting there, watching her, rain running down his face.
Cristina shivered.
He was waiting.
For her.
For a moment she hesitated.
Don’t—don’t go back. It’s just because you’re nervous about tomorrow, and when you get nervous you make stupid decisions.
Her heart kicked against her ribs, and then she walking, running back across the square, and what she was feeling wasn’t nervousness but relief. And then he was pulling her against him, his mouth seeking hers, his hands sliding beneath the soaking fabric of her top.
They left the bike where it was, and ran to her hotel. Ignoring the startled glance of the receptionist, they stumbled up the stairs and into her bedroom.
He kicked the door shut and, bending his head, he took her mouth again. Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him back, her fingers tugging at his T-shirt, her mouth meeting his with urgent, frantic hunger.
‘No—’ Her eyes darkened with frustration as he broke away from her mouth and yanked his T-shirt over his head.
He was so gorgeous—all sleek, hard muscle and smooth skin, and a line of soft dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
Reaching out, she ran her fingers lightly over the hair, watching his muscles tremble, and then she breathed in sharply as he took hold of the zip on the front of her jacket and slowly pulled it down.
Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against hers, the dark grey of his eyes almost black. For an endless moment he stared at her, his breathing ragged, and then, lowering his mouth, he began to kiss her again—lips, neck, throat—each kiss leading on to the next one and the next.
As he buried his face against her neck she moaned softly, sliding her fingers up through his hair. Her head was spinning...heat was slipping over her skin as his hands slid under her top, under the bandeau she was wearing underneath and over her damp breasts, his thumbs caressing the hard peaks of her nipples.
For the second time that night her legs crumpled beneath her, and her fingers tightened in his hair.
She heard a hiss as he breathed in sharply, and then he was tugging down her shorts, lifting her up, his hands curving beneath her as he pinned her against the door with his body. She shifted against him, panting, seeking relief for the ache building inside her, until suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer and her fingers clawed at his belt and zip, pushing his jeans down.
‘Wait...’ he muttered, and she felt her breath catch as he fumbled in his pocket and slid a condom on.
For a moment he held her gaze, and then, groaning, he forced her mouth back to his. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, he thrust inside her. She arched against him, her nails biting into his arms, and then her muscles clenched and she cried out with pleasure as his body shuddered and slammed into her.
