Читать книгу Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss - Susan Stephens, Anne Oliver - Страница 13

HEATH’S hand cupped Bronte’s chin. He made her look at him. She could see in his gaze what came next and how incredible it was going to be. His hand felt warm and gentle on her face. For such a big man, Heath could be incredibly sensitive—and intuitive. It was this mix of soothing balm and fiery passion she craved now. She was hungry for tenderness. Only-child syndrome, maybe, Bronte thought. With both her parents working there hadn’t been much time to spare for cuddling. And though there had been other children visiting Hebers Ghyll she’d always felt on the outside looking in—except with Heath. They had both been different, she supposed—the dreamer and the wild boy from the city.

‘Hey, come back to me,’ Heath insisted.

She looked at him. They could both have used a hug back then. She had always been hungry for Heath. He had lit a fire no amount of common sense could hope to put out, and that fire had been smouldering for thirteen years. Could anything stand in its way now?

‘This isn’t so outrageous, is it?’ Heath demanded, tightening his grip on her when she exhaled shakily.

‘You’re a very bad man indeed.’

Heath smiled, and then his lips brushed her cheek. He was making her tremble. He was making the ache inside her turn into a primitive hunger that lacked every vestige of romance.

And then he brought her in front of him and Heath’s steady gaze didn’t leave her eyes as his hands moved slowly down her arms. He could read every thought and she felt violently exposed, yet glad that Heath could see her hunger for him. She exclaimed softly when his thumb pad caught the tip of her nipple—but it moved on. This was all intended. Heath had caught her in his erotic net. And she wasn’t interested in escaping. She was only interested in what came next.

Heath’s hand was moving lightly down her spine towards her buttocks. Her breathing sounded ragged as that experienced hand continued on, and when it reached the hollow in the small of her back it fitted so neatly, she relaxed, but when he moved on to map the swell of her bottom that was too much. With a shaking cry, she arched her back, offering herself for pleasure. Heath’s hands maintained a detailed exploration—sensitively seeking, and yet never quite giving her the contact she craved. ‘Oh, please—’ She was shivering with anticipation, shameless in her need. ‘Please don’t tease me like this, Heath.’

Heath said nothing as he continued to stroke and prepare. Her breathing sounded noisy in the silence, and she knew he must feel her heat through the flimsy protection of her clothes. She was moist and swollen—ready for him, and the only thought in her head was, Don’t stop.

‘And if I stop now?’ Heath said, pausing.

‘Have you read my mind?’ She heard the smile in his voice, and could picture the curve of Heath’s lips, even with her face buried in the soft wool of his sweater. ‘You can’t stop now,’ she said, gazing up at him, ‘Because I can’t stop now.’

‘So, what’s the answer?’ he said, frowning.

‘You have to kiss me.’

‘Is that a command?’ Heath’s lips curved with amusement.

‘Yes, please,’ she said.

Maybe her memory of all those years back was faulty. Maybe one kiss would be the answer to resisting Heath—to resisting what her body begged her to do.

His mouth was so close her lips tingled. She sighed, climbing to the next level of arousal as Heath brushed his lips against hers. Reaching up, she laced her fingers through his hair, opening her body to a man more than capable of taking advantage of her. Her legs were trembling against his. She’d waited so long. Heath didn’t disappoint. His kiss was firm and sure, and the touch of his hands on her body was indescribable. Heat ran through her like a torrent of molten lava, and when he teased her lips apart with his tongue she was glad of his arms supporting her. Hunger ruled her. She was captive to feelings so strong it was impossible to keep them in check. Breath shot from her lungs as Heath’s grip tightened. She wanted him. She wanted to share his warmth and confidence. She wanted his body. She wanted Heath to take hold of her and position her as he pleasured her, and for him to go on pleasuring her until the world and all its uncertainties faded away.

There could be no more delays. She had no inhibitions left—no restraint. There was just an urgent need to feel Heath hot and hard inside her. She wanted him as a wild animal wanted its mate. There was nothing tender about this—no thought, no reason, just a glorious battle with one sure ending. Naked flesh on naked flesh, drugging and intoxicating—no kisses, no tender promises, only now.

She rejoiced in the rasp of Heath’s chest hair against her pitifully sensitive nipples, and welcomed him, hard, hot and savage against her. She cried out with excitement when he brought her jeans down in one swift move and lifted her. ‘Now,’ she instructed him, crazy with need.

‘Not so fast,’ Heath murmured. His experienced hands had found her, checked that she was ready, and then he quickly protected them both.

She locked her legs around his waist. ‘Oh, no … no … no,’ she cried, shaking her head wildly from side to side as he started teasing her with just the tip.

‘Oh, yes … yes,’ Heath responded, taking her deep.

Her eyes widened. She gasped with astonishment at the size of him. She gripped his shoulder for support. Planting her hands flat against his chest, she braced herself—and when the pleasure became too great, she laced her fingers through his hair, threw her head back and rode the sensation. This was so much more than she had expected. She was lost in pleasure, lost to reason. Heath was every bit as intuitive as she’d known he would be, and infinitely sensitive to her needs. He must never stop, she thought wildly as he dealt her the deep rhythmical strokes. She wouldn’t let him stop. She was floating on an erotic plane where she had nothing to do but accept pleasure while Heath, with one hand braced against the door, pounded into her.

‘You’re fantastic,’ she screamed at the moment of release. As she collapsed against him she realised this was true. Heath was an extraordinary lover, and she was addicted to his very special brand of pleasure. She pressed her face against his chest, inhaling his warm, clean male scent. Heath was everything she had ever wanted in a man—everything she had ever dreamed he would be. He was so tender and careful as he lowered her to the floor. He didn’t let go of her until he was sure she was steady on her feet; by that time her heart was full of him.

‘Better?’ he murmured, smiling against her hair.

‘Transformed,’ she told him. That was nothing more than the truth. She could hardly believe what had happened, and was so glad that it had.

‘Until the next time?’ Heath’s voice was full of the affection she longed to hear as he nuzzled his face against her neck.

‘We belong together, you and I, I’ve always known it,’ she said, snuggling into him. Perhaps Heath did too. He’d said until the next time, which couldn’t be long now, she thought, gazing up at him. She only needed a couple of minutes to recover, and then she’d be—

Something had changed, Bronte realised, feeling sick inside. She’d said too much as usual, and Heath had changed. She had frightened him off with her big emotions. She could feel the change in his body—in his stillness—in his drawing back. His hard frame was unyielding when seconds ago it had been hers. A chill ran through her at the thought that while she had been spinning like a dervish out of control, Heath had been quietly thinking.

But what they’d done wasn’t wrong.

However many times she told herself this, it didn’t change the way Heath had become. Hard flesh that had moulded her soft body was just hard flesh, and the sensitive hands that had catered to her every need while Heath held her safe had grown light and impersonal.

‘Heath?’

He didn’t move for a moment, as if he respected the fact that they both needed a moment to come down and grow accustomed to this change between them. He might as well have left the room, Bronte thought.

‘Okay?’ he said at last, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

‘I’m fine,’ she said as if she were reassuring him.

While she got herself sorted out she could hear Heath fastening his jeans and securing his belt. How quiet they were—how reserved … like two strangers. She didn’t need anyone to tell her they’d got it wrong. The knowledge hung between them in the air. And into a mind that didn’t want to accept the truth, she knew that sex—for that was all it had been with Heath—had been a terrible mistake, and that she must cut her feelings for him now before they swamped her. A relationship with a man like Heath was never going anywhere, so it was better to end it and show how sophisticated she could be before she ruined her chances of ever being taken seriously as a candidate for the job. She huffed lightly. ‘To think I only asked for coffee.’

‘I promised the lads I’d join them later,’ Heath said, picking up on her change of mood. ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay if I go?’

As he spoke he reached out a hand, and she sensed Heath wanted to stroke her hair. She pulled back. There was nothing temperamental or dramatic about it, this was just a signal between friends that they understood each other. ‘Of course I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? I’m just going to finish up in here, and then I’m going home for a long, hot bath and a lazy night in front of the TV.’

‘If you’re sure?’ Heath looked puzzled. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she countered wryly. ‘I can walk you to the pub, if you like?’

‘I think I’ll be safe,’ Heath answered in the same ironic tone.

‘Okay.’ Angling her chin, she found a smile.

She waited until he left the room and then blew out a long, slow breath. Behave with dignity, she told herself firmly. She had wanted Heath—and had been determined to have him. And now she had, she must take the consequences.

So that was settled.

Good.

Hearing the outer door closing, she listened to Heath’s footsteps crossing the yard. Even they were unbearably familiar, but gradually they faded. Bronte only hoped her feelings would do the same. Closing her eyes, she gave it a moment. No change. Still acting calmly, she was screaming in her head. There was no right way to handle this. Well, there was, as far as the outside world was concerned and Heath, but for her tonight was a memory to lock away, and to get out and examine whenever she needed to beat herself up.

But she couldn’t stand here for ever feeling sorry for herself, Bronte concluded. Her feet might appear to be superglued to the floor, but even she couldn’t live off emotion. It wouldn’t decorate the kitchen any more than it would save Hebers Ghyll—both would need more direct action. And at least with decorating there was more certainty of success, she thought, picking up her brush. Men could punch the wall when things went wrong, but she’d settle for prising open a new can of cream paint. If she finished the wall tonight then at least something would have reached a satisfactory conclusion.

He didn’t go to the pub or anywhere near it. He got straight in the car and drove back to the city. When he reached the open road he stamped his foot down on the accelerator. The hunger to put miles between him and Bronte was as fierce as the hunger that had flared between them. She was like a wild green shoot that couldn’t survive his brand of tough. Beneath Bronte’s fire there was tenderness and vulnerability. He’d always known it and couldn’t forgive himself for what had happened. Bronte embraced life and all it had to offer, but her enthusiasm was coloured by the desperate hope that no one would hurt her—but they would. He would. And so he was leaving.

Heath grimaced as he roughly brushed a stubble-roughened chin against his arm. What the hell had he been thinking? Bronte was as innocent as she had ever been. And he had never been innocent. If he owed Uncle Harry anything, it was not to pursue this madness—this hunger—this … Bronte.

But even when he tried to clear his mind she was still in there—her fresh wildflower scent lingering, mingled with paint fumes. He could still see the humour in her eyes, and the determined jut of her chin … that stubborn mouth. That stubborn, kissable mouth—

He actually groaned out loud at this point. He should never have come to the country. He belonged in town. The only thing he could be thankful for right now was that his utility vehicle was eating up the narrow lanes with an appetite he shared. The sooner he replaced green fields and Bronte with a reassuring cityscape of concrete and uncomplicated women, the sooner he’d relax—

Was that right?

When Bronte had shaken him in so many ways? She’d touched on feelings he’d managed to successfully beat down for years. She’d left him questioning more than just his relationship with Uncle Harry and Hebers Ghyll. She had reminded him of things he’d been ashamed of, and turned them into something to celebrate. She was the first woman to match his sexual appetite. The first woman to whom he had felt seriously attracted. The first woman he had ever come close to considering a friend—

Bronte’s vulnerability stopped him dead in his tracks every time. Seeing that was the only warning he needed that this madness had to stop. They weren’t meeting on an even playing field, or anything like. Bronte cared too much about everything—and she hadn’t fooled him with her casual act. Bronte wore her heart on her sleeve—which was lovely, but not when he was involved. It would be too easy for him to trample her heart. And not intentionally. That was just the way he was. He had never made room in his life for emotion. He was stone to Bronte’s soul. He had nothing to offer her. But he wouldn’t break his promise. He had assumed responsibility for Hebers Ghyll, and that wouldn’t change. And he would give her a shot at the job.

Dealing with Bronte on a professional basis would be different, Heath convinced himself as industrial units encroached on the fields, reminding him that his journey was coming to an end. He would be in control if and when she worked for him. Emotion had no part to play. Poverty had made him a stickler for control dating back to when he’d made his first big money and realised the changes he could make. He had controlled the spending to make sure not a penny of his hard-earned cash was wasted. He couldn’t delegate. He had never learned to relax.

More reasons why he could never be the man Bronte wanted him to be. She wasn’t even his type, Heath reasoned, stamping down on the accelerator as the lights changed. Her dress sense alone was bad enough—

To keep the thought of yanking Bronte’s clothes off her at the forefront of his mind at all times.

He curved a smile—and then reminded himself about his good intentions. They were soon dispatched. But then there was The Temper. Wasn’t that just what he needed? Why couldn’t he meet some nice, compliant girl?

Because they bored him, Heath reasoned, swinging the wheel as he turned onto the six-lane highway leading into the city. That certainty only grew when he remembered the squads of eager candidates with their porcelain smiles and improbably inflated breasts. It made him smile to think those flutterbys had been effortlessly eclipsed by a tiny, passionate girl—so real, so true, he doubted he could ever go back to plastic.

She usually woke up and leapt out of bed at the cottage full of bounce because there was so much to do at Hebers Ghyll, and she so wanted to get there and do it—but not this morning. This morning she felt flat.

Because there was a whole world of beating herself up to do, Bronte realised as she crawled out of bed. She was still aching from Heath’s spectacular attentions, and only wished she could feel differently about what had happened. But she couldn’t. It still felt so right to her, though clearly Heath hadn’t felt the same.

Heath was right. Get on with your life, Bronte reasoned as she walked down the now neatly manicured drive towards the hall. It was such a beautiful morning she wouldn’t let anything get her down—

Where was Heath’s truck?

Bronte’s heart plummeted as she quickly raced through all the possibilities, ending in the feeble: perhaps Heath had left early to get some supplies.

That wasn’t the answer. She was just putting off the moment when she had to face the truth. Lifting her chin, she took a moment to steel herself before facing the others. She was her old self again by the time she let herself into the house—as far as anyone else could tell.

The kitchen was empty.

So empty.

With just a faint smell of non-smell paint. The first thing she did was open the window to let some fresh air in.

What had she expected, Bronte asked herself, gripping the edge of the table—Heath waiting with a bunch of flowers and a cheesy grin? Did that sound like Heath? He had never planned to stay long. And he had never misled her. If anything, she was surprised he had stayed in the countryside as long as he had. Heath ran a highly successful business in the city. Hebers Ghyll was just a hobby for him. He’d come down when he could spare the time, he’d said.

If all those elegant women queuing up to go to bed with him could spare him—

She mustn’t think like that, Bronte scolded herself fiercely. What had happened last night was nothing more than the result of working in close proximity with a very attractive man. It was normal—natural. She was a free agent—she could do what she liked. And she liked what had happened last night. A lot. And what Heath chose to do in his own time was Heath’s business. And—

And, damn it, she was crying.