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See? he’d say. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Catarina.
That pink tongue would peep out, touch her bottom lip in the way that drove him crazy. He’d force himself to hold still as she moved her hand over him, felt the heat of his skin, the softness of the hair on his chest, the flatness of his belly.
She’d hesitate then, her eyes filled with questions, and he’d clasp her hand in his again, gently move it down, grit his teeth against the need to plunge deep inside her as he felt her cool fingers close delicately around his hard, eager length.
She’d say his name, this time with a woman’s need, and he’d cup her face, kiss her mouth, let his tongue enter its honeyed depths, and when she whimpered and began moving against him he’d say, Yes, Cat, yes, sweetheart. This is what it’s like to be with a man. A man who wants you more than he wants his next breath.
And then he’d touch her.
Seek out that sweetness hidden between her thighs. Hear her cry out with passion as he opened her to him, as he sought out the delicate bud that had flowered just for him. He’d kiss her there, lick her until she writhed in his arms, and when she was lost, when she was sobbing his name and begging him to take her, then, only then, would he enter her, groan as he felt her exquisite heat, her tightness, close around him…
Snap.
The two halves of the pencil flew across the room.
None of that could happen. Taking Catarina’s virginity would ruin her for another man. It would destroy her plan. He’d have to stop before he slid deep inside her, before he took her maidenhead, before he made her his, only his…
God!
Jake shot to his feet, turned to the window, leaned forward and touched his forehead to the cool glass.
What was he doing? He’d come within seconds of humiliating himself. How could that be? He was a grown man, years and years removed from a boy’s game of sexual fantasy.
And why should he resort to his imagination when the real thing was readily available?
Jake grabbed the telephone and hit the button that connected him with Belle.
“Belle,” he snapped, “call Vickers. Tell her I’ll pick her up for dinner. At seven-thirty.”
“ Vickers?”
He heard the surprise in his P.A.’s voice. He couldn’t blame her. He’d hardly spoken with Samantha since he’d returned from Rio, and then she’d been the one who’d made the calls.
“Yes, Miss Vickers.”
“And if she’s otherwise engaged?”
Was that a polite admonition or a reasonable question? Frankly, he didn’t care.
“She won’t be,” he said, with the unknowing arrogance of a man who’d never had the least bit of trouble attracting women. “Then phone that place I was supposed to take her to last time.”
“Sebastian’s?”
“Right. Make a reservation for eight.”
“Yes, sir.” Belle hesitated. “What about Mendes?”
“What about her?” Jake snarled, and slammed down the receiver.
Sebastian’s was trendy and handsome, if you liked deliberately exposed copper pipes and cast-iron plumbing, steel beams and snaking electrical cables. The music was loud and fast; the too-small tables were jammed with Importantly Beautiful People and those who considered themselves Beautifully Important.
Samantha was stunning. Every man in the room watched her enter on Jake’s arm; every man watched each time she laughed at his jokes, tossed back her mane of auburn hair and leaned forward to show off a cleavage that guaranteed she’d never drown should a flash flood mysteriously sweep through the city streets.
Except his jokes were lame. So was his conversation. All Jake could think about was Catarina, and how crestfallen she’d looked when he told her he was going out.
“With a woman?”
“Yes,” he’d said, with almost deliberate cruelty. “With a woman. But you won’t be here alone. I called and asked Anna to stay for the evening.”
