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“Don’t think you can dominate me, Bailey,” he warned her carefully. “Don’t think you can dress me, or tell me how to conduct my part of this little operation. I’ve been handling my own tailors as well as my own jewelers for years.” His head lowered as he spoke until his lips were only a breath from hers.
Damn her. She was strong, resilient, but she hadn’t yet learned that he was stronger and a hell of a sight more stubborn. She’d learned that lesson about Trent; now she had to learn it about John.
“This isn’t a game we’re playing between ourselves,” he continued. “Don’t pretend that it is.”
“Isn’t it?” A challenge flared in her eyes, like fire inside the purest emerald. “Don’t lie to me, John. Don’t pretend it’s any more than it really is. It’s a job. One we’re both determined to complete, nothing more.”
“Like hell.”
He’d be damned if he would allow her to leave here, on his arm, believing that load of crap that she was trying to convince herself of.
She wanted to deny what was between them because she didn’t understand it, because she didn’t know who or what he was to her. He understood that. That didn’t mean he would tolerate it.
Using one arm to hold her in place, he gripped the side of her face with his palm. As she parted her lips to blast him with that sharp tongue of hers, he took possession of it.
Kissing Bailey was like being engulfed in flames. The damp heat of her tongue, the satiny softness of her lips beneath his, were like a narcotic that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of. The more he had of her, the more he wanted.
He felt her hands slide slowly up his chest, hesitant, trembling, her fingers stroking against his flesh until they clasped his neck.
She shuddered in his grip, as she had that first night in Australia. Tremors of need raced beneath her flesh as a soft, almost unwilling cry passed her lips.
John kept the kiss gentle. There was no need to take her roughly, to assert his dominance, his hunger. It was there in each lick of his tongue against hers, in the rub of their lips, the way her hands gripped his neck, the way he held her to him. Her body softened into his, as though it realized what her mind didn’t. That she was his. That her heart, her body, belonged to him.
That slender, sweet body conformed to his now. Her hands held tight to his neck as she leaned into him, burning in his arms like a flame as he began to kiss her with hungry demand.
She asserted her own demand. She took what he gave and then pushed for more until lips and tongue were working together with heated moans and hands that couldn’t stay still.
He wanted to slide the fabric of that dress up her thighs until he reached what he knew were the dew-shrouded folds of flesh between her thighs. She would be wet for him, hot. The remembered feel of her sweet pussy drove through his head and sent pulses of need clenching in his balls.
His cock was a wedge of pure steel, straining at his slacks as he lifted her closer, unwilling to release her for even a second, wanting more of her than he had ever imagined wanting of a woman.
She was his.
His hands tightened on her as he lifted her impossibly closer. His palms slid to her rear, tightened in the smooth, toned muscle as a groan tore from his chest.
His hips bunched, grinding his cock into the soft flesh between her thighs, feeling the heat of her pussy, flexing and throbbing for the remembered sensations of being buried deep inside her.
God, she had been so tight. She would be tight around him now. She hadn’t had another lover in five years, but soon, very damned soon, she was going to have him again.
“Call it a game now, damn you.” He tore his lips from hers as he stepped to the couch several feet behind him. Turning, he bore her to the cushions, pushing her dress up her smooth, silk-covered legs as he slid between them. “Tell me you’re not as damned hot for this as I am.”
He made the mistake of glancing away from her face. The draped material of her dress fell over one swollen breast, revealing the hard, velvet-covered tip. Tight and flushed, her nipple beckoned his lips, his tongue.
He felt starved for the taste of her, the feel of her.
“Look at you,” he rasped. “You want me just as bad as I want you, Bailey, and you refuse to admit it.”
“I don’t deny it.” Her breathing was rough, hard. “I never denied wanting you.”
She denied herself the chance to take it, though. He wasn’t denying himself.
Flattening his hands against her knees, he ran his hands up her thighs, feeling the silk stockings she wore until he reached the lace band.
She shook her head as he pressed her legs farther apart, her fingers clenched into the cushions of the couch, but she didn’t ask him to stop, she didn’t deny the touch.
Pushing the material of the dress higher, he finally found what he was searching for. A sapphire-blue thong, the small triangle covering her pussy already damp, the folds of her flesh outlined beneath the material.
“Spread your legs farther,” he ordered roughly. “Let me see, Bailey.”
