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"So if I walk out, we'll be friends again?"
"Yes." She squeezed her eyes shut as her heart contracted. "No."
Relieved, he crossed back to her. "You'll hate me if I go." Gathering her hair in his hand, he drew her head back until their eyes met. "You need me. I want to hear you say it."
"I'll hate you if you go." She reached up, framed his face with her hands. "I need you." She pulled his mouth to hers. "Come to bed." It was the best way to show him, the only way.
"The easy answer," he murmured.
"Yes, it should be easy. Let's make it easy." The moment he lifted her into his arms, she tugged at his jacket, whispered hot promises in his ear.
But he didn't intend to make it easy this time, for either of them. He stood her next to the bed, let her undress him with quick, eager hands. When she would have pulled him down with her to the sheets still warm from the lights and her body, he gathered her close and began his assault.
One long, lazy meeting of lips that spun out and trembled and shimmered with something new. Simple tenderness. He took her hands, drew them down to her side, behind her back, and cuffed them there so that his free hand could stroke over her face, down her throat, into her hair while his mouth continued to seduce.
"Josh." Her heartbeat echoed slow and thick in her head. "Touch me."
"I am." He feathered kisses over her cheeks, her jaw. "Maybe for the first time I'm touching you. It's hard to feel when there's only heat. But you're feeling now, aren't you?" When her head fell weakly back, he nuzzled her throat. "No one's ever made you feel what I'm going to make you feel."
It was frightening, this weakness weighing down her limbs, clouding her brain. She wanted the flash, the fire. There was simplicity in that. And even in dangerous heat, safety. But mixed with the fear was the dark, dizzying thrill of being taken slowly, so slowly that each touch, each brush of lips lasted eons.
He could swear he felt her bones melting inside that sleek, pampered flesh. The drum of her turgid pulse thudded against his fingers. Low, baffled whimpers sounded in her throat where pearls glowed against her skin. He slid the robe aside so she wore nothing but them, luminous white orbs circling a long, slim neck.
"Lie down with me." She lifted her arm to take him. "Lie down on me."
Her voice alone, that husky flow of it, could have brought a man to his knees. And had, he thought
, too often. He stroked his hands down her back, up, a teasing fingertip caress that had her shuddering, had her lips parting on what might have been a plea before his closed over them and swallowed it.
When she was limp against him, when her hands slid weakly back to her sides, he lay her on the bed, on the slick, slippery satin. But he didn't cover her. Again, he braceleted her wrists, lifted them above her head. Sigh layered over sigh as he began a slow, thorough trail down her body.
She thought the air had turned gold. How else could every breath she took be so rich? His mouth was so gentle, yet it exploited weaknesses she hadn't known were hidden inside her. His hands were impossibly tender and patient, yet they made her burn. And they made her weep.
It was more than pleasure. She had no words for it. It was soft, stronger than lust, and lovelier than any dream she'd ever held in her heart. Her body simply wasn't hers any longer, not hers alone.
He could feel her opening for him, that pliant surrender that was beyond passion and more exciting. Her skin hummed as his tongue teased over it, her muscles tensed in anticipation of climax. Lazily he backed off and left them quivering.
And when he met her lips with his again, emotions poured like wine. He slipped inside her like a wish.
"No." He used his weight to pin her as she moved restlessly. "It won't be fast this time." Even as the blood pounded in his brain, he nipped at her mouth in small, torturous bites. "It's me who's filling you, Margo. As no one else has. No one else could." He moved in her, long, slow strokes. Shattering.
She could see nothing but his face, feel nothing but that glorious friction. Then the gradual, the delicious, the aching build of luxurious orgasm.
Her hands slid bonelessly off his shoulders.
"No one knows you like I do. No one can love you like I do."
But she was beyond words.
She was afraid of him. It was a staggering realization, especially in the middle of the night when she lay wakeful beside him. He'd changed something between them, Margo thought. Shifted the balance so that she felt vulnerable.
And he'd done it by showing her what it was like to feel cherished.
Cautious and quiet, she slipped but of bed, left him sleeping. The champagne was still on the table. Flat now, but she drank it just the same. She found a cigarette, lit it, and told herself to calm down.
She was terrified.
It had been a risk, certainly, to sleep with him. But one she'd been willing to take. But she'd never counted on falling in love with him. That was a dare she would have turned down cold.
