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Gasps erupted across the ballroom as a dark-clad man appeared through the doors, and it seemed like the crowd parted like the Red Sea for him.
Whitney blinked, and her heartbeat picked up unexpectedly.
His shoulders were broad, and he towered above all the others.
He reeked of power. Strength. Just the way he strode forward told you he’d made it big. Her eyes raked over six feet of pure man, pure sin, pure fantasy, and then she stared deeply into his drop-dead gorgeous face.
His drop-dead gorgeous, achingly familiar face.
Her sex spasmed when she found herself staring into a pair of liquid coal eyes she’d feared never seeing again.
Andrew Fairchild. Oh, God. He looked so . . . male. Grown. Mature. And sexy as hell. His jaw was lean bone, his eyebrows drawn low and dark, dark as those piercing eyes, looking down at her like they used to. His lips were still sensual and sinful, slightly tilted at the corners.
A piercing arrow of lust sliced through her; her nerves, her cells, every inch of her body recognizing him. Wanting him.
The world came to a standstill. The background music was drowned out by the sudden sound of her heart thundering as he continued advancing. In her direction.
Adrenaline coursed through her as she prepared for fight or flight, her breath held in a chest that suddenly felt heavy with so much emotion she thought she’d explode with it.
She hadn’t felt lust in years.
She hadn’t felt this pull. Magnetic. Overwhelming. In years.
He was . . . still him. Her childhood sweetheart. Her only love. The man who’d taken her body, her heart, and her soul. Who’d protected her from . . . from Uncle Harry . . . from what she’d done to him . . . from what he’d done to her . . . from everything. From everything, except from the only thing that could destroy her—him.
Tall, with those obsidian eyes, that sable hair, that sensual smile, that scruff on his jaw, and those beautiful lips, she was dying while still alive as he stretched out his hand to her, and said, in a voice that made her knees melt, “I’ve been waiting a thousand days to look into your face, Whitney Donahue. Will you dance with me?”
Cheers erupted all around her as his choice was made clear to the group of people. But Whitney stared at his hand, his long fingers, dying. Dying. His musky scent had been imprinted in her nostrils, and now her lungs were burning to breathe more of him inside her. He was a powerful man, with an oil and energy empire that spread across the world, and he’d had the power to make Whitney love him beyond reason.
Years ago she’d melted in his arms, melted. She was still not . . . solid. How could she resist him now? After she’d spent nights and days, taking out his precious few letters, aching to read between the lines, searching for something she’d missed, some sort of clue to when he was coming back home.
He was so much more masculine now, her body was coming alive in a way she hadn’t felt since he’d left. He kept staring at her with those all-knowing black eyes that cut through her like sharp little diamonds, a small smile on his lips.
Whitney envisioned herself wrapping her arms around him like a monkey and crushing his mouth, taking every part of him she could into her body, but she wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t. She hated him now. Didn’t she?
Will you dance with me . . . ?
Heart thundering as the fight-or-flight urge really took charge, and flight seemed the better option, she glanced toward the exit that would lead to the elevators. Before, she’d always run toward Andrew, and he’d catch her, twirl her, kiss her, hold her . . . never had she run away. She’d never imagined that she could even be capable of it.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, his voice hard as one strong arm clasped her wrist and yanked her to him. He held her, his voice hypnotic as he drew her into a dance that followed the haunting love song that now played in the background, his lips brushing her ear. “Never. Ever. Run away from me, Whitney.”
Whitney swallowed the surge of arousal that came with his words as she met the wide-eyed, delighted eyes of some of the crowd members behind him. Don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene. It’s just a kiss . . . you can still resist him. He can only break your heart once—and that’s over with. You’ll never love again. Haven’t you proved that to yourself?
She set her hand tentatively on his shoulder, but unfortunately he wasn’t so tentative. His fingers opened wide across her bare back, pressing her tightly against his solid form. She could feel his erection. Could feel his thigh slide between hers, sensuously arousing her. He whispered huskily into her ear. “Is your heart beating as fast as mine?”
It beat faster at the sound of his voice so near. So fast that she felt each pump in her temple, her sex, her feet. “No,” she said thickly, hating that she had trouble speaking that little lie.
His chuckle seduced her, his chest vibrating against the tip of her breasts. The proximity of his mouth to her ear still wreaked havoc on her libido as his body moved against hers. “You look good enough to eat, Whitney,” he rasped, “and I want to be the one to feast on you tonight.”
She stiffened as her pussy creamed at his indescribably sexy words, his intoxicating masculine scent surrounding her, his presence an assault on her senses that she had never expected to experience again. “The only thing you’re getting tonight is what your money buys you. A kiss,” she said tightly.
“Mmm. Then I can’t wait.”
Her skin pebbled as his fingers stroked up her spine, to the fall of hair at her nape. His breath was warm on her ear, burning her, consuming her.
His tongue slipped out to caress her earlobe. Bolts of pleasure rushed through her, and Whitney’s eyes stung from the force. She began to tremble, hating him because she could still, still, after all these years, want him like this. Her nipples ached in her dress, and the urge to be with him was so acute, she could envision pulling out his manhood, yanking up her dress, and having hot hate sex with him right now on the dance floor.
He drew back to meet her gaze as though he could read, sense, her every unspoken desire, and his eyes were livid with carnal thirst. It had always been combustible between them, always.
