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How she’d straddled him, taking him deep, so deep into her in a slick, exultant thrust that they’d both shuddered, and she’d had to brace herself against him for a moment to catch her breath—palms flat against the granite planes of his chest and the iron length of him driving her wild within.
She didn’t want to think about the way his hands had gripped her hips as she’d started to rock herself on him, or the way she’d arched back to give him unfettered access to her breasts, her belly, and not because she’d wanted control—but because it felt good. So damned good it made her shiver again now, remembering it.
And she certainly didn’t want to think about that shimmer of ecstasy that had wound in her, tighter and then tighter still, making her lose herself completely while he flipped her to her back and pounded them both straight into all of that stunning, glorious oblivion.
Hunter had been so fierce, and she’d matched it. So wildly possessive, and she’d returned it. Almost as if—
But she couldn’t let herself go there. It didn’t matter what had happened last night.
He’d had her. This was over. That was the plan.
Zoe scowled around at the ridiculous room, which seemed bigger and more severe with all that shattering winter sun pouring in, harsh and unavoidable. The wide bed stood at its center, a proud monument to a very long night she ought to regret. That the swirling darkness in her whispered she would regret, eventually.
At least Hunter was nowhere to be seen, for which she was grateful, she told herself.
That was what she felt, what that odd thing gnawing at her was, making her pulse seem fluttery and too hard at once: grateful.
It was harder than it should have been to crawl out of that obnoxiously giant bed, over the dents in the soft pillows that whispered of Hunter. To look around for her underwear and her unfortunately slinky dress, which was the last thing she wanted to wear, maybe ever again, since all she could think about when she looked at it was Hunter. His hands. His mouth. His beautiful demands.
She’d felt strong. Glorious. As if she’d never been ruined. As if that was someone else.
It was then, as she stared down at the rumpled dress in her hands, that she understood what that great and dangerous pressure in her chest meant. That searing heat blinding her. That constriction in her throat that she didn’t recognize, it had been so long.
She was about to break down and cry.
Zoe’s hands curled into fists and she looked around wildly, ready to punch something, break something, scream—until she saw the doorway that led off to one side, almost hidden against the wall. It was through there, past acres of deep closets she shouldn’t have had the slightest interest in exploring because she shouldn’t have cared, that she found the sprawling bathroom. It held a bathtub that better resembled an Olympic-size swimming pool and a shower that could have housed multitudes, with at least three separate showerheads.
“The better to cater to a playboy lifestyle and all that it entails,” she muttered, her voice not even echoing in the exultantly luxurious space.
Groupies don’t make it past the first floor, he’d said last night—and she hated how much she wanted to believe that now.
Zoe stood beneath the hot spray for a long time. Until her skin felt like hers again, as if it fit her once more, the way it was supposed to do. Until she stopped that helpless shaking, as though she was fighting off a fever. Until that hard, heavy weight shifted off her chest, and she was no longer afraid she might dissolve into tears.
Until the hot water washed away any evidence that some tears might have snuck out anyway, against her will.
She dried off, happy that she’d steamed up all the mirrors so she didn’t have to look at her reflection, because she was afraid of what she might see. Too many truths in her eyes she didn’t want to acknowledge. Too much she should have known better than to let herself feel.
“It was only sex,” she told herself sternly as she climbed back into her clothes. She had to stop this. “Come on, Zoe. You’ve faced a whole lot worse than this.”
And even though she knew that was true, it was so much harder than it should have been to start down those stairs once she’d twisted her hair back into a knot and pulled on her shoes. She made it to the first curve of the spiral stair, then stopped, shaking her head at herself. She swallowed, hard, and rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest, where that heavy weight had returned and hardened, become almost unbearable.
The trouble was, she liked him.
And as she stood there in last night’s dress, her entire body still humming from the sleepless hours he’d spent branding every part of her with that wicked mouth of his, with every touch of his talented hands, Zoe felt as if she was cracked wide open. As if all of that sunlight pouring in from high above was ripping into her, through her, throwing open doors, shattering windows, knocking down walls.
