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Yes, he was toxic. To forget that was to step onto a dangerous track. If he went to Elle’s hotel tonight, if he slept with her—and, God, he wanted to—then that had to be it. Like any other time, like any other woman. Sex was simply sex. Whatever it was that she scraped away inside him, he could shut that down. He had to.
Fitz cupped her head in his hands and kissed her fiercely again, as if testing himself, as if proving that the physical could be split out from anything else that had no business swirling around his chest. He kissed her until his head sparked and his body ached with such intensity it was almost agony, until he was finally convinced he was back on solid ground and it was all about the physical again.
And then he grabbed her hand and led her to the hotel and into the lift, barely releasing her long enough to press the button for the floor before pulling her against him, her back up to his chest, sliding that glorious curtain of hair to one side and dipping his head on the other side to kiss the base of her neck, as she leaned back into him and sighed softly. Perfectly.
* * *
They tumbled into her room. The heavy wooden door, restrained by its soft closing mechanism, seemed to close too slowly for Elle, firing up her sense of anticipation. Then, when it finally shut with an audible click, the weight of expectation that accompanied that soft sound was unmistakeable.
For a fraction of a second she froze. She was in a bedroom, with a stranger—a hot, caring, responsible stranger, given his actions all evening, but a stranger nonetheless.
As much as she wanted to, could she really go through with this?
Instantly—impressively, too, given the evidence of his desire was pressed, hard and undeniable, against her body—Fitz pulled back from her. She was shocked at just how bereft that tiny movement made her feel.
‘Last chance,’ he growled. ‘You can still change your mind.’
His rich, low voice thrummed with barely restrained lust, making her pulse thready and her insides turn molten. She’d never felt so desired and so needy. And the fact that, even now, he was prepared to stop actually boosted her confidence that final little step.
‘I don’t want to change my mind,’ she whispered, running her hands over the muscles that were still frustratingly covered by the material of his shirt.
‘You have to be sure, Elle,’ he commanded thickly. ‘Because after this, I don’t know how much self-control I’ll have.’
A giggle escaped her lips. A result of the heady sensation that she could exert such desire in a man like Fitz. She had no doubt that, despite his words, if he had to stop at the very last second, he’d find the superhuman willpower to do so. But the idea that he could want her so urgently was a potent thought.
Carefully concealing the tremble that threatened to play havoc with her entire body, Elle slid her hand lower to cup the evidence of his need. He flexed under her touch, a rough sound rolling from deep in his throat, the combination doing strange things to her insides.
She didn’t want to talk any more, she just wanted him with such an intensity it was almost frightening.
As if reading her mind, Fitz dropped his mouth to hers, his kiss every bit as demanding, skilful and dominating as it had been in the bar. It seared through her and all she could do was cling to his shoulders and let him carry her through the flames. Again and again his tongue met hers in a slow, sensual dance. Exploring, touching, tasting, breaking away frequently to take detours at an agonisingly delicious, leisurely pace, starting at one corner of her mouth, trailing along her jaw before dipping below and down her neck.
Elle shook in his arms as Fitz sprinkled short, hot kisses along her collarbone and to the sensitive hollow in the centre. He took his time, which both reassured Elle and simultaneously drove her wild. It felt as though they’d been engaging in foreplay from the moment they’d met in that bar and, if she thought about it, it was also more foreplay than she’d had in the past year in total.
It had never been like this with Stevie. Never. Not even in the beginning when everything had been new and exciting, but they’d been so inexperienced, and certainly not at the end when he’d grown accustomed to people fawning over him, too many hangers-on only too happy to please him. Both in and out of bed.
She’d never, in her wildest dreams, thought it could ever be this good. And Fitz was just getting started, but as much as this indulgent approach was setting her every nerve ending on fire, she was ready for more. Much more.
Then he was kissing lower. Elle wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but one moment she was in his arms with both of them fully clothed, and the next they were both naked from the waist up and his skilful mouth was making its way, in a lazily winding path, down between her breasts. He cupped her in each hand, as though testing the weight of her, and then he flicked a rough thumb-pad over one nipple as his tongue played with the other. She cried out, a powerful mix of pleasure, need and relief.
It had been such a very, very long time since her body had been so worshipped.
Raw need throbbed between her legs and Elle actually ached to feel Fitz sliding inside her, filling her, assuaging the yawning void that had unexpectedly opened up in her soul. Vaguely she became aware of some part of her syrupy brain struggling to extricate herself, to warn her.
If it had succeeded, it might have reminded her that this was supposed to be about sex, that it had been about proving to herself that her lack of sexual experience hadn’t been the problem—more like Stevie’s abject failure to keep it in his pants. As it was, that logical side to her brain was drowned out while Elle was lost to the moment, lost to Fitz’s touch, lost to her own body’s primal reactions. She couldn’t think past the hot, urgent, intoxicating sensations that were cascading through her, much less think about her ex-fiancé. She couldn’t even think enough to move them to the bedroom itself; instead they stood in the vestibule, her back still against the wall to the adjoining room. To move might mean breaking contact, something she couldn’t bear to do. And so Elle stayed in place, her fingers tracing that incredible physique and marvelling at the way it reacted so urgently to her touch.
Over and over he paid homage to her body, his skin slick against her, his hands expertly working their magic and stoking those internal fires until she was sure she couldn’t wait any longer. As if reading her mind, Fitz’s fingers trailed over the curves of her belly, down to the waistband of her low-slung trousers, and unzipped her in one smooth action before peeling the leather down over her legs.
Glassy-eyed, Elle shucked them, along with her heels, fully expecting Fitz to stand back up to resume where he’d left off. Instead, he stayed where he was, his fingers tracking up her leg from her calf to the sensitive hollow behind her knee and then sensually caressing her inner thighs. Never rushing, always taking care, inching his way upwards with incredible control.
‘Are you getting pleasure in torturing me?’ Elle gasped at last.
‘A little.’ His devilish voice sounded thick with need and the ache between her legs intensified. ‘Just as I know you’re getting pleasure from me torturing you.’
‘Fitz...’ She barely recognised her own voice in the strangled plea.
‘Hmm?’
He was doing it deliberately, she realised. Teasing her.
