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“I’ve got a winning answer,” he promised and eased his finger into her. Her greedy interior muscles clenched and released around him in absolutely perfect timing with the contraction and slide of her mouth up and down his shaft. And, just like that, he lost the advantage—and he knew it.
A tightening started in the arches of his feet. “Oh shit. Chloe…” He meant it as a warning, but she clung to him like a limpet and increased the pace of…everything. Her head bobbed between his legs. Her hips jerked back and forth as she rode his tongue like a rodeo star.
His calves tightened. His thighs burned. The breath backed up in his lungs and gray spots formed at the edges of his vision. She squeezed his balls again and rubbed her finger along a spot just behind them. His entire body shuddered in a response so instinctive and involuntary he couldn’t have suppressed himself if his life depended on it.
Words swirled in his brain…curses and pleas…Holy, shit, you’re killing me. Please. Don’t stop. Thankfully, he was too busy sucking and rolling and tonguing her clit like a Tic Tac to even think about talking.
Her mouth kept right on working him. That finger of hers kept rubbing. Primitive impulses took over, and, before he could stop himself, he broke his longstanding rule and thrust into the soft, giving haven at the back of her throat. An apology sprung to his lips, but never passed, because she made a low, hungry sound, and then ground herself against his mouth in a flat-out frenzy.
He tried to hold himself back and let her have her moment, but something about those sexy noises she made and the way she rocked against him in an urgent, helpless dance, snapped what little bit of control he had left. His balls drew up. His lungs exploded. The back of his head slammed into the carpet as an orgasm tore through him with all the ferocity of a bunker buster. Her scream of release ricocheted through his oxygen-starved mind seconds before the flames consumed him.
Nothing even remotely like Chloe Kincaid had ever happened to him before. He wasn’t sure he’d live through it.
Chapter Nine
Chloe crawled off Michael, turned around, and collapsed beside him. He slipped an arm around her waist and snuggled her against him. “You win,” he grunted. She opened her mouth to mention the stash of condoms now handily tucked away in his guest room, but the simple, affectionate cuddle made her foolish heart roll over in her chest and beg like a neglected puppy.
Uh-uh. Sit. Stay. Now was not the right time, and Michael was not the right man. “I think, in all fairness, we have to call it a draw.”
His low laugh melted whatever bones were left in her body. He nudged her chin up and pressed a kiss to her lips. “You started with a major advantage. Tell me, Chloe, do you always vacuum in stilettos?”
Mention of the shoes reminded her of her conversation with Lynne. The real world stepped in and bitch-slapped her out of her boneless stupor. “They’re my lucky shoes.”
Another laugh rumbled from his chest. His fingers threaded through her hair. “No kidding. I felt luckier the second I saw you in them. What had you feeling lucky?”
A big, stupid part of her wanted to stay wrapped in his strong arms, protected from her problems for a while. Instead she propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him. “I had the shoes on because I need to attract some luck.”
He toyed with the ends of her hair, but his contented smile faded a fraction. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, there’s good news and bad news. My recruiter found me a new job at a fancy resort in New Mexico filling in for a therapist who’s going on maternity leave.”
Inexplicably, his smile slipped another notch. Her heart sank…that had been her good news.
“Congratulations. Sounds like a nice assignment.” He reinforced his smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Thanks, but here’s the thing…the job starts in”—she closed her eyes and winced—“four weeks.”
Silence met her announcement. She peeked at him.
To his credit, his expression never faltered. He reached up and wound a tendril of her hair around his finger. “So the shoes work.”
“Michael,” she shook her head, “it’s a disaster. When you offered me a place to stay, I’m sure you never imagined having me underfoot for the better part of a month.”
“I’m good with whatever time line you need. I want to help.”
“And I appreciate your hospitality, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to do whatever I can to get out of your hair sooner. Lynne, my recruiter, knows I’m available for any assignments between now and then. I plan to pester her daily until she finds me something.”
His wide hand glided down her back, as if smoothing feathers. “Don’t. Just relax and enjoy the break. Four weeks is no problem, except—” He gave her a strange look she could only classify as guilty. Uh-oh.
“Except?”
“I guess you, ah, spoke to Mrs. Waverly today?”
Okay, she knew where this was going. “Yes, we chatted when I turned in my key. She asked for my forwarding address, so I told her I was moving in with you, and kind of…you know”—she moved her hand through the air—“flashed her the ring. She loves to gossip, and I figured you wouldn’t want her spreading the word we’d shacked up without also including the little detail of our ‘engagement.’ But don’t worry.” She used her thumb to center the diamond ring on her finger. “I’m pretty sure she bought the story. She ooh’d and ahh’d and asked for details. Even though I kept things vague, I know she imagines lightning struck the minute our eyes met. She kept sighing and saying, things like, ‘Time means nothing,’ and, ‘When you find the right person, you just know.’” She laughed, because she’d learned the hard way just how wrong those sentiments were.
Realizing her laughter sounded slightly bitter, she shook her head and forced her attention back to the matter at hand. “Why? Did I play it wrong?”
“No.” He stroked his hand down her back again and circled her tattoo, absently, as if touching her was a habit. “You played it perfectly…and I’m sorry I had to ask you to ‘play it’ at all, but this leads us into the one little problem.”
