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His fingers shook as he imagined the bruising imprint of his thumbs on the soft skin where he’d gripped her as he’d pumped into her.
What the hell had just happened? Because what should have been a smooth, subtle seduction had become something frenzied and frantic.
He’d planned to make love to her tonight as soon as they had been alone together in the study—and he’d seen the arousal in her eyes.
She was beautiful, captivating, she wanted him. And she could solve all his problems.
Figuring out where his housekeeper had hidden the first-aid box downstairs had given him more than enough time to consider the tempting possibilities Alison Jones’s reappearance in his life tonight might mean.
He needed a wife and she could be perfect for the role.
Not only did she turn him on to the point of madness, something Mira had never done, but he could offer her a home, and financial security. The fact she was completely unknown to the press with no scandal attached to her was another huge point in her favour. It would be a relatively simple job to set up a new PR narrative to explain their whirlwind romance and wedding. Mira had been out of the country for over a month, he and Alison had known each other as children, they’d met again when she’d delivered something to his home and one thing had led to another.
The only question had been whether she desired him, too. Had he imagined that spark? Because it suited his own ends so perfectly?
But as soon as he’d walked into the study and seen her face flush and her breathing accelerate, he’d known he hadn’t imagined anything. And when he had touched her bare foot, and she’d nearly jumped out of the chair, he’d had to swallow a harsh laugh.
Game on.
But why hadn’t he questioned her artless responses, the beguiling blush that had spread across her collarbone as soon as he’d started flirting with her?
She’d been as eager as him, that was why. He’d assumed the blush, the innocence were all an accomplished act, an act to disguise the fact she was more than ready to take Mira’s place—especially when she had questioned him about the business deal.
He’d been in her situation himself, years ago when he’d been destitute after arriving in Paris with three broken ribs and not a penny to his name, so why would he judge her for taking the easy option? Of snagging a rich man? Hadn’t his own mother—and hers—tried to do the same?
But once he’d tasted her, the sophisticated seduction he’d planned had changed into something elemental.
She had tasted like she smelled. Strawberries and chocolate. Sweet and decadent. But more than that, she had tasted of summer, and sunshine, and joy and surrender.
The fanciful thoughts had scattered, becoming dark and earthy and driven as she’d squirmed against his hardening erection, like a cat desperate to be stroked.
Bon Dieu, but he hadn’t been able to get enough of her, exploring the recesses of her mouth like a man possessed.
And once he’d freed her breasts, felt her nipples harden and swell against his tongue, he’d been lost in a passion so intense it had been a major battle not to take her right there against the wall of his study.
When his hands had cupped her naked bottom, sensation had hurtled beneath his belt with the speed and accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.
Suddenly, he’d become the desperate boy again, instead of the experienced lover.
He’d had to force himself to slow down, to carry her to the bedroom and strip off his clothes, to draw forth another orgasm—simply to prove he could wait to have her, that he was still the one in control—before he’d plunged into her.
But when she had gasped and stiffened in pain, he’d known instantly—this was no act.
She had been a virgin, for God’s sake.
He should have stopped then, but, even while he was frantically trying to assess the repercussions of her innocence, his body had refused to obey him once she’d given him permission to continue—so he’d taken what she’d offered, because he’d been unable to do otherwise.
And now here he was, lying in bed beside her, not knowing what the hell to say to her.
Should he apologise? Explain? She’d said it wasn’t a big deal, but somehow it was to him. He’d never been a woman’s first lover. Had deliberately avoided that sort of intimacy. And what did he do now about his plan to suggest they marry? Because this could complicate things in ways he did not want, and had not anticipated.
His gut twisted as he felt her shift on the bed beside him. She hadn’t spoken, probably because she was as shocked by the intensity of their lovemaking as he was. And appalled by his lack of sophistication.
Or was she? How would she know the power of their connection—or how catastrophically he had lost control—if she had never slept with another man?
She sat up with her back to him, but as she went to stand he flung his arm out and caught her hip. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, pleased when the words came out reasonably smoothly despite the rawness in his throat.
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your sweats? I’ll return them tomorrow.’
