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‘Wrap your legs round my waist.’
She cupped her aching sex, pressing the heel of her palm hard against her pelvic bone.
But as she closed her eyes all she could see was Dane’s eyes staring back at her, the iridescent blue of the irises almost invisible round the lust-blown pupils, the hot look demanding she come...but only for him.
She parted the wet folds, but as she ran the pad of her finger over the tight bundle of nerves all she could feel were the urgent flicks and caresses of thick, blunt, calloused fingers.
‘Always so damn wet for me, Red.’
His low, husky voice reverberated through her as she rubbed her clitoris in urgent, helpless strokes. She knew the right touch, the perfect touch to take her over quickly and efficiently. But this time the memory of Dane’s fingers, firm
and sure, mocked her battle for release, teasing and tempting her, taking her higher, and higher.
She panted. Not quite there yet. Never. Quite. There.
‘Please, please...’
She slammed her palm down on the vanity unit and opened her eyes to see a mad woman staring back at her—hot, bothered and still hopelessly frustrated.
Every nerve-ending pulsated, desperate for release. A release that remained resolutely out of reach. Tantalising her senses...torturing her already-battered brain. A release she was very much afraid only Dane could give her.
The bastard.
Damn her ex-husband. Had he ruined her now for herself? As well as for every other man? How was that fair? Or proportionate?
She tied the robe with shaking hands, covering her nakedness. The flushed skin was screaming in protest, too sensitive now even for the silky feel of satin. She washed her hands and swallowed round the fireball in her throat, which was equal parts mortification and arousal. Cursing Dane and his clever, commanding caresses with every staggered breath.
She walked back into the bedroom of the suite and crossed to the phone. She would call down and ask for some sleeping pills. She hated taking any kind of medication, hated having her senses dulled, but if she didn’t do something soon the toddlers in her head were liable to explode right out of her ears.
Whatever black magic Dane had worked on her sex-starved body this afternoon would be undone by a decent ten hours’ sleep, and tomorrow evening she would be winging her way back across the Atlantic, the signed papers snug in her briefcase.
She was never going to see him again. Or feel his knowing fingers. Or watch his sexy I’m-gonna-make-you-come-like-an-express-train smile. And that was exactly how she wanted it. She was her own woman now. Or she would be again, once she was out of his line of fire.
A sharp rap at the door had her hesitating as she lifted the handset.
It took her tired mind a moment to process the interruption, but then she remembered. Her clothes. In typically efficient New York City style, the boutique had delivered them ahead of schedule.
Dropping the phone she crossed the room and flung open the door without bothering to check the peephole.
All the blood drained out of her head and raced down to pound in her already pouting clitoris. And the toddlers in her head began mainlining cocaine.
‘Dane, what are you doing here?’
And why do you have to look so incredible?
Her ex stood on the threshold in worn jeans and a long-sleeved blue T-shirt covered by a chequered shirt. The buzz cut shone black in the light from the hallway, complementing the dark frown on his handsome face. Wisps of chest hair revealed by the T-shirt’s V-neck announced his overwhelming masculinity. Not that it needed any more of an introduction.
With his broad shoulders blocking the doorway, his imposing height towering over her own five feet six inches in her bare feet and his blue eyes glittering with intent, he looked even more capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound in casual clothing than he had in his captain of industry outfit.
‘We need to talk.’
Flattening a large hand against the door, he pushed it open and strolled past her into the room before she could object.
‘We’ve already talked,’ she said, her voice as unsteady as her heartbeat as she gripped the lapels of the flimsy robe, drawing them over her throat in a vain attempt to hide at least some of the marks left by his kisses.
She squeezed her traitorous nipples under folded forearms to alleviate the sudden rush of blood which had them standing out against the satin-like torpedoes ready to launch.
Good grief, she was as good as naked, while he was fully dressed. No wonder her heartbeat was punching her pulse points with the force of a heavyweight champ.
