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No way. No way was he going to search for that online. This cell was on his company account. If his sixty-year-old PA, Jenna, found out he’d been researching the going rate for call-girls, she’d freak out—and then scalp him. He raked his fingers through his hair, glad he’d had it cut last week or he’d be tempted to rip it out at the roots.
He scribbled a note down on the hotel stationery, shoved it in an envelope with all the bills in his wallet.
Walking back into the bedroom, he spied Tally, flopped face-down on the bed. The sheet rode low on the slope of her arse, teasing him with the reminder of how perfectly her lush butt had fitted into his palms. The sick shame rolled up towards his throat. But right alongside it was the shaft of heat.
Crossing over to the bedside table, he propped the envelope with her name scrawled across it under the lamp. And took a moment to stare down at her face in profile one last time.
Damn, but she was beautiful and witty and smart. No woman should ever have to sleep with guys for a living. Whatever had driven her to this way of life, he hoped to hell it had been her choice. And that she got out before it screwed her up.
As he made his way out of the suite, he decided that he wasn’t going to kill Sam next time he saw him. Or at least not quickly. The guy deserved to suffer something slow and excruciatingly painful. Because this joke wasn’t the least bit funny.
As he left the suite, he occupied his thoughts by envisioning the best way to make Sam suffer, in an attempt to cover the freaky heart bumps now punching his ribs with the speed and accuracy of a heavyweight champ.
* * *
‘Mmm.’ Tally drifted awake with a sigh of pleasure on her lips, her muscles so loose and languid it felt as if she were floating on a cloud of bliss. The recollection of all the times she’d orgasmed the night before remained a visceral memory imprinted on her body as her nipples peaked and the flesh between her thighs melted in instinctive response to the earthy man scent that still lingered on her skin.
Her eyelids fluttered open; a shaft of sunshine illuminated the empty pillow next to her. She stretched and winced as the soreness in several key parts of her anatomy kicked in.
‘Hmm.’ Maybe breaking a two-year dry spell with someone of Brent’s size and stamina for eight solid hours of earthy, elemental, nonstop sex had been a tad foolhardy.
But even as the desire to jump him again faded, she couldn’t help reliving all the high points of the previous night. Good grief, the man had more than just phenomenal skills in bed.
They’d done rough and raw, slow and seductive, flirty and fun, and then hard and fast, and that had all been in the first couple of hours. But that magnificent cock and his clever tongue had really come into their own in the hours that followed.
How the hell had he managed to get hard so often?
Sitting up, she stifled a wince as she drew her legs up and hugged her knees with her arms. A little saddle soreness now felt like a small price to pay for every hot, mad minute of their night-long sex fest.
‘Brent? Are you still here?’ she called out.
Silence answered, followed by the sharp pang of regret.
Don’t be daft.
It was only supposed to be one night. She hadn’t been in the market for anything more. And neither had he. That had been the unstated deal between them. The deal that had made last night so hot and fabulous. She’d broken her man drought in spectacular fashion precisely because she had nothing riding on this date except, well, riding her date.
She shook her head, the smile hovering on her lips a trifle bittersweet.
She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop her mind from drifting dreamily to that final time before dawn. When all the energy had been spent and they’d lain together spooning, his arm roped around her midriff, her buttocks nestled in his lap, his breathing gentle against her neck as they lay in silence, neither of them sleeping. In truth, she’d been sort of shell-shocked at how often and with how much enthusiasm they’d ridden each other into exhaustion.
His large hand had settled on her belly, his thumb tracing the rim of her belly button, stroking her absently, and she’d had to force herself not to give in to the sudden and ridiculous urge to talk to him. To delve into all those taboo subjects, those secret areas of his life that were none of her business and had no place in a one-night liaison like theirs. Stupidly and inexplicably, she’d suddenly been consumed with a burning curiosity to know about his hopes, his dreams, his childhood—maybe even his failed marriage. Was that the reason he had seemed so detached, so distant at first?
She’d squirmed and tried to pull out of his embrace, determined not to give in to the moment of wistfulness and sentimentality. She didn’t have feelings for him. Didn’t want to have feelings for him. Certainly not past the physical. And he didn’t have any feelings for her. She was totally exhausted, that was all.
But as if he’d sensed her mood, his fingers had spread out against her belly and held her in place. ‘What’s the problem? You okay?’
He’d asked her that several times, somehow always aware of whenever he was going too fast, demanding too much. The gentle question had seemed to be about more than her sexual enjoyment though, and struck a hidden chord of vulnerability. She’d swallowed, blinking rapidly, panicked by the sting of tears—grateful that he couldn’t see her face. ‘Of course, it’s just I haven’t ...’ She’d cut off the confession, shocked at what she’d been about to reveal.
She didn’t want him to know exactly how long she’d been waiting and how desperate she’d been to find him. Or about the moment of melancholy at the thought that the night was nearly over.
He wasn’t special, or different, he was just...available and great in the sack. ‘It’s been quite a night,’ she’d finished, trying for flippant but not quite managing it when his hand rose up to cup her breast, that leisurely thumb brushing back and forth over her areola.
‘That’s for sure.’ The gentle tone had had the stupid vulnerability flooding back, his thumb still stroking—rousing her, but disturbing her more.
She’d jolted as his hardness nudged the crease of her arse. Her sex grew warm and slick, instinctively preparing to receive him—even though she knew she couldn’t have another orgasm now even if her life depended on it.
‘Bloody hell, O’Neill,’ she’d whispered, her voice croaky with incredulity. ‘Are you on Viagra? How can you possibly be capable of doing it again?’
