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This was definitely unpredictable. Not for a second would he have thought Bronte capable of anything like this. Cristo.
The towel hit the ground. He felt it brush his legs as it travelled downwards and land with a soft thud. He groaned because from this vantage point, all he could see were the perfect pink tips of her rounded breasts, breasts that were screaming for his attention, breasts that he wanted to cup with his hands and draw into his mouth.
He closed his eyes before he could look any further, summoned every ounce of moral fibre he possessed then looked at her once more. And almost faltered. Her eyes were rich with invitation, her lips parted as though willing him to kiss her and hell, he wanted to.
But she was drunk, heartbroken, and she was also his employee. This was something they’d both regret if he let it happen.
“You are beautiful,” he said quietly. “But you have been drinking and there’s no way I’d take advantage of that. So I suggest you get back in that bathroom and put some clothes on.” He stared at her for several more seconds
then added, “Please.” The last word was said on a growl, because he was damned close to snapping point.
“What if I say ‘no’?”
Cristo. He was going to weaken. He was going to drag her against his body and kiss those soft pink lips senseless. He was going to push her back against the bed, pinning her there with his body weight, spreading her legs with his knee, moving his arousal between her sweet, pale thighs, all the while making her moan his name over and over again. He was going to make her wild for him.
“What if I said I want you to touch me?”
The challenge sparked every flush of desire in his body. His expression was anguished.
Her hands moved to her hips, drifting higher, her slim fingers moving in small circles over her flat stomach, towards the curves of her breasts. He bit back a curse, his breath torn from him as she glided her palms over her nipples, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to bite back her own cry of pleasure.
“Stop it, cara.”
“Why do you call me that?”
Great question. He couldn’t answer.
“I want to stop it,” she said, ignoring the question she’d just asked. “I want it to be your hands doing this. Your hands touching me.” A question filled her eyes as she dropped one hand, her fingers catching his wrist and lifting it. He could easily have pulled free but he was transfixed and tempted beyond belief. She lifted his hand towards her breasts. His cock jerked in his pants. Everything inside of him screamed in a heady sense of euphoria that he was about to touch the breasts he now realised he’d been fantasising about all night.
The second his flesh connected with hers he felt a thousand jolts of electricity flashing through him. All the contradictions exploded. She was soft to his hardness, her skin warm and a little moist, her breasts full, heavier than he’d thought, her nipples so tight. He groaned as she guided his hand over her breast, encouraging his fingers to trace the outline of her nipple, to cup her breasts. Her fingertips loosened; he was touching her of his own accord.
A curse flew threw him, shaking him back to reality. She was drunk. This couldn’t happen.
“I won’t allow this.” He stepped back as though she were a thousand flames, his palm warm from where he’d touched her, aching to reach forward and feel her soft flesh once more.
Her lips parted, and hurt slashed her features.
“It’s not right.”
She stared at him, lost for words, and he stared back, wanting, wishing he could ignore his moral code and act on these impulses, because hell, he wanted her with every cell in his body.
“Damn it, Bronte, it just isn’t right. You’ll regret it.”
He couldn’t get past without brushing against her and his whole body caught fire as he went, the feeling of her curves almost destroying his willpower but he had to get away from her before he gave into his impulses. He had to get away from her for both their sakes.
He shut the door to the bathroom with the feeling he’d just made a deal with the devil, and turned on the water. Just cold, only cold. He needed to douse himself out of his fantasies, and he needed to do it now.
4
EVERYTHING WAS FUZZY. Bronte’s eyes opened slowly; the fuzz didn’t recede. Her mouth tasted funny; her head hurt.
Where was she? She squinted, focussing on pretty floral wallpaper, scanning the unfamiliar room before she remembered. The wedding. And then, more memories. The cocktail party. Ashton. Oh, God. Her boss. Her heart began to throb as she shifted a little then froze, painfully aware of a wall of warm, naked flesh behind her. Not completely naked, she amended, as she felt cotton at the waist. But his shirt was off, and she knew if she turned around she’d see his bare chest.
The bed was too narrow – it couldn’t be helped. There was no way they could sleep without touching each other. But – another memory cut through her. One that had her gasping, lifting a hand to her mouth and squeezing her eyes shut.
It couldn’t be true.
Little shards of memory hovered in her mind, memories she couldn’t grasp clearly but that gave just enough excruciating information. Her towel dropping, her hands on her body, her plea for him to touch her, his reluctance to do so. His obvious desire to get away from her. The way she’d practically forced him to lift his hand to her breast.
