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His eyes flared at the unspoken challenge. He understood her hesitation, but her interest was palpable. “Will you at least join me for coffee upstairs?”
Her heart was pounding, boom, boom, boom, it beat hard against her ribcage, so hard she could feel it reverberating through her entire body. She wanted him. But she had wanted him six years ago. She wanted his sweetness and his love, not just his desire. She wanted him to erase the hardness that had begun to coil around her when he’d told her that she wasn’t good enough for him.
“Coffee? Yes.”
Yes? She screamed inwardly. What the hell had she just agreed to? This man was the beginning and end of her angry frustrations.
Gael stood, and held a hand to her. “Excellent.”
“Your steak…”
He shook his head and his eyes found hers. “It no longer matters.”
He pulled her after him with desperate speed, through the tables, weaving and twisting, back towards the elevators. Carrie’s breath was coming in fits and spurts by the time the doors pinged open. Not because of the speed they’d walked, but because a weight of expectation was pressing down on her lungs.
Once in the elevator, he jabbed a finger to the top floor, and then turned to face her. “Do you realise I am using literally every single gram of my willpower not to kiss you right now?”
She couldn’t breathe, so how could she speak? Her blue eyes clung to him, as though he would make it better. As though he’d alleviate her suffering. “Gael,” she whispered, finally, darting her tongue out to trace her lips. “I ...”
“Oh, what the hell,” he groaned, and pressed his mouth to hers, pushing her back, until her head connected with the cold wall of the lift. His hands pulled at her shirt, lifting it from the pencil skirt so that his fingertips could connect with her bare skin. The lift pinged open and he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her feet off the floor and keeping her snug against his chest. He walked backwards, carrying her into the palatial penthouse and easing her feet to floor. He broke the kiss, to offer her a drink, but Carrie’s mouth chased his, not letting him speak. She kissed him with just as much intensity as he’d used.
He swore again, this time in Spanish, as his fingers found the hem of her skirt and pushed it higher. “God, Carrie, what are you?”
He undid just enough buttons so that he could lift her blouse over her head. His hands ran reverently down her back, his body pinned hers to the wall. “You are … You are …”
She shook her head. “You are,” she contradicted, her hands searching for his skin. He was warm and smooth, with a faint line of hair that traced from the thick column of his strong neck, down his muscular chest to the band of his pants. She pushed the buttons apart, so that she could see all of him, and then she traced a line of kisses down his chest, to the gold buckle of his belt. She kneeled before him, her blue eyes enormous as she looked up at him. She slid the belt from its loops slowly and deliberately, her eyes not leaving his face.
She dropped it to the floor beside them; it fell softly to the carpet. Her fingers reached for the opening of his pants. Surprisingly, her fingers trembled, for she was no retiring virgin anymore. Carrie had made it her mission to discover her sexiness, and to acknowledge that sex was just sex. A physical act between two biological creatures. It did not have the weight or importance that love stories ascribed to it. So why did she feel, now, as though she was doing something incredibly important? Something meaningful?
She pushed his pants down his legs – so firm and forceful in their size. Gael stepped out of them and his shoes at the same time, kicking them aside impatiently. The way she was looking at him made his heart turn over. It was as though he was her salvation. As though she needed something important from him, and he had no idea what.
When her tongue traced his length, he shuddered. “Carrie,” he groaned. He put a hand onto her shoulder, to pull her to standing, but she laced her fingers through his and held his hands away. Her mouth circled him, taking him deep into her moist warmth. And her blue eyes lingered, clinging to his face as she made pleasurable sparks erupt inside of him. His whole body was shaking with the force of what she was doing to him.
“Carrie,” he said again, this time a groan of wonder.
Carrie wanted … she wanted to bring him to his knees. She wanted him, too, but what she needed above all else was for Gael Vivas to acknowledge the domination that she could demonstrate over him. She positioned herself so that she could take more of him, and she smiled when she felt him slouch against the wall. His strength abated, no – surrendered – to her greater power. She pulled away, slowly, and reached for his pants.
His wallet was in the back pocket, and she opened it on a hunch. A condom was visible and she pulled it out, unfurling it on his arousal. He was so hard; she needed him.
They moved as one. Carrie couldn’t have said who pulled whom, but they fell to the floor, just a writhing mass of legs on the carpet, moving with desperation. Carrie didn’t kiss him. She didn’t hold him. She needed only fulfilment. It was not romance, it was not love. It was a transaction for pleasure. He gave, she received, and vice versa. She arched her back as he moved deeper into her, and lifted her arms over her head. He ran his fingers down their length, and then over her breasts. His palms were slightly rough, and as he pushed them against her nipples, she made a sound of pleasurable yearning. Her breasts ached, her whole body felt as though the nerve endings had been supercharged.
She lifted her legs around his waist and cried out, as an unimaginable world of pleasure opened before her. She dived into it, pulling Gael with her. Together they delved beneath the surface, their cries matched by their uneven breathing as blissful satisfaction wrapped around them both.
Carrie lay very still, waiting for her breathing to slow, and her body to cease its pleasure soaked throbbing. Eventually, she began to feel more like Carrie Beauchamp and less like a sex-crazed animal.
“Wow,” she said quietly, pulling slowly away from him.
Gael nodded, but he kept his body still, holding her beneath him. “Yes, wow.”
Carrie swallowed, and when she looked up at him, she couldn’t understand the tension in his eyes. The searching intensity as he stared at her, looking for something as though he’d lost it. “I have to go,” she said into the darkness of the hotel suite.
“No, you don’t,” he responded teasingly. “You are coming to Spain tomorrow. Why not stay?” The invitation shocked him out of his skin. He had never, not once, spent the night with a woman. In fact, Gael Vivas went to great lengths to walk away once he’d had his pleasure. He had no interest in any kind of romantic involvement. At thirty five years of age, he had accepted that he was just made that way. That some genetic switch had never flicked inside of him. The gene that required intimacy beyond sex wasn’t there.
“Stay?” Her panic mirrored his own reaction. And despite the fact he felt it too, seeing it in her eyes angered him.
“Yes. I have a very big bed. I promise you will be comfortable.”
r /> “No.” She pushed at his shoulders and stood, looking around for her shirt. It was then that he realised he hadn’t even bothered to undress her properly. Her skirt sat bunched around her waist, from the way he’d pushed at it. He’d needed her with a speed and desperation that had defied his standards. Each time they’d slept together, it had been rushed and desperate. What he wanted was to hold her and please her, and stare down at her while he worked out just what drove her wildest of all. “Let’s not go blurring lines.”
