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He laughs and
shakes his head, stepping away from me and disappearing.
Thwarted desire flames at the soles of my feet.
He returns a moment later, two coffee cups in his hands. Except there’s no coffee in them. They’re filled with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream each.
It’s sweet, but truly dessert is the last thing on my mind. Before I can tell him that he pulls a hand from behind his back and holds out two perfect fresh cherries.
I grin as he places one in each cup.
‘The cherry on top,’ he explains unnecessarily, and my heart turns over in my chest at this gesture that is at once both sexy and sweet. Sexy, because how can I ever see a cherry as just a cherry again? And sweet because it is our thing.
We have a thing.
He digs a spoon into the ice cream and brings it to my lips. I taste it, but as on that first night, with our first kiss, his mouth is on mine immediately, his tongue tasting me even as I taste the ice cream.
Dessert is forgotten.
His kiss is unlike anything I’ve felt with him. It’s soft. Tender. Gentle.
He breathes in as though he’s inhaling me and I do the same, smiling against his lips.
Despite everything we’ve shared, it feels like the most intimate we’ve ever been. As if we’re connected on every level.
But then our desperate hunger takes over and his hands are pushing at my robe, connecting with my naked flesh with the same intensity that marked our first coming together. It’s as though he’s punishing himself now—punishing himself for wanting me in any way other than animalistic and wild.
He presses me back, his kiss hard against my face, his body firm against mine, until I connect with the glass balustrade that runs along the edge of the terrace. He drops his kiss lower, to my neck, and lower still, his stubble grazing along my front until he brushes a nipple, taking it into his mouth and sucking it, spinning whirls of pleasure through me.
He drops lower, and finally falls to his knees. His mouth against my clit is a welcome invasion, his tongue what I have been needing. I grip the railing, my hands tight around its edge, as he glides his tongue down and I moan, pressing deeper against him. He knows exactly what I like now, and it takes him only moments to stir me to a fever pitch of awareness.
I make a small sound in the night air, tilting my head back and staring up at the stars above Sydney as I fall apart against his mouth, my orgasm spellbinding in its intensity and strength. I sway, and almost fall forward, but his strong hands are gripping my hips, pulling me to him as he stands.
‘You are beautiful,’ he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
My breath is burning hard in my lungs, supercharging my body. Everything about this moment is just that: beautiful.
I meet his eyes and—ridiculously—feel a stinging in the back of mine. Don’t let me cry! How embarrassing. But there’s something in his look that’s spinning my gut, shifting through me with a sense of unreality. As though he’s thinking something and doesn’t know how to say it.
I watch him, waiting for my breath to settle and my pulse to slow. He opens his mouth. My heart is still. Then, with one of those rakish smiles I’ve come to love, he says, ‘Let’s go to bed.’
* * *
‘So you’re his other half? Professionally speaking.’
I smile at Clint Sheridan but my eyes are glued to Jack. Across the room he holds court easily, and a group of men and two women stand hanging on his every word.
‘Technically, I’m his in-house counsel,’ I say, with a sideways smile.
‘But word has it that you pretty much oversee his entire workload.’
‘Really?’ I arch a brow and sip my champagne. ‘His workload is pretty immense.’
‘I can imagine.’
I like Clint. Given that he’s going to be running the Australian operation, I’ll have to work closely with him—certainly in the start-up phase. He’s a bit nervous, but I think once he settles down into the role he’ll be funny and fast. He’s definitely relaxed a little, even over the course of the few hours we’ve been at his expansive apartment on Sydney’s North Shore.
The view is spectacular—different to that from Jack’s penthouse—and by night the city shimmers before us. The famed Harbour Bridge has been lit red, for some reason, and there’s something almost eerie about the way it seems to glide over the water, an angry sentinel or a protective beacon. In the far distance there’s a flash of lightning, and that only adds to the spectacle.
