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“They’re busy people.”
Are all millionaires’ lives like that? I want to ask him, but his face is blank, and it looks like a façade of sadness.
“Well, you could have told me. I’d have come.”
The corners of his full mouth lift. “Thanks.”
“What happened?”
“Took a tight corner. Lost control of the bike.”
God. “And you hit your head?”
“Rook said that?” He chuckles, although I fail to see what’s so funny about that. “It wasn’t so bad.” He turns so that I can now see a small shaved patch on the side of his head and a neat line of dark stitches. “I’ve taken quite a few hits to the head in my life. I’m fine.”
“Crap. I’m sorry.” I lift my other hand to touch, and he leans just out of reach. “Sorry you’re hurt. What do the docs say?”
“That I’m good to go. Tomorrow.”
I let my hand drop. “Were you going to tell me?”
He shakes his head.
And why am I asking? Haven’t we established already that he’s not my boyfriend and feels no obligation whatsoever to keep me in the loop of his activities?
“I shouldn’t have come,” I whisper, and stand up. I turn away and tug on my coat. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
“No, wait.” He comes after me, throwing his legs off the bed and staggering across the floor to reach me by the time I turn back around. “Just fucking wait.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I’m shocked by how thin he feels under the loose sweater. How long has he been here? When was the accident?
But he doesn’t give me time to ask. The moment I look up, his mouth comes down on mine, and he kisses me like he’s breathing me in.
Hungrily. Then softly. Then he backs me up against the bed and I don’t stop him.
I don’t want him to stop.
Sifting my fingers through his longish, silken hair, I draw him down with me, on the bed. He could have died in the accident. I might not have known until it was over.
But he’s alive, and he’s here, and he’s beautiful.
He pulls down my leggings, and I push up his sweater. He lifts my blouse, and I tug down his pajama pants. He’s already barefoot. I slip off my ankle-high boots and we roll on the bed together.
He comes on top.
He likes that.
Pressing my hands to the covers, he licks and strokes and makes love to me with his tongue, then he enters me, and we rock together, our panting breaths echoing in the room.
“Missed you,” he rasps as he thrusts deep inside me, each stroke stoking the fire in my belly. “So much.”
“Need you,” I whisper back, lost in the haze of desire. “Don’t leave.”
Then there’s pleasure, and a plunge into space, and more, crazy pleasure that has me writhing and moaning and shouting his name.
And less than a week later… he’s again gone.
Chapter Seven
