by Heidi Rice
‘Only a bit intense?’ he teased, keen to lighten the mood.
Colour blossomed in her cheeks and a frown line appeared on her brow. Damn, seeing that instant blush light up her face would never get old.
‘All right, a lot intense.’ She sent him a tremulous smile. ‘What do you want? A testimonial?’
He chuckled, the tightness in his chest releasing at last. ‘You offering?’
The blush brightened. ‘Certainly not. Your ego’s big enough already.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ He traced his thumb across her bottom lip, giving in to the urge to touch her again. ‘For a vanilla girl, you’re pretty fucking hot.’
She blinked, then sat up abruptly. His groin stirred anew at the sight of her full breasts, swaying inches from his face, those pert, rosy nipples begging for his attention. She’d said her nipples were sensitive—he couldn’t wait to find out how sensitive.
She grasped the sheet, covering herself, and he forced his gaze back to her flushed face.
Slow the hell down.
He shouted the words in his head as he spotted the glassy sheen in her eyes. ‘Is everything okay?’
She looked away, her teeth digging into her bottom lip.
‘I’m not a vanilla girl.’ He barely heard the words through the buzz of arousal making him stir back to life. ‘Not anymore.’
‘What?’
She lifted her head and the anguish on her face was one hell of a buzzkill.
A single tear trailed down her cheek and he bolted upright.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you crying?’
She swiped away the tear. ‘I’m not crying.’
‘The hell you aren’t.’ Panic squeezed his heart. ‘What’s wrong?’
She didn’t answer, abandoning the sheet to scramble off the bed. ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’
‘Sabrina, come back here, damn it,’ he shouted as she darted across the room, nude.
She slipped into the bathroom, the click of the lock echoing into silence.
To hell with that.
He threw back the sheet, charged off the bed, but his paces slowed as he got halfway across the room.
Where was he going? Wouldn’t it be less messy to let her lock herself in the bathroom for a while and get over it? Whatever it was?
But then he thought of the genuine distress on her face moments before, and her honest, untutored responses to him throughout the evening—and the knowledge that her freak-out was most likely his fault made the shame bloom in his chest and panic tighten his throat.
He dragged a hand through his hair.
Calm down. Don’t overreact.
Women could get emotional after great sex. Plus who said this had anything to do with him? With them? Maybe it was just the emotion of the day. Women could get real emotional about weddings, too.
He tugged a tissue out of the box on the vanity, pulled off the condom and checked it—relieved to see he hadn’t burst the damn thing with that turbo-powered ejaculation.
Her best friend’s wedding could have screwed with Sabrina’s usual equilibrium. For all her pragmatism and practicality, she was still female.
He scooped his boxers off the floor and put them on. His groin stirred at the memory of her kneeling at his feet, the unguarded joy in her eyes when she’d pulled his boxers down to stare at his cock.
Make that very female.
He adjusted his junk to ease the growing ache.
Plus she’d organised the whole damn wedding to within an inch of her life. That had to be stressful. Hell, maybe the emotion and the stress had combined with the spectacular sex, and caused a triple whammy.
But despite all his careful justifications, he couldn’t stop himself from knocking on the bathroom door. ‘Sabrina, what’s going on in there?’
The gush of water switched on, as if in response.
‘I just needed to f-freshen up.’ He would have bought her murmured reply, but for the stutter halfway through. ‘I’ll be out in a m-minute.’
Damn, there it was again.
He pressed his ear to the wood, strained to listen, until he made out the muffled sobs over the sound of running water.
The shame and panic combined to become a piledriver thumping his solar plexus.
Shit, no way was he going to be able to ignore that.
* * *
So multiple orgasm could cause hysteria. Who knew?
Sabrina tried to smile at the ridiculousness of her discovery, but the salty tears refused to stop streaming down her face.
Wrapping the bathrobe round her midriff, she burrowed into the fabric’s comforting warmth, but couldn’t stop trembling. Choking down another sob, she stuffed the sleeve into her mouth to silence the sound.
Stop crying, you stupid cow—he’ll hear you.
The next hiccup made her throat hurt, but at least her shoulders had stopped shuddering.
She dropped her head back, and blinked sore lids at the ceiling.
‘Sabrina, open the damn door.’ The harsh demand, accompanied by the sharp knock on the door made her jolt, nearly falling off the toilet seat.
She shook her head, then realised he couldn’t see her.
‘I won’t be l-long.’ She bit down on her lip to stop the little hiccup giving her away.
‘How long?’
How about till the next millennium?
‘Not long, really. Why don’t you go to bed?’ She almost winced at the maudlin plea in her voice.
What on earth had happened to the woman who could organise a six-month tour of provincial theatres? Who could talk Hollywood stars earning seven-figure salaries into performing for peanuts on the London stage?
She shook off the thought. She knew what had happened to that woman. She’d allowed herself to be spanked—and loved it. That’s what had happened to her.
‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ she added, but heard the pathetic whimper in her—and wanted to cry some more.
Please, please let him fall asleep. Then I can sneak out of the suite and never ever have to see him again.
Maybe it was just another symptom of her newfound cowardice, but she didn’t think she could face him again tonight.
‘I need to use the john.’
‘What?’ She stared at the door in disbelief, her temples starting to pound. She couldn’t let him in, she just couldn’t. She didn’t want him to see her like this.
He’d probably laugh at her meltdown. And who could blame him. She’d as good as thrown herself at him. She’d had the best sex of her life with a man she barely knew. A man she wasn’t even sure she liked and who she was fairly sure didn’t like her. He hadn’t even wanted her to kiss him on the lips for heaven’s sake.
She’d exposed herself, given up every ounce of her dignity, and he’d remained as closed off and controlled as ever. But far, far worse had been that sharp, aching need that had hit her in the chest and knocked the air out of her lungs after the sex. She’d been lying there, her mind dazed with afterglow, staring into those crystal-clear blue eyes and that’s when it had struck with the force of a sledgehammer. The idiotic urge to have him hold her, to have him care about her, to have him want more from her than just sex. As if there could be more? As if she wanted there to be more?
Completely and utterly certifiable. And yet undeniable. Or she wouldn’t be bawling her eyes out in a hotel bathroom for no apparent reason.
She twisted her fingers in her lap. How had this happened?
She’d been so certain she could keep her emotions out of the mix. But somehow that potent combination of endorphins and pheromones had messed with her head, and propelled her into this ridiculous alternative reality—where she had this ludicrous idea that she wanted to know Connor, to understand him, to reach past the sex god and discover the fascinating man beneath.
‘Sabrina, I’m not kidding. I need to use the john.’ The doorknob rattled ominously. ‘If you don’t unlock this damn door I’m going to kick it in.’
She hitched in a breath and glared at the door. The fascinating and infuriating man beneath.
‘Okay, okay. Just one second.’
She climbed off the loo seat and grabbed a tissue. Ignoring the shock of her reflection—fabulous, she looked like a demented panda—she repaired as much of the damage as she could.
Taking a deep breath in, she held it for a few seconds. Swallowed past the jolt of emotion.
Pulling the lapels of the robe tight across her breasts, unbearably aware of her nakedness beneath, she slipped the bolt and stood back. He walked into the room, unaware of her hiding behind the door. But before she could slip out behind him, his head whipped round, and strong fingers locked on her wrist.
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’
Her gaze jerked to his face. ‘But you need to use the loo.’
‘I lied.’
‘Oh.’ Her mind scrambled to process the information, her face flaming now.
He tilted his head to one side, the considering look scraping at the ache in her chest. He cupped her chin, ran his thumb over the reddened skin of her cheek. ‘What’s with all the tears?’
He sounded more curious than concerned—but with her emotions so close to the surface that was bad enough.
‘It’s nothing. It’s been an emotional day, that’s all. I guess it got to me in the end.’
He held her chin, raised her face. ‘That’s not it. You’re not the flaky type.’
‘How would you know? You hardly know me.’ His eyebrow rose at the stupid spurt of hurt in her voice. And she realised, too late, that she’d given herself away.
‘I know you better than you think.’ His lips curled, but she heard the hint of regret. ‘And contrary to popular opinion I don’t set out to hurt people. So if it was something I did that made you cry, you need to tell me.’
She could hear the regret clearly now. And wondered whose popular opinion he was referring to.
Was it the father who had rejected him? Or the stepmother who had judged him and always found him wanting?
Oh, shut up, Sabrina, you don’t know the first thing about this guy or his past—and you don’t want to.
‘You didn’t do anything. Really, it’s just me being silly.’ She lifted her chin and his fingers dropped away. ‘I should go back to my own room.’
But as she turned to make a dignified exit—or as dignified as it could be while she was sporting panda eyes and a runny nose—he scooped her into his arms.
She yelped, stunned as he strolled back into the bedroom. ‘Connor, put me down.’
‘Nothing doing.’
He settled into a large armchair, with her still in his arms. She tried to stand, or at least get off his lap, but he simply banded his arms around her waist, holding her in place.
‘Let me up, this is ridiculous.’ As was the renewed jolt of emotion making her throat hurt. If he made her burst into tears again, she’d have to kill him—and herself.
‘Not as ridiculous as you being too embarrassed to tell me what freaked you out.’ He nuzzled her ear and nipped at the lobe. ‘When I’ve been so deep inside you I could swear I felt your heart beating.’
Heat pulsed in her abdomen and sunk lower as his hand swept beneath the folds of terry cloth, skimmed across her belly and settled on her ribs.
‘I told you it’s nothing. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.’
‘Try again,’ he replied, his wandering thumb stroking the underside of her breast.
She sent him a glare, but it wasn’t one of her best.
‘Was it the spanking?’ he asked, sounding oddly unsure of himself. ‘You should have used your safeword. I would have stopped.’
She shivered as his thumb brushed her nipple, lazily seducing her all over again. She sighed, stupidly touched by the casual caress, the moment of uncertainty. ‘The spanking did not freak me out.’
‘Sure it did—you’re a vanilla girl.’ The lazy stroke of his thumb made her nipple pucker, but the ache to be touched was languid, seductive—unlike the too sharp ache in her chest when he said, ‘I should have been more careful with you.’
‘I had a multiple orgasm while you were spanking me. So I’m obviously not that vanilla.’
His grin was quick and knowing, and unbearably sensual. ‘But afterwards it made you feel ashamed. I know how that goes.’
‘How do you know?’ The question came out before she could stop it.
His thumb stilled on her breast and he gave a heavy sigh as his brow touched her shoulder. She waited, convinced he wasn’t going to give her an answer, when his head lifted and he murmured, ‘Because I spent most of my childhood being ashamed of stuff. And I know how shitty it makes you feel.’
He shifted her on his lap.
The thick ridge in his boxers pressed into her bottom through the robe. And she felt suddenly bold. She’d gotten a tiny glimpse behind the mask. Why shouldn’t she probe?
He’d spanked her, for goodness’ sake. They’d had mind-blowing sex. He’d given her her first and then her second multiple orgasm—or did that count as one mega-multiple orgasm? Whatever.
The point was, while this might not be a big deal for him, it was an enormous deal for her. Why shouldn’t she want to know more about him?
‘What stuff were you ashamed of?’
Instead of answering her question, he lifted the flap of her robe, exposing her breasts to his gaze. She stretched as his finger toyed with her aching nipple, sending darts of sensation arrowing down to her sex. He leaned forward to lathe the tender peak and capture it between his lips.
She gasped, her nipple drawing tight under the exquisite torture as he sucked it to the roof of his mouth. ‘Are you trying to distract me?’
He breathed a laugh, letting her go. ‘Is it working?’
She threaded her fingers into his hair, to tug his head back. ‘You didn’t answer me. What stuff did you do that was so terrible?’
A small line appeared on his brow. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because I’m curious.’
He hitched a shoulder, but the movement was stiff, defensive. ‘It’s no biggie. I was wild as a kid. I did loads of dumb stuff.’
She smoothed her fingers over the hair she’d pulled, the hollow weight in her abdomen making her want to soothe. ‘Libby told me you had a tough childhood. I’m sure whatever you did, it wasn’t really your fault.’
The rumble of laughter wasn’t what she had expected. Nor the crooked smile. ‘God, you’re cute when you’re earnest.’
‘I hardly think it’s funny.’
‘Sure it is. I can see you making up all sorts of sob stories about me and my deprived childhood.’ His hand sunk to her bottom, and curved over the flesh he’d made sting. ‘My mom and me lived in a trailer park. It wasn’t great, especially in the wintertime, because the insulation on those things is for shit. And she worked nights and slept most of the day, which meant I could do what the hell I liked without any parental supervision. But none of that gives me a free pass for being a troublemaking little shit—which is exactly what I was.’
She stiffened in his arms, the hollow weight growing heavy in her stomach at the bitterness in his voice. ‘Maybe it doesn’t excuse it, but it does explain it,’ she said, keen to defend the boy he’d been, even if he refused to.
‘Does it?’ His hands tightened on her waist and his lips twisted, the smile unbearably cynical.
‘Of course it does. And it certainly didn’t give your stepmother the right to treat you with so little compassion after your mother died.’
His lips quirked, not the reaction she’d expected from her impassioned speech in his defence. ‘So Libby told you a load of bullshit about that, too.’
‘How is it bullshit?’
‘For a start, my mom didn’t die. Her…’ He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘One of her boyfriends took exception to my smart mouth and kicked the shit out of me. So I hitched the five hundred miles to Newport, figuring I could fool the rich stif
f named on my birth certificate into taking me in. And it worked. For a while.’ He shrugged, calmly dismissing whatever had happened in his father’s home. ‘By sixteen I was on my own—and it forced me to get my shit together. End of story.’
‘But that’s dreadful. You were only a child.’
He shook his head, sending her a pitying look. ‘Honey, I was fourteen going on thirty with a piss-poor attitude when I got to Newport. My old man made Elizabeth take me in because he felt guilty. She didn’t want some little trailer-trash bastard messing up her perfect life and who can blame her?’
‘I can. You needed help and understanding, not criticism. Can’t you see that?’ she added, distressed at the thought of what he must have gone through when his father and stepmother had rejected him, too. ‘Surely they owed you that much? To at least try?’
‘Are you for real?’ He huffed out a laugh. ‘No one owes anyone anything. You’re on your own. All I needed was to figure that out.’
She pressed her palms to the soft hair on his chest, determined not to be distracted by the mocking light in his eyes, or the way his fingers were toying with her nipple again.
‘All you needed was someone to care about you,’ she said softly.
She touched his cheek, felt the rasp of his stubble, her throat full and aching. Did his childhood explain the dominance that seemed so much a part of his personality? Did his rigid control come not just from the healthy pursuit of great sex, but also from the need to control his feelings? From the desire to keep people at a distance, so no one could reject him again?
He grasped her fingers, gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Damn, who knew there was a bleeding heart hiding behind the ball-busting front?’
She wanted to protest, to tell him she knew what it was like to be rejected. That she understood. But how could she tell him that without exposing her own need?
His lips brushed her earlobe, making the shiver of sensation arrow down to her core. His warm palm snuck under the robe again, to stroke the sensitive skin of her belly. ‘I want to fuck you again, Sabrina.’
The coarse word sent colour flushing into her cheeks, but the press of his erection through the layers of towelling made the statement seem earthy and enticing rather than crude.
