by Nina Milne
A long moment and then he gusted out a sigh, his expression unreadable, before he smiled—the toe-curling, hair-frizzing version. ‘Then let’s eat and get out of here.’
How was she supposed to eat? Her appetite for food had legged it over the horizon long ago. All she wanted to savour right now was Joe; her nerves stretched taut with need.
But somehow she made it through the exquisite combination of tastes: the bite and tang of roast lobster flavoured with lemon and ginger, the intensity of a seafood bisque complemented by seaweed bread. But all the time she was oh-so aware of the solid thickness of Joe’s thigh next to hers, the pressure of his knee under the table, the plane and angle of his strong jaw, the way the chandeliers glinted over the dark spikes of his hair.
The promise in his eyes made her tummy swirl in anticipation. Until finally—finally—they had eaten the last bite of a superbly light pistachio soufflé, had exchanged compliments with Marcel and could exit the restaurant.
Imogen welcomed the cool evening breeze on her face, though she couldn’t help a small shiver as it hit her sensitised skin. Without speaking Joe shrugged off his jacket and placed it round her shoulders. Warmth encased her inside and out.
‘Thank you.’
His hand clasped hers in a firm grip. ‘No problem. The apartment isn’t far.’
‘Good. I’m …’ Burning. Yearning. Desperate.
He looked down at her. ‘Me too,’ he said, with a sudden low chuckle that rippled into the breeze and tugged her lips into an answering smile.
Half-walking half-running, they wended their way along the pavement.
‘It should be just down this alley,’ he said, already digging in his pocket for the keys.
They reached a navy blue wooden door—he shoved the key into the lock and thrust the door open.
And came to an abrupt halt.
She could see why: the room they had stepped into was … sumptuous. Decadent. Luxurious. With warm red walls, rugs and throws that begged to be touched, deep crimson and gold curtains that would cocoon the room and its occupants against the outer world.
Then she saw the mural on the wall directly opposite the door.
A man and a woman entwined together, their naked bodies sinuous and beautiful. The pose intense, passionate, vivid.
Imogen swallowed, and then moistened her lips to relieve her parched mouth as her awareness of Joe further heightened. But with awareness came worry, and a sudden shyness tensed her body. What if she didn’t come up to scratch? Surely this apartment was meant for women who were more … more beautiful, experienced, sexy?
Then Joe moved behind her, his body heat warming her as his fingers massaged her shoulders.
‘You OK?’ he murmured.
‘My heart is beating so damn hard it’s like I’m consumed—and yet I’m scared that I’ll mess this up.’
Disappoint you.
‘Not possible.’
His fingers continued to wreak their magic and she wriggled in sheer appreciation.
‘But if you’ve changed your mind …’
A last lingering doubt snaked through her brain and she quashed it ruthlessly. This was her chance to experience something she might never experience again. Yes, lust was dangerous—but it was a danger she was fully aware of and had no intention of falling prey to.
As for the risk of disappointing Joe … Every molecule in her body told her that they’d work it out. This was her night and she’d regret it for ever if she didn’t take it.
‘No. I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘Good,’ he growled as his hands slid to her shoulders, glissaded down to her waist.
He nuzzled her neck and at the touch of his lips she shivered, arched to give him better access. As she did so her gaze fell on the mural and she saw it in a new light—a picture of two normal people who were following their instincts, engaged in something natural and beautiful.
The realisation sent a thrill through her, and suddenly she needed to see Joe—see the man who was already giving her such pleasure.
As if he felt the same he stood back and turned her, so she was flush against the hard plane of his chest. The light scent of sandalwood mixed with sheer Joe assaulted her senses. Imogen looked up at him and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the raw desire that dilated his pupils.
Standing on tiptoe, she looped her arms round his neck, buried her fingers in the thick brown hair. Joe’s broad hands curved round her waist and his mouth covered hers. Imogen savoured the tang of pistachio and the flavour of mint leaf as his tongue swept the bow of her mouth and she parted her lips. Sensations rocketed through her as his tongue stroked hers, sliding and tangling and tormenting, and she matched him stroke for stroke.
She pushed against him, desperate to be closer, for more, pressing heavy breasts against his chest. His hands plunged down from her waist to cup her bottom, and she moaned into his mouth as momentum built and strummed inside her.
Breaking their kiss, he stepped backwards and sank down onto the deep crimson sofa, pulling her onto his lap, the strength of his thighs hard under hers.
Her clumsy-with-need fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt and tugged the silken black edges apart. Then finally she touched his skin, ran her hands over his packed chest.
Joe found the zip of her dress and tugged it down in one deft movement, gliding the gauzy material over her shoulders and down her arms, freeing her breasts.
‘Jeez …’ he breathed. ‘You are gorgeous, Imogen.’
His large hands cupped her breasts and as he circled her standing-to-attention nipples. Imogen arched backwards in ecstasy. Then in one smooth movement he lifted her off his lap and laid her down on the expanse of the sofa.
‘I need to see all of you,’ he said roughly as his hands pulled her dress down.
Lifting her hips, she felt the material slide down and off into a pool on the floor, followed by the lacy wisp of her knickers.
Joe’s heated gaze glittered over her. ‘So beautiful …’ he murmured
Imogen allowed her gaze to run down his body, saw the impressive bulge that strained the zipper of his trousers. A quiver of anticipation thrilled through her.
‘Joe?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you need to take your clothes off. Things seem to be a little out of balance at the moment.’
‘Your wish is my command, beautiful.’
In one lithe move he stood on the plush carpet and shucked off trousers and boxers to stand before her in glorious naked splendour.
Unfamiliar exultation shimmered over her that he could be so aroused by her body. Propping herself on her elbows, she let her gaze absorb every glorious millimetre of him—the light sheen of his sculpted torso, the ripped abs, the thick muscular thighs—and she shivered, imprinted the memory on her brain.
He smiled at her. ‘Seen your fill?’ he asked with a delectable quirk of his eyebrow.
‘I could look at you for hours.’
It was nothing but the truth, and the knowledge that she’d love to draw him, to try and capture his arrogant male beauty on paper, crossed her mind. No way, Imo.
Instead, ‘But I can think of other things to do right now.’
‘As I said, your wish—’
‘Then come here,’ she said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JOE PULLED THE fridge door open and welcomed the stream of cold air that hit him as he inspected the contents. As he’d suspected there was everything he needed for an impromptu midnight picnic—he wouldn’t expect anything less from Lovers’ Tryst. And he wanted Imogen to know that she deserved champagne and caviar and strawberries and cream, even if they weren’t sensible.
Though the real reason he was here in the kitchen wasn’t only food and drink—he needed a moment to regroup. The past hour had been sensational, and yet his body still hummed with desire. As if it was greedy to make the most of every hour of this night.
But he wanted this to be special for Imogen—more than just for
the sex. Her words from the restaurant echoed in his ears. ‘Because I’ve never felt like this before. And once, Joe—just once in my life—I want to succumb to lust. To say sod the rules. Not to be sensible. For one night.’ There had been wistfulness in her voice, along with the certainty of what she wanted—and it had called to something in him.
Convinced him to just once break a rule. There was no harm in it. Imogen had been right—he’d made the decision to let her run with the proposal and that decision had been made with no ulterior motive in mind. They were here for a night. From tomorrow morning it would be all about work, and soon he would leave Langley and move on. Rules Two and Three were still in place. ‘One Night Only’. ‘Never Look Back’.
The thought brought a certain relief as he loaded a tray and pushed the fridge door closed. He exited the kitchen and made his way down the corridor to the bedroom.
Breath whistled between his teeth as he took in the opulent splendour. An enormous circular bed with a curved wooden barred headboard dominated the floor and mirrors mastered the wall space.
Imogen sat cross-legged on the bed, dressed in a thick white towelling robe. ‘It’s a little unnerving to see myself from all angles,’ she said. She gazed at the tray and her face lit up. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m ravenous.’
‘It’s all the exercise,’ he said as he stepped forward and lowered the tray onto the bedside table. ‘Champagne?’
‘Yes, please.’
Minutes later they had plates balanced on their laps and a glass of bubbles in their hands.
‘Thank you for this. It’s incredible,’ she said. ‘I can safely say I’ve never eaten caviar in bed at midnight before. I’ve never eaten caviar at all.’ The glance she swept at him was a touch shy. ‘I thought one-night stands were just about the sex.’
Her words sent a small cold shock straight to his chest; when had he ever contemplated a midnight picnic before?
‘No need for thanks. All I did was open the fridge.’ But you went looking, a small voice pointed out. ‘Seemed a shame to waste the contents.’
Imogen paused, a caviar-spread cracker halfway to her lips. ‘Don’t sweat it, Joe,’ she said. ‘I meant what I said. I don’t want any more than a one-night stand. I’m just happy that it’s turning out to be a definite once-in-a-lifetime experience.’
Since when had he been so readable? ‘So you still don’t believe in one-night stands?’
Her slim shoulders lifted in a small shrug. ‘I can’t see the point in them.’
‘Really? Then I must have done something wrong.’
For a second she looked discomfited, her lips forming the cutest circle, and then she chuckled. ‘You know damn well you did everything completely right. But it wouldn’t feel right to do this on a regular basis. Like I said, I want a lot more than sex from a relationship and I won’t risk getting blindsided by lust.’
‘I thought we did pretty good on the lust front. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes.’ Her lips curved up in a sudden sweet smile. ‘This has been totally amazing. But in a long-term relationship there are other things that are way more important.’
‘Fair enough. But why not go for it all? Security, shared goals and great sex.’
Imogen blinked, as if the idea had never even occurred to her as a possibility, and then she shook her head and sipped her champagne. ‘Honestly? I think a dynamite attraction would fuzz my brain and my perspective. I don’t want physical desire to affect how I think and reason, or cause me to make stupid decisions. I’ve seen how that works out. My mother married my father because she fell in lust—and, believe me, their marriage is everything I don’t want mine to be.’
The vehemence in her voice twanged a chord of empathy in him. ‘Yet they’ve stayed together, haven’t they?’
Perhaps Imogen knew the answer as to why two unsuited people stayed together despite every reason in the world to separate. An image of his own parents came to his mind and he felt the familiar gnarling of emotions in his gut. Frustration, confusion, anger, bewilderment.
Max and Karen McIntyre—good-looking, rich and devoted to each other. Or so they had appeared to Joe. Because he’d seen what he’d wanted to see or what they’d wanted him to see? Little wonder that he’d been sent to boarding school—he could only imagine the strain the pretence must have cost his parents.
‘Yes,’ Imogen said. ‘They have. I think it’s because in some dreadful way they’ve become codependent. So used to the shouting and the arguments and the bitterness they can’t imagine leaving. They’ve made a mess of it and I don’t want that—I certainly don’t want that for my children. So I think I’ll stick to my tick-list and keep sexual attraction off it. It’s not a big deal.’
Given her earlier responsiveness, her sheer uninhibited enjoyment, that was hard to believe. And anyway … ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but clearly the tick-list didn’t work with Steve.’
‘Noooo. But the principle is still sound. All I need to do is amend the list to make sure I avoid men who are still hung up on a previous girlfriend.’ A small sigh escaped her lips. ‘You’d think that would have been obvious, wouldn’t you? Instead I was sure I could be the one who’d help him get over her—be there for him, build up a relationship. Hah!’
Joe frowned as he considered her words. ‘You’re telling me Steve left you for his ex?’
‘Yup. It’s even worse, in fact.’ Her hands clenched round a fold of red sheet.
‘What happened?’
Jutting out her chin, she gazed at him almost defiantly, her blue-grey eyes daring him to feel pity. ‘I gave Steve tickets for a cruise for his thirtieth birthday a few months ago. He took Simone instead of me and proposed to her on the cruise. They’re getting married in a couple of months.’
‘For real?’
‘I don’t think you could make that up.’
‘Well, I’d like to say I’m sorry. But I’m not. The man sounds like an absolute tosser and you’re way better off without him.’
Imogen’s lips curved up in a sudden smile. ‘So no sympathy?’
‘Nope.’ He topped up their glasses and raised his. ‘I think it’s more a cause for celebration. To a new start.’
The chime as crystal hit crystal was oddly significant, and as if feeling it Imogen wriggled backwards to lean against the graceful curve of the headboard.
Shaking away the emotion, Joe took her empty plate from her. ‘You done?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Because I have some excellent ideas for what to do with the strawberries and cream.’
She moistened her lips. ‘Care to share?’
‘Oh, yes. I have every intention of sharing. Now, come here. And drop the sheet.’
Batting her eyelashes at him in an exaggerated fashion, she pushed the sheet down in one fluid movement. ‘Your wish is my command,’ she murmured, and the hot rush of desire swept away all other thoughts.
Imogen opened her eyes and for a heartbeat confusion fuzzed her brain—until the twinge of hitherto unused muscles brought back a flood of glorious memories. Memories that culminated in finally falling asleep wrapped in Joe’s arms, her cheek nestled against the smattering of hair on his chest.
Rolling over, she realised her only bedmate now was the finger of light that filtered through the slats of the blinds to hit the rumpled, cold red sheet.
A sense of bereavement socked her, and Imogen gritted her teeth. No! The night was over and waking up naked in bed together was not the way forward for the professional day ahead. Joe at least had had the sense to realise it.
Yet how could she erase those memories that still buzzed through her veins and exhilarated her body. Surely she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t regret the bone-deep knowledge that she’d never plumb the depths of lust as deeply again? For the first time ever she truly understood exactly how her parents might have got carried away by a tornado of passion. How they might have believed that if their bodies were so in tune so must
their minds be.
Well, Imogen knew differently, but it was probably just as well not to put that knowledge to any further test.
So … no regrets. Instead it was time to haul herself out of bed and start to concentrate on work.
Entering the bathroom, she did her very best to look at it with the eye of an interior designer.
But how could she when her skin tingled as it relived the memory of leaning back against those glittering mirrored tiles, water jetting down, Joe soaping her, his muscles under her fingers smooth, hard, delectable as she returned the favour. The memory made her dizzy her and she clenched her hands around the cool edge of the sink.
Come on.
Lists. That was the way forward. As she showered she focused on the minutiae of the bathroom. Mirrored tiles, wet room, scented candles, exotic shampoos.
Shower over, she tugged her hair into a ponytail, pulled on the simple jeans and striped T-shirt she’d purchased the day before and pushed the bedroom door open.
This was fifty shades of awkward—and her nerves tautened as she approached the kitchen. The aroma of strong coffee tickled her nostrils as she entered and walked across the marble floor to the open French doors.
She put one hand to the side of the door for balance as she took in the scene.
Joe sat at a circular wrought-iron table—damp from the shower, hair spiked up, jeans and navy T sculpting the toned strength of a body she knew by heart. There was a cup of coffee in front of him, his laptop was up and running, his phone was to his ear. So gorgeous … The temptation to grab him by the hand and drag him back to the bedroom had her tightening her grip on the doorjamb.
Moving on. Maybe she should concentrate on the exotic plants that hid the patio from the street, on the hum of traffic, the sunlight striping the verdant leaves. Anything but Joe.
He nodded as he spoke. ‘May the best man win. I’ll see you on Wednesday.’
He dropped the phone onto the table and suddenly Imogen knew she couldn’t face him just yet.
Coffee. The world would come into focus with the help of caffeine.
Hurriedly she turned and headed towards the coffee machine. She just needed a minute to regroup—breathe in, breathe out and repeat—then, coffee cup in hand, she headed outside to join him.
