She swallowed, a convulsive movement. Then she stepped forward.
They stood there for one second. It was an eternity. He could feel the full softness of her breasts against his chest, her legs just brushing his, her hands soft on his shoulders. Her face was tilted up towards his.
Max didn’t know who made the next move. Whether or not she stood on tiptoe just as he bent forward. But their lips met, found each other as if of their own volition. And he was lost.
Lost in her scent, in her taste. Lost in the grip of her hands on his shoulders. Lost in the curve of her waist, the slenderness of her back as his arms encircled her to pull her closer.
He hadn’t meant this. He had meant a soft kiss, a teasing kiss, a flirtatious kiss. But this...? This was hot and greedy and needy and all-encompassing.
He pulled her in closer, crushing her body against his, needing to feel her moulded to him. And she pressed closer yet, wrapped herself round him as if a millimetre gap was too much. And it was.
His hands moved up her back, learning her curves as they went, until finally they were buried in the glorious weight of her silky hair. It was everything he had hoped for: fine, soft, wound around his hands.
All promises of not going too fast disappeared. He needed to see her clad in nothing but that hair...needed to explore every inch of her, touch every inch. And Ellie was with him every step, her soft hands burning a trail as they slid beneath his T-shirt, roaming across his back, across his chest, and then slowly, tantalisingly, but so very surely, moving lower, across his abdomen, and then lower still.
Max sucked in a deep breath as she reached his belt. Her hands were trembling but sure as she unbuckled his belt, moving her fingers to the first button on his jeans.
He caught her busy hands in his. ‘Slow down, honey. We have all night.’
He allowed his voice to linger suggestively on the last two words and heard her gasp as his hands slid over hers, then moved slowly, oh, so slowly, his fingers caressing the soft skin of her wrists, her delicate inner elbow and up to her shoulders. He held her loosely for one moment, his lips travelling down, across her pointed chin, down her neck to feast briefly on her throat.
She was utterly still, her head thrown back to allow him access, the only sign of life her rapidly beating pulse, its overheated beat marching in step with the rapid thump of his heart. And then he moved, scooping her up in his arms, his mouth back on hers, needing, demanding, wanting as he carried her across the room and through the door. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, holding on tight, holding him tight.
There was no letting go. There was no going back. There was only this. Darkness, touch, moans and need. Only them. Clothes were pulled off with no care for little things like buttons. Impatient, greedy hands pushed barriers aside. Until there were no barriers left...
* * *
She should have been thinking, What have I done?
Instead all she could think was, Can we do that again?
Ellie had never had a morning after the night before. She had never done a walk of shame in last night’s dress, with smeared make-up, shoes in hand, tiptoeing out through the door in the grey dawn light. Never woken up next to someone alive with the possibility of a new beginning.
She’d dated Simon for several months before they’d first slept together, and by then she’d been so besotted and so terrified of disappointing him that she had been unable to think or dream about anything but him. Her first thought on waking then hadn’t been excitement or happiness but worry—the familiar gnaw of panic. Had she passed muster? Had her youth and inexperience been too obvious? Had she disgusted him?
She couldn’t remember enjoying it. It had all been about him.
Now she could see that was exactly what Simon had wanted. Could see how he had fed on her toxic mixture of inexperience, loneliness and need. Had encouraged it until she had been exactly what he’d wanted her to be: compliant, dependent and afraid.
So waking up alone, sated, in a strange bed, naked and with every muscle aching in a curiously pleasant way was far too much of a novelty for a previously engaged woman of twenty-five. But there it was.
Alone. Ellie wasn’t sure whether relief or indignation was at the forefront of her mind when she rolled over to pat nothing but cold sheets.
Relief that she didn’t have to worry about her hair, her breath, the etiquette—should she go in for a kiss or sit up primly and pretend that she hadn’t nibbled her way over his entire body in lieu of dessert?
Or indignation that she was waking up alone with just a note to remind her that she hadn’t dreamt the previous night? A note!
There it was on the bedside table, crisp and white like in a scene from a film.
Dear Ellie
You looked so peaceful I didn’t like to wake you. I should never have agreed to go in to the office—they called a meeting for nine a.m.
Hope your day is a lot more fun than mine. I’ll pick you up at six. Enjoy.
Max
PS Room Service is on DL Media, so go wild. One of us should.
Hmm... She read it through again. It wasn’t a love letter—there were no declarations of undying devotion—but neither was it a ‘Dear John’. It was something in between.
Which was about right, she supposed.
Ellie rolled over and stretched, enjoying the sheer space of the enormous bed. She could lie lengthways, diagonally, horizontally and still sprawl out in comfort. In fact, now she was thinking about it, she had covered pretty much every inch of the bed last night.
Heat returned to her cheeks as images flashed through her mind, her nerves tingling in sensory recognition. She sat up and looked at the rumpled pillows, the dishevelled sheets. At the clothing still distributed across the room. Her jeans, her tunic. Oh, goodness! Was that her comfortable yet eminently sensible bra?
She covered her face with her hands. Her first ever night of red-hot seduction and she had been wearing underwear as alluring as a nice cup of tea and a custard cream.
At least she hadn’t been wearing it for too long. And Max hadn’t seemed to have had any complaints. Not judging by the intake of breath when he’d pulled her tunic over her head, and not judging by the heat in his eyes when he had looked at her as if she were the most desirable thing he had ever seen.
Had that been her? Prim Ellie Scott? So wanton, so demanding, so knowing? And now that she had allowed that side of her to surface could she lock herself away again? Slide back into her hermit ways and keep this side of herself hidden?
The thing was, she didn’t want to explore it with just anyone.
Ellie slumped back onto the bed, the twist of desire in her stomach knotting into dread.
‘It’s a crush,’ she said aloud, emphasising every word slowly and clearly. ‘You can’t fall in love with someone after a week. Not because they quite fancy you and make you laugh. You are not going to become besotted with someone you barely know. Not again.’
It was as if cold water had been thrown over her. All the fire, all the sparks at her nerve-endings extinguished by reality. Ellie shivered, pulling the quilt back over her body, wanting to be warm, to be comforted. To be hidden away.
I won’t let the memory of Simon spoil this, she told herself fiercely, blinking hard, refusing to let the threatening tears fall. I am older, I am most definitely wiser, and I am not the naïve little girl I was back then. I know what this is and I can handle it. He’ll be flying back home in just over a week. Enjoy it.
She pulled the quilt tighter still, letting its warmth permeate her goosebumped body. This was supposed to be fun, not a trip down Memories I Would Much Rather Forget Lane.
She had plans today. Big, scary and long overdue plans. What was she going to do? Hide in this bed until six or get up, get dressed and follow through? She had allowed Simon to control the last th
ree years of her life just as much as he had controlled the three years they had spent together. She might have plucked up the courage to leave and start afresh, but she hadn’t moved on...not really.
And now Max. Offering her the opportunity to explore a new side of herself. A more adventurous side. To be the Ellie she’d always intended to be before her life had been so brutally derailed.
She could take the opportunity he was offering—or she could pack up and go home. Hide away with her books for the rest of her life.
Ellie sat up again and pushed the quilt away. She was going to get up, she was going to order the most decadent breakfast on the room service menu, and she was going to follow every single part of her tentative plan.
And today was the very last day she was going to allow Simon to cast a shadow over her life. He wasn’t going to taint a single second of her future. She was finally going to be free.
* * *
Meetings, meetings, meetings... Normally Max’s head would be spinning with the day he had spent. The London office was the most important after their New York headquarters, and on Max’s last visit eighteen months ago it had been a vibrant place full of enthusiasm and talent. Now it was full of fear, with people clinging on to their jobs determinedly or leaving, like rats jumping from a ship before they were pushed.
His father hadn’t even been over, having sent in management consultants instead to shake things up. They had certainly managed that—the MD Max had worked so successfully with was long gone and in his place a board full of yes-men with no ideas of their own.
It had put the present state of DL Media into stark perspective. Max might have no appetite for a family rift, but he didn’t have much choice. There was far too much at stake: jobs, the company’s reputation. His grandfather’s legacy.
It should be weighing on his mind, his mood should be murkier than a classic London peasouper, and yet all he had wanted all day was to stride out of that infernal boardroom, find Ellie and take her right back to bed. And stay there. The awards ceremony be damned.
He curled his hands into loose fists and took in a deep, shuddering breath. He could have made his excuses and gone. But he had stayed. Because when the chips were down he was a Loveday. Old school. Bred in his grandfather’s image. So he had stayed, listened, learned and reassured.
He had ordered his dinner suit to be brought to the building, the car to pick him up straight from there. Had put the business first and his own desires second.
Like a Loveday should.
But it all felt so hollow. No thrill of business. Just the sense of another day wasted. Thank goodness for tonight.
Only Ellie wasn’t waiting in the foyer. The car had pulled up outside the hotel and for ten minutes Max waited, his phone in his hand, sending email after email to his long-suffering PA. She had been expecting a quiet week or two. Well, this was going to put paid to any plans she might have had of stepping up her flirtation with Eduardo in Accounts.
Another minute, another email.
Max checked the time. Ellie was fifteen minutes late.
Had she got his note? Had he not been clear? Had she taken offence and hightailed it back to Cornwall? He’d meant to call. He should have called.
But for once in his glib life he had been unsure what to say. Thank you? That was incredible? All I can think about is touching you?
He bit back a laugh. Absolutely pathetic. But he still couldn’t think of anything better.
He checked his watch again, aware of the chauffeur’s eyes on him, the engine idling. He could call.
Or he could go and get her. A gentleman always did. What would his grandfather say if he could see him sitting in a car waiting for her to come to him? He would be horrified.
It only took him a couple of minutes to walk up to their suite, but Max’s heart was hammering as if he had climbed to the top of a skyscraper. He was convinced that he would open the door and be confronted by an empty suite. That he had blown it.
He had never worried before. Never waited, never chased. The second it got demanding or difficult he was out of there. He knew all too well where tears, tantrums and demands led. Had grown up with their devastation.
The door handle was slippery in his hand, reluctant to turn, but finally he had swung the door open and he strode into the opulent sitting-room.
‘Ellie?’
‘I’m in here.’ There was nervousness to her voice, a hint of panic. ‘Sorry... It all took a little longer than I thought. High-maintenance really is a full-time job. Are we late?’
Max didn’t know just how deep a breath he was holding until he heard her voice. The relief hit him with an almost physical force.
‘No, my grandfather told me to always pick a time half an hour in advance. It’s never steered me wrong yet.’
‘Then I’ve been panicking for nothing?’ Her voice had switched from nervous to indignant. ‘Honestly, Max, that was mean.’
He was going to reply. He was. But then she appeared at the door and he couldn’t say anything at all. All he could do was stare. He was aware in some dim corner of his mind that his mouth was hanging open, and with some effort he snapped it shut.
And then he stared some more.
Gone was the elusively pretty girl. Here instead was a stunningly beautiful woman.
‘Ellie? Wow. You look...’ It wasn’t the smoothest line, but it was all he could manage. Then, ‘You cut your hair.’
That shimmering mass was gone. In its place was an edgy bob, cut in sharp layers. It framed her face, emphasising her eyes, her chin, her defined cheekbones.
‘Yes.’ Her hand reached up to touch the ends, tentative, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. ‘I thought it was time.’
‘You look incredible.’ His voice was hoarse and he couldn’t stop staring.
From the tips of her newly styled hair and her heavily kohled eyes to the scarlet dress, bare at her shoulders, tight-fitting down her torso, then flaring out to mid-thigh, this was a new, dangerous, deeply desirable Ellie.
‘Is it too much?’ The expectant expression on her face had been replaced with panic. ‘Am I overdressed? Have I gone a bit over the top? I can change.’
Yes. She was. Simultaneously over and underdressed. Overdressed because he wanted to tear that dress off her right now. And underdressed because he wasn’t sure he wanted his colleagues to see quite so much of her creamy skin. He knew just what long, perfect legs she had. He just didn’t want anyone else to appreciate them. Maybe she had a shawl? And some leggings?
He shook his head. What was happening to him? He was thinking like a Neanderthal. His last ex had spent most of the spring in tightfitting yoga pants and a crop top and he had never once cared.
‘Max?’
He held out his hand. ‘No, don’t change a thing. You are absolutely perfect.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELLIE HAD ALWAYS thought that she hated small talk.
Standing at Simon’s side, her role had been to agree with him. It had been the easiest and the safest thing to do. He wouldn’t retreat into one of his terrifying sulks if she didn’t say anything wrong.
Of course she couldn’t be too mute—then he would accuse of her being dull, of not trying hard enough. No, it had been easier to agree with him at all times.
Tonight was as different from a night out with Simon as a glass of vintage champagne was from cheap lemonade.
Max had made no attempt to keep her near him. But his eyes sought her out as she moved from group to group, catching her gaze with an intimate smile that heated her through. And he’d made sure she was introduced to his companions, supplied with a drink. If she found herself alone even for a second then he was there, as if by magic, ready to introduce her to another key contact.
He would whisk her away, off into a corner, ever
y now and then. She usually had to slip into the cloakroom afterwards and reapply her lipstick. Every time she did she would stop and look at the girl in the mirror. The girl with the emphasised eyes, the choppy hair. The girl in the red dress.
She couldn’t hide. Not like this. Her dress was so bright, the cut exposing far more of her arms and legs than she ever usually showed, her hair left her face and her shoulders bare, and her make-up was dramatic.
She was so used to hiding behind her hair she felt exposed without it. But she also felt free, reinvented. It had been long for so many years: one length for her ballet dancing youth, uncut in her teens because her father had loved it so, and her mother would have been devastated if it was cut.
And Simon had liked long hair on women.
She had thought about changing it, in the three years she had spent in Trengarth, but had clung on to the security blanket it offered.
There was no blanket now.
This girl had to mingle, to talk.
And people wanted to talk to her, to know her, to discuss her shop, the tentative festival plans. They were interested in her thoughts, in her perspective.
It was a heady experience. For so long she had listened to the voices in her head telling her she was too young, too inexperienced, that she was hampered by her lack of a degree, unable to follow her dreams—and yet at some point in the last three years she had accumulated huge amounts of industry knowledge.
She was on the front line. She knew what people wanted to read, how they wanted to purchase it, what made them angry, excited—and what left them cold. Her best book club meetings were always those where the participants were polarised. And here she was, surrounded by people who spoke her language, people who knew the prefix to most ISBN numbers, got excited by new covers and new releases. People who openly admitted to sniffing the crisp new pages of a paperback book. She was in her element.
And Max allowed her the freedom to fly.
He didn’t look as if he were having quite so good a time. Oh, sure, to the casual observer he probably looked as if he was enjoying himself, standing in a group, his stance relaxed, a smile on his face. But there was a tension in his shoulders, a crinkle around his eyes that gave Ellie an inkling that he was hiding his true feelings.
A Will, A Wish...A Proposal (Contemporary Romance) Page 10
