The apology—devoid of excuses and denials—inexplicably riled her.
The elevator door slid open. Knox gestured for her to exit first, so she did, clutching her handbag as if it could save her. Then, realizing what she held, her face heated. Lila had tossed in some condoms—assorted neon colors, which Lila likely found hilarious. Could anyone use those with a straight face? Chloe doubted it.
Knox led her to a room at the end of a long hall. He slid the key card through the lock then held open the door.
She entered, and her breath caught. Although the room boasted what she guessed was a fairly standard layout, luxe shades of cream and gold paired with crisp white for a rich, airy ambiance that instantly put her at ease. Through an open balcony, DC sprawled in a sea of twinkling lights. The White House glowed prominently, and behind it, the Washington Monument pierced the sky. Though she couldn’t see him from her vantage point, she knew Lincoln sat just a few blocks away, stone-faced over her decision to accompany Knox to a hotel room.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
Knox didn’t take his eyes off her. “Stunning.”
It wasn’t fair. He’d dumped her. It had been his choice, not hers. He had no right to the sorrow in his eyes. She rolled hers in response.
“You left me.” Odd, arguing with a facial expression, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. This time. She set her bag full of condoms on a nearby table, far from the bed. In a pinch, she could drop-kick them off the balcony if she had to.
He reached for her, his fingers curling near her cheek. After a momentary hitch, he fingered a strand of her hair. “I’ve regretted it.”
“Good,” she said. But the word came without oomph. He was too close, and she was in the middle of a nuclear meltdown. She dug for the hurt she’d gotten so adept at ignoring, using the sharp edges of the pain as a life raft. Still, old memories closed in, leaving no room for grudges. Just his intoxicating scent and the delicious warmth simmering in his chocolate-brown eyes.
“God, I’ve missed you.” Slowly, ever so slowly, he took her hands. “Tell me to stop, Chloe, and I will.”
Stop what? She was so dizzy she hadn’t noticed he was tugging her toward the bed.
“Strawberry daiquiris are your favorite,” he said. “And that melon body lotion with the matching spray stuff. Showers, not baths. Sleeping in. Late morning jogs. Cats, but not in the house. Fast cars, but only at the speed limit.”
Dazed, she sank to the bed.
Knox dropped to his knees. He took off one of her shoes, massaging her foot with deep, firm strokes. “You hate high heels,” he said, grinning. “You love your job at the paper, and you’re damn good at it. You have a ticklish spot…here.” He traced light circles on the inside of her knee, smiling when she trembled. “And this,” he said, moving his fingertips to her inner thigh, higher and higher, “makes you so wet I can almost taste it.”
She wanted to press her thighs together, to do something about the desire burning there, but she couldn’t move. Maybe she didn’t want to.
He abandoned her right leg for her left. “You like to ride me,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “You find that rhythm, and my God, it’s all I can do to keep it together.” He pressed a kiss to her calf and worked his way up her thigh. “You love having your nipples sucked. And when you feel my teeth on your skin, you come undone.”
She felt certain she’d broken a sweat, probably from laboriously raising the height of his pedestal. All thoughts of getting over him vanished, leaving in their wake a wet little puddle of want. Too late, she realized there was no way she could walk away from this encounter unscathed, but she could sure as hell walk away first. Before he could.
The next time he wanted to feed her one of his stupid lines, he’d have to find her.
He crawled over her, sending her backward on the bed with the power of suggestion. Hovering—depriving her of his weight—he leaned in to press kisses to her neck. His cheek grazed her jaw, teasing, leaving her to clutch the duvet to keep from seizing him.
“Chloe?” he whispered.
“Mmm?”
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
The words still carried that husky, sexy tone, but they weren’t at all what she’d expected. She took a steadying breath, unsure whether or not she welcomed the break in momentum. This encounter had disaster written all over it. But where her mind still entertained doubts, her body craved his touch. And in her heart, she knew he hadn’t remembered those things about her to get her in bed.
He remembered because he cared, and that brought on a whole new kind of hurt.
Her own warning came back to her—something about this being a bad idea—but the chastisement dripped with a sugar-coated haze of euphoria. Forget falling for him…she was in bona fide spelunking territory, and the closest thing she had to protective gear sat too far away in rolled-up neon latex.
The past year came rushing back. One in which she’d doubted herself, closing the door to all things romantic because of the blow he’d dealt her confidence. She hadn’t moped or felt sorry for herself—not after the first few days anyway—but she had neatly sidestepped any chance of falling victim to those feelings again. Or she had until Lila’s blind-date nonsense.
Knox touched her face, his impossibly tender caress coaxing her back to the present. To the hotel room, to the possibilities of an impeccably made bed and a past she was far too willing, in that moment, to forget.
He drew closer.
She had all the time in the world to resist. She knew this because the pause from the moment she realized he was going to kiss her until the moment it happened felt like an eternity. But she wouldn’t have resisted if she could have, and the second his lips touched hers, she was lost. He cupped her face, lowering his mouth until it melded with hers. Her lips parted out of pure breathlessness, and he met her open kiss by nipping her lip, waiting until she smiled to press his tongue deep inside.
She had had enough hovering. With both hands fisted in his shirt, she pulled until his weight finally settled deep against her, all the parts lining up as if they were made as one. His taste, so familiar it curled her insides. One kiss, bold but not frantic, stoking, with every sweep of his tongue, a fire she had no chance of surviving.
And damn him for making her think it was worth the risk.
Chapter Three
God, she was gorgeous.
Knox had memorized everything there was to know about Chloe, but the paintings in his mind gave no justice to how deeply he craved her presence. Her body seemed to demand his touch, but those deep blue eyes watched everything, shouting questions for which he had no answers.
She wanted to know why he’d left. And why he’d come back.
Even after all this time, she had a way of overtaking him. He wanted to consume her. He wanted her hair between his fingers, to feel her body tighten around his in release, to sweat and shout and breathe all she was to him. He wanted to turn the bright, clear hope in her eyes dark with passion, to steal the pleas from her lips and leave her incoherent with desire.
But for all he wanted, he couldn’t give her what she needed.
He was no Prince Charming. Not by a long shot.
Chloe’s sleek dark hair fanned over the bedding, the rich hues making her eyes look bluer than ever. Her dress, which flirted with her thighs when she stood, offered a glimpse of the intimacy he so often craved.
He hadn’t intended on getting her into bed, but once he’d laid eyes on her, he wanted nothing more. He’d missed her. Missed how unbelievably right they’d been together, even as he’d run from it. He’d screwed up leaving her as he had, but she’d yet to impale him with one of those incredibly sexy mile-high heels. Whatever she allowed him now was worth the risk.
He cupped her face with his hand, his thumb dragging across her lip when he stroked her. Hot, thick tension splintered into flames when she opened her mouth enough to nip at his thumb. The plume of desire that shot through him made th
e room waver, but the gravity shift didn’t stop him from leaning down to catch her lip between his teeth.
She gasped, her breath a wisp against his mouth, but she remained soft and willing under his weight.
Time seemed to stop and funnel all of its energy into this one moment. She was giving him a chance—one he hadn’t earned. One rife with complications he didn’t need. But now that he’d touched her, the chance was one he fiercely craved.
He leaned into another kiss, almost too late. She’d already clutched him, pulling him the last inch to meet him with her mouth parted. In the face of her aggression, he quickly realized he was in way over his head. She met the raised stakes gamely, licking and sucking his tongue, just like she had his finger. And other things, once upon a time. The memory left him throbbing.
Suddenly ravenous, he kissed her deeper, tasting strawberries and the tang of the alcohol from her drink. He ransacked her hair with his hands, dragging her closer as if he could somehow save her, save himself by gripping every erogenous inch of her breathtaking body.
“Knox…” Her fingers curled at his nape. Eyes shining with emotion, she drew him back in, her mouth speaking all the forgiveness he needed. For now.
He yearned to be everywhere at once. He longed to feel everything, to somehow memorize her anew with his touch. He hungered to sample her skin, to taste what he was doing to her. His own body begged for release, but what he wanted most was to pleasure her, to give back pieces of what he’d taken away.
He pushed up on one arm, hating the distance he put between them. Moving quickly, he averted her attempt to reach for his zipper and relegated her hands to a position just over her head, holding her wrists captive with a firm but gentle grip. He pressed his thigh between her legs, leaving her to squirm against him. He trailed kisses from her ear to her neck and collarbone. When he could no longer resist, he nudged her dress out of the way with his nose and sucked, deep and hard, on her breast, sweeping her hardened nipple with his tongue.
Her sharp breath ruffled his hair. Every whimper that left her luscious lips filled him with a deep satisfaction that could be outdone only by the feel of her body hot around his. That was something he wasn’t sure he could take, but at the rate he was going, he might not get the chance. Even with her hands bound by his, every supple move she made seemed to caress and taunt him. Release threatened to crash with the destructive force of a storm surge. Just the thought of spilling himself deep inside her was enough to send him over the edge, but he forced himself away from the cliff.
This had to be about her.
He switched from one breast to the other, trading deep, hard pulls for a light tease of his tongue. The tip danced around the swollen bud, lapping gently. When she seemed to relax, her cries giving way to whimpers, he again turned the tide, biting and licking intensely.
Somehow, she broke the confines his grip and managed to rip his shirt free of its buttons. Shoving aside the torn garment, she ravished his bare skin, her fingernails raking his back with trails of pleasure he’d likely feel for the better part of a week. With her legs wrapped solidly around his hips, he had little means of escape from the exquisite contact of her body. But some inner piece of long-forgotten sainthood demanded he try. Chloe believed in romance, and he would ruin her fantasy if he opened his mouth to do more than close it again on some delectable piece of her.
But he would not—could not—put an end to this unholy feast. She trembled in his arms, and even in the warmth of his mouth, her nipples pierced his tongue with rigid arousal. His touch left a trail of gooseflesh over her thighs, her shivers contrasting wildly with the heat nestled against the front of his slacks. A string of profanity grazed his lips where they crept against her skin. More.
He dragged her closer, but the dress bunched around her waist and created a surprisingly formidable barrier for something so damned soft. He tugged and shoved the fabric to no avail, then finally gave up and slipped a finger beneath her panties.
Though he didn’t enter her, the barometric pressure lowered with the force of her gasp. She caught her breath enough to utter a very unladylike oath, and he had every intention of following through on that particular demand.
He withdrew to his knees, gaining an edge of control with the distance. With a laziness that belied the charge of his heart through his chest, he explored her outermost contours with soft, intimate strokes. Little sounds of contentment spilled from her lips, a breathy staccato of demands for more. Clearly, he wasn’t the only victim of this crippling desire.
She was wet and unbelievably hot, and he was an ass. When this was over and the sun pasted a morning-after glare on what they’d done, she’d want to fall in love and charge head over heels for a happily-ever-after that wasn’t on the agenda. Not his anyway. But sex…dammit.
He bit back a groan that had nothing to do with the erection that had probably by now reshaped his zipper. He didn’t have any condoms.
“What’s wrong?” Her breathless words were punctuated by the trace of her nails down his abdomen. Her dress, at this point, was little more than a belt. She hadn’t worn a bra, but she hadn’t needed one. Her breasts—perfect handfuls, each of them—were fully bared and begging for his attention. Her soft, sleek hips gripped him, framing the silken vee of her drenched underwear. He stroked her there, watching desire churn in the oceanic depths of her eyes.
“No condoms,” he muttered, fully sheathed in some sort of Chloe trance. Whatever element she possessed belonged on the krypton block of the periodic table. She vexed him, and he’d have been smart to remember that before he’d gotten close enough for all of his blood to rush south and point her way—simple instructions for a senseless man.
No condoms.
For some reasons, his words incited a riot of blush over her face. She raised a white-tipped nail to her lips. “I…uh…in my bag. You…help yourself.”
Well, hell. Good for her, but she hadn’t planned on spending her evening in his arms. Which meant Chloe was prepared for, well, someone other than him. A man she didn’t know, per her own admission. The news stung but didn’t change the fact she lay there wet and trembling and offering Knox the latex key to her kingdom.
He’d cope.
With the barest grasp on control, he disentangled from her legs and undergarment. He tried not to limp on his way to the bureau, where he found her purse and a liberal handful of condoms. He swallowed the growl that erupted in his throat and focused on shedding his khakis. The bent zipper thing hadn’t been much of an exaggeration—the damned thing stuck, and he almost resorted to scissors to escape—but finally he broke free. Naked, he snatched one of her packets and rejoined her on the bed, where he pulled her to a sitting position and roughly yanked the dress over her head. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Smoldered. In a move right out of a shampoo commercial, she shook free loose waves of hair, then snared him in her arms and hauled him back to the bed with her.
They landed in a breathless heap of tangled limbs and slick skin. He fumbled and found that scrap of cloth she used for panties and ripped them down with one hand.
She rewarded him with a squeal and a quick maneuver with her hips that left his length pinned between her thighs. He sucked in a harsh breath and froze, teetering on the verge of pre-pubescent disaster while she lay there, wearing nothing but a Cheshire grin and strumming his pecs like guitar chords.
“You sure?” he asked, praying it was the most useless question he’d ever uttered.
She responded with the slightest tip of her hips—a move that left him cringing and willing the boys back down the chute.
“Condom,” he sputtered.
The little vixen opened her legs at a snail’s pace, leaving him panting over a barely there, impeccably trimmed landing strip. While he stared, his manhood jolted free of its fleshy prison. He caught it on the upswing, using his other hand and his teeth to tear into the wrapper and extract…a bright green rubber.
He snorted. It was just the dial-down he needed to keep
from shooting her in the eye, but moreover, it was hilarious. “Got a cucumber fetish?” he asked as he rolled it on.
She might have blushed, but it was too hot to tell. And fetish or not, he was going in.
Any pretense of a polite nudge would have been wasted. The heat searing her lady parts made for one hell of an invitation, and when he took the plunge, he did it balls deep.
She gasped and dug into his triceps, leaving gouges he’d likely take to the grave. Were his eyes not lodged uselessly in the back of his head, he might have checked for blood, but as it was, all he could see was a kaleidoscope of color brought on by a series of unsteady dives into her delicious body.
He slowed his strokes and took in the glorious view of her sprawled on the mattress, vowing not to, never again, let her on top, no matter how much she enjoyed the ride. She had him turned inside out, and that was under the pretense of him being in control—at this rate, he might as well turn over ownership of his loins.
She was a breather. She didn’t talk a lot during sex, and she didn’t scream, but the rhythm of her breaths made clear he was doing something right. She met his eyes and—whether physically or with a look—drew him in. He slowed his pace and lowered himself to meet her skin to skin, his frantic need easing into a slow burn as he rocked against her, exploring her mouth with his tongue. She nipped in turn, murmured laughter, and held him.
From sex surged intimacy.
One or two late-to-the-party neurons misfired a warning. This isn’t just sex. But it didn’t have to be, so he ignored those emotions, ducked his head, and watched as he drove into her with the kind of spiraling momentum one gained from falling down a flight of stairs.
His name tumbled from her lips in a frantic whisper. She tightened from within—something he’d have sworn impossible with the grip she already held—and arched against him, pushing him over the edge. Before he could blink, he found himself tumbling head first into the land of orgasm, his brain sputtering reminders to breathe. Not to crush her with his inevitable collapse. Not to fall off the bed.
The Marriage Agenda Page 2
