by Beth Andrews
And she was a thirty-eight-year-old woman who crunched numbers, not her abs.
“This might not have been a good idea,” she said, dropping her hands and trying to put some space between them.
He looked concerned. “We can stop whenever you want.”
“I don’t want to stop,” she blurted. “It’s just... You’re...you, and you look like...that—” she gestured to his body “—and I’m...” Now she swept her hand down to indicate her own body. “Believe me, what’s under these clothes is nothing compared to that. Maybe we could try again in six months...no, a year or so? That should give me enough time in the gym to catch up with you.”
He didn’t smile, but she could see the humor lighting his eyes. “I think you’re underestimating yourself. This is what you do to me.” He gently took her hand and placed it on the zipper of his jeans. Under her palm, he was warm and hard. Extremely hard.
She swallowed and raised her gaze to his.
“That’s what you do to me,” he said softly. “That’s what your touch, your kiss does to me.”
It was a heady experience, knowing she made him that aroused, made him feel as weak as she felt around him. Holding his gaze, she slowly unbuttoned her top. Each time a button was freed, it was as if she lost another inhibition, another doubt. When she reached the bottom, she nibbled on her lower lip, inhaled deeply for courage and shrugged the shirt off, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of silk.
His eyes heated; his expression turned hungry. For her. Giddiness swept through her, but it was pale in comparison to the heat suffusing her body as his gaze traveled over her, flickering on the slope of her breasts encased in a pink, silky bra, the indentation of her stomach.
He lifted his hand and she watched, mesmerized, as he dragged the tip of his forefinger along the curve of her breast over her heart. It beat frantically. He scraped the edge of his nail lightly across her nipple, which beaded, pressing against the fabric of her bra.
He bent his head, his expression fierce as he unsnapped the closure between her breasts, then used the back of his hands to push the cups aside.
“Penelope. God.” He raised his head and in the depths of his eyes, she saw how much he wanted her. What he thought of her. “You’re perfect.”
She wasn’t. Had tried so hard to be perfect at everything, at her job, at her marriage, but mostly to be the perfect mother. She’d failed so many times, had come up short too often. But now...here with Leo...she felt perfect. Perfect for him.
He cupped her breasts, and the feel of his rough palms against her sensitive skin was an enticing and arousing contrast. His thumbs brushed back and forth, coming closer and closer to her nipples until they finally touched them. He circled the peaks, drawing them into tight buds, then, lifting one breast higher, he lowered his head and took her into his mouth.
Her knees, already weak, threatened to dissolve completely. But it didn’t matter if they did because he was there, one arm clamped around her waist while he feasted on her breast. She let her head fall back and let herself feel. Just...feel. No thoughts, no worries, no plans on what to do next.
He leaned her back and she lay on the bed, pulling him with her so he was on top of her. He kissed her again and her desire for him built. His hands moved over her as if he couldn’t get enough. And when he rose so he could undo the snap of her pants, she did the same for him, her hands frantic and eager as she undid his jeans, shoved the material down his legs. He rolled over and tugged them off while she kicked off her own pants. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and yanked them down, tearing the fragile material.
She gasped in surprise, in excitement. Then he was kissing her again, his erection long and hard and smooth against her thigh.
“I want to make you come,” he told her, his words, the dark tone of his voice, amping up her desire. “Do you want that, Penelope? Tell me you want me to make you come.”
She couldn’t. She’d never spoken words like that, had never had a man talk to her so blatantly. So honestly. He trailed his fingers along her body from her clavicle down to her core, stopping shy of the coarse hair there. She lifted her hips in entreaty.
He shook his head, continued his torturous exploration of her, now drawing circles on her inner thighs, keeping his touch light and seductive. Keeping his touch away from where she wanted it the most. “Tell me,” he demanded softly. “Tell me what you want. Trust me enough to tell me.”
How could she refuse?
“I want you, Leo,” she said hoarsely. “I want you to make me come. I want to feel you inside of me.”
A light in his eyes flared and he kissed her, hot and hungrily, his hand seeking her most intimate place. The pressure inside of her built, her body heating as he worked her, harder and faster until finally, she broke apart, splintered into a million pieces of sensation and pleasure.
He rolled aside and she grabbed at his arm. “No. Please. I want you now. Now.”
She didn’t care if she sounded demanding or even desperate. This freedom to say what she wanted was empowering and she wasn’t about to give it up, not now. Not yet. Not until she’d had him fully.
He came back to her, rolled a condom down his long length and braced himself on his elbows, his erection nudging her inner thighs. “Are you ready for me, Penelope?”
She wasn’t sure. She wondered if there was some deeper, hidden message behind his words. But she was too far gone to worry about it. “I’m ready.” To prove it, she reached between them and guided him to her entrance. “I’m more than ready for you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT WAS TORTURE, being so close to Penelope’s heat, but Leo held back. He wanted this moment to last. Wanted it to be more than the quick flash and burn of desire, though desire was currently running hot in his veins, making his good intentions hard to hold on to.
Penelope was more than he’d imagined. Naturally sensuous and giving, her body so responsive to him, she practically shot up in flames when he touched her. And with her small, soft hands on him, it was torture, yes, but it was the best kind of torture, the kind that meant pleasure would be following, an unimaginable release.
“Do you want me?” Penelope asked, obviously turning his earlier words against him.
He liked it.
“I want you,” he told her.
She arched her back, brushing her curls against his erection. “Show me.”
With a groan, he slid into her. She was so tight. So wet and ready for him. He threw his head back, clenched his jaw and shut his eyes as the pleasure of being surrounded by her, of being inside her, washed over him. She made this sound, an incredibly sexy little whimper deep in her throat, and he opened his eyes, held her gaze.
Gripping her hips, he lifted her higher and began to move. He’d never before had an experience like being with Penelope. Watching the emotions, the pleasure sweep over her face, the way a flush began at her breasts and rose into her cheeks, the stain of her desire for him. He worked to keep himself in check, not to go too hard, too fast, but she was so tight and her hands were tugging at him as if she couldn’t get him close enough to her.
He lowered her, readjusted his grip and twined his legs with hers, kept moving, his hips pumping. She met him thrust for thrust, her hands skimming across his shoulders, down his back to his ass and up again as if seeking some sort of purchase, as if she couldn’t get enough of him.
It was a heady experience, an arousing one, having her so out of control for him. Their bodies grew slick with sweat; the scent of their lovemaking filled his nostrils and he breathed in deeply. He grabbed her underneath her thighs and lifted her, pulling her legs higher.
She wrapped them around his waist and locked her ankles.
“Oh,” she cried on a soft gasp as he quickened his pace. Her eyes were wide and she nodded. “Oh, there. I think I’m going to...I think...”
She came hard around him, tightening and convulsing, her head thrown back, her body bowed. Watching h
er, he tumbled over the edge himself, his orgasm shaking him to his very core.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Leo awoke to the sound of a car driving by. He was alone, the sheets warm and soft against his skin. He was used to waking alone. He lived by himself, after all, and while he was a big fan of sex, he’d never had the urge to actually sleep with a woman, to hold her through the night.
Until Penelope.
But when he reached for her, she wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure which part of that equation bothered him more. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, padded naked down the hall to the bathroom, then, when he was done, returned to her room and pulled on his jeans. With a yawn, he went in search of her.
He found her in the dining room at the table, a cup of coffee in front of her, a blank look on her face as she stared into space. Even wearing her robe—tightly tied—she was all neat and tidy, her hair smooth, her face clean.
He wanted to mess her up. To run his fingers through her hair, to kiss her mouth until it was pink, to undo that sash and watch that robe pool around her feet.
“Good morning,” he said as he stepped into her view.
She startled, almost knocking over her coffee. “Oh. Yes.” She cleared her throat, smiled, but it was strained and that did not make him a happy boy. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
She was nervous. Nervous he could handle. Nerves he could soothe. But regrets? He didn’t want her to have any of those. Regrets meant there would be little chance of what had happened between them last night ever happening again.
And he wanted it to. Wanted her with a need that scared the hell out of him.
“I slept just fine,” he said. “Though I wasn’t too happy about waking up by myself.” She flushed and he wanted to eat her up, to wrap her in his arms and kiss her, make love to her again. Never let her go.
“I’m sorry... I thought...” She gave a small shrug and a self-deprecating grin. “I don’t know what I thought. I don’t have much experience with this, as I told you last night, and I wasn’t sure what the...protocol for it was.”
“Protocol?”
Was it any wonder he was crazy about her?
She nodded, smoothed a hand over her hair, though not a strand was out of place. “The standard operating procedure for a one-night stand.”
The warmth left him in a rush. “One-night stands usually don’t occur between people who have been seeing each other, dating exclusively—at least on my part—”
“Mine, too,” she said, sounding indignant as if offended he’d suggested she was seeing someone on the side.
He hid a grin. “People who are dating and who are in a relationship.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless you want it to be only one time?”
Her color deepened and he almost felt sorry for her. Almost. But it was tough to work up sympathy when she’d left him in her bed and now looked and sounded unapproachable, as if she could barely face him.
“Okay, not a one-night stand,” she conceded. He supposed that was as close to answering his question as he was likely to get. “A...” Her nose wrinkled while she searched for the right word. “A...casual, physical relationship. I’m not sure of the rules, or what’s right and what’s wrong.”
He stepped farther into the room. “There are no rules except maybe we both agree to stick with that exclusivity agreement.” He didn’t like the idea of her seeing other men. Ever. And he had no desire to see other women. “But I was hoping to wake up next to you,” he admitted honestly, letting his voice go husky. “I wanted to make love to you again this morning when we were both still sleepy, when you were all warm and flushed, your hair a mess, your eyes heavy-lidded.”
Just thinking about it made him hard, and it took all his willpower not to throw her over his shoulder and march upstairs to her bed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m just not sure what this...this is.”
Panic tightened his spine. Was she trying to end things? Or was she angling for a big commitment before he’d had the chance to think everything through? “This is two people who enjoy being together taking their relationship to the next level. It’s not complicated. Why do we need to define it?”
To put a name on it, or a title, when it was so easy right now?
Her smile was strained and sarcastic. She stood. “I’m sorry,” she repeated and he wanted her to shove her apology. Damn it, he didn’t want her apology, didn’t want her to be sorry for anything that had happened between them. “Like I said,” she continued, “this is all new to me. I’ve never had a casual affair before.”
Irritation spiked. His fingers curled. Damn it, why did she keep saying what they had between them was casual? There was nothing casual about the way he felt about her, nothing easy about how much he wanted her.
“You’re overthinking this,” he said more harshly than he’d intended.
She held the edges of her robe closed, her knuckles white, her chin lifted. “It is not overthinking to ask for clarification on a subject one is unfamiliar with.”
“You don’t want clarification. You want to shove what we shared last night into a neatly titled box. You want some sort of definition you can read and decipher.”
She wanted, he realized with a sudden and swift clarity that took his breath, to push him away.
No way in hell he’d let that happen.
He crossed to her, grabbed her shoulders. “You want us to be like the numbers in your ledgers,” he growled. “All added up and balanced. But the last thing I feel when I’m around you is balanced.”
Her hands clutched his biceps, her nails digging into his skin. “Wha...what do you feel?”
At the moment? Out of control. Angry. Irrational. He should walk away. Give her some space.
Give himself some time to figure out how in the hell she’d managed to twist him into so many knots.
Yes, he thought as he slid his hand around to cup her neck, fisted it around her hair and gently tugged her head back. He should definitely walk away.
But not yet. Not today.
“I feel so much,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over her mole, a whisper of a touch that wasn’t nearly enough. “Too much.”
* * *
PENELOPE WASN’T SURE it was possible to feel too much. And if it was possible, was that was a good or bad thing?
But then Leo kissed her as though he could never get enough of her. As if trying to tell her exactly how much he cared for her.
Maybe it was a good thing, after all. A very good thing.
Doubt crept into her mind, however, when he continued to kiss her instead of expanding on his statement. Instead of explaining his thoughts, his words. His kiss deepened. Heated. His fingers gripping her hair in a way that stung pleasantly, his other hand strong on her waist, holding her against him.
“You drive me crazy,” he muttered against her mouth, his words coming out heavy as if weighed down with hidden meaning.
Meaning she was unable to decipher. Afraid to.
Should she apologize? Assure him he did the same to her? But she realized how easy it would be to convince him of it without saying a word. Her body was already responding to him, craving his touch. It scared her how effortlessly she lost control around him, how quickly he made her forget anything and everything but him. But when he walked her backward, pushed her against the wall and pressed his body to hers, she couldn’t stop a moan from escaping her mouth. Couldn’t stop wanting more.
They were hidden from view of the French doors by the short wall, she knew. But even the idea of her neighbors spying her in such a position wasn’t enough to stop her from grabbing hold of Leo’s head and kissing him voraciously. He rubbed his pelvis against her, and her core heated and swelled.
He broke the kiss and quickly untied the sash at her waist and yanked the robe down her arms, trapping her arms against her sides. She wiggled, but he ignored her, simply slid his warm, rough hands up her outer thighs and under the cotton of her nightgown. He shoved
the material out of his way, then dropped to his haunches in front of her.
Her breathing quickened, her eyes widened. He held her waist in his big hands, brought her closer to him and pressed his nose against the juncture of her thighs and breathed her in.
Oh, my. Her knees went weak and she would have collapsed into a boneless heap on the floor had he not held her up. With one hand, he dragged her panties down her leg, then once again leaned forward and pressed his mouth there.
She whimpered. She should stop him. She would stop him. In a minute. Or two. It was wrong...letting him do this to her, for her, in the middle of her dining room. Wrong and decadent and the most arousing thing she’d ever experienced. His tongue worked her and she couldn’t help but watch him, the sight of his dark hair against her pale skin. Pleasure built and then ripped through her. She cried out, the sound loud and echoing in the empty room.
When she could think again, he was standing, holding her, soothing and comforting her. She didn’t want to be soothed. Didn’t want to be comforted. That had been the most intense experience of her life and she wanted to ride this wave of desire, didn’t want to crash and burn or let it fade away.
“Please,” she gasped, helping him undo his jeans. “Please, now.”
Leo shoved down his pants, lifted her by her hips and entered her in one smooth motion. It felt wonderful. And when he started to move, his hips pumping into her at a quick, almost rough pace, she held on to his shoulders tight and let him take, take whatever he wanted, whatever he needed from her. She’d give him everything. Anything.
It was wild, their lovemaking, quite different from the night before, but felt just as powerful to be held in his strong arms, to have his body moving within hers. Her hair was caught, stuck between the back of her head and the wall. She didn’t care, could only feel the sensations coursing through her body, the crazy pleasure and mindlessness of being taken against a wall.
