by Beth Andrews
“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Her throat clogged. Her chest ached. She’d been called beautiful before, too many times to count. Too many times to feign modesty about something that was more genetics than anything she’d done to deserve the compliment. Too many times to have it mean something.
But hearing it from him? It meant something.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. They were just words. She didn’t need them to know what she looked like, didn’t want to be seduced or to let any man think he’d taken away her choice. Her power.
But Clinton was threatening to do just that with his light accent, his sure touch. Though he’d claimed not to like games, Ivy couldn’t help but feel he was playing along. She had to regain her control. Before she could, he was nudging her legs apart.
“Mine,” he breathed, then settled his mouth on her.
She arched into him, her head back, her hands in his hair. Maybe control was overrated.
Sensations flowed through her, her limbs growing heavy, her muscles lax as the pressure built. When her orgasm broke, she rode the waves of pleasure with a soft cry.
She floated back to earth, her breathing ragged, her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat.
She was boneless, weightless, her body still flushed and vibrating. It took her a moment, surely longer than necessary, to focus on him. He shouldn’t look so strong, so commanding, kneeling before her like that, tension emanating from his long, lean body, his hair mussed from her fingers, his face all sharp lines and angles.
She shouldn’t want him this much. Not nearly this much.
She absently rubbed her hand over the odd, unwelcome catch in her heart.
And wondered if maybe he wasn’t holding all the cards, after all.
* * *
IF A MAN didn’t have self-control, he had nothing.
C.J. was afraid he was very close to having nothing.
Because the taste of Ivy on his tongue, the feel of her under his hands, the sight of her—all that smooth skin, all those glorious curves—threatened his resolve to keep things between them on even ground. To keep himself in charge.
She watched him, her blue eyes slowly focusing. Turning wary. Shuttered.
Mine.
He curled his fingers into his palms. She’d been pissed when he’d said it, but he didn’t want her to belong to him. Didn’t want to own her or control her. He just wanted her, all of her, for one night. He wouldn’t let her hide from him.
But he had to be careful. Ivy was powerful. Knew how to twist a man into knots, knew how to kiss him, exactly where to touch him to make him weak. Mindless.
In the living room he’d been nothing more than aching need. Burning desire. He’d resisted—barely—the urge to take her like an animal, to push his way into her lovely heat, but it had cost him.
Scared the hell out of him.
He couldn’t stop himself from touching her. He traced light circles above her knees, and she smiled a small, satisfied smile. He shifted onto his hands and knees, crawled over her, loving how her legs opened to accommodate him, how she reached for him.
He pressed his nose against the base of her throat and breathed her in. She was perfect. Her beauty called to him, but it was her confidence, her keen intelligence that drew her in. Fascinated him.
He raised his head, slid up her body. Her hard nipples brushed against his chest, and he bit back a groan. Shoveled his hands into her hair above her ears, his thumbs at her temples.
“You take my breath,” he told her, not happy about admitting it. Even less happy that it was true.
“I’m going to do so much more than that.” She leaned up to give him a firm kiss. Gently bit his lower lip, tugging at it before letting go again. “I’m going to take all of you. I want you inside me, Clinton. I want you.”
Her words blew through him, and he crushed his mouth to hers with a low growl. She answered his kiss, the ferocity of it, the need, as she pushed against him, forcing him back until he sat on his heels. She scooted out from under him, tore off her shirt and bra and let them drop to the rumpled bed then wiggled out of her skirt. Her head lowered, she opened his belt, undid his pants.
The back of her hand brushed against his stomach, and he sucked in a breath. He stood, quickly shed his pants and underwear, stepping out of them as he reached for her.
She held up a hand, stopping him. “My turn.”
He shook his head. How the hell was he supposed to think clearly when his mind was buzzing? When she knelt on the bed like a fantasy come true, her hair a mass of gold, her eyes heavy-lidded, her mouth pink and swollen from his kiss?
“Your turn?” he repeated dumbly.
“My turn to look at you.” She let her gaze roam over him, taking her time—payback, he was sure, for how he’d taken his with her. “My turn to touch you.”
If possible, he got even harder, his entire body stiffening as she moved toward him, not stopping until the tip of his penis brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. It took all his willpower not to yank her against him, not to bury himself in her, right then and there.
She laid her hands below his chest, her palms flat against his rib cage, then smoothed them down to his waist before trailing her fingers across his lower abdomen. His cock jumped.
And smiling, she wrapped one warm, soft hand around him and squeezed gently.
His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he couldn’t stop from pulsing against her palm. Prayed he had the strength to make it through the next few minutes without embarrassing himself. Without letting her know how badly he wanted her. How much he needed to be with her.
She shifted closer, and the movement had her breasts swaying, her hair sliding over her shoulder. Then she bent her head, that hair a curtain, and licked the tip of his erection. Made a purring sound of approval before taking him in her mouth.
He went wild. The sight of her giving him such pleasure, the feel of her mouth on him was too much. He jerked her upright, cut off her delighted laughter with a rough kiss.
He couldn’t get enough of her. Wanted only the feel of her on his fingers, the taste of her kiss on his lips. It was exciting and frightening as hell, but he couldn’t stop himself. He cupped her breasts, kissed her throat and then moved down to take one tip into his mouth and sucked. Her hips bucked, and she dug her nails into his back.
C.J. fell onto the bed, had enough sense to support his weight on his elbows so he didn’t crush her, but kept their cores aligned, her softness against his hardness, their hands giving pleasure as their kisses grew hotter, a clashing of tongues and teeth.
She grabbed his ass, pulled him against her, rubbing her curls against him. “Clinton,” she gasped. “Now.”
The words sounded ripped from her throat, raw and needy.
He reared up, grabbed his pants from the floor and dug into his pocket for his wallet, pulled out a condom. He sheathed himself quickly and took her in his arms, but she pushed against his shoulders, turning them until he was on his back. She straddled him, a siren here to make all his dreams come true, a woman in control of her body and her emotions.
Until you looked closer and saw the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell quickly. Saw that her eyes were slightly dazed, her hands unsteady.
He couldn’t look away as she rose onto her knees and kissed him. He wound that magnificent hair around his hands, held on as she lowered herself and took him into her body.
Her lips parted on a sound of wonder, and he clenched his fingers, tugging her head back. She was hot and tight and wet for him. She began to move, rocking slowly against him, her hands on his chest, her fingers curled as if seeking purchase. He let her set the pace until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
Gripping her waist, he thrust into her, again and again, going harder, faster, deeper. Their bodies grew slick with sweat, and she made low, throaty moans that drove him crazy. She rode him, her hips pumping until she tightened around him, her back
arched, her eyes closed as she came.
While Ivy was still in the throes of climax, he wrapped his arm around her and flipped her onto her back.
“Look at me,” he demanded, moving inside her.
Her eyes opened and he held her gaze as he quickened his pace. His body tensed and, with a low shout, he emptied himself in her.
* * *
HE WASN’T A man to overindulge.
Hell, he wasn’t a man to indulge, period.
C.J. snorted at that thought as he woke up hours later, his eyes still closed. Many would disagree, seeing as how he owned a penthouse apartment in Houston, a ranch he rarely got to outside Denver, more cars than one man needed in a lifetime and various other toys, including a boat he’d been on once and his own small airplane.
Which he fully intended to learn how to fly one day.
So, yes, one could say he indulged in material things, but he didn’t indulge in risks. Couldn’t afford to when he had so many people to look out for. When he had so much to lose.
But he’d indulged last night. Had given in to desire and had taken Ivy to bed.
He couldn’t even regret it. Not when it had been everything he’d imagined and more.
He picked up his phone from the bedside table and glanced at the time. Not even five. He heard her moving around in the bathroom, told himself he needed to get up, get showered and shaved. He could order room service, work on the proposal sitting on the desk, make a few phone calls before his ten o’clock flight back to Houston.
But he could hardly kick Ivy out. He didn’t have a lot of experience with one-night stands, but he knew better than to try to get rid of a woman before she was ready to leave. Still, he needed her gone.
If only because he wanted her to stay.
Ivy stepped out of the bathroom, the light illuminating her shape before she shut the door, enclosing the room in darkness again. He waited, hearing her move carefully, and realized she wasn’t coming back to bed.
She was leaving.
He sat up and turned on the lamp. She whirled around, her shoes in her hand, and he saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. But then she blinked, and he wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice still sleep roughened. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Obviously,” he said, wondering why he was so pissed that she’d been ready to sneak out like a thief in the night. “Not going to say goodbye?”
She studied him. She should have looked haggard—neither of them had gotten a lot of sleep last night. After they’d had sex the first time, they’d both dozed, but he’d woken up hard for her not two hours later. Still, there were no dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was a shiny mass waving softly around her shoulders, her face clean of makeup.
His groin tightened. Hell, would he ever get enough of her?
“I’m not big on goodbyes,” she finally said. “And like I said, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’m up now.” In more ways than one, har har. He patted the bed. “Come here.”
She tipped her head. “I don’t think so.”
He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Then again, she’d been right when she’d told the teenage waitress he wasn’t used to being turned down. “Excuse me?”
Balancing on one leg, she put on her shoe, then switched sides to put on the other one. “I said I don’t think so. You’ve got the look of a man ready for another tumble.” She flipped her hair off her shoulder. “Afraid you’re out of luck in that regard.”
“I want you. I want to touch you again. Taste you. I want to feel your body tighten around me. I want to watch your face while I make you come.”
“Your wants have been noted. They’re also going to be denied.”
His eyes narrowed. What kind of game was this? “We were good together.”
“That we were, but it was a one-time thing. You see, I decide who touches me and when. And right now, you’re not on that list.”
He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood, his movements carefully controlled. “You wanted me to touch you last night.”
“Right again, but now I don’t.” She slid her gaze over his naked body, his erection. Then she smiled at him. “Nice meeting you, cowboy.”
And she turned and sashayed out of the room.
C.J. couldn’t believe it. Who the hell did she think she was? No one walked away from him.
They weren’t done. Not by a long shot.
He strode into the living room as the suite door shut behind her. Fully intending to chase her out into the street if necessary, he made it halfway across the room before remembering he didn’t have any clothes on.
Son of a bitch.
He rushed back to the room and grabbed his pants, was yanking them on when he went into the hall, his long, angry strides eating up the distance. But not fast enough.
She was already gone.
He jogged down to the elevator, jabbed the button repeatedly. “Come on, come on,” he muttered like a curse, like a prayer. He considered taking the stairs, but that would take too much time.
Finally, the elevator pinged and the doors opened. He leaped inside, pressed the button for the lobby...and caught sight of his reflection in the mirrors.
Aw, hell.
His hair was standing on end, his chest and feet bare, his pants not even zipped, his eyes wild.
He’d lost his ever-loving mind.
The doors started to close, and he stuck his arm out, stalked back to his room only to find the door had shut behind him, locking him out.
He glared at it. Considered giving it a good kick but he’d probably just break his toes. Now he’d have to go down the hall, knock on his mother’s or Oakes’s door, come up with some lie about how he’d locked himself out of his room at this hour, half-dressed.
Served him right for acting like an idiot. He didn’t even know Ivy’s last name, and yet he’d been chasing after her, ready to beg her to stay with him, just for another hour or so.
She was right. What had happened between them was a one-time deal. Just as they both wanted.
The sooner he forgot about her, the better.
CHAPTER FIVE
Four months later
“GRACIE, WAIT UP!”
Gracie stopped and turned, held her hand up to shade her eyes from the bright, midday sun. Only to slowly lower it when she saw Luke Sapko jogging toward her. She blinked, frowning. Held her eyes shut for a moment, but when she opened them again, he was still there, except closer, thanks to the jogging and all.
She glanced behind her and then rolled her eyes when she realized she was looking around to see who he was talking to.
He was talking to her, of course. Although, it actually would be more likely that there just happened to be another Gracie—one he’d said more than two words to over the past five years—walking down Blaisdell Avenue right now.
Biting her lower lip, she considered—briefly but with much relish—turning around and just...walking away. Pretending she hadn’t heard him, that she hadn’t seen him trying to catch up to her. But that would be rude. And she wasn’t rude.
Too bad. It would probably come in handy at times.
Such as when a girl stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the sun burning her bare shoulders, sweat running down her back while she waited to see what the heck the captain of the football team could possibly want from her.
“Hey,” he said when he reached her.
She dug deep to find a way to return his smile. Nope. Not happening. “Hello, Luke.”
Okay, that had sounded sort of prissy. And completely unfriendly.
Maybe she could be just the tiniest bit rude. Funny how, instead of making her feel ashamed, she was doing an internal celebratory dance.
She’d have to contemplate what that meant later.
“How’s it going?” Luke asked, hands in the pockets of his khaki cargo shorts, his smile still on his face, as if he was really happy to be cha
tting with her.
Must be a slow day in the jock world in which he lived. No games on ESPN, weights to lift, protein shakes to make or half-witted teammates to hang out with.
She winced. Sighed so deeply she felt it all the way to her toes. Bitter? Her? Well, maybe a little.
It was all Andrew Freeman’s fault. But that was no reason to take it out on Luke.
“I’m fine.” Other than, you know, her head being hot—having thick, curly hair was like having your very own fur hat—and wondering why on earth Luke was talking to her. Yes, just fine and dandy. And because she hadn’t liked her earlier mean thought about the half-wits, she cleared her throat and forced herself to ask, “How about you?”
“Everything’s good, thanks.” Well, there was a lesson in politeness right there.
Then again, Luke had always been nice. At least to her face. She had no idea what he said about her behind her back. And how egotistical was that? Luke probably never gave her a second thought.
Unless...unless Andrew mentioned her to him?
She snorted, covered it with a fake cough when Luke sent her a curious look. Why on earth would Andrew talk about her? Yes, yes, he and Luke were best friends, one of those bromances so popular in high school and cop movies, but Andrew hadn’t wanted anyone to know he and Gracie hung out.
He’d been embarrassed by her.
The back of her throat ached. Her nose tingled. No. No way was she going to get all weepy over him. She was over what he’d done. All the way over it. No grudges or bad feelings.
She was bigger than that.
Even if there were times she felt small. Small, petty and totally unlike herself. Unlike the person she wanted to be.
“Great,” she said, realizing it was her turn to talk. She gestured behind her. “I actually have to get to work now, so...”
But when she started walking away, he fell into step beside her.
What good was all that positive karma she’d built up over her lifetime if it left her at times like this?
She snuck a sideways glance at him. He was tall, and his green T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the sleeves hugging his well-defined arms. He’d gotten a haircut sometime during the three weeks since school had let out, and the shorter style accentuated the lines of his face, made him look older. Less cute and more...va-va-voom.
