Out of Hours...Boardroom Seductions: One-Night Mistress...Convenient Wife / Innocent in the Italian's Possession / Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

“Not when I came here. I had finished at Ross and Hoy earlier that week. I know the rules. I know about impropriety.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about impropriety,” he told her flatly. “And if I had taken you up on your offer, that wouldn’t have been the end of it. Would it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You would have wanted to get married.”

“Married?” There was a hectic flush on her cheeks.

“You would have.” He flung the accusation at her. It was no secret. She’d been that kind of girl. “If I’d slept with you—had sex with you—” he made it as blunt as he could “—you wouldn’t have been willing just to walk away, would you?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t need to say them. He already knew.

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d have wanted a relationship. You and me. Happily ever after. Married.” He spat the word at her, daring her to dispute it.

Natalie ran her tongue over her lips, still silent, her eyes spearing him.

He gritted his teeth. “You wouldn’t have wanted a one-night fling, Natalie. You’d have wanted it all.”

“Yes, I would have,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “What’s wrong with that?”

Christo felt instantly justified. “It’s foolishness. It creates false expectations. It does more harm than good.”

“Does it?” She didn’t sound convinced.

“Damn it, yes, it does! Look at your parents! Look at mine. You don’t know them,” he said, “but take it from me, they were a disaster together.”

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t want her sorrow. Or her pity. Or anything else. The only thing he wanted, heaven help him, was her.

He shook his head, turned away. And damned if she didn’t put a hand on his arm. He jerked away. “Don’t.”

But she persisted, wrapped her fingers around his forearm, nails digging lightly into his flesh as she tugged him around to make him look at her. “Christo.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

It was that single quiet insistent word that undermined his resolve. He turned toward her, anguished. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re going to be sorry.”

Mutely she shook her head, looking up at him, eyes brimming with emotion. “I appreciate what you did three years ago.” She offered him a ghost of a smile. “Now that I know why you did it. But I’m not the girl I was then. You don’t have to protect me anymore, Christo.”

His jaw tightened. “Right. So you’re going to protect yourself?” He didn’t see how.

She shrugged. “I’m a big girl. I’m a grown-up. I was grown up then, but foolish perhaps. Maybe I still am,” she acknowledged. “But that’s my problem, not yours.” Her hand slid up his arm, touched his cheek.

And damn it, he couldn’t help turning his face so that his lips touched her palm. He shut his eyes and took a desperate breath. He felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff, the slightest movement capable of blowing him right over.

“Christo.” Her voice was soft, close enough that he could feel the words on his skin. Then closer still. Her lips traced his jawline.

Christo had as much willpower as the next man. More than most, probably. But there were limits. He’d met his.

And he couldn’t fight it any longer. His arms wrapped around her. His own lips sought her mouth, took it in a desperate move, one his body had been wanting to make for days. One his mind could no longer resist.

Maybe he’d have had a burst of sanity—if she’d panicked, if she’d shown the slightest resistance, if she hadn’t slid her arms around him and held him tight, if he hadn’t felt her heart thunder in rhythm with his own, if her mouth hadn’t been as eager as his.

But she was as eager as he was. And as they kissed, as his hands roamed her back, he wondered how he had resisted temptation so long.

The feel of her hands on him was sweet torture. Fingers slipped under his shirt and walked up his spine. He arched his back and felt the exquisite pressure of his erection pressing against her belly.

Natalie felt it, too. Had to. Had to know how much he wanted her.

“Nat.” His voice was low and thick with his need for her. Saying her name was as much of a warning as he was capable of. That and stillness. One last moment of gripping her upper arms, holding her motionless. He felt a shudder run through him—the last of his willpower gone.

Her lips touched his. “Love me, Christo.”

It wasn’t love. He wanted to say that to her, but the words wouldn’t come.

Only the kisses came. Hungry desperate kisses. The taste of her was making him crazy. He steered her toward the sofa, needed to hold her, to lie with her.

“Not here,” she whispered. And taking his hand, she led the way into the small guest room where she was staying. The bed was only a single size. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t need more.

She had dropped the clothes she’d worn to her meeting on the bed when she’d changed. Now she scooped them off and put them on the chair. Then she turned back to him with a smile and drew him down with her, ran her hands up under his shirt, her fingers cool on his heated flesh.

And Christo touched her with a reverence that surprised him. Sex was recreation. It was meeting physical needs. But holding Natalie in his arms didn’t feel like recreation. And sliding his hands up her sides and cupping her breasts in his hands didn’t feel like the same simple assuaging of physical needs.

He was learning the joy of touching her. Watching her face to see the expressions that passed over it. As he lay down beside her and wrapped her in his arms, she moved closer so that their knees touched, their hips bumped, her lips grazed the line of his jaw and chin. Christo nuzzled her hair, breathing deeply now, allowing himself to relish the scent of it—of her.

Minutes ago he’d resisted, fought off the desire it provoked, tried in vain to remain indifferent to her.

But that was then. And now?

Now he didn’t think. He didn’t analyze. He didn’t argue pro or con. He simply savored. And wanted more.

He took it, too, because Natalie encouraged him. She made soft sounds that made his heart beat faster, made him want to hear more, feel more, taste more.

He stroked her silken skin beneath her shirt. It was so smooth, so warm, it seemed to encourage the glide of his fingers. Then he shoved himself up to kneel beside her and draw her shirt up. He tugged it over her head, then bent to press his lips to her collarbone, and nibble his way down between her breasts. His hands framed her rib cage and he kissed his way down to her navel.

“Christo!” Her eyes were dark and wide, her lips formed a soft O at his touch. And then she skimmed his shirt over his head as well and rose to kiss his chest and run her fingers over his pectoral muscles.

It was a dance of fingers and lips. Touches and nibbles, light friction, gentle stroking. And every one stoked the fire building within.

He dispensed with her bra then knelt between her knees and cupped her breasts in his palms. And she watched him, unblinking, her lower lip caught in her teeth, her breath coming in soft thready whispers.

With his fingers he traced the aureoles around taut nipples, then bent his head and laved each one in turn, making her shiver and shift beneath him. And the look on her face made him as eager for her as she was for him.

He pulled back and hooked his thumbs inside the waistband of her shorts when she lifted her hips, slid them down her legs and tossed them away. Only a scrap of pale-blue cotton and lace covered her now.