Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

With difficulty he stepped back. He knew by her eyes and her elevated breathing that she too resented the loss of contact. That she was as eager—and willing—as he. He grabbed her hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Kate heard a collective gasp somewhere behind her but she felt too weak, too unbalanced, to do anything but allow him to tug her along the hallway beyond the bar. They passed a waitress bearing a tray of tempting hors d’oeuvres, the spicy aroma wafting behind her.

She struggled to keep up with his long strides in her wedge-heeled sandals. Up a narrow flight of stairs. The knowledge of what she was about to do pumped through her veins. She’d never been so physically attracted to anyone on sight before and, yes, Sheri, you only lived once.

He stopped at the second door they came to, produced a key from his pocket. The instant he opened the door, he whirled her inside, plunging them into almost total darkness. She heard the lock click behind him. ‘Now where were we?’ he murmured.

Her eyes adjusted so that she could just make out the broad outline of his shoulders. ‘Right about here.’ She set her hands on his chest. Correction: Shakira set her hands on his chest because Kate Fielding would never do anything so audacious—rubbing her thumbs over the jersey and loving the hot, rock-solid masculine feel of him, leaning in to inhale his scent. She hadn’t been this up close to a man’s body in a long time.

Light from the street cast a faint silvery glow to the room as he reached for her veil. But it was still dark enough to maintain the integrity of her disguise as he unhooked the loop above her ear and pushed the fabric aside.

He was silent a moment as he traced the shape of her face, her nose, her eyebrows. Her lips. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said, and pulled her hard up against his body, trapping her hands. ‘Even in the dark, you’re one irresistible woman.’

The awe in the softly spoken words thrilled her, excited her. She could feel the hard ridge of masculine flesh against her belly, his heart pounding against her fingertips, her own heart thundering in her ears.

Strong hands gripped her upper arms as his mouth descended on hers. She heard a long low moan—hers?—then an answering rumble that vibrated against her palms. His lips were dry and firm and very, very skilled.

With no persuasion at all, her lips opened beneath his. His tongue invaded her mouth, plunging inside then withdrawing like a promise of anticipated delights. He tasted good. Coffee and peppermint and something richer, darker. Hotter. When he raised his head, she pulled it down again. She wasn’t nearly ready to let him go.

But he wasn’t going anywhere. His hands moved from her arms to her bare midriff, to her bra—and ended up with a palm-full of brass and tinkles. He inhaled a hiss of impatience and if she hadn’t been so breathless she might have laughed at the sheer incredulity of the whole situation.

Nothing was going to stop him. His fingers curled over the tops of her breasts and swept beneath, then down to find her nipples taut and strained against the fabric. He rolled them between his fingers, sending hot darts of need shooting through her body.

She moaned as an echoing tightness swept to her core and leaned forward to give him easier access, which he took with swift efficiency. Her breasts spilled out into his hands. She gazed down, stunned at the sight of his dark hands on her pale flesh.

She looked up at him, glimpsed the firestorm in his eyes before his lips again fused with hers and he was walking her backwards, their legs knocking and tangling until she hit the wall with a jolt. A hard masculine body bumped against hers.

‘Oh-h-h.’

The pressure eased a little and he lifted his head. ‘You okay?’

‘Yes-s-s.’ Was that hiss of desire hers?

She groaned deep in her throat—with relief, with impatience—as he pressed against her once more, grinding his hips with hers, the ridge of his arousal huge and hot and heavy against her belly.

His hands were at her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, pinning her against the wall and holding her there. Her shoes slipped from her feet with a quiet ‘plop’ of surrender.

‘Wrap your legs around me.’

His hand swept aside the flimsy points of her skirt, the thin strip of fabric covering her centre, the heat and slight roughness of his fingers searing her moist flesh as he claimed her.

She heard the sharp rasp of his zip as he freed himself, the hard, slippery feel of masculinity against the apex of her thighs. He paused, his jaw tightly bunched, eyes fused with hers, his breath a hot rasp against her cheek. ‘You’re sure?’

She felt imprisoned, helpless, trapped.

She’d never felt more alive, more free, more ready to take that chance. ‘Yes.’

‘Wait— Protection…’ He reached into his pocket.

‘Ah…’ Her fumbling fingers located the tiny organza bag tucked into her waistband. ‘I happen to have…’ She pulled out the packet and held it aloft with a grin of triumph.

‘Ingenious,’ he murmured, regarding her intently as if wondering how many more she had stashed there before taking it from her and quickly sheathing himself.

The thought flickered through her mind to tell him she didn’t usually have a ready supply, but she figured a girl of the world like Shakira might. She didn’t need to explain herself to him—this was literally a one-night stand. Except that her feet weren’t touching the floor at all and her toes were curling up in anticipation.

He guided himself inside her. He was big—huge—and she felt tight, stretched, invaded, but she pushed down on him with a gasp of satisfaction.

He thrust up once, twice, with a power and intensity that left her breathless. She clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the soft fabric of his T-shirt, the little ornaments on her costume tinkling. Her beaded bra strap felt rough against her back as the rhythmic movements increased.

She was blind and deaf to everything but him. His eyes, the outline of his body in the dimness. The harshness of his breaths as he pushed inside her, the sound of flesh against flesh.

She came just as she felt him shudder his own climax deep inside her. Oh, good Lord.

He continued to hold her until their breathing slowed, then she unwound her legs and he lowered her until her feet touched the floor. Her legs were wobbly, her whole body lethargic and limp.

He palmed one still-exposed breast. ‘Where do you—?’ The buzz of his mobile jarred, cutting him off mid-sentence. ‘I have to take this call,’ he murmured reluctantly, pulling his phone from the deep recesses of his trouser pockets. He lifted it to his ear with one hand while he continued to stroke one breast back and forth with the other. ‘Yes?’

As she watched his eyes turned remote, the outline of his jaw turned to stone. ‘Where the hell is it, then?’ Abruptly he pulled his hand away, those remote eyes turning hot just for a second as they met hers. ‘Stay right here, I’ll be back.’ Then he crossed the room without a backward glance and opened the door to the bathroom. ‘Okay, contact Dark Vertigo.’ Pause. ‘Forget it, I’ll do it myself…’ The light came on and Kate blinked against the glare before he closed the door behind him.

In the space of a heartbeat everything changed. Sanity charged back with a vengeance. Leaning against the wall for support, she refastened her veil before he returned and decided to switch on the light, then slid down the cool surface to the floor inch by excruciating inch. She located her sandals and slipped them on. Listened to her pulse beating in her ears, felt its fury in her throat, her nipples, between her thighs.

What had just happened?

Casual was what had happened. And thinking about it now was just a tad late. What in heaven’s name had she done? With a man she’d met less than twenty minutes earlier?

She didn’t even know his name.

She closed her eyes. Self-preservation and common sense seemed to have deserted her along with the man. A man she’d never see again, she told herself. So blame Shakira, put it safely to one side to think about later.

Right this minute she had to get out. Go home. Now.

Moments later she slipped out to the concierge desk, collected her bag and made a swift exit into the crisp night air.

She texted Sheri-Lee, apologising that she’d had to leave—something unexpected had come up—as she hurried to her car. She’d never done anything so crazy, so irresponsible in her whole thirty years. The breeze chilled any residual heat from her body. She’d always been in an ongoing relationship with a man before they’d made love. A relationship based on mutual respect, honesty and friendship.

And yet one look from that guy had changed her into someone she didn’t know. A strange sensation wrapped around her and she rubbed the goose-bumps that sprang up on her arms. It was as if she’d given him not only her body but her soul.

CHAPTER TWO

DAMON swore silently when he discovered his bedroom empty and the most enchanting creature he’d ever made out with gone. Getting laid on his first night back hadn’t been his intention—he wasn’t normally a man for one-nighters but one look at her and his brain had taken a swift dive below his belt. He’d had to have her.

He could go back downstairs and see if she was still around, which he doubted. Besides, he never put women before business and he wasn’t going to start now. Presumably that was all she’d wanted or she’d have stuck around for an encore. Pity, but—he shrugged—it wasn’t as if anything could come of it.

He pulled a beer from the room’s bar fridge and popped the top. Walked to the window and looked down at the business he’d crossed the Pacific to deal with. The travel agency his uncle had left him with its less-than-stellar façade and outdated posters. He shook his head. It was precisely why he’d arrived earlier than scheduled—to get a look at the place ahead of time.

Instead, he’d looked straight into a pair of soulful dark eyes and been sucked right under…

Bonita. Her image bloomed in his mind, with her father’s Spanish eyes and her Egyptian mother’s beauty. Was it any wonder he’d been attracted to those same attributes tonight? He took a swig from the bottle but the liquid tasted acrid on his tongue. He’d watched the woman he’d loved die at twenty-four.