Australia: In Bed with the Playboy: Hidden Mistress, Public Wife / The Secret Mistress / Claiming His Mistress

She felt his hand clutch her bottom, pressing her more tightly into contact with his sexuality. Her stomach contracted at the hard furrowing of his arousal. It should have been a warning to break away from him. Her body didn’t want to. Her body wantonly rubbed itself against the blatant evidence of his excitement, exhilarated by it, madly bent on fanning this desire for her. It was wonderful to feel wanted again. She had been too long alone, and the woman inside her was craving connection—connection with this man, regardless of time and place and circumstances.

He swung her back against the trunk of the car, lifting her onto it, his mouth still ravishing hers as his hand burrowed under her mini-skirt, moved her silk panties aside, found the soft moist furrows of her sex and stroked her to a fever pitch of need, her whole being screaming for it to be fulfilled. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed for her.

It all happened so fast, the jolt when he plunged into her, the savage joy of it, the relief, the release of all nerve-tearing tension as her inner muscles convulsed and creamed around the marvellously deep penetration. And he repeated it, storming her with waves of ecstatic pleasure, pumping hard to the rhythm of his own need until he, too, reached the sweet chaos of climax.

She lay limply spreadeagled on the trunk of the car with him bent over her, the heat of his harsh breathing pulsing against her throat. If traffic had passed by them on the street, she hadn’t heard or seen it. The night seemed to have wrapped them in a private cocoon, intensifying the feelings that still held her in thrall.

His arms burrowed underneath her, gathering her up. Amazingly her legs were wound around his hips and he supported them in place as he lifted her from the car and carried her to the passenger side, only relinquishing their intimate connection when he opened the door and lowered her to the seat. He kissed her while he fastened the safety belt, fetched the handbag she had dropped somewhere and laid it on her lap, kissed her again before closing the door and rounding the car to the driver’s side.

She watched him in a daze—this virtual stranger with whom she’d shared such an erotically intimate experience. Languor was seeping into her bones. Somehow any action was beyond her. She barely grasped the fact that he had seized control of the situation, putting her in the car, retrieving her handbag and the car keys which he was now inserting in the ignition, having usurped her driver’s seat. Her mind was stuck in one groove, endlessly repeating…

I can’t believe I did that.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_d3b4de8c-0fdf-5fc9-bbe0-f4aa837ea4f6)

JORDAN drove on automatic pilot, his mind still grappling with a loss of control which was totally uncharacteristic, especially in his relationships with women. He’d just acted like a randy teenage boy who couldn’t wait to get his rocks off—a rampant bull, incapable of stopping. No sophistication. No finesse.

And worse! No thought of protection!

Shock billowed again.

He never took the risk of getting a woman pregnant. The possibility hadn’t even entered his head. He’d wanted Ivy Thornton from the moment he’d seen her tonight, wanted her more and more with every minute they spent together, wanted her so much it was impossible to tolerate her driving away from him, but he’d meant to persuade, to seduce, to promise pleasure, not to…

‘I can’t believe I did that,’ he muttered, shock tumbling into words he didn’t mean to speak aloud.

He was still out of control.

‘I can’t, either.’

The shaky reply startled him into darting a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at him. Her head was bent, the rippling fall of her glorious hair hiding most of her face. Her hands lay limply in her lap, palms upward, and she seemed to be staring down at them as though they didn’t belong to her—hands that had gripped him in a fever of passion, inciting the wild act of intimacy they had both engaged in.

She was in shock, too.

Instinctively he reached across, took one of her hands, squeezed it. ‘I’ll make it better,’ he said.

Do it right, he thought, which was why he’d put her in the car and was driving her to Balmoral—take her to bed with him and do all the things he’d imagined doing with her instead of succumbing to a mad rush of lust. It was too late to be worrying about protection now, not too late to enjoy all he wanted to enjoy with Ivy Thornton. Though he should check if she was using some form of contraception, know if there was a possibility of unwelcome consequences.

He frowned. It seemed crass to ask at this point. Besides, the damage was done if it was done. Using condoms for the rest of the night would be ridiculous. He might as well have the pleasure of totally unrestricted sex with her. It would be good. Great. Fantastic. He could bring up the issue later. She could take a morning-after pill if it was needed. Right now he wanted her riding with him, still caught up in what had happened between them.

It had been such an incredible rush—the excitement of her response, the mounting sense of urgency to seize the moment, take it as far as he could, her uninhibited complicity driving him to the edge, past it into plunging chaos. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so exultantly primitive. Sex with Ivy had to be explored further. Much further.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, her voice still slightly tremulous.

They were crossing the harbour bridge to the northern side of the city. He threw a reassuring smile at her, but her gaze was now fixed on the road ahead of them.

‘I have a house at Balmoral. I’m taking you home with me,’ he answered, hoping she was not about to protest the move.

She didn’t.

She sat in motionless silence as he drove on over the bridge and took the turn to Military Road. Maybe she was having trouble putting thoughts together. Whatever…there were no stop signs coming from her and Jordan felt the buzz of anticipation shooting through his body again. He knew the desire was mutual. No doubt about it. It was only a matter of rekindling it, stoking the fire, making it a slow build-up of heat so the intensity didn’t burn them out too fast.

He wanted the whole experience of Ivy Thornton.

A wham-bam on the trunk of a car was almost an insult to the fascinating woman she was.

He’d make it better for her.

A lot better.

Ivy’s mind still felt as though it had been hit by a brick. Thoughts came slowly, as though emerging from a sea of molasses. She’d had sex with Jordan Powell. On the trunk of her car! He was driving her to his house at Balmoral. These were definite facts. She found it impossible to decide how she should be reacting to them.

Sex had never been like that for her…so compellingly reckless, so explosive, so erotically euphoric. Whether it was the man he was, the unusual set of circumstances, the long lack of any physical excitement in her life…Ivy couldn’t quite put it together. He was a tempting devil and she had been tempted into going along with him, at the gallery, to the restaurant, and now to his home.

Why not?

Luck had blessed her in what could have been disastrous carelessness. She was in a safe week—no chance of falling pregnant. And it was too late to worry about sexual-health issues. Hopefully Jordan Powell was too fastidious a man to run those risks. Though he had done so tonight. Probably part of his shock at his behaviour.

Anyhow, she was problem-free and she hoped he was, too, because it was done now. She’d gone past the point of no return and finishing the night with him had a lot of appeal. How good a lover was he in bed? Could he give her an even more amazing experience? She’d never been inside a billionaire’s house. It would be interesting to see how Jordan Powell lived, the paintings he had talked about, whether his bedroom had playboy stamped on all its furnishings.

Her car would be parked outside. She could leave whenever she chose to. This was an experience that was unlikely to ever come her way again and she wanted it. Yes, she did. Of course, it had to be limited. One night would satisfy her curiosity. She could allow herself that much. Any further involvement with Jordan would definitely not be sensible. Tomorrow she could leave with a smile on her face…knowing all she wanted to know.

Decision made.

Her mind moved on to working out how she should handle this new situation. It was hard to be cool and objective in these circumstances, having just shared such incredible intimacy with the man. Her nervous system was still buzzing. It seemed best simply to follow his lead. Unless his lead struck wrong chords, which wasn’t likely with his well-practised charm. He’d done this with umpteen women. Though on the trunk of a car might have been a first, given his comment of disbelief. It was certainly a first for her.

All her inner muscles contracted with the memory of such intense pleasure. If Jordan could give it to her again…was she wicked to be wanting it? So what if she was! Did it matter just for once? Heather would undoubtedly say go for it. It wasn’t as if she’d be hurting anyone. She was free to do as she liked.

Her gaze dropped to the hand still firmly linked to hers—a hand that knew how to touch, how to arouse overwhelming sensations, a tempting hand, a winning hand. But she was winning, too, wasn’t she, being the object of its expert attention? She might never get to feel like this with any other man.

His fingers caressed her palm, making her skin tingle. ‘Are you okay with this, Ivy?’ he asked caringly, his deep rich voice washing over her thoughts.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, wincing at sounding like a prim schoolgirl. The plain truth was she was not a player, not like him, and she didn’t have any experience of acting like one. ‘You can show me your paintings,’ she quickly added, flashing him a smile to show she could be sophisticated about spending the night with him.

He laughed and squeezed her hand again. ‘Your plea-sure will be my pleasure.’

Which surely meant she should have a marvellous time with him. Just relax and let it happen, Ivy told herself.

He drove into a large paved courtyard fronting a very large white house with a double garage on the left and another double garage below an extended wing on the right. ‘You have four cars?’ Ivy asked as he parked hers adjacent to the very elegant portico framing the double front doors.

‘Three,’ he answered. ‘The fourth space is taken up by Margaret’s.’

‘Who is Margaret?’

‘My housekeeper. She lives in the apartment above the garage on the right, and Ray, my handyman and chauffeur, lives in the apartment above the garage on the left.’

Naturally he would need people to maintain such a luxurious property, as well as cater to his needs. ‘How long have you had this place?’ she asked, wondering if he really considered it his home or whether it was simply one of a string of residences.

‘About five years. I like it here.’ He flashed her a smile before alighting from the driver’s side. ‘I hope you’ll like it, too.’