Millionaire Under The Mistletoe: The Playboy's Mistress / Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed / The Boss's Mistletoe Manoeuvres

‘I’m hurting,’ he told her thickly.

Alarmed, she raised her eyes questioningly to his. ‘Where…?’ she began. She saw the expression on his face and her voice faded away.

‘Here…’ he took her hand and showed her ‘…here and here,’ he elaborated thickly.

Darcy whimpered, the last remnants of her control evaporating.

‘I want to see you. Take your clothes off for me. All of them.’

Not doing as he requested—or was it a demand?—was never an option. Like someone in a dream she crossed her arms and began to lift the hem of her top up over her smooth stomach.

‘And, Darcy…?’

She paused.

‘Look at me.’

Darcy did. She could hear the harsh, uneven sound of his breathing, loud in the quiet room. Even in this light she could make out a definite flush of colour along his slashing cheekbones and the fire in his eyes— Did I really put it there…? How strange…how marvellous.

Their eyes locked, and her anxiety was instantly soothed; he looked just as needy as she felt. Despite the new confidence, her hands trembled uncontrollably as she did as he had bid. It was no slow, seductive striptease because even with a fire now blazing in the hearth it didn’t seem such a good idea to linger over disrobing.

‘You’re beautiful.’ She almost believed him.

He closed the small gap between them. Where he touched her Darcy’s skin tingled, and pretty soon she tingled all over. ‘And cold.’ He began to briskly massage her cold extremities. ‘Come on, get in here.’ Taking her by the hand, he led her towards the sleeping bag and blankets.

The cotton lining still retained the last remnants of his body heat. Darcy drew her knees up to her chin and waited for him to join her, anticipation pumping darkly though her. She watched as he shed his clothes, ripping the shirt as he tried to ease it too quickly over his injured arm; he was lean, lovely and very, very aroused.

He was actually so beautiful she wanted to cry—she was crying, hot tears sliding over her cheeks. He wiped away the dampness with his thumb when he finally came to join her but didn’t question their presence.

‘Come here,’ he whispered.

Darcy did; there wasn’t very far to go. They lay side by side, close but not touching, until with a hoarse groan he reached across with his good arm and drew her on top of him. His mouth reached hungrily for hers.

Darcy responded joyfully to the demands of his lips and thrusting tongue. It was intoxicating to have nothing to separate them any longer. Darcy wriggled to fully appreciate the sensation. His skin was warmer than hers; it was harder, and she discovered it had a deliciously smooth texture roughened by drifts of body hair that prickled against her breasts and thighs. Every detail delighted her and increased the pressure of excitement building inside her to detonation point.

‘For a one-handed man,’ she remarked a hundred or so gasps later, ‘you manage pretty well.’

A savage grin split Reece’s face as he looked into her flushed, aroused face. ‘If you think that was good, wait until you get a taste of no hands.’

A confused frown drew Darcy’s feathery brows together as she puzzled over his words, the meaning of which was brought crashing home to her seconds later.

Shock tensed her muscles for a split-second before she gave a languid sigh and relaxed. She moaned his name out loud and writhed restlessly as his tongue flickered lower over the soft curve of her abdomen. The excitement built to fever pitch as he continued his merciless ministrations.

The zip on the sleeping bag gave way as he brought her knees up and knelt between them, but Darcy didn’t register the blast of cold air. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain; she cried out in protest but she cried out even louder when he stopped.

He kissed her, stilling her inarticulate protests.

He tasted and smelt of her and sex; it was a mind-shattering combination.

‘I want you so badly!’ she moaned, leaning her face into his neck.

‘Then take me, sweetheart,’ he urged throatily. ‘Take me.’

Darcy lifted her head. ‘I can. Can I…?’ she gasped wonderingly. He whispered things in her ear that convinced her she could—she could do anything she wanted to.

Darcy stared down gloatingly at the magnificent man beneath her—his eyes were closed, his skin glistened with sweat. Her muscles tensed, she bore downwards. The cry of relief and triumph that was wrenched from her throat as she lowered herself upon him echoed around the room.

Reece’s eyes snapped open. ‘Oh, my God, sweetheart!’ he groaned. ‘You are…’ A red mist danced before his eyes; he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t think, he could just thrust and thrust…

She rubbed her gritty-feeling eyes. Someone had carefully tucked the sleeping bag around her while she slept. Someone nothing. Her eyes went to the only other person in the room.

‘Sleep well?’ The fully clad figure bent over a portable keyboard didn’t lift his dark head, but seemed to sense her wakefulness.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She tucked her nose below the covers. So this was that embarrassing morning-after feeling. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Sending a few e-mails.’

What sort of person sent e-mails at this time of the morning…? The sort of person you slept with last night—a stranger, her mental critic added, just in case she didn’t feel bad enough already, a beautiful stranger.

‘Right…’ She cleared her throat. ‘What time is it…?’ she asked, more out of a desire to fill the yawning gap in their conversation than a genuine desire to know.

‘Almost seven.’

‘Seven!’ she yelped, shooting upright. ‘Oh, God!’ she groaned, clasping her hands to her bare breasts.

Reece closed the lid of the laptop with a click and turned to face her. His gently ironic expression made her even more aware of the absurdity of displaying inhibitions the morning after the night before—especially when the night before was the one they’d shared!

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Dad and the boys will be up for breakfast,’ she agonised.

‘Can’t they do anything without you to take charge?’

‘Of course they can,’ she responded, exasperated. ‘And I don’t “take charge”.’ Did she really strike him as a bossy, organising female? ‘I just want things to be…’ A frown puckered the smooth skin across her broad, seamless brow.

‘The same?’ he put in gently, drawing her startled gaze.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Sure you do—you’re trying to step into your mother’s shoes. Has it ever occurred to you, Darcy, that maybe she wants her absence to be noticed…?’

A flicker of uncertainty made the soft corners of her mouth droop for a few tell-tale seconds before her expression hardened. ‘You know nothing about it,’ she blustered angrily. ‘Mum isn’t a frustrated housewife and she isn’t menopausal.’

‘Is that what the menfolk think…?’

Nick had put forward this theory but Darcy had soon put him right. ‘Anyway, you’re missing the point.’

He looked mildly perplexed. ‘I am…?’