Seducing The Matchmaker: One Man Rush / Taking Him Down / The Personal Touch

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she whispered to herself as much as to him, confused and overwhelmed by sensations. “I’m burning up inside.”

“This will help,” he assured her, ripping open the condom and rolling it in place.

She stood up long enough to shed her panties, her legs trembling beneath her until she sat back down on top of him. He still had his pants on, but they’d freed him enough that she could touch him. Position him.

“Let me,” he told her hoarsely, clueing her into how much he needed this, too. “Come here.”

Fingers sinking into her hips, he edged her lower. Lower.

Her world narrowed to the moment, her breathing mirroring his, her body keenly attuned to every single place he touched her. Her eyes sought his, connecting with him in this crazy, urgent hunger.

For an instant, everything stilled. The car. Her heartbeat. His hands. Suspended in time, she felt something deeper than desire curl through her, an emotion so tender she didn’t dare touch it.

Then, as if she’d dreamed it, the world began again. He edged his way inside her, filling her so completely there wasn’t any room for thought. Dazed, she could only slide her arms around his neck and hold on tight while he created a rhythm sure to drive them both wild.

She felt the frenzy build again, the raging need that had afflicted her all day. Grateful to lose herself in the heat, Marissa let him lead her, the fire so hot now that the slightest bump in the road would set her off.

Biting her lip, she tried to hold back. Make it last for him. But when their eyes met again, she knew she was lost. Kyle breathed her name so softly she saw it more than she heard it. He relinquished his hold on her hips to skim a touch along the slick folds of her sex. Circling. Teasing. Coaxing.

The orgasm hit her so hard her back arched and her toes curled. A scream of pleasure ripped free from her throat, the release so powerful she collapsed against him, every nerve ending throbbing. Through the haze of lush fulfillment, she felt his release inside her, knew it as his hands fisted at her waist and his body tensed over and over.

She lay slumped against his chest, breathless and dazed. She shifted away enough to recline against him while they recovered.

When the car came to a stop again, she wasn’t ready to put her clothes back in place. Kyle had to unwind her limbs and help her rearrange her dress. Her panties disappeared into the pocket of his rumpled jacket.

“Are you ready?” he asked, waiting to unlock the doors with the remote.

With an effort, she shook off the sensual fog and smoothed his T-shirt, the scent of him still clinging to her.

Was she ready? Not even close. She’d just had sex in a limo. Her brain had obviously quit functioning when she met Kyle and she needed to talk to him about it. Did she really want to go back to life on the road with a superstar? To fade into the background and quietly manage behind the scenes, the way she had for so many years with her mom?

For now, though, she just needed to get inside the hotel. Think. Regroup.

Nodding, she lied through her teeth.

“Ready.”

STACY GOODWELL HADN’T intended to be an instant celebrity. But as she sat cross-legged at the hotel desk the next morning, staring at the stats for her new video blog, she had to admit, the new star status was kind of fun.

Overnight, her video had gone viral. After she’d uploaded the footage from the bus ride to Pittsburgh, she’d stayed awake in her hotel long enough to watch an amazing thing happen. The hit counter went nuts. A few college kids had stumbled on it and shared it with half their campus.

After that, the Diva No More blog had crashed twice and she’d been on the phone half the night with techy types who tried to talk her through reinstating it. But despite the hours that the blog itself had been down, the video had enjoyed more than half a million hits.

All in all, this success felt great as she lounged in her sweats at a cheap bed-and-breakfast that didn’t mind pets. Tink and Belle had made the trip with her—traveling under the bus driver’s radar last night—and they’d had their own turn in the limelight during the edited video of her adventures called “Leaving Home.” She hadn’t quite figured out how she could generate an income from the endeavor, but she would. For now, she still had her regular check from the newspaper and she could walk a little taller knowing she was calling all the shots—from her bank account to her love life.

A shrill yap from under her chair seemed to remind her she wasn’t having much luck with the latter yet. How was it a dog could detect a mood? She picked up Belle and snuggled her close, appreciating the empathy. Isaac Reynolds had laughed at the idea of being with her. Maybe it served her right that she’d gotten a reality check from a guy she liked after how many times she’d given the slip to men who’d hit on her.

She stood up and walked away from the laptop, wondering if she’d find another man who made her feel the way Isaac had. She’d met hundreds of eligible males since she was old enough to date. Not once had she felt so at ease with a guy and attracted at the same time. Now, peering out the window down to the street level, she debated how to solve her romantic problems—

What was her Caravan doing parked in front of the hotel?

Sure, there were other silver Caravans in the world. She’d tried to bust into one just the other night. But what were the chances one would be parked right outside her bed-and-breakfast? Suspicion growing, she grabbed a navy silk bathrobe covered with hand-painted Hawaiian flowers and marched into the hallway, the dogs click-clacking along the hardwood floors behind her.

She just knew that had to be her van down there and that her father was responsible. He must have followed her here. Fired up and ready for a confrontation, if only to point out she was doing fine on her own, Stacy nodded to her hostess while the woman vacuumed a carpet downstairs. Breezing past the registration desk, she levered open the main door and saw a man inside the van.

A very familiar man with thick dark hair and heavy eyebrows that, now that she thought about it, really suited him. A wave of heat rolled through her at the sight of him.

“Isaac?” She stopped in her tracks, realizing too late that she’d failed to put on real shoes. Her orange terry-cloth slippers looked out of place on the pavement.

The man she’d met two nights ago peered back at her through the window, his expression inscrutable. Was he surprised to see her? Or had he known she was here?

With most men, she wouldn’t have asked. Then again, with most guys, she wouldn’t have cared. But Marissa had told her that Isaac Reynolds was an internet marketing genius and a techno-whiz who’d made millions before he turned twenty-five. A kid from a poor Detroit suburb who took apart old computers for fun. Something about his quietly sexy charm appealed to Stacy like no other guy. Certainly not Kyle Murphy, who’d only been the decoy romantic interest. She’d been glad to hear that Marissa had made a move on the hockey star, and she’d texted her last night to tell her so.

Tink jumped at the driver’s-side door of the Caravan. Stacy lifted her fist to rap on the window when Isaac opened the door, swiveling toward her to step down to the street. His arms flexed as he moved and she remembered what those lean, wiry muscles felt like around her.

“Can we talk inside?” he asked. As if they were going to chat about the weather.

As if he hadn’t laughed it up over her foolish idea to ask him out just two days ago. It would be so much easier to be mad at him if he wasn’t so hot. What was it about his quiet, thoughtful stares that made her feel like an interesting, alluring woman instead of a replaceable hot babe?

“I don’t think so.” She folded her arms, silently urging her pets to show a little teeth. Maybe give a warning growl.

Instead, they seemed intent on circling him to death, chasing each other around his heels.

“Okay,” he agreed slowly, as if the word had to be dragged out of him. “But do you want to, maybe, put clothes on first?”

For an instant, she was genuinely scared she’d walked out onto the street naked. She wouldn’t put it past her to flake out and forget to dress. But no, she wore a perfectly respectable bathrobe over semirespectable pinstripe pajamas. They probably weren’t cut out for the commercial area growing up around a few old residential buildings. But she had to think the few folks living on this street must venture out to get their newspapers in a bathrobe now and then.

“No. I’m good, thanks.” Although, as soon as she said it, she wondered if the cool spring breeze might inadvertently press the fabric close enough to reveal a little too much.

Instead of arguing with her, Isaac reached back into his van and withdrew a black wool blazer. He handed over the jacket and stood silently.

She blinked back a wave of emotion. Her dad would have launched into conversation the second he saw her and not let up until he’d cataloged all the ways she could have handled the situation differently than storming outside in her pajamas. Isaac just covered her up.

But no matter how much she wanted him, she had to remember, he didn’t want her. She took a deep breath.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, the scent of his aftershave a pleasant musk in her nose.

“I followed you,” he said simply, flooring her.

“Excuse me?” She snapped her fingers ineffectually at the dogs, trying to quiet them so she could hear whatever scant words fell from Isaac’s mouth.

“I wanted to know more about you, so I looked you up online. I watched the video and respect what you’re doing.”

“You wanted to know more about me.” She didn’t ask why, although the question was burning to come out. But she wasn’t going to appear overeager with this guy and … oh, to hell with it. “Why? Why would you want to know more about someone you found lacking just two days ago?”

She snapped her fingers again at the dogs, unwilling to see them cozy up to Isaac. But they just barked at her vague commands, the tiny bells on their collars jingling with the force of their yippy protests. Traitors.

“I didn’t find you lacking. I thought you were spying on me.” He bent toward the adoring fans at his feet.