About That Night. Beth Andrews
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looping her arms around him and threading her hands in his hair as she pressed her face against the crook of his neck. “I was just getting to the good stuff.”
“Bed.” The word was more of a growl than actual speech. She lifted her head. Grinned. She’d reduced the man to barely decipherable, monosyllabic grunts.
She shouldn’t be so pleased, but damn it, she was.
He stepped into the room, shifted her weight to one arm and flipped the switch on the wall, turning on the lamp next to the king-size bed.
“For what I want to do to you, cowboy,” she murmured, flicking his earlobe with her tongue, “we don’t need a bed.”
His step faltered—not a lot but enough for her to notice. His fingers tightened on her legs. “We do,” he insisted as he carried her across the room and followed her down to the mattress, “for all the things I’m going to do to you.”
Her stomach churned. From excitement, she told herself. Okay, and maybe just the tiniest bit of fear, but not because she was afraid he’d hurt her. Because she was afraid of not being able to keep control.
He kissed her again, his mouth voracious, his hands seeking. She tried to get her control back, to keep the power firmly on her side, but his mouth was hot and hungry. He made it hard to resist responding with no care to the little sounds she was making, to how her hands were clutching him, how her head was spinning.
He tore his mouth from hers, and she almost cried out. Tried to pull him to her again, but he resisted, began working the buttons of her shirt, sliding them through the holes one at a time, his moves slow and controlled. His eyes followed each new inch of exposed skin.
She reached to help him, to hurry him—and he lightly slapped her hands away. Gave his head a quick shake. “Mine.”
The one word, grumbled and insistent and possessive, went through her, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Mine.
Her arms fell to the bed, as if boneless. Panic suffused her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, not with his hands on her, his palms skimming her rib cage as he opened her shirt. Not with that word echoing in her mind.
Mine.
He slipped a finger under the front clasp of her bra, tugging it away from her skin, stroking his knuckle between her breasts.
“I’m not yours.” She winced. Her words had come out in a croak and not the flirtatious, aren’t-you-cute-to-think-so tone she’d wanted. She swallowed. Tried again. “No delusions of grandeur, remember? I don’t belong to any man.”
He kept up with the stroking, his other hand lightly holding her waist. “No, you don’t belong to me. But right here, right now, you’re mine.” He flicked open her bra and she wasn’t sure whether to be amused, impressed or irritated he did so with one hand. “You’re mine,” he repeated gruffly. “Just for tonight.”
She wanted to argue, she really did, but he slid one hand up, taking his sweet time, until he reached the edge of her bra. He separated the cups, pushing them aside, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze. Then his hands were on her, and all ability to speak disappeared. He held her, his palms large and warm against her breasts, and she prayed he couldn’t feel the hammering of her heart. That he didn’t suspect what he did to her, how weak he made her.
With a moan of appreciation, he lowered his head and licked one nipple before taking it in his mouth and sucking hard. He worked her other breast, his clever fingers pinching and tugging until she was gasping for breath. Until she was squirming beneath him.
She touched his head, loving the feel of his hair, like cool silk, as the strands slid between her fingers. He kissed his way down her abdomen, held her hips as he dipped his tongue into her belly button. Her heart raced, her skin heated and became overly sensitive to his touch, to the light abrasion of his whiskers, the feel of his lips, the rough pads of his fingers.
He pushed her skirt up in that same slow way—as if savoring every moment with her, every touch of her skin, every sound she made—bunching the material at her waist. His eyes narrowed as he reached out and lightly traced the edge of her black lace panties.
“Pretty.” His voice was a low hum that seemed to reverberate inside her.
Hooking his fingers in the sides of her panties, he pulled them down. When he reached her feet, he lifted her right ankle, took her shoe and the panties off then repeated the action on the left. She wanted him to hurry, needed them to get back to where they’d been in the living room, was desperate for that flash of heat, the bite of hunger.
She started to sit up, only to have him settle his hand between her breasts and gently push her back.
“I want to look at you.”
She opened her mouth to remind him of the lesson she’d given earlier, about not always getting what he wanted, but then she noticed that while he kept one hand on her ankle, as if he couldn’t bear to break contact, the other was fisted. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and she knew he was as affected as she was.
Smiling to hide her nerves, she eased back. But it was torture, lying there while his gaze raked over her. She’d never felt so exposed. So vulnerable.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Her throat clogged. Her chest ached. She’d been called beautiful before, too many times to count. Too many times to feign modesty about something that was more genetics than anything she’d done to deserve the compliment. Too many times to have it mean something.
But hearing it from him? It meant something.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. They were just words. She didn’t need them to know what she looked like, didn’t want to be seduced or to let any man think he’d taken away her choice. Her power.
But Clinton was threatening to do just that with his light accent, his sure touch. Though he’d claimed not to like games, Ivy couldn’t help but feel he was playing along. She had to regain her control. Before she could, he was nudging her legs apart.
“Mine,” he breathed, then settled his mouth on her.
She arched into him, her head back, her hands in his hair. Maybe control was overrated.
Sensations flowed through her, her limbs growing heavy, her muscles lax as the pressure built. When her orgasm broke, she rode the waves of pleasure with a soft cry.
She floated back to earth, her breathing ragged, her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat.
She was boneless, weightless, her body still flushed and vibrating. It took her a moment, surely longer than necessary, to focus on him. He shouldn’t look so strong, so commanding, kneeling before her like that, tension emanating from his long, lean body, his hair mussed from her fingers, his face all sharp lines and angles.
She shouldn’t want him this much. Not nearly this much.
She absently rubbed her hand over the odd, unwelcome catch in her heart.
And wondered if maybe he wasn’t holding all the cards, after all.
* * *
IF A MAN didn’t have self-control, he had nothing.
C.J. was afraid he was very close to having nothing.
Because the taste of Ivy on his tongue, the feel of her under his hands, the sight of her—all that smooth skin, all those glorious curves—threatened his resolve to keep things between them on even ground. To keep himself in charge.
She watched him, her blue eyes slowly focusing. Turning wary. Shuttered.
Mine.
He curled his fingers into his palms. She’d been pissed when he’d said it, but he didn’t want her to belong to him. Didn’t want to own her or control her. He just wanted her, all of her, for one night. He wouldn’t let her hide from him.