The Marriage Maker. Christie Ridgway
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remained standing, her hands clutching each other. Yes, Ethan had told her about his company, United Mergers, Inc., and about the deal he was trying to put together here in White horn. He’d told her about his penthouse condo in Houston and about the constant travel his work required. But did she know much about him? He hadn’t shared one word with her about his personal life. A little shiver of apprehension tickled her spine. Maybe kissing Ethan wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
“Are you cold?” Ethan patted the love seat beside him. “Come and sit down and let me warm you up with some…coffee.”
Was Cleo imagining that little hesitation? What about that little gleam in his eye? “Maybe…” She glanced back toward the kitchen, as if some excuse might conveniently present itself.
“Cleo.” Two of his fingers curled in her direction, more commanding than coaxing. “Come here.”
That shiver sped down her spine again, but there was no saying no to the decisive tone in Ethan’s voice. She didn’t want to, anyway, of course. Not really. Not when she’d been staring into his intense blue eyes all evening. Not when she’d been wondering for days what his crisp, dark gold hair would feel like between her fingers.
She slid onto the cushion beside him, pressing against the upholstered arm. To hide her nervousness, she busied herself arranging the soft gathers of her long, violet-colored, thermal-knit dress. Small buttons ran from the hem to the modest neckline, and Ethan reached out and touched the topmost one, right below the pulse beat at her throat.
“This dress matches your eyes,” he said quietly. “Did I tell you tonight how beautiful you look?”
Goose bumps prickled her skin and she felt her cheeks heat. She kept her gaze on her lap. “I think you mentioned it, right after you noticed the green fingerpaint in my hair.”
He leaned forward and picked up a long wavy tendril of the stuff in question. The green had been quite a startling contrast to its usual russet color. Cleo couldn’t believe she’d missed it when she’d gotten ready for their date. But even then, the idea of kissing Ethan had been distracting her.
He idly toyed with her hair, brushing the end against her cheek with a teasing flick. “Occupational hazard, right?”
“I suppose so.” As the director of Bean sprouts, Whitehorn’s only day care center, fingerpaint was merely one of life’s daily surprises. She grinned. “But I tell you, a couple of occupational-type presents made up for it. Brandon Rye brought me some fat earth worms from his family’s compost bin along with a big ol’ sloppy kiss.”
Ethan’s hand, still tickling her with her hair, froze mid stroke. “A sloppy kiss? And who is this Brandon? Should I be jealous?”
Cleo looked up at Ethan then. Her cheeks burned and her heart pounded, but she didn’t let either sensation stop her. “I don’t know if you should be jealous,” she answered. “Are you?”
He smiled, and grooves appeared in his lean cheeks. “That depends on whether you like sloppy kisses.”
Cleo liked to breathe, but it didn’t appear she’d get air soon, not with how it all seemed to be sucked away by the contrast of Ethan’s playful smile with his intense, darkening gaze. “I…like all kinds of kisses.”
Ethan’s smile died and the heat in his eyes intensified. “Is that right?” He leaned closer.
Cleo watched his face near hers, her heart pounding hard and loud. The kiss. It was coming. And the idea scared her all over again so she put her hand lightly on his chest to slow his obvious intent. “Ethan…” she said.
His gaze was trained on her lips. “Hmm?”
It was the first thought that popped into her head. “Brandon’s three years old.”
That cocky, confident Ethan grin flashed again. “Cleo?”
“Hmm?”
He cupped her face with both his big hands. “I’m not.”
Then he touched her mouth.
His lips were warm and his scent spicy and she breathed him in, her stomach hiccuping again in excitement.
He held her face firmly with his hands, his fingertips against the pulses pounding at her temples. He angled his mouth to taste her deeper, but it was a gentle, thorough taking, his lips persuasive as his tongue slid softly into her mouth.
It was Ethan making a deal, she thought fuzzily as he curled his tongue coaxingly against hers. Smooth and slow, but ruthless, too. He trailed one hand from her face down her throat and held her there, too, the pulse at her throat beating against the vee made by his thumb and index finger. Goose bumps followed his path and Cleo found herself crowding his mouth, trying to press harder.
But he refused to be hurried, instead backing off a little himself and continuing to stroke his tongue softly, slowly—too soft, too slow—into her mouth.
She made a little sound of frustration and then finally remembered she had her own ways of getting what she wanted. Her fingers flattened against his shirtfront and she let him have that slow kiss as she explored the crispness of his shirt until she slid two fingers between the buttons beneath his tie.
She stroked once. Hot skin. She stroked twice. Hot male skin.
Ethan groaned, and then he widened her mouth with his and slid his tongue fully, wildly, inside.
Another rush of heat ran through Cleo, speeding from where their mouths met to run between her aching breasts. She took her free hand and touched the back of his head, pulling him closer with her palm against his thick golden hair.
He grunted and she made him pay for those three weeks of thinking of kissing by taking what she wanted—a slow pass of her tongue against his. She felt him shudder, and then she did, too, because he took her breasts in the curved cups of his palms.
Someone broke the kiss, and they stared at each other. Ethan’s nostrils flared and there was a flush on his cheekbones. Cleo couldn’t catch her breath; it just heaved in and out, pushing her breasts against the palms of Ethan’s hands.
With slow intent, he dropped his gaze, and she watched him watch himself rub his thumbs across her beaded nipples.
Cleo jerked, startled by the sweet sensation, surprised by how, how much she craved Ethan’s touch.
He looked back up and met her eyes. “I’m going to see you,” he said, his voice full of the kind of conviction that probably made CEOs in business meetings roll over and play dead.
Cleo didn’t even have that much will. She only knew she wanted what Ethan wanted, his gaze on her, his hands on her. Please.
Never hurrying, not appearing the least bit nervous, his fingers started on the row of small buttons holding her dress together.
Cleo closed her eyes. There were too many buttons. He was taking too long. And then he peeled the dress off her shoulders.
Ethan groaned one more time. “Cleo. Hell. Cleo.”
Her eyelids lifted and she saw his body was tense. He was looking at her breasts, and so she looked, too. Between the parted violet fabric of her clingy dress showed the lace of her darker violet bra, and rising from that was the swell of her breasts, taut and trembling.
Ethan’s hands tightened on her shoulders. He leaned forward, kissed her mouth hard, ran his tongue along her bottom lip.
Cleo shivered, only aware of how badly she wanted him to touch her. “I usually don’t…” she said, feeling almost bewildered by the power of the wanting. “I’m not—”
Ethan kissed her swiftly again, then rested his forehead against hers. “I know. And I wish—”
The distant sound of glass breaking cut him off.
Cleo jerked and half rose from her seat. Another sound—a woman’s stifled cry—made her rise completely.