Mistresses: The Consequences Of Desire. Оливия Гейтс
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his astonishing powers of recuperation—made him seem very boyish. Too boyish.
‘How old are you?’ she asked, before she could think better of it.
His lips tilted. ‘Nearly thirty.’
She propped herself up on her elbows. Good grief, he was still in his twenties. ‘How nearly?’
‘I’ll be twenty-nine next month. Why? You planning to give me a present?’ He cupped her breast, licked at the nipple. ‘I can think of something I’d love to see gift-wrapped.’
‘You’re twenty-eight.’ She scooted back. ‘But that’s...practically a toy boy.’
He chuckled, then grabbed her shoulders and shoved her onto her back, anchoring her in place with one hard thigh. ‘Oh, yeah? So how old are you, then?’
‘I’m thirty-four,’ she said, indignantly.
His gaze drifted over her face. ‘You don’t look it.’
There didn’t seem to be any judgment in the tone, but still she felt...embarrassed. ‘Well, I am.’ Maybe it was only six years but it felt like the wrong six years. ‘Let me up.’
‘Not going to happen, old lady,’ he teased.
She struggled, trying to buck him off, but he didn’t budge. ‘Please, this feels awkward now.’
‘Why? You’re at your sexual peak. And so am I.’
Given the now-prominent feel of his erection, she had to agree. ‘I know, but it feels weird.’
‘It’s not weird, it’s cool.’ He rubbed his shaft against her hip—making it fairly obvious he wasn’t put off in the slightest by her vintage. She looked down at the thrusting erection. ‘Although FYI, I’m not a toy boy,’ he added. ‘You’re a damn cougar.’
A laugh popped out before she could stop it, but cut off when he cupped her sex. His fingers delved, stroking her oversensitive clitoris, the touch light and fleeting but enough to send shock waves of need echoing through her.
She thrust her fingers into his hair as he opened her thighs to position the impressive erection against her entrance. ‘Well, I suppose, if you put it like—’
Grasping her hips, he thrust deep in one long, smooth, all-consuming stroke, stealing her breath and cutting off any more pointless protests.
Oh, sod it.
Six years was nothing, she decided, especially once he’d established a slow, lazy, teasing rhythm that quickly became more intoxicating than the rum.
* * *
Hours later, Ella struggled to focus on the radiant glow of dawn peeping through the shutters. Contemplating the tenderness between her thighs and the soreness in other, previously unknown and now thoroughly exercised muscle groups, she conceded that, while the years might not be a problem, the mileage definitely was.
‘I should go,’ she mumbled, her fuzzy brain latching onto the fact that lingering past daybreak had the potential to be a lot more awkward than their age difference.
But when she lifted one tired limb, a muscular forearm banded round her midriff from behind and hauled her back into his embrace.
‘Nothing doing,’ Cooper’s sleep-roughened voice murmured against her hair. His big body cocooned her, his chest solid against her back, the soft hairs on his thighs brushing the backs of her legs and the softening erection still prominent against her bottom.
She debated arguing with him, but couldn’t fight the thundering beat of her pulse, the fatigue dragging her into oblivion or the novelty of being held so securely. Maybe she could stay and snuggle, for a little bit? Grab one more hot memory to sustain her through the difficult truth she would have to face when she got home?
This was her holiday of a lifetime, after all, and Cooper Delaney—toy boy extraordinaire—her passport to no-holds-barred pleasure.
She relaxed, warmed by the comfort of his embrace. ‘All right, but I’ll go soon.’
Her lips tilted into a smile as he grunted. ‘Shut up and go to sleep.’ His forearm tightened under her breasts. ‘You’re going to need to get your strength up, my little cougar. This toy boy isn’t finished with you yet.’
She choked out a laugh—that became a wistful hum as his arm became slack and her own body drifted towards sleep.
Colourful images collected behind her eyes—the glitter of pink sand beaches, the darting sparkle of blue-finned fish, the tangerine glow of fruit juice and rum, and the piercing jade of Cooper Delaney’s eyes.
She swallowed to relieve the clutching sensation in her chest, and tumbled headlong into the rainbow dream.
‘Hey, Coop, get your butt out of bed, it’s past eleven. And I’ve got exciting news.’
The muffled musical voice intruded on Ella’s dream. She squeezed open an eyelid, grateful when the brittle sunlight hitting her retinas didn’t appear to be accompanied by any pain, despite the definite thumping in her head.
Flopping over onto her back, she squinted at the empty bed beside her, the rumpled sheets striped by the sunlight slanting through the shutters. And heard the thumping again. This time, though, it was definitely not in her head, but coming from the hut’s door, which shook on its hinges as the same musical voice from her dream, lilting with the lazy rhythms of a Bermuda native, shouted: ‘No use hiding, man. Henry told me you’d be here.’
Ella shot upright, clasping the bed’s thin sheet to her naked breasts, and swayed as several questions bombarded her at once.
How long had she been asleep? Where were her clothes? Where was Coop? And who the heck was that woman banging on the door?
The answer to number one was hours, if the brightness of the sunlight was anything to go by. Scrambling out of bed as furtively as possible, she located her clothes in a neatly stacked pile on the arm of the sagging sofa, answering question number two. Questions three and four remained a mystery though, as she dressed as soundlessly as she could manage while continuing to scan the hut for any sign of her host.
She jumped as the banging began again.
‘Hey, I can hear you in there. Avoidance won’t do you a damn bit of good.’
Rats, do you have bionic hearing?
She waited a few more strained seconds, while debating opening the shutters and escaping onto the deck, but eventually discarded the idea—given the girl’s hearing capabilities.
The banging continued, and her not entirely settled stomach churned. What if this girl were Cooper’s girlfriend? Or his wife? Was that why he’d disappeared? Because what did she really know about Captain Studly, except that he was gorgeous, knew how to dance the soca and had magic fingers, a very inventive tongue, and a huge and permanently stiff...
Don’t go there.
Squaring her shoulders, she swung the door open ready to face the consequences, to be greeted by a stunningly beautiful barefoot young woman of about twenty, wearing a pair of Daisy Dukes, a T-shirt with the message ‘Don’t Mess with a Libran’, tightly braided hair decorated with multicoloured beads, and a stunned expression.
‘Hi.’ She craned her neck to search the hut’s interior, having gained her composure a lot faster than Ella. ‘Is Coop around?’
‘Um, no, apparently not,’ Ella replied, opting for the only answer she could give with any confidence.
‘Uh-huh?’ The girl gave her a thorough once-over that had the heat steaming into Ella’s cheeks. ‘I guess he’s up at the big house.’
The big house? What big house?