Her Enemy With Benefits. Nicola Marsh
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‘I thought you felt sorry for me after Mick ditched me at the dance,’ she said, bolder this time, daring him to disagree. ‘You teased me during the drive about my lousy taste in dates, said maybe it was my dress or my hair or my corsage that drove him away, then we got home and you kissed me and I thought it was a big joke—you taking your usual taunts that one step further.’
He swore.
‘You thought I was that shallow?’
‘That’s the only side of you I ever saw,’ she said, as if that made it better.
It didn’t. There was a reason he’d acted that way, why he’d only shown the world a certain side, but he couldn’t tell her. He’d divulged enough truths for one day.
‘Well, sweetheart, here’s a tip. When a guy kisses a girl it isn’t out of pity. It’s usually driven by hormones.’
He shrugged, trying to make light of the situation before he blabbed about why he’d really kissed her that night. It wouldn’t help to admit he had felt sorry for her, that he’d kissed her as a distraction to prevent tears. She’d slug him for sure. Or worse, not follow through on the promise of sensational sex.
So he was a guy? Sue him.
‘And here’s a heads up. My motivation for kissing you back then is irrelevant. Because all that matters now is I sure as hell want you. Right now, if I had my way.’ He tugged on her hand and she leaned in close. ‘I’d clear this table, hoist you onto it, and have you out of those pants in two seconds flat.’
Her eyes widened, locked on his. Thankfully she’d lost the injured lamb look. He could handle her cool and controlled. He didn’t do her insecure side well. It unnerved him, seeing the woman who’d verbally fended off his barbs and then some all soft and susceptible.
It made him feel stuff he didn’t want to, so he regained control the only way he knew how.
‘I’d spread your legs, start at your right knee and kiss my way upward. Nipping your inner thigh…gentle bites.’
Her sharp intake of breath spurred him on.
‘I’d tease my way along your hip, across your belly to the other side, where I’d kiss you all the way down. Hot, open-mouthed kisses, until you were squirming for me.’ He locked gazes with her. ‘Begging for it.’
She groaned.
He knew the feeling.
‘Keep going,’ she said, squirming in her seat.
‘Then I’d lick my way up your thigh until I could hardly control myself. But I’d taste you, circling you with my tongue, sucking you into my mouth until you came—’
‘Patrick, please…’
He released her hand in her lap and edged over, cupping her mound. She cursed, the word spilling from her lips as much of a turn-on as her reaction to him here in the boardroom.
The fact she was letting him do this to her here, with the risk of anyone walking in, heightened the pleasure.
‘Yeah, I’d love to be doing that to you right now, but this will have to suffice.’
He pushed the heel of his hand into her and she ground against it. It took several small, circular undulations of for her to come, her fingers digging into his thigh while she lifted off the chair slightly.
They never broke eye contact the entire time, so he saw everything. Her need, her passion, her release.
And it humbled him in a way he’d never dreamed possible.
If he’d thought he was in over his head last night, her response to him now made him feel like a drowning man without a chance of being saved.
The door creaked open and they sprang apart. She muttered underneath her breath: he tried to act as if wanting to tear this woman’s clothes off every time he saw her wasn’t all that unusual.
Sex…nothing more, nothing less. Maybe if he mentally recited it often enough he’d believe it.
He shot her a glance but she stared straight ahead, fixed on the models strutting through the room in preliminary designs, the pinkness of her cheeks the only giveaway sign that she wasn’t the same über-cool princess he remembered.
Fine, let them concentrate on business for now, but when they’d wrapped up here they needed to sort out where and when they were going to get this thing out of their system—for he had a feeling he wouldn’t be functioning on any useful level until he did.
Sapphie had learned from a young age to shield her real feelings.
The expectations associated with being the eldest child, the one with highest grades, the responsible one, had pretty much ensured she was under scrutiny as heir apparent to run Seaborns from the time she hit high school.
Maybe even before, considering her mum had spent every Saturday afternoon poring over the company’s finances and making Sapphie sit next to her.
When kids her age had been riding their scooters or playing netball on the weekend, she’d been tagging along on buying expeditions, or scouting the opposition, or hanging around at fancy tea parties, listening to her mum talk shop.
Sure, she’d learned to love Seaborns, and had strived to gain great grades to enter her chosen Economics and Management degree, but over the years it had become ingrained to maintain a calm outer persona. To pretend everything was right with the world. When in fact she’d had bad hair days and hated the school bully and crushed on the football captain.
That persona would serve her well now, when she had to sit next to Patrick during a preview and pretend he hadn’t just rocked her world again.
What he’d done…What she’d let him do…
Her fingers convulsed, digging into her thighs. She’d never been wild or wanton. Maybe that was her problem. When an experienced playboy like Patrick glanced sideways at her she was ready to jump him.
She blamed Ruby and all that talk of getting laid. Sure, it had been a while since she’d been with a guy, but she hadn’t really been interested, what with the fatigue.
Ironic that coming back to work and throwing herself into this campaign was all about physically proving she could handle leading Seaborns, but what if there was a better way to test her endurance? Or at least a more fun way?
For she had little doubt sex with Patrick would involve an aerobic capacity workout to push her to the limit.
As if sensing her wicked, wayward thoughts he cast her a glance, which she deftly deflected by pretending to concentrate on the models strutting into the room.
Thankfully he returned to muttering into his smartphone, dictating changes and minor adjustments on the gowns to follow up later: hem too low here, stray seam there. He was so focussed, so tuned in to his work, she couldn’t help but stare a little.
He’d surprised her. She’d wondered if he could pull off his mega idea for old-world Hollywood glamour, and by the looks of the early designs he’d come through in a big way.
It pained her to admit, even to herself, that she’d doubted him. But she had, and now she was going to have to eat her words.
How could the guy who’d laughed his way through school before absconding to Paris be responsible for these exquisite designs?
She glanced at the models, poised in a holding pattern on a makeshift runway, stunned anew by the colours and gowns before her eyes.
A riot of rich hues: deep crimson, emerald, peacock-blue. Lush satins, shimmering silks. Strapless evening gowns. Timeless cocktail frocks. Curves and class. Absolutely stunning.
Patrick might not have personally drawn the designs, but he’d come up with the concept, had supervised the designers night and day to get them to this point.
Not