His Ultimate Temptation. Susan Crosby
of denial, he was here again, teasing her with his tongue, searching her mouth, breathing raggedly, his demands growing stronger by the second. She matched him kiss for kiss, touch for touch, groan for groan.
He raised his head, confusion clouding his eyes. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, yet his arms tightened around her.
Her throat vibrated with sound as his hands curved over her rear and eased her closer, then he sucked in a harsh breath as her belly molded the hard male shape of him, familiar and yet not. Her arms twined around his neck, seeking balance as she moved against him. Grinding out her name, he dragged her leg over his hip, bringing her impossibly closer, keeping her there by sheer strength. She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. The taste of him was wild and exotic and threatened to take her over the top as he said her name over and over between kisses growing more and more desperate.
Desperate? Leslie ended the kiss abruptly. Everything she didn’t want to happen was happening, and she was letting it. There could only be pain ahead. And another long struggle to move on. “Stop. Please, we have to stop.”
Reluctantly Ben turned her loose. He’d thought he could give her a simple kiss, the kind that longtime friends shared—something soft and quick, without any agenda or expectations for either of them.
“My fault,” she said, flicking lint he couldn’t see from her sleeve. “It’s been—” she made a little sound in her throat “—a long time.”
Did she mean a long time with him, or a long time, period? “Has it?”
“Well, I’ve dated. So have you.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve slept with your dates, I imagine.”
And you haven’t, Les? The thought staggered him. Made him feel like the lowest, cheatingest man alive. They were divorced. He didn’t owe her fidelity. So why are you so ashamed? his conscience asked.
Something warm curled up inside him at the possibility she hadn’t taken a lover. He acknowledged the thought as hopelessly chauvinistic. He lifted a hand to touch her, but she tossed her head, a gesture he recognized as self-preservation.
“I can’t go to bed until you do, Ben. I’m sleeping on the couch.”
He said a quiet good night, then left. Leslie let her knees buckle, and she dropped onto the sofa, then buried her face in her lap. She could still feel his arms around her, still feel his mouth move over hers in that special way that had always driven her crazy with need. She could feel his need in return, hard and strong and tempting. Of course she hadn’t slept with another man. How could any man compare?
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