A Tangled Affair. Fiona Brand
with dinner. He had kept a watch on her intake, specifically so he could intervene if he thought she was in danger of drinking too much then making a scene. He had been looking for an opportunity to speak to her alone when she had walked out halfway through dessert. Until now he had been certain she wasn’t drunk.
He reached her in two long strides and gripped her wrist. “How much have you had?”
Liquid splashed the front of her dress. He jerked his gaze away from the way the wet silk clung to the curve of her breasts.
Her gaze narrowed. A split second later cold liquid cascaded down his chest, soaking through to the skin.
Water, not alcohol.
Time seemed to slow, stop as he stared at her narrowed gaze, delicately molded cheekbones and firm jaw, the rapid pulse at her throat.
The thud of the glass hitting the thick kilim barely registered as she curled her fingers in the lapel of his jacket.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was husky, the question automatic as he stared at her face.
“Conducting an experiment.”
Her arms slid around his neck; she lifted up onto her toes. Automatically, his head bent. The second his mouth touched hers he knew it was a mistake. Relief shuddered through him as her breasts flattened against his chest and the soft curve of her abdomen cradled his instant arousal.
His hands settled at her waist as he deepened the kiss. The soft, exotic perfume she wore rose up, beguiling him, and the fierce clamp of desire intensified. Two months. As intent as he had been on finishing with Carla, he didn’t know how he had stayed away.
No one else did this to him; no one came close. To say he made love with Carla didn’t cover the fierceness of his need or the undisciplined emotion that grabbed at him every time he weakened and allowed himself the “fix” of a small window of time in her bed.
Following the tragedy with Sophie, he had kept his liaisons clear-cut and controlled, as disciplined as his heavy work schedule and workout routines. He had been too shell-shocked to do anything else. Carla was the antithesis of the sophisticated, emotionally secure women he usually chose. Women who didn’t demand or do anything flamboyant or off-the-wall.
He dragged his mouth free, shrugged out of his jacket then sank back into the softness of her mouth. He felt her fingers dragging at the buttons of his shirt, the tactile pleasure of her palms sliding over his skin.
Long, drugging minutes passed as he simply kissed her, relearning her touch, her taste. When she moved restlessly against him, he smoothed his hands up over her back, knowing instinctively that if she was going to withdraw, this would be the moment.
Her gaze clashed with his and he logged her assent. It occurred to Lucas that if he had been a true gentleman, he would have eased away, slowed things down. Instead he gave into temptation, cupped her breasts through the flimsy silk of bodice and bra. She arched against him with a small cry. Heat jerked through him when he realized she had climaxed.
Every muscle taut, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the couch. Her arms wound around his neck as she pulled him down with her. At some point his shirt disappeared and Carla shimmied against him, lifting up the few centimeters he needed so he could peel away the flimsy scrap of silk and lace that served as underwear.
He felt her fingers tearing at the fastening of his trousers. In some distant part of his mind the fact that he didn’t have a condom registered. A split second later her hands closed around him and he ceased to think.
Desire shivered and burned through Carla as Lucas’s hands framed her hips. Still dazed by the unexpected power of her climax, she automatically tilted her hips, allowing him access. Shock reverberated through her when she registered that there was no condom.
She hadn’t thought; he hadn’t asked. In retrospect she hadn’t wanted to ask. She had been drowning in sensation, caught and held by the sudden powerful conviction that if she walked away from Lucas now, everything they had shared, everything they had been to each other would be lost. She would never touch him, kiss him, make love with him again, and that thought was acutely painful.
It was wrong, crazily wrong, on a whole lot of levels. Lucas had broken up with her. He had chosen someone else.
His gaze locked with hers and the steady, focused heat, so utterly familiar—as if she really was the only woman in the world for him—steadied her.
Emotion squeezed her chest as the shattering intensity gripped her again, linking her more intensely with Lucas. She should pull back, disengage. Making love did not compute, and especially not without a condom, but the concept of stopping now was growing progressively more blurred and distant.
She didn’t want distance. She loved making love with Lucas. She loved his scent, the satiny texture of skin, the masculine beauty of sleek, hard muscle. The tender way he touched her, kissed her, made love to her was indescribably singular and intimate. She had never made love with another man, and when they were together, for those moments, he was hers.
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