Pleasured in the Playboy's Penthouse. Natalie Anderson
eyes capturing hers. While she was staring, he was talking some more.
‘I would have thought a woman like you would always have both.’
Sex on the beach and a screaming orgasm? Looking up at him, she took a firmer grip on both the menu card and the sensation suddenly beating through her—the tantalising tempo of temptation.
He must be just about the only person here who wasn’t involved in the wedding. Or maybe he was. He was probably one of her cousins’ dates. For a split second disappointment washed through her. But then she looked him over again—he wasn’t wearing an Armani suit and if he was one of their dates he’d definitely be in Armani. And he’d be hanging on his date’s arm, not alone and possibly on the prowl in a bar. This guy was in jeans—the roughest fabric she’d seen in the place to date. They were wet around the ankles as if he’d been splashing in the water, and on his feet were a pair of ancient-looking boat shoes. A light grey long-sleeved tee shirt covered his top half. It had a slight vee at the neck, exposing the base of the tanned column that was his neck. It was such a relief to see someone doing truly casual—someone not flaunting evidence of their superb bank balance.
Those bright blue eyes smiled at her. Very brightly. And then they looked her up and down.
Suddenly she felt totally uncomfortable as she thought about her own appearance. Not for the first time she wished for the cool, glamorous gene that the rest of her family had inherited. Instead she was hot, mosquito bitten, with a stripe of cooked-lobster-red sunburn across one half of her chest where she’d missed with her 110 SPF sunscreen. Her white cotton blouse was more off-white than bright and the fire-engine-red ribbon of her floral skirt was starting to come loose—but that was what you got for wearing second-hand.
It was one of her more sedate outfits, an attempt to dress up a little, in deference to the ‘family’ and their expectations. She’d even used the hotel iron—a real concession given she usually got at least one burn when she went anywhere near the things. Today had been no different. There was a small, very red, very sore patch just below her elbow. And now, thanks to a day spent on her knees dressing chairs in white robes and yellow ribbons, she knew she looked a sight.
As she took in his beautifully chiselled jaw, she really wished she’d bothered to go to her room and check her face or something on the way. There’d been some mascara on her eyelashes this morning, a rub of lip balm. Both were undoubtedly long gone. She was hardly in a state to be drawing single guys to her across a bar. She darted a glance around. She was the only female in the room. And there were only a couple of other customers. Then she looked at her watch. It was early. He was just making small talk with the only woman about. He was probably a travelling salesman. Only he definitely didn’t look the salesman type. And despite the suggestion in his talk he didn’t come across as sleazy. There was a bit of a glint in those blue eyes—she’d like to think it was appreciation, but it was more of a dare. And there was more humour than anything. She could do with some humour.
The bartender came back down to where they were standing. And Bella took up the challenge. Cosmopolitan woman she would be. Summoning all her courage and telling her cheeks to remain free of excess colour, she ordered. ‘A “sex on the beach” and a “screaming orgasm” please.’
She refused to look at him but she could sense his smile of approval—could hear it in his voice as he ordered too.
‘I’ll have two “screaming orgasms” and “sex on the beach”.’
Bella studiously watched the bartender line up the five shot glasses. She didn’t want to turn and look in his eyes again, not entirely sure she wouldn’t be mesmerised completely. But peripheral vision was very handy. She was motionless, seemingly fixated on the bartender as he carefully poured in each ingredient, but in reality she was wholly focused on the guy next to her as he pulled out the bar stool next to hers and sat on it. His leg brushed against hers as he did. It was a very long leg, and it looked fine clad in the faded denim. She could feel the strength just from that one accidental touch.
Silently, shaking inside, she went to lift the first glass in the line-up. But then his hand covered hers, lightly pressing it down to the wood. Did he feel her fingers jerk beneath his? She snatched a moment to recover her self-possession before attempting to look at him with what she hoped was sophisticated query.
His bright blues were twinkling. ‘Have the orgasm first.’
She could feel the heat as her blood beat its way to her cheeks.
The twinkles in his eyes burned brighter. ‘After all, you can always have another one later.’
She stared at him as he released her. He’d turned on the widest, laziest, most sensual smile she’d ever seen. Spell-bound wasn’t the word. Almost without thinking, she moved her fingers, encircling the second shot.
‘What about you?’ Why had her voice suddenly gone whispery?
‘A gentleman always lets the lady go first.’
So she picked up the orgasm, kind of amazed her hand wasn’t visibly trembling. In a swift motion she knocked the contents back into her mouth and swallowed the lot. She took a moment before breathing—then it was a short, sharp breath as she absorbed the burning hit. Slowly she put the glass back down on the bar.
His smile was wicked now. He’d picked up the sex shot, pausing pointedly with it slightly raised, until she did the same. She met his eyes and lifted the glass to her lips. Simultaneously they tipped back and swallowed.
Slamming his on the bench, he picked up the next shot. Then he paused again, inclined his head towards the remaining orgasm.
‘You know it’s for you.’ That smile twisted his mouth as he spoke and its teasing warmth reached out to her.
There was no way she could refuse. She couldn’t actually speak for the fire in her throat. So she picked up the shot and again, eyes trained on him, drank. And he mirrored her, barely half a beat behind.
It was a long, deep breath she drew that time. And her recovery was much slower. She stared for a while at the five empty glasses in front of them. And then she looked back at him.
He wasn’t smiling any more. At least, his mouth wasn’t turned up. But his eyes searched hers while sending a message at the same time. And the warmth was all pervasive. The burning sensation rippled through her body, showing no sign of cooling. Instead her temperature was still rising. And she wasn’t at all sure if it was from the alcohol or the fire in his gaze.
Wow. She tried to take another deep breath. But the cool of the air made her tingling lips sizzle more. His gaze dropped to her mouth as if he knew of her sensitivity. The sizzle didn’t cease.
She blinked, pressed her lips together to try to stop the whisper of temptation they were screaming to her, resumed visual contemplation of the empty shot glasses. She should never have looked at him.
‘Thank you,’ she managed, studying him peripherally again.
He shrugged, mouth twitching, lightening the atmosphere and making her wonder if she’d overemphasised that supercharged moment. Of course there was no way he would be hitting on her. Now his eyes said it was all just a joke. As if he knew that if she thought he was really after her, she’d be running a mile. City slicker vixen-in-a-bar was so not her style. But she’d decided anything could be possible tonight. Anything she wanted could be hers. She was pretending, remember?
‘So are we celebrating, or drowning sorrows?’ He flashed that easy smile again. And it gave her the confidence that up until now she’d been faking.
‘Celebrating.’ She turned to face him.
His brows raised. She could understand his surprise. People didn’t usually celebrate in a bar drinking all by themselves. So she elaborated.
‘It’s my birthday.’
‘Oh? Which one?’
Did the man not know it was rude to ask? She nearly giggled. But he was so gorgeous she decided to forgive