Mr One-Night Stand. Rachael Stewart
closer still, his breath teasing at the delicate channel of her ear. ‘Why don’t you try me?’
Heat flooded her breasts, her belly, her blood, and the world around her evaporated as she twisted into him, her lips instinctively seeking his...
‘Your drink.’
What?
Her disorientated gaze swept to the bar, to Darren sliding her drink before her.
Oh, God!
‘Thank you,’ she blurted, hurrying to mask the swamping disappointment. But he spotted it anyway, his smile apologetic as he picked up her empty glass and moved away.
‘How about we take this conversation to my table?’ came the appealing proposition from alongside her.
She brushed her fingertips across her lips, now thrumming with their near encounter, and flicked her eyes back to his. ‘I’d love to.’
* * *
He’d had to work hard to stop himself from saying place instead of table. And still he wondered—would she have said I’d love to in that soft, balmy tone if he had?
She gazed up at him with those green come-to-bed eyes and he wished he’d found out.
‘After you,’ he said, gesturing to her.
He made to pick up their drinks and then stilled, his concentration broken by the sight of her slipping from the stool.
Between the uncrossing of those seriously long legs and the cleavage he was working hard not to drown in he found himself rooted. Her height impressed him once again as she met his eyeline, her scent wafting up to him.
Not that he had any idea what herb or flower was involved in the making of it. But he liked it. A lot.
‘Don’t forget the drinks,’ she threw over her shoulder with a provocative smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief, desire, amusement... He hadn’t a clue.
It was taking his all to keep the conversation flowing and his own desire in check. Trying to read every fleeting expression that crossed her face and not jump to the conclusion that she was on the same desire-driven wave as he was nigh on impossible.
Grabbing the drinks, he followed her to the table, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the fall of her hair as it brushed along the gentle flare of her bum.
What it would be like to have that same hair flung across his bedspread? Or wrapped around his fist as he drove himself into her—? Fuck, he was getting hard just thinking about it.
And there she went again, staring up at him as if he was seconds away from being devoured.
Now, perched on the end of the low-slung seat that had remained vacant at his table, her head came cock-high and heat rushed to his groin in greeting.
Adding to his pain, she crossed her legs, the action forcing her dress to ride high and reveal the top of a stocking, he was sure, before she righted it.
Too late. The damage was done. And she knew it. She’d watched the entire thing play out in his face. And, hell, he wasn’t even convinced the low lighting was enough to conceal the bulge down there.
He held out her drink. ‘For you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, her delicate feline fingers slipping over his own to take it from him.
The contact was soft and brief, but total dynamite to his over-active imagination as the image of her taking hold of something else ransacked his mind.
He watched as she lifted the glass to her glossy full mouth and tilted it, the clear liquid flowing into her as the olive bobbed at the base of the drink. And then she closed her lips and swallowed, her tongue emerging subtly to take away the remnants. The sight was sweet perfection to behold, utter torture to his straining cock.
‘Are you going to sit?’ she said up to him, her raised expression making it clear she had caught him staring, good and proper.
Did he care?
Did he fuck!
‘Apologies,’ he said, dipping his head in mock regret, his grin telling her he wasn’t sorry at all. ‘I confess to getting lost in the sight of you.’
It was corny, it was overly smooth, but again he didn’t care. It was the truth.
He placed his drink on the table and took his own seat, feeling her eyes upon him the whole time. The nature of her thoughts penetrated the air.
‘A penny for them?’
Her smile widened. ‘Something tells me a man like you should know well enough that you never ask a woman that question.’
He gave an easy laugh, staving off the heat raging below his waist. ‘What if I said there’s something about you that makes me want to ask that question regardless?’
She set her glass down and pressed her elbow into the arm of her chair, leaning in towards him.
‘Then I would tell you...’ she began, her voice low and husky, each word spun out as her fingers took up a slow caress over the exposed valley of her chest. ‘In that case I would divulge exactly what I’m thinking.’
He would have—could have—dragged her away from the bar that very second. The way her eyes beckoned him, the way her wandering hands lured him, the blood surging to his cock—it was all getting too much and he hadn’t so much as touched her.
And, fuck, did he want to.
The need ravaged him. He wanted to taste every last bit of her, stroke her until she begged for him to complete her, fill her body until she could do nothing but scream his name.
And yet she couldn’t. They had shared a lot in a few electrifying glances, but they hadn’t so much as covered the basics of My name is...
They should at least get that covered. ‘Perhaps we should start with introductions?’
She laughed. ‘Introductions?’
‘Yes,’ he said, surprised at her reaction. ‘You know—me Tarzan, you Jane, before we get carried away with this—’ he waved a hand between them ‘—undercurrent.’
‘Undercurrent?’ she repeated, her eyes dancing over the word, her fingers still doing their crazy damn tour of her body. ‘You know, I think you’ve summed it up perfectly.’
His eyes followed her fingers, his control teetering as he succumbed to the pull of her caress.
‘So?’ he pressed, his brain only half on the attempted introduction.
‘So...?’ she mimicked teasingly, the action both maddening and arousing. And then she dropped her hand to take hold of the stick floating in her drink and all thought of conversation disintegrated, obliterated by the sight of the inoffensive little green ball slowly being stirred around.
It was coming—he knew it—and the power of that sight, up close and with every alluring detail to feast upon, had his knuckles turning white.
‘Who needs names in this day and age?’ She lifted the olive out of her drink and tapped the stick against the rim of the glass to rid it of excess vodka. ‘Don’t you think there’s something to be said for leaving a little mystery?’
She looked at him on the last word, the stick pausing to rest against the glass edge. ‘It’s not like I’m here looking for a meaningful relationship.’
He wanted to say something smooth, but she had him stoked to silence. The perfect package was at his disposal—sexy sophistication brandishing a fuck-and-leave policy. He didn’t do relationships—they were for the weak and the needy. And, hell, if you weren’t weak at the off, you soon would be when it fell apart or, in the case of his dad, got ripped away. Then it would ruin you.
He