Hot Boss, Wicked Nights(4)

By: Anne Oliver

With difficulty he stepped back. He knew by her eyes and her elevated breathing that she too resented the loss of contact. That she was as eager—and willing—as he. He grabbed her hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Kate heard a collective gasp somewhere behind her but she felt too weak, too unbalanced, to do anything but allow him to tug her along the hallway beyond the bar. They passed a waitress bearing a tray of tempting hors d’oeuvres, the spicy aroma wafting behind her.

She struggled to keep up with his long strides in her wedge-heeled sandals. Up a narrow flight of stairs. The knowledge of what she was about to do pumped through her veins. She’d never been so physically attracted to anyone on sight before and, yes, Sheri, you only lived once.

He stopped at the second door they came to, produced a key from his pocket. The instant he opened the door, he whirled her inside, plunging them into almost total darkness. She heard the lock click behind him. ‘Now where were we?’ he murmured.

Her eyes adjusted so that she could just make out the broad outline of his shoulders. ‘Right about here.’ She set her hands on his chest. Correction: Shakira set her hands on his chest because Kate Fielding would never do anything so audacious—rubbing her thumbs over the jersey and loving the hot, rock-solid masculine feel of him, leaning in to inhale his scent. She hadn’t been this up close to a man’s body in a long time.

Light from the street cast a faint silvery glow to the room as he reached for her veil. But it was still dark enough to maintain the integrity of her disguise as he unhooked the loop above her ear and pushed the fabric aside.

He was silent a moment as he traced the shape of her face, her nose, her eyebrows. Her lips. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said, and pulled her hard up against his body, trapping her hands. ‘Even in the dark, you’re one irresistible woman.’

The awe in the softly spoken words thrilled her, excited her. She could feel the hard ridge of masculine flesh against her belly, his heart pounding against her fingertips, her own heart thundering in her ears.

Strong hands gripped her upper arms as his mouth descended on hers. She heard a long low moan—hers?—then an answering rumble that vibrated against her palms. His lips were dry and firm and very, very skilled.

With no persuasion at all, her lips opened beneath his. His tongue invaded her mouth, plunging inside then withdrawing like a promise of anticipated delights. He tasted good. Coffee and peppermint and something richer, darker. Hotter. When he raised his head, she pulled it down again. She wasn’t nearly ready to let him go.

But he wasn’t going anywhere. His hands moved from her arms to her bare midriff, to her bra—and ended up with a palm-full of brass and tinkles. He inhaled a hiss of impatience and if she hadn’t been so breathless she might have laughed at the sheer incredulity of the whole situation.

Nothing was going to stop him. His fingers curled over the tops of her breasts and swept beneath, then down to find her nipples taut and strained against the fabric. He rolled them between his fingers, sending hot darts of need shooting through her body.

She moaned as an echoing tightness swept to her core and leaned forward to give him easier access, which he took with swift efficiency. Her breasts spilled out into his hands. She gazed down, stunned at the sight of his dark hands on her pale flesh.

She looked up at him, glimpsed the firestorm in his eyes before his lips again fused with hers and he was walking her backwards, their legs knocking and tangling until she hit the wall with a jolt. A hard masculine body bumped against hers.


The pressure eased a little and he lifted his head. ‘You okay?’

‘Yes-s-s.’ Was that hiss of desire hers?

She groaned deep in her throat—with relief, with impatience—as he pressed against her once more, grinding his hips with hers, the ridge of his arousal huge and hot and heavy against her belly.

His hands were at her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, pinning her against the wall and holding her there. Her shoes slipped from her feet with a quiet ‘plop’ of surrender.

‘Wrap your legs around me.’

His hand swept aside the flimsy points of her skirt, the thin strip of fabric covering her centre, the heat and slight roughness of his fingers searing her moist flesh as he claimed her.

She heard the sharp rasp of his zip as he freed himself, the hard, slippery feel of masculinity against the apex of her thighs. He paused, his jaw tightly bunched, eyes fused with hers, his breath a hot rasp against her cheek. ‘You’re sure?’

She felt imprisoned, helpless, trapped.

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