where nothing else mattered but touching it, feeling it and making its beauty come alive. There could be a free, physical joy. She’d been missing out for years—had always taken everything too seriously, been too cautious. She swept her hand hard across his shoulder, up his neck and into his hair, clutching to his deliciously dangerous heat. It was time to play catch-up.
Lorenzo fought hard with his raging lust, and hers, easing them out of the kiss, forcing his hands to slow and then to stop their exploration of her skin. It hurt.
He lifted his mouth a millimetre away from hers. Saw that passion had made her blue eyes glow more vividly than ever before. He couldn’t resist another brushing kiss, nor could he resist the way her nipple was pressing into his palm. His fingers mirrored the action of his mouth—brushing the sensitive nub just as his lips did hers.
Very, very lightly.
Her shudder nearly had him on his knees. He’d wanted to test her—to see if she really meant it. So he’d kissed her hard. No gentle beginning, no tenderness, just the brunt of his raw, blistering passion.
And she’d met him, matched him. Almost beaten him.
Now he wanted to strip her, to kiss her, to make the whole of her wet with want. He wanted her drenched with desire—and him too—for their bodies to slide together, fighting for that furious, physical release. He hadn’t wanted sex so badly in ages.
Instead he pushed away, made himself take a whole step. Forced his feet to move another. ‘I’m not going to take you now,’ he said breathlessly. Telling himself as much as her. ‘Not like this.’
‘Why not?’ She didn’t seem to realise the extent to which she was giving herself away.
His body tightened, the animal part of him so keen to take up her unguarded offer. To topple her here and now and be done with it. But he couldn’t. She needed some breathing space to be sure. He needed her to be sure. The lust was hot enough to make them both brainless. Do something she yet might regret. Lorenzo couldn’t bear those regrets—not his, not hers either.
Stupid. Since when did he care? Since when did he let any kind of second thoughts stop him from having a good time?
Because she’d told him—she didn’t usually do this. He’d known that already but having her actually say it made it worse. She needed to be certain. He didn’t want any uncomfortable ramifications. ‘Are you sure you can handle it?’
She turned away. He saw the chill descend, the stiffening in her shoulders. ‘Don’t treat me like an idiot. Of course I can. We’re only talking one night, Lorenzo.’
He ruffled his hair, needing to get his conflicting emotions under control. Hell, it was one p.m. and he was this close to having her in a quickie session at the back of the warehouse. He wanted more than a quickie. He wanted a bed. He wanted the whole night.
One night—her suggestion.
His body chafed—eager to take the offer up now. But no way was he taking her upstairs to his apartment. Inviting her in there might lead to mixed messages. He’d have to take her out. Damn, a date meant more too—or might to her. He shook his head, could she really keep it uncomplicated? But he wanted it too much to say no. The burning need forced him to take the risk. ‘I’ll take you out tonight.’
‘That’s not necessary.’
Oh, she was cool, wasn’t she? His edgy feeling sharpened. Had he underestimated her entirely? ‘You don’t want to go out?’
She looked evasive. ‘You could come over to my place.’
It was probably a good idea. He didn’t like that it had come from her, but she was right. Better not for them to go out together—looking like lovers, feeling like lovers. But ironically nor did he want some sordid assignation. Just for him to knock on the door and her let him in—literally. The warring feelings frustrated him. ‘For dinner?’
‘If you like,’ she answered carelessly, giving him an address, a time.
He stared at her as she spoke, tried to figure out what the hell she was thinking. Failed. But she’d come to him. She was asking him. If she wanted to go through with it, who was he to say no? He’d never been one to turn down an opportunity. ‘Okay.’
She smiled, and walked back inside.
He glanced up to the window and waited. Soon saw her swinging into her role as the perfect administrator again. It should please him, not annoy him—given she was on the payroll and all. But for some reason he found it incredibly irritating. She could go back and concentrate on boring work just like that?
Man, he wanted to see her out of control. He wanted the perfect clothes crushed and the never-out-of-place hair messy. He wanted her eyes wide and wild and her mouth parted as she panted. He wanted her both laughing and crying with pleasure so intense that she was no longer in charge of anything. He wanted her to writhe for him.
And he wanted it now.
LORENZO had been fantasising about this for too long. That was why he was so edgy. Had Sophy known the XXX rating of his dreams, she’d never have offered him this kind of access. The things he wanted to do…
He took a deep breath. Her home was as he’d expected. A cute little villa in the heart of poshville. Just the place for a young Auckland socialite. He walked up the path with the fatalistic feeling growing inside him. He hadn’t brought flowers, not even a bottle of wine. Just himself. His body was what she wanted—and it was all she was getting. He shook off the clanging bell of doom—stupid. This was just going to be some hot sex—nothing more.
She answered the door swiftly. Delicate colour sat high in her cheeks. She’d changed her clothes. Wearing a different blouse, a casual skirt that flared out, emphasising her little waist. Sandals on her feet. Pink polish gleaming on her toenails. Her hair was styled in that nineteen-fifties Hollywood-starlet style.
‘I didn’t cook. Sorry. Been busy.’
Getting ready for him? He liked that idea a little too much.
She turned and led him down the polished wooden hallway.
‘It’s okay.’ He wasn’t that hungry anyway. Not for food.
‘I cheated and picked up some stuff from the deli.’ She led him to the dining area. ‘Thought we could snack.’
‘Sure.’ He looked at the table. She’d unloaded the deli pots into pretty little dishes. Floral. Heaven help him. Fragile fine bone china. That was her all over.
She was watching him, a knowing look in her eyes that unsettled him more. ‘You’re not having regrets already?’
‘I don’t do regrets. Why, do you?’
She shook her head. ‘New Year’s resolution not to.’
Yeah, right. ‘You’ve never done anything to regret, have you?’ He couldn’t hold back the bitter note of accusation.
‘You
