Sounding a lot like an ad for an STD charity there. I believe you, thousands wouldn’t.’ She tapped her phone on her lip, thoughtfully. ‘It was crazy, wasn’t it? Why was it so wild?’
Good question. He’d never had sex that feral.
‘No idea.’ Shrugging, feigning ignorance, because he had an idea the blame lay entirely with her, but no way could he say that. ‘Maybe it was the adrenalin hanging round from the ride or after running to beat the tide on the beach. Who knows? Maybe it’s that basic human survival instinct that kicks in when there’s danger around. The same way people shag like rabbits when there’s a war on, and everyone bonks after funerals.’
‘Like a celebration of being alive, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Maybe you should commemorate your survival by having a muffin. I brought them in from the car. No one should die before they’ve tasted one of these.’ Sucking a finger of one hand, she shoved an open cake box towards him with the other. ‘No arguments, I insist.’
Firm. Bossy. Or just plain domineering? He took a moment to adjust to the railroading.
‘Diets are the norm for a pro-cyclist. You learn to live with the hunger. It’s a way of life that takes a lot of sacrifice.’
‘So for a pro it really is like it says in the books?’
‘Depends on the books you read.’ He jumped at the opportunity to derail her efforts to force feed him, and fill her in on his life instead. God knows, there was so much to say about it he could keep her quiet all evening. ‘You get to travel, you train with the team for months on end in warm places, cycling hundreds of miles a week. It’s usually somewhere in the mountain. Think hairpin bends and zigzag roads, heat beating off the tarmac, deep blue skies, Italy, France, Spain, Portugal or somewhere. You race with the team on races that last weeks at a time, and then when it’s winter you do it all over again in the southern hemisphere. Your body is in an extreme and heightened state of fitness, you’re at risk of injury from crashes every day of your life, your whole life is carefully controlled, from pretty much every calorie you eat to how long you sleep, and the more successful you get, the more the control. The team thing is incredible. Sometimes you’re working for guys in the team, sometimes they’re working for you, you’re supporting each other, but at the same time it’s hugely competitive. If you’re successful, the pay is phenomenal, it’s the roughest, toughest thing in the world to do, some days you love it, some you hate it, but the adrenalin rushes and the endorphin highs are totally addictive, so you never want to stop. And with all that at stake does it sound like I’d reach for the cookie jar?’
The life of a pro-cyclist in a nutshell. Missing out the bit about adoring women hurling themselves at him, obviously. And how much he’d missed it all since he’d been away from it since the accident. And how he didn’t know what the hell he was going to replace it with if his damned knee didn’t get the thumbs up from the surgeons and the physios soon. And what the crap he was going to do if the unthinkable happened and he had to give up. Given her gaping mouth, opening and closing, it had surely stopped her in her tracks. Hadn’t it?
‘Calorie-wise you have to have earned it today.’ She shot him a wicked grin. ‘One way or another. Can’t the Prince of Darkness come over to the nutritional dark side just this once?’
Seemed like she was unstoppable. Nice reference to half an hour ago when his claim to be the Prince of Darkness had got him straight into her pants. After a whole lifetime of deprivation one way and another, suddenly the novelty of submitting overcame his natural instinct to refuse.
‘Go on then.’ He plucked a muffin from the box, threw himself down on the sofa beside her. ‘On one condition.’
‘Which is?’
Loving the way her eyes, narrowing in suspicion, sent an unexpected shiver whistling down his spine as he slowly teased the paper away from the cake.
‘You come to the dark side again too, when I’ve finished this.’ Stretching across, he slid a finger under her top, traced a line across her side under the elastic of her waistband. Felt her squirm against him. Running his finger over the bumps of her ribs, slipping over the silky cup of her bra. A rush of blood hit his groin as he found her nipple already quivering on high alert. Sinking his teeth deep into the muffin, he let the raspberry sweetness zing his taste buds.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’
The sugar-high hit him instantaneously, sent his pulse into overdrive, and his erection too – although that was already well established. No one could be immune, sitting next to nipples like those. Her workplace must have more hard-ons per square foot than most. Pity any red-blooded male who had to spend their days being tantalised by that view. And this time sex was going to be different. Long, and very slow.
Easing to his feet, he grasped her hand, spun her a smile. ‘Coming?’
‘Where?’ The tension in her hand flashed up her resistance.
‘I thought we might take advantage of the king-size bed?’
Or maybe not, judging from her appalled frown.
‘Definitely not bed.’
Jumpy as hell then, and massive back-pedalling called for.
‘Fine by me.’ He let out a mental whistle of relief for the fact she hadn’t ruled out the sex. ‘You know what? I’m going to sit right on here, and we’ll take it from there, okay? Anything goes, apart from bed.’
Easing down next to her. No sudden movements in case she ran. Happy to play it her way. Raising his arms, he stretched back on the sofa, feeling her gaze already locked onto the bulge of his erection. Leaving it up to her, the bang of his heart reverberating through the sofa. Waiting. Knowing, from the dark dilation of her pupils behind her faltering eyelashes, she wouldn’t be resisting for long.
Too right.
One hand, inching across the sofa, winding under his t-shirt, sending his pulse rate off the scale in anticipation. One finger, achingly slow, tracing the line of hair down from his navel. Then the full-blown twang of her palm hitting his shaft, almost making him lift off.
Shifting a little, he snatched his breath at the agonising pleasure hit.
‘All ready then…’ More of a statement than a question, her voice all husky now.
His mouth was dry with anticipation. ‘Whenever you are…’
His fingertips closed on the condom in his pocket. Taking his mind off the excruciating wait. Thinking slow, thinking moody, thinking maybe they should lower the lights to go with the smoulder.
So wrong.
Wham. One leap, she jumped to standing. A bob, and a kick, her joggers hit the coffee table, and he was staring at thighs, lush, tanned, taut. And the teensiest triangle of a thong. Midnight-blue silk. Made his mouth water. Those perfect russet nails feathering on the hem of her top. He swallowed. Bit his lip to stop himself grabbing hold of her, dragged in a breath to get control. Wham again.
One twist, and she was out of her top. Aware of his jaw hitting the floor as he locked onto her breasts, bursting over the silky balcony of her bra cups. He closed his sweating fingers around the edge of the sofa cushions, preparing for the white-knuckle
