he echoed, so distracted by the soft warmth of her wrapped around him that he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
‘Remember when you first suggested dinner?’
Jack winced. ‘How could I ever forget?’
‘You also suggested skipping it and heading straight to dessert.’
‘So I did.’ He twisted around and pressed her back and down. ‘As I recall you weren’t particularly impressed.’
‘I was very much impressed.’ She lay there, her hair tumbling over his pillows as she clutched the sheet to her chest and grinned up at him. ‘But I was trying desperately hard not to be.’
He shook his head. ‘What a lot of time we’ve wasted.’
‘It’s only been three days.’
So it had. Hard to believe when their bodies moved together as if they’d known each other for years.
‘Still too long,’ he murmured, attributing that disconcerting thought to extraordinary sexual compatibility, and then burying it. ‘Just think,’ he added, running a hand over her shoulder and slipping it beneath the sheet, ‘we could have been doing this since Tuesday.’
She batted her eyelashes up at him, a seductive smile curving her mouth and her eyes turning so dark they were almost black. ‘Then why are we talking when we should be making up for lost time?’
As his body hardened Jack lowered his head. ‘Beats me,’ he muttered, and set about making up for lost time the best way he knew.
Well, that had been quite a night, thought Imogen, blinking lazily at the weak early sunshine that spilled in through the gaps in the blind and hearing the soft swoosh of the lift doors closing.
And actually quite a morning …
She shivered and sighed and stretched, knowing full well that her smile was wide and sated but not caring one jot. Because, frankly, why would she?
She’d never had so many mind-blowingly intense orgasms in her life and she’d never expected her sexual horizons to have been broadened to quite such an extent. But to her delight, over the course of the night—and the morning—she’d learned that many of the outrageous things Jack had murmured into her ear in the inky darkness of the hotel’s conservatory had been anatomically possible, and their extensive research into the matter had led to pleasure so great it had almost hurt.
Imogen’s eyes drifted shut as her imagination replayed scene after scene after scene. Jack was amazing. His stamina was incredible, his desire for her dauntless, and as for what happened when he lost his grip on his control … Well, that was just staggering.
And she badly wanted some more of it, she realised, feeling her body stirring once again. The minute he got back from picking up the wrap she’d abandoned at the hotel she’d suggest it. So far they hadn’t made it out of bed, and while she had nothing against beds—when they came with Jack in situ she was positively in favour of them—a change of venue might be nice.
Maybe she’d go and get in the shower so that when he came back he’d find her all hot and naked and wet and wouldn’t be able to resist joining her.
Or maybe she’d wander into the kitchen so that he’d find her dishevelled and slumberous, wearing nothing but a bedsheet while she made coffee.
Or maybe—
At the shrill ring of the phone, Imogen jerked out of her imaginative bubble with a pop and realised she was hot, blushing and tingling. Goodness, what had happened to her? Twelve hours of some seriously great sex and she was addicted.
She heard Jack’s voice echoing through the flat asking the caller to leave a message, and yanked a pillow over her head to blot it out. For one thing, listening to that voice, even on a machine, was not conducive to her attempts to calm down, and for another she didn’t feel entirely comfortable about eavesdropping.
However, as the beep sounded and dulcet female tones began to replace his seductively deep ones any scruples she might have had about not wanting to eavesdrop vanished. Tossing the pillow to one side, Imogen lay there, her ears pricked and her antennae quivering, but rigidly still, as if the woman on the other end of the line would be able to tell she was listening if she moved.
‘Jack?’ came the soft voice that made all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck bristle and jump to attention. ‘It’s Emily. I’m just ringing to confirm we’re seeing you later. I hope you haven’t forgotten or anything. Daisy’s so looking forward to it … Hang on … What?’ There was a pause. The sound of a phone being muffled and the mumble of another female voice in the background. And then she was back. ‘Oh, and Anna says don’t forget to bring something to sleep in.’
Huh? What? Imogen jerked upright, the curiosity racing through her so powerful it could have killed a dozen cats.
‘OK, then, we’ll see you later. Bye, darling.’
Darling? Darling? Who on earth was Emily? Who was Daisy? And who the hell was the Anna who knew so much about what Jack wore or rather didn’t wear in bed? Were they all friends? Ex-girlfriends? Current girlfriends? Or—
Imogen bit her lip and slammed the brakes on her spinning imagination before she had Jack getting up to all kinds of dissolute and debauched antics. Her stomach could stop that churning and those little arrows of jealousy could get lost because she wasn’t bothered one little bit by what he got up to. She was only after his body, and even that on a highly temporary basis.
Nevertheless, it did hammer home how little she knew about him. For all she knew he might be into threesomes. Foursomes. Orgies. He might have fetishes, visit clubs and who knew what else?
With her body and brain on the point of overheating, Imogen let out a groan of frustration at her inability to control her wayward imagination. What with all this extra work it was having to cope with, it was a surprise it hadn’t short-circuited.
She threw back the sheet and swung her legs to the floor. It really was none of her business. Jack could get up to whatever he wanted to with whoever he wanted to. And as he clearly had plans for later, that might or might not involve three women and very little clothing, she ought to head off and leave him to it.
Besides, she reminded herself as she padded into the bathroom and flicked on the shower, she’d already jumped to a dozen erroneous conclusions where he was concerned and she was not going to jump to any more.
Of course, she’d never dream of asking, but there was bound to be some logical innocent explanation for why Jack had a woman ringing him up requesting he remembered his pyjamas when he came round later that night. Absolutely bound to be.
Jack strode through his flat, draped Imogen’s wrap on the back of the sofa and dumped the bag of pains au chocolat he’d picked up on the way back on the kitchen counter. It really was extraordinary, he thought. After the night—and morning—they’d had, he ought to be exhausted. At the very least be done with her for a while. But was he? It would appear not. He’d only been out for ten minutes but the image of her lying sprawled and sated in his bed had accompanied him all the way to the hotel and back, and every second he was away from her had felt like an hour. So no, it seemed he wasn’t done with her at all.
But
