She’d never experienced that before. It must be the famous orgasm magazines loved to rave about. Sinclair released a deep, shuddering groan and fell against her, gasping for breath. Then, without a pause, he rolled them both over until she was on top and held her there, his arms fast around her and his eyelids shut tight.
“Damn,” he said at last. “Damn.”
Two
Sinclair wrapped his arms tightly around his lovely companion. Her strawberry-blond hair fell across his face. Her pretty, pale blue eyes looked at him shyly behind long lashes. He kissed her mouth again, her lips so soft and wet.
The sense of relief was extraordinary. Apparently going through his second divorce could set a man way off balance. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed and at peace. He leaned forward and nuzzled her soft skin, with its pretty freckles. “You’re a miracle,” he whispered in her ear. Her cheek plumped against his as her lips formed a smile. The blissful weight of her body on his pushed him against the soft mattress, trapping him in the aftermath of such sweet pleasure.
He let out a long, deep sigh. Sometimes life could be so complicated, and you just needed to get back to basics. He let his fingers play in the silky red-gold hair waving softly about her cheeks.
“That was unexpected.” Her voice sounded like music.
“Yes.” His brain was too fogged for conversation. “And wonderful.”
“It was. Though I hope my pot roast is okay. I totally lost track of the time.”
Pot roast? Sinclair managed to find his wrist somewhere underneath her soft back and pulled it reluctantly out. “It’s nearly five.”
Sinclair’s muscles were tensing up all over. Five in the afternoon. Pot roast overcooking somewhere. Present-day reality crept, unwelcome, into his mind. This delicious sylph in his arms was not a pre-Raphaelite fantasy maiden come out of the mists to entertain him.
She was his longtime housekeeper, Annie Sullivan.
“What’s the matter?” Her soft voice filled with concern.
His stomach tightened as he lifted his arms from her. Had he really kissed her on the lips and pulled her into bed with him? His mind swam. He must have been in a psychosis of lust. His friends had warned him that going without sex for too long could do crazy things to a man’s brain.
And now he was naked, sweaty and breathless, weighed down by the unexpectedly curvaceous body of the woman who polished his silver.
His head crashed against the pillow. In a way this was very stereotypical. Just the kind of thing his unsavory ancestors probably did with their staff. Another damning proof that he was no better than all the lying, cheating, philandering Drummonds who came before him.
Annie had noticed his change of mood. She, too, had stiffened and now pulled away, moving off him and to the side, with the snowy matelassé coverlet wrapped around her. Sinclair tugged the sheet up over his exposed flesh.
It was his fault, of course. “I’m so sorry.”
Annie’s cheeks were stained with red. She tucked her tresses behind tiny pink ears. He burned with shame that he’d taken such a good woman to bed without, seemingly, a moment’s hesitation.
“Honestly, I’m not sure what came over me.” Still reeling, he sat up and held his head for a moment. Was he in the grip of madness? Perhaps the same tropical malady that kept his mother in a delirium for nearly a week?
Contraception. The grim thought stabbed at his already pounding brain. “I don’t suppose you’re … on the pill.” The unromantic utterance hung in the air like a poisonous cloud.
“Not the pill, but something similar. I won’t get pregnant.” Her silvery voice had shriveled to a tinkle. She climbed from the bed, back to him, still holding the coverlet about her naked body.
And what a body. He had no idea Annie was hiding such lush and inviting curves below her staid Oxford shirts and loose khakis. Desire snuck through him again, hot and unwelcome, and he pulled the sheet higher over his chest.
Annie had already tugged her rumpled shirt and khakis back on, and buttoned them with urgent fingers. He averted his eyes, cursing the demon of lust that had led him so badly astray. He’d better start exercising more regularly, and taking cold showers, to make sure nothing like this happened again. It was bad enough to be unprofessional in his own house, but what next, would he sleep with his administrative assistant, or the office receptionist?
A hushed curse escaped his lips, and Annie flinched. He startled, now aware that he’d added insult to injury. “I was cursing myself. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Me, neither,” she muttered, tucking her shirt in. She picked up the blue dress from the floor, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll hang this in the closet.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Her lush body once again hidden under her practical attire.
Sinclair drew in a slow breath. He had to get out of here and back to Manhattan—stat. Annie left the room and closed the door behind her. He climbed out of bed and pulled his clothes back on, still in a daze of confusion. As he reached for his shoes, he saw her ponytail holder where it lay on the floor. It must have fallen out of her hair, releasing her locks as they …
He shook his head. How could this happen? He prided himself on maintaining control in all aspects of his life. He glanced at the pile of dresses where they lay on a wooden armchair, the lush fabrics lifeless, so different from how that dress had looked draped over her sweet hourglass figure.
He hurled himself from the bed with another curse. Clearly he was in the grip of temporary insanity. He’d better bury himself in work and make sure neither his brain nor his body had time and energy enough for such foolishness.
He dragged his clothes on and exited the room. The hallway was silent, the wood floor shining in midmorning sun. Annie had tactfully disappeared, something she had a proven talent for doing. He also knew she would conveniently reappear if you happened to need her. She had almost magical qualities as a housekeeper.
Now he wished to hell that he didn’t know about all the other qualities she possessed. He’d much rather not have felt the velvet texture of her skin under his fingertips. He’d rest a lot easier not knowing that her breath tasted like honeysuckle, or that her eyes turned that particular shade of sea-foam blue when she was aroused.
Rarely did he pack anything when he came here for the weekend. He had a closet full of casual wear that he pulled from. All he needed was his wallet and keys, which he found in their usual place on his study desk. Pocketing them with relief he strode for the side door, where his car stood ready to drive him back—at high speed—to normalcy.
The screech of tires on gravel confirmed what Annie had hoped for and feared. Sinclair was gone. She leaned against her bedpost for a moment, letting the odd mix of emotions flow through her. Her body still hummed and throbbed with the sensations he’d unleashed only a few minutes earlier. She could still feel the urgent impression of his fingers on her skin as he drove her to unknown heights of pleasure.
She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight. Why? And why now? Everything had been going so smoothly. She’d set up a savings account and a budget and was socking money away at an impressive rate, with the goal of buying her own forever
