“I know you’re telling me you haven’t changed your mind about wanting to spend the night with me. Inside me,” she added, on a soft, almost hushed rush of breath.
“And have you changed yours?”
From the moment you called me your moon.
The truth reverberated against her skull, but she clenched her jaw, preventing it from escaping. Her defenses had started crumbling long before he’d come looking for her.
Did this make her a cliché? He wasn’t the first man to profess he wanted her, but he was the first she longed to touch with a need that unnerved her. She’d never yearned for a man’s hands on her body as much as she longed for Gideon Knight’s big, elegant, long-fingered ones stroking over her breasts. Or gripping her hips, holding her steady for a deep, hot possession that had her sex spasming in anticipation...in preparation.
She exhaled a breath. Right, he still waited for her answer, and she suspected he wouldn’t make a move, wouldn’t feather another of those caresses over her until she gave it to him.
“Yes,” she confessed, her heart thudding heavily against her rib cage.
“About what, Camille?” he pressed, relentless. “What have you decided? What do you want?”
He wasn’t granting her a reprieve; he was making her say it. Making her lay herself bare.
Her sense of self-preservation launched a last-ditch effort to save her from who she’d become in the dark. Who she’d become in that ballroom. But desire crushed it, and she willingly surrendered to the irresistible lure of freedom...of him.
“You,” she whispered. “I’ve decided on you.”
She slid across the small space separating them and located his face. A soft groan rolled up her throat, and she didn’t even try and trap it. Not when she curved her hand around the strong jut of his jaw, the faintest bristles of what would become a five o’clock shadow abrading her palm. Unable to stop, she stroked the pad of her thumb over the mouth she had been craving since she first noticed him.
Strong teeth sank into the flesh of her thumb, not hurting her but exerting enough pressure that she gasped. Then whimpered.
How had she gone twenty-five years without being aware that spot connected to her sex? That it would make her thighs clench on an ache so sweet, it maddened her?
Another gasp broke free of her, this one of surprise, as his fingers closed around her arms and abruptly dragged her to her feet. She swayed, but he didn’t release her until she steadied. Then the sudden flare of light from his cell phone startled her again. After the dark, the pale glow seemed almost too bright. She blinked, glancing from the screen to the shadows it cast over Gideon’s face.
“Why...” She waved toward the phone. “What about saving the battery?”
He shook his head, his features sharper, appearing to be hewn from flint. Except for those glittering, almost fevered eyes. Oh wow... Such intensity and...and greed there. It stirred her own hunger, stoking the fire inside her until she burned with it.
“I don’t give a damn. I need to see you,” he growled, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it to the floor. Still controlled, but the movement carried an edge. And it thrilled her. “Take off your shirt, Camille. Show me what you’ve decided I can have.”
With trembling fingers, she reached for the buttons of her white shirt. It required several attempts, but she managed to open it, and with his black gaze fixed on her, slipped it off. Warm air kissed her bared shoulders, the tops of her breasts and stomach.
A part of her argued that she should feel at least a modicum of modesty, and maybe Shay would. But not Camille.
As crazy as it seemed, here, with Gideon, she had become a different person. The flip side of the same coin. Normally reserved, bound by expectations and family. But now... uninhibited, free to indulge in her own selfish desires.
“Gorgeous,” he rasped. “So fucking gorgeous. Come here.” He beckoned.
His almost growled compliment stole more of her breath.
“Your turn,” she ordered, remaining in place, although her fingers already prickled to stroke the skin and muscle hidden beneath the thin veneer of civility presented by his tuxedo. “Show me what you promised me I can take.”
His fingers tightened around the edges of his shirt, and for a moment, she feared—hoped—he would just rip it off. But once more, that control reemerged, and he removed his cuff links, tossing them carelessly on top of his jacket. Then, button by button, he revealed himself to her.
She stared at the male animal before her. Miles and miles of smooth flesh stretched taut over tight muscle and tendon. Wide shoulders, a deep chest. Narrowed waist. A corrugated ladder of abs. A thin, silky line of hair started just above a shadowed navel and traveled below, disappearing into the waistband of his suit pants. And darker swirls and shapes she couldn’t make out spread over the left side of his ribs, emphasizing the hint of wildness, of fierceness he couldn’t quite conceal.
Perfection.
He was utter perfection.
This time, he didn’t need to demand she come to him. Shay covered the distance on her own, arms already extended. With a hum of pleasure, she settled her palms on him, smoothed them up to his shoulders, pushing the shirt down his arms. Then she returned to her exploration. Scraping her nails over small, flat nipples, mapping the thin network of veins under his skin, following the path of hair that started midchest. Dragging her fingertips down the delineated ridge of muscles covering his stomach. Tracing the black lines of his tattoo, wishing she could aim more light on it so she could decipher its shape.
He stood still, letting her tour him without interference, though he fairly hummed with intensity, with barely leashed power.
“Are you finished yet?” he growled, and she tilted her head back to meet his hooded gaze, her fingers settling on the band of his pants.
“Not even close,” she breathed. “Kiss me.”
Someone with his extraordinary sense of restraint most likely didn’t take or obey orders from anyone. But with a flash in those eyes, he gripped the bun at the back of her head and tugged. She gave only a brief thought to the security of the wig before her neck arched. The next breath she took was his.
Her groan was ragged and so needy it should’ve embarrassed her. Maybe it would tomorrow in the harsh light of day. But tonight, with his tongue twisting and tangling with hers, she couldn’t care. Not when he tasted like everything delicious but forbidden—chocolate-flavored wine, New York cheesecake, impropriety and wickedness. Not when he nipped at her bottom lip, then sucked it, soothing and enhancing the sting before returning to devour her mouth. As if she, too, was something he knew he shouldn’t have but couldn’t resist.
He lifted his head, taking that lovely mouth with him, and she cried out in disappointment. But he shushed her with hard, stinging kisses to the corner of her lips, along the line of her jaw, down her chin and neck...over the tops of her breasts. In seconds, he stripped her of her bra, baring her to him. His big hands lifted, cupping her, molding her to him. To his pleasure. And hers.
She grasped his shoulders, clung to him, her
