a little and closed her eye. “So now that we’ve amassed the troops, I’ll show you how to recreate this effect, and then we’ll amp it up so you can see how an eye shadow palette can take you from business meeting to nightclub, even when you’re away from home.”
She fell easily into the rhythm of her makeup routine, chatting confidently at the camera, noticing from the corner of her eye that she was just approaching the five-minute mark as she finished up with her mascara wand. Perfect. Her under-six-minute videos always seemed to pull more views than the longer ones.
“So that’s it.” Chloe angled her head to the side, closed her eyes, opened them and leaned toward the laptop screen. “A dramatic look for a night out, or if you’re like me, any given weekday. As always, if you have any questions, feel free to leave them in the comments. Thanks for watching. I’m Chloe and as I always say, ‘makeup, not war’. Until next time.”
Chloe clicked a few settings in the program, saved the video file, and set her laptop aside. Her weekly makeup tutorial was ready to post to her YouTube channel on Sunday night, as scheduled.
And she was ready for Ben.
* * *
BENSTOPPEDINfront of the door and liberated the key card from his pocket, taking a moment to notice that his Prada dress shoes had fallen victim to the weather. The snow and salt had left streaks on the usually-gleaming black leather. He’d need to clean them before the big meeting tomorrow. The day he’d bought them, the salesgirl at the Bellevue Neiman Marcus had oohed and aahed over them, assuring him they were top-of-the-line, as comfortable as they were stylish, but if he was being honest, he still preferred the beat-up Converse shoes he used to wear.
Dress for the job you want, he reminded himself. It would all be worth it when he was hanging out at his cabin. He might even enforce a strict Chucks or bare-feet-only policy there.
He unlocked the door and strode inside. “Chloe, they’re out of cots, so...”
He stopped. Blinked. Tried to process the delectable sight before him.
“That’s okay. I don’t think we’re going to need the cot, do you?”
“You’re not wearing pants.” It was an inane thing to say, but in his defense the blood was rushing away from his brain at an alarmingly fast rate.
Chloe’s laugh was low and sexy. “You’re a real charmer, Masterson, but your powers of observation are a little off,” she chided, glancing down at herself, “because I’m— Oh, shit!” When she looked back at him, his seductress was frowning. “I meant to take the T-shirt off before you got back.”
She reached for the hem and tugged her black shirt over her head, dropping it to the ground. Ben didn’t think he’d ever been as deeply in lust with someone as he was with this woman in her sexy black-satin lingerie and a serviceable pair of black socks.
He wasn’t sure if she’d awakened some weird sock fetish he’d never known he had, or if it was just damn adorable that she’d heeded his warning about cellulitis, but her brand of sensible sexuality had made him so hard it was a wonder his fly was still intact.
And that was before she walked over, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and kissed him like she’d been thinking about it at least as long as he had.
His arms came around her, pulling her closer. They both groaned at the full-body contact.
He kissed her again, licking into her mouth until he drew a sigh from her sweet pink lips. “You changed your makeup,” he said, and the pleased expression on her face made him glad he’d mentioned it.
“I’m surprised you noticed.”
“Well, in my defense, I’m a guy, so no pants trumps purple eye shadow every time. But that doesn’t mean I won’t get around to noticing how soft and pretty and touchable you look.” He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. “So different than the badass green and black from earlier.”
She tightened her grip on his neck, pulling him down for another kiss, and they were both panting when their lips parted again.
“I’ve wanted this since the moment we shook hands on the plane,” he confessed, kissing her jaw and running his fingers over smooth, warm skin and cool black satin.
“That’s pretty presumptuous, Masterson.” Despite her words, she tipped her head back so he could continue trailing kisses down her neck. He walked her backward to the bed.
“How is it presumptuous?”
“I just decided this was going to happen while I was in the shower. Sex definitely wasn’t on the table before that.”
“Sure it was,” he countered, placing her on the mattress. “Ask Spider.”
Chloe’s laugh was full and rich as she scooted up on the bed so she could recline on the pillows. “I can’t believe you just said that! I share my tragic past with you and you use it against me?”
He pulled off her socks. “Face it, Chloe. This was meant to be. The plane? The hotel mix-up? Fate’s practically begging us to have sex.”
Her smile was decadent. “I think you may have misunderstood the difference between fate and hormones.”
“No way. This is definitely fate.” Ben joined her on the bed. “I mean they don’t call it a layover for nothing.”
“Stop that,” she said with a breathy giggle that drove him wild. Ben was enchanted, no doubt about it. And very turned on. “Stop what?”
“Stop making me laugh.”
He kissed her collarbone. “Why?”
“Because one-night stands aren’t supposed to be funny, they’re supposed to be torrid and sexy and raw.”
“Oh, I can do torrid.”
* * *
COULDHEEVER.
His expression darkened seconds before he caught her mouth in a scorching, wet kiss that convinced her they were both wearing way too many clothes.
She reached for the buttons on his dress shirt, fumbling them open with lust-clumsy fingers. When she’d finally popped the last one, he rewarded her with a shift of his hips that brought their bodies into perfect alignment, and the pleasure that streaked through her made her gasp.
Damn he felt good. Hot and hard. Her fingers curled against his skin, and her hips bucked to get closer. He groaned, grinding harder against her, squeezing her breast with a large, warm hand. She wanted Ben, naked and panting, thrusting inside her until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t care less about her mother’s disappointment, or her sister’s wedding, or her exile in Chicago.
She felt alive. And sexy. And desperate for more.
She ran her palms across his beautiful shoulders and down his back. When she reached the waistband of his pants, she let her fingers follow the material around to his stomach and traced the reverse path, up his ridged abdomen and hair-roughened chest.
“Oh,
