than he’d realised, with a natural curl at the ends.
Sullivan wasn’t usually a dancer. It wasn’t that he couldn’t feel the beat of the music, it was just that he’d never felt the urge to rave in a dark disco. And he certainly hadn’t felt the urge to dance at all in the last few years.
But as the music changed to a slower song he sucked in a breath. Slow dancing he could do.
This was private. This was just him and her. No one watching. And he couldn’t watch Gabrielle much longer without touching. He moved more purposely, catching Gabrielle’s hand while she danced and pulling her against him.
‘I think the tempo’s changed.’
He could feel the curves of her breasts pressed against his chest. One of his hands lingered at the bare skin at her waist and it felt entirely natural for his fingers to gently stroke her soft skin.
She hadn’t spoken yet but as he kept his gaze fixed on hers, her pupils dilated, the blackness obliterating the dark chocolate of her irises. She reached one hand up to his shoulder. It was almost like a traditional dance position. The one a million couples dancing at weddings the world over would adopt.
‘You’re right,’ she said huskily, ‘the tempo has changed.’ She started to sway along to the music in his arms. It was easy for their bodies to move as one. What’s more, it seemed completely natural.
He couldn’t help the smile appearing on his face. He’d spent the last few days thinking of how it would feel to be in exactly this position. Her rose scent was winding its way around him. He slid his hand from her waist up the smooth skin on her back. She didn’t object. In fact, she responded, tugging at his T-shirt and moving both her hands onto his skin. He caught his breath at the feel of her soft hands. Gabrielle wasn’t shy. Both hands slid around to the front. She was smiling as she moved them up over his chest. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead on hers.
‘Not long until Paris,’ he whispered.
She glanced towards the opening of the tent. ‘I don’t know if I want to wait until Paris.’ The huskiness of her voice made the blood rush around his body.
He walked her backwards against the table, pressing her against it as his lips came into contact with hers. She tasted of chocolate. Of coffee. She responded instantly. Lips opening, matching his every move. His hands moved to her firm breasts, slipping under the wire of her bra and filling his hands.
She arched her back and he caught her unspoken message, moving his other hand to unclip her bra at the back and release her breasts more freely for his attention.
She pushed herself back onto the table, opening her legs and pulling him towards her, a little noise escaping from the back of her throat. She made a grab for his T-shirt, pulling it over his head.
He laid her back onto the table, concentrating his lips on the paler skin at her throat then around her ear. The little sigh she gave made his blood race even faster.
Then he felt her hands on his shoulders. She wasn’t pushing him away but her grip was firm. He eased back, connecting with her gaze and rapid breathing. At the base of her throat he could see a little flickering pulse.
‘Gabrielle?’ he groaned.
Her gaze was steady. ‘Four days,’ she whispered. ‘In four days, we can do this in Paris.’ Her head turned towards the tent entrance again, the flaps held back onto the dark night. It really was wide open to the world; any of the other camp members could appear at a moment’s notice.
He drew in a deep breath. She was right. He knew she was right. It didn’t matter that he’d be much happier if they could both just tear their clothes off now. For a few seconds he’d lost his normal professional demeanour.
They both had. Gabrielle was the lead professional on this mission. He had to remember that.
The spark between them had been building every day. Right now he felt as if the electricity they were generating could light up the Chrysler Building. There was something about this woman that got under his skin. Right from his first sight of her dancing around this very tent. It had been so long since he’d felt a connection like this that he was half-afraid if he closed his eyes for a second it would disappear. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.
Four days. He could put a lid on it for four days. He might even message a friend to ask for a recommendation for a more private Paris hotel than the one he usually bedded down in.
He stepped back. Keeping in contact with Gabrielle Cartier’s skin was a definite recipe for self-implosion.
He smiled. ‘Four days isn’t so long.’ He grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it over his head as he walked towards the tent flaps.
He turned as he reached the entrance and started walking backwards. He winked at her. ‘Watch out, Paris. Here we come.’
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