tight with the force of staying put. His breath see-sawed through flared nostrils, and his mouth pressed into a grim line as he lifted desperate eyes to hers once more.
She’d clearly decided he would comply, because with an aching slowness that tested every scrap of his substantial self-control she moved her hand between her legs, her fingers sliding into place over her clit.
A slug of lust punched him in the chest.
She gasped, her head falling back as if she was as close as him to slamming over the edge. She licked her lower lip, sultry eyes on him, and shifted, bent one leg up on the bed and braced the other on the floor, opening up the view to him.
His cock strained, begging for release. He gripped the armrests tighter, clinging to prevent himself from ripping open his fly and joining her in self-pleasure. But she’d told him to sit, to watch, and this was the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed.
His breathing, now perilously fast, echoed around the room.
She moved her hand slowly at first, tentatively, as if she’d forgotten the rhythm of pleasuring herself. Or perhaps she’d never done this before. Perhaps she was as blown away by her bold, uninhibited display as he was. Fuck. The thought of some other lucky bastard being treated to this show forced icy shards through his chest and he bit his tongue, the pain reminding him to stay seated when every nerve in his body relayed messages to his brain to move. To go to her.
As her fingers picked up speed he lost his grip on sanity, his stare darting wildly between her pleasure-drunk face and her frantically circling fingers. She dropped back on her elbow, the edges of her blouse slipping open, revealing more of the lacy concoction concealing her breasts.
He gritted his teeth. He resented her clothing now. It blocked what he instinctively knew would be a sublime body from his view. He made fists, the urge to tear the fabric from her curves so overwhelming his legs shifted, restless with inactivity.
Her whimpers drew his gaze to her face, but his eyes flew back between her legs in time to see her slide a finger inside herself before returning to her clit. He’d been right. She was soaked. The quiet noise of slippery skin on slippery skin echoed inside his skull and her scent, rich and erotic, reached his nostrils across the small space separating them.
He was losing it. His brain was shutting down. Not enough oxygen. Too much stimulation. Testosterone overload.
She stared at him, her moans growing increasingly erratic. Breath catching. Lips parting. Thighs jerking.
She was close.
He was done.
With a powerful lurch he flew from the chair, his whole body rejoicing, joining his addled mind until his head filled with triumphant screams. He fell to his knees between her thighs, his focus zeroed in on her sex.
He’d assumed she’d stop. That was her rule. But clearly she was as gone as him—well past the point of no return. Well past reason.
He looked up…a moment’s hesitation.
She whimpered. Gave a single nod. Desperation in her eyes.
Batting her still moving hand aside, he slammed his mouth over her slick folds with a grunt, glorying in the euphoria of touching her at last.
She yelled—a cry of ecstasy—twisting her fingers in his hair.
He groaned out his pent-up frustration. Her taste coated his lips, his tongue, the back of his throat. He located the hard, swollen nub of nerves, flicking wildly with the tip of his tongue before sucking down on her—hard.
He stared up from between her legs. Her head thrashed from side to side as she watched him, her cries growing louder, more primitive. He managed to push a single finger inside her tight warmth just before she exploded, her internal muscles a contracting wave around his finger and her thighs trembling against the sides of his face. He kept his mouth glued in place, wringing the last spasms from her, while the uneasy swirl of triumph and failure stole his high.
With a final gasp she twisted away, pushing at his head when only seconds ago she’d been pulling.
He released her, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and staggering to his feet. His cock was harder than ever. She lay on the bed, boneless, her beautiful face flushed with the aftermath of intense pleasure, but her eyes were wide and wary, as if she was uncertain what he’d do next.
Fuck. He’d failed. She’d set him a test and he’d bombed spectacularly. Now he wished she’d tied him to that chair—although he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t have torn the building down, trying to get to her. The sight of her had been too much for the mere mortal he’d proved to be.
He held out his hands, their fine tremors matching the adrenaline jitters pounding the rest of his body. For a second he thought she’d refuse. Tell him to get out. But she struggled into a sitting position, put her hands in his, allowing him to pull her up so that he stood between her knees where she sat on the edge of the bed, dishevelled and breathtaking.
Slowly, as though coaxing a frightened animal, he cupped her face. Her hair, still in its ponytail, was less than immaculate, with freed wisps clinging to her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had lost their unfocussed haze, and pleasure was draining away to be replaced by a wariness that shrank his balls.
This hadn’t been part of the game—wasn’t in the rulebook. He’d messed up.
He released a sigh—slow, controlled, careful not to expel all his frustration in one explosive blast. He bent over her, eyes fixed on hers, and placed a single, firm, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. The effort of withdrawing almost buckled his knees, but he dropped her face and stepped back.
She’d been perfect. Given him everything she’d said she would. Given him an experience that he’d remember on his deathbed. And he’d failed her. At the first hurdle.
Without a word he turned away, his back on fire, urging him to look at her again. But as the heavy hotel door closed behind him and he made his way to the lift on legs with the potential to let him down at any second, he congratulated himself. He might have fallen short, let her down. But he was damn proud of the hidden strength that allowed him to walk away.
LIBBY’S SCALP REBELLED. She’d pulled her hair into a severe braid this morning, as if an austere hairstyle might protect her from the reckless impulses of last night. Impulses that had not only had her agreeing to work with Alex Lancaster, but to stay in London for a week when she’d planned to be back in New York in two days.
Not to mention the crazy tit-for-tat deal they’d brokered—the one in which she’d pleasured herself in front of him, forced him to watch, and come so hard she was certain her heart had stopped for a beat.
She stepped from the elevator, the chafe of her stocking tops grazing her thighs, which were already embarrassingly slick.
She’d almost cancelled. Called his PA. Booked an earlier flight home. She wasn’t a coward, but the thought of what she’d done, of seeing Alex again in the cold light of day…
Whilst last night’s antics had blown her away with the best orgasm of her life, she’d be lying if she
