by Romy Sommer
She pulls away to look me in the eye. “If that’s your way of telling me you’re not going to
stick around until morning, then I already know.”
“And you don’t mind?”
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She presses her lips together as if thinking about it. “This is nothing more than chemistry,”
she says at last. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
My chest pulls tight, but I ignore the feeling. “Do you think anyone will notice if we leave the party early?”
“Probably.”
“But we’re going to do it anyway?”
“Of course.”
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Chapter Twenty-Two
Khara
He doesn’t lead me up to the guest wing as I expected. Adam snags a bottle of champagne and
two glasses from a passing waiter, and leads me out onto the terrace.
It’s a balmy evening, the air thick and heavy with the scents of summer, fresh-mown grass
and gently dying flowers. The air fills my lungs and clears my head, but I feel no less intoxicated, though I’ve stuck to virgin cocktails all night.
“I’m not having sex with you out here,” I object, pulling him to a stop.
“No, you’re not. But if I take you to bed right now, this night is going to be over way too
soon.”
That’s almost romantic. Then he grins, that same arrogant smirk I used to want to slap off his face. “I want to make out with you for a while before I make love to you.”
Make love. Not have sex.
But they’re just words. They don’t mean anything.
I let him pull me along, down the wide steps and onto the broad gravel path that leads through the water gardens. The gravel is rough beneath my bare feet, grounding me. But at least I’m not in two inch heels.
The gardens are closed to the public now, and there isn’t another soul around. It’s as if this magical fairyland has been lit up just for us. Fairy lights twinkle along the paths, and the blue
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fountain lights illuminate the jets of water surrounding the stone dragon. Adam doesn’t need to tell me where we’re going. We hurry down the avenue of fountains, which is dark and shadowy, the
sound of splashing water loud in the still night air.
When we near the secret garden, the one with the grotto, we see the bobbing flashlight of a
patrolling security guard up ahead. Adam pulls me back behind a tree, pressing me up against the rough bark until the light weaves away past us. Then we step back onto the path.
We climb the fence, Adam catching me just as he did the first time, then we dash through the
waterfall and into the grotto. The cold water is refreshing after the oppressive heat of the warm night. We shake off the droplets, laughing breathlessly.
It’s dark inside the cave, the only illumination a murky green light from the fountain beyond
the curtain of water. I sit on the floor, my legs stretched out in front of me, and Adam sits beside me. I can’t see much more of him than an outline. His body is like a beacon to me in the dark, radiating heat. Or maybe that heat is coming from inside me, pulling me toward him.
He opens the champagne, the popping cork sounding like an explosion in the cave, then pours
the frothing champagne into the glasses, and hands me one.
I raise the glass to my lips and sip. The champagne is dark, with a taste that’s fruity and
smoky. “What is this?”
“Bollinger. Made from black grapes.”
I empty my glass, and set it carefully aside, then, casting aside every last excuse I’ve ever
come up with to convince myself that this shouldn’t happen, I straddle his lap, cup his face, and lean forward to kiss him. I don’t need to see to know where to find his mouth. It’s as if his face is imprinted in my brain.
It’s even better without light, because I can concentrate on the glide of his lips over mine, the pressure of his hands against my lower back, the taste of the Bollinger on his lips, and his delicious, unique scent. His tongue licks over my lips, urging my mouth open to deepen the kiss.
My hands are on his chest, on those same pecs I first touched right here in this grotto. But this
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time they’re hungry, roving, undoing the buttons on his waistcoat, pulling on his shirt to free it from his pants, then sliding up and under the soft fabric.
His skin is hot and smooth and solid. As my hands slide higher, they hit the roughness of a
dusting of chest hair, and then a rigid nipple. I tweak it ever so slightly with my fingers, and he moans into my mouth.
“I feel like you’re objectifying me,” he whispers.
“Of course I am. It’s only fair turnabout for all the times you’ve ogled my breasts.”
“And don’t forget your legs. And this gorgeous arse.” His hands move lower, and I giggle.
He nibbles at the corner of my mouth, and I sigh, opening up to him.
His hands rock me closer, his erection hard against the apex of my thighs, and it’s my turn to moan. The friction feels so unbelievably good, and I’m already wet and needy.
The kiss could last five minutes, or it could last an hour. I lose all sense of time. I could do this forever, lose myself in him, because Oh. My. God. This is the best kiss I’ve ever experienced, and I never want it to end. It’s long and slow and passionate and teasing.
Our hands explore each other, and he nuzzles my breasts through the silky fabric of my dress
until I’m a writhing mess of desire. I rock against him until he stops me with his strong hands. “I’m going to come in my trousers like a horny teenager if you keep doing that,” he groans. “And I don’t want this to end just yet. I want to be inside you when I come.”
#
We take the Bollinger and the champagne glasses back with us into the palace, though I
suspect it’s going to be flat before we get around to drinking the rest of it. The ball is still in full swing, with loud music pumping from the ballroom. There are at least two other couples in the
gardens now, in the shadows, and they’re just as careful to avoid being seen and recognized as we are. Adam leads me in through a side door and up a narrow flight of stairs I’ve never seen before.
“The servants’ staircase,” he explains. It opens into the corridor close to my room. I swear
when we reach the door to my room. My key is in the tiny purse I left downstairs at the coat check.
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Adam reaches into the pocket of his pants. It’s so unfair that his wedding suit has pockets.
“You have a key for my room?”
“No, I have a key for my room. But the locks in this palace are ancient, and one key pretty
much opens all the doors in this wing.”
I don’t want to know how he found that out.
He unlocks the door, and we slip inside, tearing off one another’s clothes as we stumble
toward the bed across the moonlit room. We leave a trail from the door to the bed: his shoes and socks, his waistcoat, his shirt.
It’s only when he’s pulling my dress over my head that I remember what I’m wearing
underneath, and it’s not pretty.
Do you know how to make a curvy figure look good in a clingy silk bridesmaid dress? Spanx.
I’m about to get naked with the hottest man I’ve ever been with, and I’m wearing Spanx.
It’s Adam’s turn to swear and I don’t blame him. They’re a bitch to get out of. We squirm and
wriggle together on the bed in the most decidedly unsexy way to get the damn things off. We lie side-by-side; I’m breathless and Adam’s chest is heaving.
“Don’t you dare laugh!” I warn.
He presses his lips together, but doesn’t m
anage to hold it in. His laughter is infectious, and I bury my face in his bare shoulder, trying to stop the laughter that bubbles up. He wipes my crazy hair away from my face, and gently cups my cheek. My laughter dies, replaced by something else, something far more primal.
This time, his kiss isn’t slow. It’s wild and furious. And while we kiss, his clever fingers
unhook my bra and pull it off me. I’m completely naked to him now, and I wait for that moment of insecurity to kick in, but it doesn’t come. My hands are on his belt, fumbling to get it undone, then the button on his pants.
“Screw this,” he says, placing his hands over mine. He rips the button, yanks at the zipper,
then I help him slide the pants down his thighs. My breath catches.
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I’ve always been attracted to jocks, to athletic builds and broad shoulders, but Adam’s body is by far the most heart-stoppingly gorgeous I’ve ever seen. All lean, solid muscle. I glide my palms down over his bare chest, his torso, over those washboard abs, taking my time to admire and
explore, to commit every plane and angle of his body to memory.
His erection is tall and straight, flat against his stomach, the silky skin stretched, veins
throbbing. Oh my word. I wrap my fingers around him and, slowly, I glide my hand up and down
his length. He drops his head, his eyes closed.
Then he shakes his head. “Not now.” His voice is rough. “Later.”
He flips me onto my back, and moves to kneel between my legs. It’s his turn to explore, his
hands roving over my body, taking his time until I’m nothing more than molten need, wet and
hungry and desperate for him.
His fingers trace taunting patterns across my skin, and I want to hurry him up, want to grab
his hand and move it between my legs so I can have relief from this torment, but I don’t. If all I have with him is this one night, then I want to make it last.
Finally his fingers dip between my thighs, circling excruciatingly slowly around my clit until I can’t bear the torture another moment. I throw my head back, close my eyes, give myself over to the sensations coursing through me.
It’s both a shock and a relief when he dips his head between my thighs and places his mouth
on me. Every single part of my body is focused on that tiny spot where his tongue flicks over me.
Then his fingers are inside me.
I have never known pleasure so exquisite. My entire body has become one massive erogenous
zone, the scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, his tongue, his expert fingers.
I come apart as spasms jerk through me, and I cry out his name, over and over.
He slides back up my body, feathering my skin with kisses, circling his tongue around my taut
nipples, nibbling my neck. My body wants more, so much more.
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For someone as self-centered as I’ve always believed Adam to be, he’s a very considerate lover.
Every part of my body feels alive from his touch.
As the shockwaves ease, I open my eyes. His gaze holds mine. His pupils are so dilated his
eyes seem to have no color. They’re burning, fierce, alight with all the passion I’ve always sensed in him, those pent-up emotions he hides beneath that cool, detached exterior.
I draw in a shuddering breath.
“I don’t have a condom,” I say apologetically, because without protection this can’t go the
way we both clearly want it to go. But he leans over towards his discarded pants and a moment later he raises his hand in triumph. Not just one condom, but four.
Pockets. Right.
“You come well prepared.”
With a sideways grin, he tears one open, and stretches to lay the remaining three on the
nightstand, while I unroll the precious latex over him until he’s sheathed.
Then he rolls over me, his weight heavy between my legs, and he rocks against me.
“Are you sure you want this?” he asks.
“Do you have to ask?”
“Yes, I do.”
His gaze holds mine, his eyes so dark and intense that I can read nothing in them but need.
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want you inside me. Deep inside me. Now.”
And he obliges. With his arms on either side of my head, holding his weight off me, he
presses his erection against my entrance, still sensitive from my orgasm. He nudges tentatively against me, and I raise my hips to meet him. He slides in, devastatingly slowly at first, a fraction of an inch at a time, filling me, waiting for me to accommodate his size, until he’s buried deep. I close my eyes on a whimper.
“Look at me,” he demands, and I force my eyes open.
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He holds my gaze, unblinking, as he pulls out, then slides back in, moving harder and faster
until we’re both panting, both desperate. My hands claw at his shoulders, his back, trying to drag him closer, deeper. We rock together, sliding, slick, frantic, and all my inner muscles clench around him. His body stiffens, his back arches, and then he comes inside me, and my own climax grabs
hold and I can see nothing, feel nothing, but that place where our bodies are joined, the
overwhelming sensation of pleasure that tears at me, turning me inside out.
When we’re both spent, he rolls away off the bed to discard the spent condom. I pull down the
rumpled bedsheets and slide under them, stretching luxuriously, feeling every inch of my body as if feeling it for the first time.
So that’s it. The best moment of my life and the worst. Because now he’ll leave. This is all
over.
But then the bed beside me dips, and Adam slides under the covers beside me. He pulls the
sheets up over us, and rolls up against me, his chest against my back, his hand slack on my naked breast.
For one long moment, my body pulls tight with tension. This can’t happen. It shouldn’t
happen. If he stays, I can’t convince myself this is nothing more than sex. But the chemistry is overpowering. It dulls my brain, won’t let me think. My body relaxes against his and my eyes drop closed.
These hormones are really good drugs. But what will I do when the high wears off?
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Chapter Twenty-Three
Adam
I roll over, into a cold patch on the bed, and my eyes slowly open. This isn’t my room. My room is wallpapered with thin blue stripes, not broad green ones. Then the night before - or rather, the morning before - comes flooding back, and I grin and stretch.
It’s hard to tell what time it is, as the sky outside the tall windows is a leaden gray, heavy, dark, and threatening a storm. Not unexpected after the last few days of oppressive heat. But it’s definitely daylight outside the windows, and I am still here, in a woman’s bed, and I feel no desire to run.
The bathroom door opens and, probably still wearing the goofy grin, I turn to look at Khara.
Her face is clear of make-up, her hair is pulled back into a bushy ponytail, and she’s wearing olive green jeans and a loose beige pullover with a wide neck that leaves one shoulder bare. Is she aware she has a hickey on her neck?
“Oh good, you’re awake.” She fetches a mug from the coffee station and brings it over to
the bed. “I made you coffee. It’s only instant, though, since I don’t have a fancy coffee press.”
I take the coffee she holds out, and sip it gingerly. It’s still scalding hot, but it manages to clear a little of the sleep fog in my brain.
Khara moves to the wardrobe and rummages around until she finds a plaid scarf to wrap
around her neck. Clearly she does know.
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Then she turns to me. “You need to
leave now.”
What?
“It’s morning, and you don’t stay until morning, remember?” she says pointedly.
Sure, that’s the reason I lead us to her room last night and not my own, so that I could make
my usual quick exit rather than having to kick her out of my bed in the middle of the night. But instead, I’m the one being kicked out. That’s a first for me, and I don’t think I like it very much.
Even more of a revelation: I don’t want this to end. Not by a long shot.
“Maybe I’m changing my mind about mornings.” I lean back against the pillows and pat the
bed beside me in invitation. “If I recall correctly, we still have one condom left.”
She sets her hands on her hips. “The bridesmaid is no longer on the menu.”
There’s that stir of an echo again, but I still can’t grab onto the memory. Probably because
I’m too busy trying to process what’s happening in the here and now. I run my hand through my
hair. “So you’ve scratched an itch and now it’s over?”
Is this how every woman I’ve ever walked out on in the middle of the night feels? No
wonder everyone thinks I’m a bastard.
She smiles. I recognise it as her fake smile, an expression she probably perfected on
customers just like me. It may look sweet and innocent, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Last night was fun, but it’s over.”
That’s usually my line. How the hell did things get so turned around?
I fling back the sheets and slide off the bed, striding towards her. She holds her ground,
keeps her chin high, but I know her ‘tells’ now: that slight hiccup in her breathing, the way her eyes dilate as I draw nearer, the intense way she focuses on my face so her eyes aren’t tempted to drop to my naked body…
“But that itch is still there, isn’t it?” My voice comes out low and rough, because her