by Trish Morey
The rest of her he could make out just fine. She fitted him perfectly. Something told him she’d fit him everywhere perfectly. She moulded to his body as if she was made for it. The jut of her breasts, soft but firm against his chest, the dip to her waist and the flare of her hips. She was perfect.
His hands moved slowly over her back, exploring, taking inventory. He liked what he felt as she followed his swaying rhythm, her body curvy and sensual and just the way he liked them.
The only thing he hated was the mask she wore. He’d do away with that the first chance he got.
Besides, he wanted to see her eyes when she came.
He stiffened at the thought and the reality of his situation hit him like a brick. He wasn’t sure how the Romans had coped, but the thought of his costume betraying his desire on the dance floor in front of five hundred employees and their partners wasn’t appealing. He had to get them both out of here, now, while he could still think straight.
The music track had reached its climax. He was vaguely envious as it wound down to a slow refrain. There was no way he was winding down any time soon—unless this woman had something to do with it. And if he had any say she’d have everything to do with it!
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered, nibbling on her ear.
She felt too weak to respond, lost in the multitude of new and wonderful sensations she was being bombarded with.
Was this how seduction felt? Never before had she felt such liquid heat pooling inside her. This total absence of real thought, all mind function replaced by body function and totally concentrated on one thing, the fruition of one act. One utterly irresistible, inevitable act.
She wanted more of what he was doing to her, more of what he was making her feel. She wanted him.
This was new—to feel such intense longing and desire for any one man! Passion like she’d never before experienced. Bryce had never once made her feel like this in their entire two-year relationship. He’d always made her feel that lovemaking was an obligation.
What was happening now with Damien couldn’t be more different. Right now making love with Damien felt like her destiny. A destiny she felt powerless to deny.
With his hand at her back steering her towards an exit, she allowed him to propel her towards that destiny.
He swooped and opened a side door in her path, his other hand encouraging her through to the dimly lit hallway beyond. He pulled the door shut behind them and spun her against the wall in the same rapid-fire action.
Her back met the wall at the same instant his mouth meshed with hers.
Frantic.
Hungry.
His lips slanted over hers and a moment later he was inside, his tongue seeking hers. He tasted rich and real, of masculine heat and warm brandy, and she let herself go with the sensation, the ecstasy of him filling her mouth.
One hand found her breast and she gasped as his fingers grazed her nipple, searing through the light fabric.
The other dropped to her skirt and he filled his hand with the round of one perfect cheek. Her muscles tightened in response and he was rewarded by the push of her belly into his growing hardness.
He growled, long and low, at the building tension, the anticipation of its relief, and she squirmed under his hands.
His touch was a brand on her, exploring, pushing, urgent and hot. Need radiated inside her like a fire front, the flames spreading wider until every part of her was alight. The oxygen delivered by her rapid breaths fuelled the flames.
The door alongside swung open. Someone looked around, mumbling a quick apology before diving back into the auditorium. Damien pulled his mouth away giving a low soft curse. He grabbed her hand again. ‘Come on,’ he said.
She followed behind him down the corridor, senses reeling as he tugged her insistently along, then round a corner, up a flight of stairs and over a parquet floor. He stopped outside a pair of solid doors flanked with impressive brass framing. The boardroom. He pulled something from a pocket somewhere—a keycard—and shoved it through the slot. In the wooden surrounds and over the muted sounds of the revelry below the click echoed loud and long. And final.
She swallowed as logic fought for precedence in her mind. Once inside there was no turning back. No chance to change her mind.
But she had no intention of changing her mind. There was no way she didn’t want to follow this scene through to its logical conclusion. She’d come too far.
He pulled her into the room, though she hardly needed persuading. The door closed behind them and he turned the lock. They were alone, the room unlit but for the venetian blind dressed window sending slices of moonlight cascading across the sleek boardroom table.
Her eyes adjusted and in the gloom it was as if the years had peeled away and history itself was replaying.
Right now she was Cleopatra and he was her Mark Antony.
He reached out a hand to her face, touching her mask.
She flinched from his grasp and shook her head. ‘No!’ she whispered. She wouldn’t kid herself. He wouldn’t be doing this if he knew who she was. Only after, when it was too late for him to change his mind, only then would she let him take off her mask.
He would be angry, no doubt. Even worse, he would be disappointed. His fantasy would end right then and there. But she would have this memory to treasure for ever. And, no doubt, she would.
In the pale moonlight she saw the corner of his mouth lift. ‘All right, let’s do it your way. I have more urgent business first.’
His hands went to her waist and he lifted her easily to the table, pushing away the chairs to each side. He eased down the bodice of her gown, releasing her breasts to the air and his gaze. Her skin tightened, her nipples achingly firm.
He growled low and rough, and dropped his mouth to one pert peak. Her swift intake of breath pushed her breast further towards him; he filled his mouth with the flesh as his tongue traced the tip. He left that breast, focused on the second, delivering the same languid pleasure strokes with his tongue, his hands now at her legs, running her gown up her bare legs, spreading them as he forced himself between.
She clung to his head, her fingers raking through his hair, down his neck, exploring his wide shoulders, drinking in the width and strength of his back.
One hand rounded her thigh and against the fabric of her thong. The damp fabric of her thong. ‘Oh, God,’ he muttered as her head fell back, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration, the fabric no barrier to flesh already inflamed and exquisitely sensitised. She clawed at his costume, attempting to fill her own hands with the touch of his skin, frustrated that she could find no way in.
Suddenly he wheeled away, impatiently pulling at his garments, shucking off the shoulder gear and chest plate with a clatter and tearing off his tunic. He returned to her, naked but for his black underwear and his sandals, his skin gleaming in the soft moonlight.
She pulled him into her arms and relished the feel of the skin at his back, hot and slick with expectation and desire, as he continued his exploration, driving her crazy with need as he teased her with his fingers.
‘So beautiful,’ he murmured against her nipple. ‘And so wet.’ Those last words sounded as if they had been wrung from him. He lifted her slightly and removed her thong and with both hands he pulled her closer to the edge of the table. His underwear was no barrier to the hard bulge of his erection butting against her.
He was so big.
Anticipation kicked up a notch. She wanted him inside her. All of him. He pulled himself away fractionally, wrenching down his own underwear. And then he was free. Even in the dim light he looked magnificent, all pulsing energy with its own special rhythm. She reached down a hand, wanting to feel the power, to guide him to her, to share the dance.
She touched him, her fingers cupping him, entranced by the weight, the contrasts in the feel of him, rock-hard yet with skin like silk, so rigid yet pulsing, filled with life.
She closed her fingers around him and he gasped. This f
antasy woman would not escape him tonight. He had to have her. Had to feel her wrapped around him, hugging him tight inside, her muscles clamping around him in spasms when she came.
Her hand moved the length of him, her thumb flicking over his sensitive tip.
Oh, God!
Exit rational thought.
He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away as he scooped her yet closer, directing himself at the same time that he dropped his mouth on hers. His rapid action took her by surprise—her lips already open and forming a surprised ‘o’ even as he plundered her mouth with his. And then he brought her closer still, until her legs wrapped around behind him and her slick wetness welcomed him, urging him to drive himself home.
He didn’t need further invitation. With one smooth thrust he entered her, wrapping himself in liquid velvet. She cried out something indiscernible, but even muffled by his mouth over hers he recognised the same note of victory and ecstasy he’d felt in joining her.
She felt magnificent.
Slowly he withdrew, only to slam into her again, leaning into her and forcing her lower. Her hands went back to support herself and she threw her head back, gasping for air, her shiny fake hair falling back from her pale skin like the tide receding.
He loved the way it moved.
He loved the way she moved, especially when he was inside her.
He planted his mouth over her throat in the spot where her pulse flickered and jumped as he pumped into her again. She felt so good, so damned good, and as she squeezed her muscles around him and the pressure built inside he knew that though he wanted this feeling to last longer, for ever, there was no way he was going to be able to make it last.
No way on earth.
There was nothing he could do. Control ceased to exist. Then she bucked under him, her muscles tight and urgent, inflaming, drawing him deeper and deeper inside and he was lost.
He cried out, something harsh and guttural and triumphant as he emptied himself into her shuddering body, collecting her up and pulling her down on to him in a broad conference chair.
Oh, wow!
She hadn’t known what to expect but it sure hadn’t been such an all-consuming experience. Her body still hummed from their union, her pulse and breathing slowly settling back into a more normal routine.
He sprawled below her, cradling her, as her brain tried to kick back in.
But what had she done?
She took a few deep breaths, feeling her pulse quieten and trying to make sense of what had just happened.
She’d just made love with the boss. And not just any boss. She’d made love with Damien DeLuca.
What was more, they’d not used protection. Nothing. Hadn’t even stopped to think about it.
She must be mad. She’d thought she wasn’t the reckless type but one feeling of desire, one whiff of Damien being attracted to her, and logic had vanished from her mind. Completely and utterly.
She must be crazy.
And now she was cradled on top of him, Damien’s hand at her breast, caressing her, his naked body below already showing signs of recovery.
The languid feel of her muscles and limbs vanished as cold, hard truth replaced it. Without trying to touch him too much, she tried to angle herself off, tried to edge away. How was she going to explain what had happened? How could she ever face him again? Guilt and shame settled upon her like a shroud.
She had to get out of here. Before he discovered who she was. There was even a chance she might even lose her job over this—who knew how he might react?—and she couldn’t afford that, not with the prospect of expensive hospice care for her mother coming up some time soon.
She had to get out of here. Now.
‘What’s wrong?’
She glanced at the door and her pulse went into overdrive as an idea formed in her mind. With Damien naked, at least she had a running start. Her hand patted her throat. ‘Th…thirsty.’
‘I think I can fix that,’ he said easily, easing her from his lap gently.
She pulled up the bodice on her dress and reached down to retrieve her underwear.
‘Don’t bother putting that back on,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her on her already swollen lips. ‘We haven’t finished with each other yet. Not by a long shot.’
Still she clung to the scrap of material as if it was life-support while his words turned to a desire that curled deep within her.
He wanted her again.
She wished he hadn’t told her that. She didn’t want any regrets from this night—she had enough of those already. But the last thing she wanted was to lie by herself in bed during the long lonely nights ahead thinking about what pleasures she might have missed out on.
Naked, he turned and padded his way to a built-in cabinet along the narrowest wall. She watched him go in the pale light even as she edged closer to the door, his skin deliciously firm, his legs long and powerful, unwilling to tear her eyes away. He pulled open a door, exposing a bar fridge behind and hunkered down to look inside.
This was her chance!
She hit the door running, doing battle with the lock and finally wrenching it open. Behind her he shouted for her to stop but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn.
She raced over the parquet floor to the stairs as fast as she could, the heels on her sandals clattering and echoing in the dark-filled space, blood pumping so loudly it drowned out the curses ringing in her ears.
She was down the steps and halfway to the exit before she calmed to a brisk walk, heading purposefully for the safety of the night, ears straining over the music for anything that would signal less than a clean getaway. But behind her came no sound of pursuit, no hint of a chase.
She was going to make it. Euphoria replaced panic.
She was safe.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE was a mess of nerves.
On Monday morning Philly sat at her desk, responding to emails and organising herself for the day and the week ahead. Walking into the office had been hairy—everyone had been talking about the ball, laughing about the costumes and the night’s revelries.
She’d purposely avoided talk of the ball, hinting at a quiet night at home with her mother—and had waited with breath frozen in her lungs for someone to out her. If anyone had recognised her, this was it. But her colleagues just expressed their sympathies that she’d missed the event of the year and drifted away to talk amongst themselves. Even Sam just grunted and headed off for a meeting with Damien.
Thank heavens Sam had recovered from the flu—she didn’t fancy running into Damien DeLuca right now. She wasn’t at all sure how she would ever face him again.
At least now Sam was back from sick leave and holding the reins again and she could keep a low profile. Sam would certainly make sure of it.
She was mid-sentence in a response to a lengthy email when the phone rang. She propped the phone up to her ear, still typing, with her train of thought still focused on her detailed reply.
‘Ms Summers?’ Damien’s voice belted down the line faster than she could make her own greeting. Her body tensed on a shiver and the phone dropped from her shoulder, landing on the desk with a loud thunk. The noise snapped her out of her temporary paralysis and she grappled for the receiver. Why was Damien calling her?
Did he know? Had Sam recognised her after all and informed Damien of her identity?
‘What the— Ms Summers, is that you?’
‘S-sorry,’ she stammered. ‘The phone slipped.’
She heard something like an exasperated sigh and could imagine the rolling of eyes going on at the other end of the line.
‘Ms Summers, I need you in my office. Now.’
Philly clutched the phone. She wasn’t ready for this. How was she going to explain what had happened? How could she look him in the eye after what they’d done together, the intimacy they’d shared?
She was bound to get the sack over this. She didn’t deserve anything less. How was she going to explain that to her next prospective emplo
yer?
‘Are you still there?’
She swallowed. ‘I’ll be right up,’ she croaked.
He slapped the phone down, regarding it critically. What was her problem? He hoped he wasn’t making a big mistake over this.
He turned back to Sam, who was waiting anxiously in the chair opposite, scraping at his fingertips with his thumbnail and looking every inch a man insecure about his position in the world.
Right now Damien knew the feeling. He’d had it ever since the woman dressed as Cleopatra had abandoned him on Saturday night. No one had ever walked out on Damien DeLuca before—that was bad enough. But right now there was a woman out there who’d done even more than that—she’d run out on him and he didn’t even have a clue who she was.
It had only taken him a few seconds to throw his costume back on but by the time he’d done that and raced downstairs there’d been no sign of her anywhere. She’d been swallowed up by the night.
What was her game?
Why had she run away like that? Why had she panicked? She’d had plenty of opportunity to change her mind if she’d so wanted—and she hadn’t wanted—that much was patently clear. On the contrary, she’d been perfectly willing all the way—perfectly accommodating—perfectly inviting.
A perfect fit.
He’d been cheated of exploring that knowledge further. He’d been cheated of seeing how far they could take each other. He’d been cheated of seeing her eyes…
Could it be that she’d recognised him? Was that what had scared her off? Suddenly afraid of being with the company founder and CEO she’d fled? But she hadn’t seemed that obtuse—surely she would have realised when he’d been called away suddenly by Enid, if not before, of his true identity? So why would she suddenly panic later on?
He didn’t like it one bit—the prospect of her knowing his identity when he had no idea who she was or where to start looking for her. He studied the man sitting nervously opposite him.