“Excuse me,” she said, shooting to her feet.
She needed a few seconds of privacy to get her head on straight. It was either that, or give in to the urge to lunge across the table and slap Martin’s face. She offered a polite smile to her hosts, then headed for the door.
She wasn’t sure what made her look back over her shoulder as she left the room. Some sixth sense, perhaps. Whatever the reason, she did, and she found herself locking gazes with Martin as he glanced over his shoulder at her, clearly watching her exit from the room.
She expected to see disgust or condemnation or anger in his face. Or, at best, relief that she was leaving, albeit only temporarily. What she wasn’t expecting was hunger and heat and need. His stormy gaze drilled into hers, burning with sexual, carnivorous intent.
Undeniable. Thrilling.
Oh, wow.
Her breath got caught in her throat. Her shoulder brushed the door frame and she whipped her head to the front to avoid walking into the wall. She walked to the bathroom on legs that felt like jelly.
Martin didn’t hate her. He didn’t regret what had happened between them.
Not by a long shot.
He wanted her. Badly.
So badly he didn’t trust himself to make eye contact with her.
It was a revelation that sent her heart racing. By the time she shut the bathroom door behind her, her face was hot, her armpits damp, her breath a little short. She leaned against the closed door, trying to stem the wave of shameless arousal washing through her.
Martin wanted her. He’d been thinking about her, too. He’d been going over and over what had happened between them. Thinking about the way it had felt when he’d pushed her underwear aside and slid inside her.
He wanted to do it again, too. She knew it without him saying a word. Knew that if he could, he would have followed her in here right now and fucked her against the wall.
Her sex pulsed at the thought. She slid a hand down her belly, cupping her mound through the soft fabric of her flowing primrose skirt. She could feel the damp heat building there, and when she pressed her fingers lightly into her sensitized flesh, electric desire raced through her body.
Imagine if he had followed her in here. Imagine how it would feel to kiss him and touch him and fuck him again.
She swallowed loudly, her breathing ragged. For a second she was tempted to lift her skirt and slip her hand inside her panties and finish what Martin’s look had started, she was that turned on.
But that would be akin to having dessert before she’d finished her supper—and she’d always believed that anticipation was nine-tenths of pleasure.
Instead, she lifted her skirt and slid her panties down her legs. They folded into a small, discreet silk parcel, no more substantial than a ladies’ handkerchief. She studied herself in the mirror, recognizing the dangerous, reckless, excited glint in her eyes.
Was she really going to do this?
The woman in the mirror stared back at her, aroused, defiant. A small, secretive smile curved her mouth.
Well, then.
Taking a deep breath, Violet left the bathroom.
Chapter Six
Martin took a swallow from his wine glass. He had no idea what it was—cab sav, syrah, pinot noir. He simply needed something to distract him from the painful hardness of his cock. He’d been hard, more or less, from the second Violet arrived. One look at her creamy, elegant neck and deep pink lips and small, round breasts and he’d been gone, gone, gone, and no matter what he did—ignore her, avoid her, talk legislative amendments with Perry—he couldn’t get his unruly mind or cock to stop obsessing over her.
It wasn’t as though either organ needed the practice. He’d thought about Violet pretty much every day since he’d thrown her onto the couch and had his way with her. Not voluntarily, mind. But she had a way of sneaking beneath his defenses. One minute he’d be, say, shaving, getting ready to head in to work for the day, the next he’d be lost in memories of that night, a burgeoning hard-on tenting his underwear. Humiliating as it was to admit, he’d given up resisting the lure of those memories after the first week. Violet had been so hot, the sex too good for him to wipe it from his mind. Never had he spent so much time in the shower, alternating between trying to rid himself of a hard-on and giving in to need and taking himself in hand. He’d had more solitary orgasms with Violet’s name on them in the past month than he cared to count.
And now she was sitting opposite him. Or she would be when she returned from the bathroom in that clingy, flowing yellow dress that cupped her breasts and ass like an embrace.
God help him.
He shifted in his seat, surreptitiously trying to adjust himself. How long could a man stay hard? An hour? Two? At what point did desire simply burn itself out?
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he knew Violet had returned to the dining room. The urge to turn and watch her walk toward her seat was so strong he clenched his hands around his cutlery. He wasn’t going to ogle her like some desperate teen lothario. He was going to retain some semblance of dignity, even if the lower half of his body had given up the battle long ago.
Still, he was aware of the soft swish of her skirt as she entered. She had to pass him to round the end of the table and reach her own seat. He inhaled, searching for a hint of her perfume. He could still remember the faint trace he’d licked from her skin that night...
“Here. You’ve dropped your napkin,” her voice said behind him.
His hand automatically went to his lap, searching for the square of starched linen that had hidden many sins for the past half hour, even as he half turned toward Violet. His fingers encounter stiff fabric in his lap—his napkin, not lost at all—as Violet bent down and lifted something from the floor. Before he had a chance to register what she was doing, she leaned close. He expected her to hand over an errant napkin that someone else had clearly misplaced, but instead he felt her hand slip into the pocket of his suit jacket.
A split second and the encounter was over, the whole maneuver so casual, so subtle that he was almost certain that no one at the table understood what had just happened.
“Thanks,” he said as she moved away, his voice sounding surprisingly normal.
His gaze followed her as she rounded the table and sat opposite him again, but every cell in his being was focussed on what she’d slipped into his pocket.
A note?
Her number?
He was desperate to find out, but also aware that he would give the game away if he suddenly started patting his pockets down.
So he waited. He watched as Violet settled back into her seat, exclaiming over how prettily presented their meal was, making a comment to Bronwyn about how much she loved asparagus. Conversation swirled around him as he watched her, waiting for her to lift her gaze to his.
Finally, after a torturous few minutes, she glanced across the table. Her amber eyes were dramatically smokey with eyeshadow, her lashes long and dark. The glint in their depths was pure provocation. His cock surged between his legs and he understood that she’d read his need when she’d caught him watching her leave the room.
Eyes still locked with hers, he slid his hand into his pocket.
Silky fabric caressed his fingers. His heart stuttered in his chest.
Dear God, she’d slipped her underwear into his pocket.
His hand clenched around whisper-soft silk and lace. He forgot to breathe for a minute as the implications of his discovery rippled through him. If he had her underwear, it meant she was naked beneath her flowing yellow dress. Right now, right this minute, sitting not four feet away from him.
He didn’t think it was possible for him to get any harder, but he did. He shifted in his seat again, sweat breaking out on his brow.
This was torture, pure torture—and he’d never been more turned on in his life. He loosened his grip on her underwear, rubbing the soft fabric between thumb and forefinger, eyes still locked with hers. He felt a trace of
dampness and swallowed a groan. The need to lift his hand to his face and inhale her scent was primal, almost undeniable.
He cleared his throat and drew his hand free. Across the table, Violet’s gaze dropped demurely to her plate. Somehow, he managed to regain control of his thundering heart. Breathing out slowly through his nose, he lifted his glass and took another mouthful of wine and began to plan his exit strategy.
Over the next hour and a half, he and Violet played a secretive game of hot glances and subtle gestures. She fingered the stem of her wine glass, then touched the neckline of her dress. He slid his hand into his pocket and felt the silk of her underwear and wouldn’t let her look away. She sucked on the tip of an asparagus spear. He licked cream off a bright red raspberry.
Finally the dessert plates had been removed and coffees offered. Martin took advantage of the general hubbub to slip away from the table. Fortunately his jacket covered the evidence of his arousal, but he took the precaution of collecting his overcoat from the master bedroom before heading back into the dining room to take his leave.
“You’re not going already!” Bronwyn exclaimed when she saw him in his coat.
“I’m heading North first thing tomorrow. Early start,” Martin lied.
As excuses went, it was pretty thin, but Bronwyn’s cheeks were rosy from drink and she wasn’t about to cross-examine him.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Perry said, rising from the table.
Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw Violet push back her chair as he and Perry exited the room. He struggled to concentrate on what his friend was saying as they parted ways at the door—something about playing squash soon, maybe catching up for a drink if Martin wanted to talk. It wasn’t until he’d exited the building that Martin understood that Perry had been referring oh-so-politely and obliquely to Elizabeth and their broken engagement.
In his own reserved, very proper way, Perry was letting him know that if he needed to download, he was there. Decent of him, but Martin had precious little to say about Elizabeth. In the month since she’d called off the wedding, he’d been surprised by how little she’d been in his thoughts. There had been a certain embarrassment around the initial announcement, some annoyance regarding cancellations and whatnot and there was a new restraint between him and Edward, but he hadn’t been lying awake at night, brooding over the wrongs done to him or how much he missed Elizabeth.
The only woman he’d been brooding over was Violet—if one could call ferocious fantasizing and self-gratification brooding. He was more inclined to see it as a compulsive obsession. One he’d been sure he would never satisfy—until Violet had slipped her panties into his pocket.
The door opened behind him and he turned to watch as Violet stepped out into the street. Now that they were alone, her gaze was more skittish, less bold as it met his. As though she wasn’t quite sure what the next step was now that they were no longer playing a game.
He knew. God, did he know.
“My car’s this way,” he said, gesturing with his head.
He didn’t dare take her arm or touch her. He didn’t trust himself. As it was, he was going to be pushing it to walk half a block beside her without shoving her against the nearest flat surface and taking her.
Her heels clicked on the pavement as they walked side by side. Her hands were deep in her pockets, her chin tucked into the collar of her coat. Her dark red hair swung down her back.
He wanted her so badly he ached.
He’d parked in the mews behind Bron and Perry’s place, a secluded, dark space. The flash of his car lights as he unlocked his car remotely was almost blinding.
He glanced across at Violet, about to ask if she preferred her place or his, but she was already pushing the top button of her coat free. Without saying a word, she slid it off her shoulders, then opened the rear door of the Jag and stepped inside.
Jesus. She was so fucking hot.
He yanked his own coat free, tossing it onto the car floor, then followed it with his suit jacket. Then and only then did he follow her inside.
Her perfume enveloped him as he reached for her. His hands smoothed over soft fabric before finding the warmth of her skin. She lifted her mouth to his and kissed him hungrily, greedily.
She tasted so good. Like sin. Like every dirty thought he’d ever had.
He pushed her onto her back, covering her body with his, one hand already reaching beneath the hem of her skirt. His hand slid up smooth, soft thigh and into liquid heat. Violet gave a small, strangled sob as he traced the line of her sex, fingers slick with her need. Her clit was a small, hard pearl when he found it, and she trembled when he teased her with his thumb. He was desperate to be inside her, but there was something about Violet’s thready breathing and the way she clung to him and her needful, deep kisses that made him want to draw this out.
He wanted her to beg for him. He wanted her to pant and ache. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her. He wanted to make up for all the times she’d tormented him in his fantasies.
He slipped a finger inside her, his thumb still teasing her clit. She lifted her hips, urging him on. He cupped her breast with his free hand, sliding it inside the bodice of her dress to find her nipple. She gripped his ass, pulling his hips closer to hers.
He slid another finger inside her and started up a steady, slippery rhythm. She dropped her head back and started to pant.
“Martin... Please... I need you.”
Her voice was ragged, helpless. He knew what she wanted, but he’d been thinking about this for weeks. He kept circling her clit, fingers slick with her juices, until he felt her tighten around him. Her breathing hitched, her back arched. He kissed her as she shuddered into climax, breathing in her desire. The second she was done, he reached for his belt.
“Dear God, yes,” she whispered as he undid his fly.
It took him seconds to slide on a condom, then he took himself in hand and used the head of his cock to tease her some more. She moaned and lifted her hips, desperate for him to penetrate her. He strung it out as long as he could before plunging inside her.
So hot and tight and wet. So damn good.
Any plans he had to draw it out further went out the window. Suddenly there was only her and him and the demanding ache in his cock. He stroked into her, setting up a punishing rhythm. She sobbed her approval and locked her ankles behind his back, meeting every thrust with one of her own.
She slipped her hands inside his suit pants to find his ass, nails digging in, urging him to go faster, harder. He felt his climax rising inside him. He buried himself deep and let it take him, his face pressed into the fragrant, soft skin of her neck.
As he came back down to earth, he felt Violet’s hand slip between their bodies to where they were will still joined, felt the fierce, quick movement of her hand as she touched herself.
“Don’t move. Please, don’t move,” she pleaded.
Seconds later she was coming a second time, her body convulsing around his.
Then and only then did he become aware of how cramped the back of his car was, of how his shoulder was jammed against the front seat, his neck bent awkwardly, his knee in danger of slipping off the seat cushion. Their combined breathing sounded loud in the small space, and when he glanced up he saw the windows were fogged. He withdrew from her, wrapping the condom in his handkerchief before easing away enough to zip his pants. Violet lay very still, her eyes glinting as she watched him. He shifted from between her legs and she sat up and pulled her skirt down.
“Violet—”
“Don’t. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
She seemed surprised, her gaze darting away from his.
“What were you going to say, then?”
“I was going to thank you,” he said. “Then I was going to tell you how fucking sexy you are.”
She blinked. “Oh.”
He’d shocked her. It made him wonder wh
at she was used to hearing from men after they’d lost themselves inside her. Apologies? Excuses? Insults?
Then it occurred to him that she’d probably counted him amongst those men after their last encounter. For the first time he felt a dart of shame over the way he’d slipped silently from her apartment that night. He’d waited the barest five minutes before telling himself she wanted him to go. Then he’d made his escape and indulged in a round of self-indulgent navel gazing. Even when he’d sent her flowers the next day, his actions had been guided more by expectation and a need to civilize what had happened between them than any thought of her or her feelings.
She was frowning, a small crease between her brows. After a long beat she reached for the door handle and got out of the car. He grabbed her coat from the seat before following her, holding it for her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said, opening the front passenger door.
Violet took a step backward. “No, thank you.”
It was his turn to frown.
“We both know what will happen if you take me home,” she said.
He didn’t bother denying it. He was already hard again at the prospect of round two.
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes, it is. Elizabeth’s my friend.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Elizabeth had been her friend five minutes ago, when he’d been deep inside her, but he controlled the impulse. He wasn’t about to beg. And she was right—she had far more to lose in this situation than him. He could excuse her to himself as a fling, an indulgence he’d allowed himself in the aftermath of his broken engagement. She had no such excuse for sleeping with him.
“I’m not letting you walk home.”
“I’ll catch a taxi.”
He collected his suit jacket from the floor. “Violet, be serious. Only a complete asshole would let you catch a cab home after what just happened.”
“I want to go home alone, and only a complete asshole would force his company on me. Especially after what just happened.”
Her Best Worst Mistake Page 8