A Week to be Wild

by JC Harroway

  ‘Equal. Mutually satisfying.’

  He took another sip of wine. Waiting. Watching her over the rim.

  Libby recrossed her legs, her thighs clammy. ‘A negotiation? I warn you, I’m good.’

  Not that she had any experience with this kind of deal. How to be a high school sweetheart, how to be a girlfriend, how to be a fiancée—yes. But how to handle this searing sexual chemistry and keep enough distance to emerge unscathed? Could he tell she was making this up as she went along?

  He grinned.

  Thought he had this in the bag, did he?

  He gave a slow nod. ‘I know that. Research, remember? The best.’ He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, his voice a low whisper, eyes aglow. ‘What do you say? Up for a little...adventure?’

  Her mind raced, her heart beating its way into her throat.

  Yes.

  No.

  ‘It depends...’

  Were they even still talking about work? Did it matter? Perhaps Sonya, Vinnie and her hormones were right. A no-strings dalliance was exactly what she needed—slake this intense thirst she’d thought long extinguished, then finish a rewarding and lucrative job and move on.

  As if he’d read her mind, he said, ‘Come on.’

  Libby leaned closer. His low voice called to her, zinging straight between her legs. From this distance, she could see his pulse flicking in the notch at the base of his throat, the dark hairs peeking over the open neck of his shirt, could smell the detergent he used on his laundry.

  His voice continued—persuasive, tempting. ‘You’re a perceptive, intelligent woman...’

  She braced one foot on the floor, her body swaying towards his as if she was hard of hearing and needed to lean closer to his tantalising mouth. Her hand landed on his thigh, steadying her balance, but the denim was a poor barrier to the heat and bulk of his taut muscles.

  ‘You feel this insane chemistry too.’ His stare smouldered, his breath tickling her neck.

  She practically sagged into him. She wasn’t alone. Wasn’t imagining this. But should she act on it? Did she dare?

  ‘I want you.’ He held eye contact, his stark statement hanging in the crackling air between them. ‘Physically, professionally.’

  He spoke as if he was negotiating a business deal. Calm, collected, poker-faced.

  A tiny shrug of one shoulder. ‘Stay.’

  He made it sound so easy—a foregone conclusion. And she was sorely tempted.

  All the time they’d talked, he hadn’t touched her. His hands were still relaxed on the arms of the barstool when all she wanted to do was slide her fingers through his silky dishevelled hair and angle his head until he kissed her. Kissed away the doubt. Kissed away the memories. Kissed away the loneliness.

  She sat back, her hand slipping from the rock-hard muscles of his thigh. Time to wrestle this back under her command. Get a grip of herself and this situation. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

  The trouble was, lust had robbed her brain of its usual quick wit and all the negotiating skills she’d bragged about. Every single comeback or demand had fled her mind like sand falling through the holes of a sieve.

  Perhaps she’d transmitted her thoughts telepathically to him, because he said, ‘You need control?’

  Could he see her that clearly? Were her fears, her hang-ups, so clearly displayed on her face?

  He’d dropped the smile, his expression now serious, as if he understood the momentous battle raging inside her. She wanted him too—had spent the day thinking about him, about what it would be like to feel his touch, feel his mouth, feel him move inside her...

  The urge to give in to that curiosity, that need, was overwhelming.

  He dipped his chin, ensuring that she saw him—saw both the sincerity in his stare and the flare of the same battle inside him.

  ‘I’m man enough to concede it. What can I do to give you what you need so we can both win?’

  A silent groan had Libby’s eyes drooping as she took in a long, ragged breath. What an intoxicating offer. Could she do this? Separate business from pleasure? Keep things casual between them? On her terms? Give him a concession or two and take what he was willing to concede?

  She opened her eyes to his continued stare. The slight flare of his nostrils was the only sign that he too experienced the anticipation that fluttered in Libby’s belly, bringing her to life.

  Until she spoke, she was clueless as to how she’d respond. ‘I’ll give you a week.’

  A week?

  He nodded. So accommodating. So skilled at negotiating this fragile truce.

  But she, too, could strike a pretty deal. Time to see how much he was willing to relinquish. Could he be a man of his word? Was he really interested in a deal? Did he want her enough to agree to her terms?

  There was only one way to find out.

  She leaned closer, her lips parting on a barely there gasp as their knees made contact. She dropped her voice, as he’d done. ‘If we’re working together...’ her eyes flicked to his crotch, still displayed before her ‘...and fucking, I won’t be bossed around.’

  Another nod. Another delicious concession.

  Her mind raced, searching for a compromise that, as he’d put it, would allow them both to get what they wanted. She’d never fought so hard. Her self-preservation demanded every inch of ground acquired.

  The ultimate test of his mettle would come. Could he withstand what she had planned for him? Would her nerve hold?

  Libby’s temperature reached boiling point, seconds away from spontaneous combustion. She shook her head slowly, commanding his full attention. ‘You won’t get your own way all the time.’

  He shrugged again, the small half-smile returning. ‘If I had my way...’ he lifted his wine glass, taking a sip, his eyes slowly raking over her mouth ‘...I’d have fucked you at the top of The Shard this morning. Had you screaming my name with that sexy voice of yours.’

  Her gasp sounded so loud she expected the whole population of the bar to turn in their direction.

  He quirked a scornful brow. ‘Seems to me, you are the one getting her way, Olivia.’

  Danger. He reeked of it. Not that her personal safety was in question. But she should run all the same.

  Still he stared, his eyes flicking between hers. Still her breaths gusted in and out through parted lips. She held his searing eye contact. A challenge. Battle lines being drawn.

  Finishing her martini in one swallow, she slid from the stool, coming to stand between his still spread thighs. She leaned close, her heavy ponytail falling forward, a few strands of hair getting caught in the stubble covering his strong jaw.

  With her lips mere millimetres from his ear, she whispered, a thrill tingling up her spine.

  ‘Quid....’

  Closer.

  ‘Pro...’

  She could almost feel the fine hairs on his earlobe tickle her lips.

  ‘Quo...’

  Leaning back, she took the key card from her purse and pressed it into his palm, turned on her heel and left the bar on shaky legs.

  Chapter Three

  HE’D NEVER KNOW how he managed the walk from the bar and across the hotel foyer with his steely hard-on, but he caught up with Libby in two strides. He deliberately didn’t touch her. Hadn’t touched her all evening, although it had almost killed him. But she’d touched him.

  Her handprint still burned his thigh, scorched clean though the denim and spoke directly to his cock. The brush of her bare knees, the scent wafting up from her thick, luxuriant hair... He groaned, digging into deep reserves for discipline over his body.

  She walked close. Her arm brushed his and the sway of that long, lustrous ponytail tapped his shoulder in time with the clack of her heels across the marble tiles.

  They reached the lifts. He pressed the
call button, dragging her light floral scent into his lungs until the head rush made him close his eyes for a split second. Fuck. He needed to pull himself together, to grapple back some semblance of mastery. At least over his libido.

  He mimicked her, staring straight ahead, his eyes trained on the digital display as the numbers fell, heralding the lift’s arrival.

  His mouth burned to kiss her. To see if her plump, pouty lips tasted as good as they’d looked when she whispered the word fucking. On the surface she oozed cool, untouchable sophistication. Not a glorious hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight. But the deal she’d brokered—bold, assertive, knowing what she wanted—what a turn-on. Perhaps it was an American thing. Perhaps it was pure Olivia.

  Quid pro quo.

  That should have raised his hackles, but he was keen to discover her brand of give and take.

  Perhaps he was losing his mind. But, oh, how he’d love to mess her up—to tug out that hair tie and slide his hands through those long, silky tresses, to feel them slither over his face, his chest, his abdomen while she kissed him... How would that austere exterior crack at the height of passion? With her full lips swollen by his kisses, her luminous eyes glazed and punch-drunk? Her smoky voice calling his name with that native New York accent of hers?

  At this rate, he’d need a cold shower just to remain in her company. What did she have planned for him? Would he be able to keep it together?

  The lift arrived. As the doors opened he saw the car was empty. He cast a glance sideways. He waited, hand out, inviting her to step inside first, all the while battling the urge to push her up against the wall and fuck her right there in the elegant foyer of the Windsor Hotel, Park Lane.

  You won’t get your own way all the time.

  Right now, he’d gladly take ten per cent. Used to controlling every aspect of his life, especially his sex life, he knew this game he’d agreed to would test every ounce of his willpower.

  As if she knew the direction of his thoughts, she poked her tongue out, sliding it along her lower lip, flooding his groin with fresh heat. She stepped inside and he followed, his hands forming fists by his sides to stop himself from touching her.

  Doomed. He was so doomed.

  If she looked down she’d see the effect this negotiation had had on him. The effect she had on him. He longed to readjust himself in his jeans, but he couldn’t break the spell she’d wound around him as surely as if he was already tangled up in a cloud of that glorious hair. What would she look like naked? With that silky, decadent ponytail liberated until it covered her bare shoulders, the tips brushing her breasts?

  She stepped in front of him, leaning over to press the button for her floor. The arch of her long, graceful neck called to him. The phantom taste of her skin lingered on his lips as if he’d already indulged.

  He sucked in a breath through flared nostrils, turning to stare at her. Fuck, she was irresistible. Sassy, smart, sexy as hell and completely unimpressed by him. Most women he dated suffocated him with their cloying need to please. To be exactly what they thought he wanted. Olivia Noble didn’t care what he wanted, and good for her. She called the shots. She spoke plainly. He’d never met a woman like her.

  She stared back with a momentary flash of hesitancy and a series of blinks of those long lashes over rounded eyes. His chest pinched at this tiny hint of her vulnerability. But he wouldn’t let her off the hook. She’d started this, raised the stakes. And he’d agreed to play give and take—not his usual style—instinct telling him she needed to stay in control at all times.

  Why? He’d have to flex his patience if he wanted the answer to that secret.

  His body strained, every muscle primed to close the deal. To put them both out of their misery and taste her. But he knew the prize on her terms would be worth the wait, the sacrifice.

  She heard his prayer.

  Stepping up to him, her bottom lip trapped beneath her teeth, she slowly tunnelled her fingers into his hair. The bite of pain tingled over his scalp as she twisted the strands and angled his head. Her dark stare bewitched him. She reached up on tiptoes and slid her mouth over his, eyes open. Bold, demanding—and so fucking arousing he almost embarrassed himself, almost sagged to his knees.

  And then he kissed her back, maintaining eye contact, his fists tightly clenched at his sides to stop himself from taking what he wanted more than his next breath. The kick of satisfaction he got from torturing them both and withholding his touch tightened his balls, ramping up his need until he feared he’d have to break his word and gorge on her like a greedy, selfish addict. Here. Now.

  When she pushed her tongue into his mouth, whimpering her frustration and pressing her body against the length of his, he gave up the fight with a groan of both frustration and surrender. His fingers gripped the soft cheeks of her arse, lifting her and pressing her where he needed to feel friction. So close, but not close enough.

  He spun her around, pressing her into the mirrored wall of the lift and crushing his steel-hard erection into the flat of her belly.

  She deepened the kiss, her mouth voracious, as if she hadn’t been kissed in a very long time. A travesty, if it were true. She deserved to be kissed every second of every day.

  He snaked one hand towards the hem of her skirt, now regretting that it hugged her curves so tightly. He’d have to work to peel it up her legs, raise it high enough to part her thighs, hoist her above the gleaming chrome handrail that ran around the lift at waist height. Need raged through him, weakening his knees and making his hands rough, impatient. He tempered the roar of hormones spiking his blood with deep breaths.

  Slow. Savour.

  The lift pinged, announcing their arrival. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to break the searing kiss that had left their chests rising and falling in unison. Alex used every ounce of strength he possessed to pull back, pushing her skirt down just before the door slid open.

  The corridor was deserted.

  Without a backward glance, although looking a little flustered, Libby led the way to her room. Alex swiped the card she’d given him in the bar. Her eyes—huge dark pools in the dim lighting of the corridor—beguiled him. His blind confidence wavered. He was used to commanding every aspect of his life, and this power exchange, while exciting, left him adrift. Would he be able to concede to her wishes, whatever they were? For more of her, he’d certainly die trying.

  But curiosity won.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He’d promised her a compromise, give and take, control. He’d do everything in his power to give her what she needed.

  She pushed inside the room, flipping on lights and kicking of her heels, revealing toes painted with deep red nail polish.

  As the door snicked closed behind him she turned.

  He’d been right. Their kisses had left her mouth gloriously swollen, and the slight flush of beard burn marked her chin and cheeks. She was more beautiful than ever, and his fingers itched to complete the transformation—to undo her hair, currently featuring in all his filthy fantasies, and strip her of her prim clothes, expose the soft, feminine curves he guessed lurked beneath.

  When she finally found her voice, it was so smoky he expected it to trigger the fire alarms.

  ‘What do you want?’

  That was easy to answer. A dream come true. ‘I want to touch you. All of you.’ He curled his fingers into his palms, his breath trapped behind his tight throat.

  She nodded, eyes heavy, the tip of her tongue touching her top lip. ‘I want you to sit there.’ She indicated an armchair in the corner by the windows.

  He nodded, but his feet seemed cemented to the carpet while his mind played catch-up. He’d showed his hand too eagerly. She planned to deny him. Could he handle this? He burned for her, and the chair she’d indicated might as well be some sort of medieval torture device or wired to the mains.

  She swallowed, h
er colour high. But it was not the flush of embarrassment, rather the glow of arousal.

  ‘I want you to watch me.’

  Fuck. She was trying to kill him. He was about to become a statistic. His throat closed tighter, his heart beating itself an escape path between his ribs.

  ‘I want that too.’ His voice was seriously strangled.

  Get a grip, man.

  He shrugged off his blazer and tossed it on the desk. His jeans were too tight, constricting his manhood, but he’d do what she asked, what he’d agreed to, in order to earn her trust. Olivia—enchanting, provocative, intriguing—was the ultimate reward and certainly worth the discomfort.

  He settled, sinking back into the upholstery, thighs spread as wide as the chair would allow. His hard-on was a stiff rod, pressing at the fly of his jeans. He forced his fingers to uncurl, resting them on the arms of the chair as he tried to slow his excited breaths. Whatever she was about to do would slay him. But he’d die trying to maintain the boundaries she’d demanded.

  His compliance was quickly rewarded. She undid the top few buttons of her silky blouse, revealing the spill of perfect breasts over the top of a lacy, pale peach bra. His eyes fought not to roll back in his head. He wouldn’t miss one second of the vision before him.

  Her chest rose and fell in cadence with his own. At least they were in this together. Suffering together.

  Staring him down, she hoisted up her skirt, bunching the fabric around her waist until her matching panties came into view at the juncture of her long, shapely legs. Her hands trembled slightly. If he hadn’t been watching her every move with almost frantic eyes, desperate to see everything, he might have missed that revelation.

  Was she nervous? Excited? Having second thoughts?

  Pain lanced his chest.

  Please don’t regret this. Please don’t stop.

  Fuck, she was a wet dream come true. Somehow this tease was twice as hot as if she’d stripped naked.

  But he didn’t have to wait long to see more of her. With a small sigh, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of those panties and peeled them down her legs, dropping them without ceremony and settling on the edge of the bed.