A Week to be Wild

by JC Harroway

  She faced him, vulnerable but still in control. Breathtaking, but still composed. Time slowed, stretching to infinity while he watched and waited and breathed.

  ‘Don’t move or I’ll stop,’ she whispered.

  A nod. He was incapable of speech.

  Just when he thought he’d shatter if he didn’t kiss her, touch her soon, she slid her thighs open. He tried to keep his stare fixed on hers, but he wasn’t the man he prided himself on being, because with a hissed ‘Fuck...’ he capitulated to his body’s needs, his eyes zeroing in on the patch of dark curls and her glistening sex.

  She was wet. Soaked.

  Two or three feet. That was all that separated them. In one stride he’d be there, touching her slick heat, kissing her gasps away, feeling the scrape of her nails as he worked her to orgasm.

  His own nails, blunt and useless, dug into the chair’s fabric, his knuckles 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.

  Chapter Four

  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 said she and Alex had concluded their business—either with Able-Active or in the personal game they’d begun.

  His face flashed before her. He’d kept his word. Conceded control. Hadn’t once balked at her demands. She’d never have guessed a man as powerful and influential as him would be able to shelve his arrogance and give her what she needed. And now what had started as a battle of wills, a way to deal with her lust for him, had become the most daring and exhilarating game ever.

  Not that she’d expected him to follow her instructions to the letter. She had almost sobbed with relief when he’d prowled from the chair and finished her off with his mouth. She closed her eyes, remembering the sight of him looking up at her from between her thighs.

  How had he managed to walk away unfulfilled? She’d been on the verge of running after him, dragging him back to her room and riding his magnificent-looking cock. Not that she’d had a chance to get her hands on him. He’d barely broken a sweat. The man had some frustratingly impressive willpower. She’d just have to try harder.

  But business first.

  Libby pushed through etched glass doors emblazoned with the company logo and approached a sleek, minimalist reception desk.

  ‘Libby Noble for Alex Lancaster.’

  Late last night, after showering, she’d checked her e-mails, spying one from his PA, Molly—the young woman now sitting in front of her, according to a name plaque on the desk—advising her of today’s itinerary.

  ‘Ah, yes, Ms Noble. He’s expecting you. I’ll show you in.’ Molly stood, her outstretched arm directing Libby towards another set of etched glass doors and an office beyond.

  Her legs threatened to give out. She swallowed, plastered her most convincing, polite smile on her face and steeled herself against the impact of seeing Alex again—steeled herself like a butterfly about to enter a hurricane.

  He stood at his desk, shoulder to shoulder with a shorter man in his forties. Their focus was directed to the screen of the tablet the other man carried, but as she hovered in the doorway Alex lifted his head, harpooning Libby with a dark, inscrutable stare across the space that divided them.

  A flush of heat slammed through her, and the hurricane morphed into a tropical cyclone on the surface of the sun. She’d been right to fear the impact. It hadn’t lessened.

  Even though she’d broken her dry spell, achieved some measure of relief from the sexual haze she’d been in since meeting him, the blow was twice as potent as the first time their eyes had met across a room.

  She saw him now. The true him. Her eyes had been cleared of the self-imposed veil of abstinence. His raw sexuality simmered beneath his cultured, polite exterior. He stripped her with his stare, leaving her aching and needy and desperate to sample more of him than his spectacular mouth.

  Libby swayed on her heels—a minute wobble in his direction that told her everything she needed to know about her chances of her steering her mind out of the bedroom and into the boardroom. No amount of prim business suits or severe hairstyles could protect her from Alex’s potent sex appeal and her body’s awakened cravings.

  From behind her, Molly cleared her throat. ‘Ms Noble.’

  Of course—they weren’t alone.

  Alex gave a single nod to his assistant. ‘Thanks, Molly.’

  The older man moved into Libby’s peripheral vision.

  Alex kept his eyes on her. ‘Olivia, this is Jeremy Wells, my financial director.’

  Jeremy tucked the tablet under his arm and moved in her direction.

  Dragging her thoughts and her eyes from Alex, Libby smiled, heat warming her cheeks from her transparent leering at Jeremy’s boss.

  Get a grip.

  Alex sat on the edge of his desk, observing their interaction with an indifference that sent an army of ants marching beneath her skin.

  ‘Olivia will be in charge of marketing for Able-Active.’

  His voice held none of the sexy drawl of last night, but the way his mouth caressed her name reverberated through her body until she felt the memory of that mouth’s intimate caress between her legs. A memory constantly at the forefront of her mind.

  Jeremy offered a surprisingly limp handshake and a tepid smile. ‘I’ll leave you to your business.’

  Alex nodded again, his stare back on Libby, flooding her body with wave after wave of turbulent heat. But she’d yet to see what she wanted to see—the same aching discord currently pounding her equilibrium.

  Hormones. It was just hormones.

  ‘Molly, could you please bring coffee downstairs?’ He quirked an eyebrow at Libby in question.

  She nodded to the younger woman, confirming that he’d guessed her beverage of choice.

  ‘I’m taking Ms Noble on a tour of the Able-Active office.’

  Molly nodded and retreated, seemingly completely unaffected by the decadent rumble of her boss’s voice, whereas Libby felt it wash over her, lifting every hair and tingling every nerve ending.

  She wanted more of it. More of the sexy grunts and groans he’d uttered last night from between her thighs. More of him asking her what she wanted, handing her control on a silver platter. More of his buttoned-up English accent cursing as he finally reached his limit of self-denial and lunged for her.

  Who knew this part of her lurked inside? What had he unleashed?

  They faced off, alone at last. He gave nothing away. She prayed her own transparency matched his. Would he renege on their deal? Send her home? Perhaps he’d simply pretend last night hadn’t happened and get straight down to business?

  Not that he was dressed for business. She indulged herself, eyeing him from head to toe. She’d expected another of his expensive suits, to see his magnificent body encased in fine tailoring and crisp linen, but he wore jeans and a graphic T-shirt—an outfit that did nothing to diminish his attractiveness. If anything, it heightened it, and the T-shirt was a playful touch of whimsy that almost curled her lip in a smile. Alex Lancaster a gamer? She’d been right about the geeky surfer dude.

  She lifted her stare from the casual, low-slung fit of his jeans, which showcased the bulge of his crotch. A bulge considerably smaller than the one he’d walked away with last night, when he’d left her hotel room unsatisfied. Fresh heat climbed her neck. She should have stopped him. Given him some relief. Finished him the way he’d finished her.

  Her knees wobbled at the memory of his mouth on her, those dark eyes piercing, watching while she exploded on his tongue...

  Damn. Must she eye-fuck him at every opportunity?

  Her face burned. But the intensity of the look he gave her provided little respite from the boil of her blood.

  The speech she’d prepared fled. She scanned the room rather that look at him, while her brain scrambled for suitable morning-after conversation—the spectacular view of the London skyline, the tasteful, minimalist art on the walls and the rich aroma of leather from the expensive furniture.

  When her gaze ended its tour back on him, he continued to watch her with slightly narrowed eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d turn up this morning.’

  That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Fancy a repeat performance? Want to lean over my desk while I fuck you from behind? You’re a selfish lover and the deal is off. All those were closer to her imaginings.

  ‘Why? I agreed. I’m a professional.’

  Sometimes. When she wasn’t drooling over him.

  She was a big girl—one who could separate personal from business. Not that she’d ever been tested before now. Oh, how she hoped her faith in her own abilities was justified.

  Liar.

  Right now, all she wanted to do was strip him from his dressed-down street clothes and see if she could make him hard with just her mouth.

  His expression inscrutable, his eyes flicked over her face and he stood. ‘Shall we?’

  He
moved to the door, holding it open and gesturing her to re-enter the real world. So calm. So indifferent.

  Clearly they weren’t going to discuss last night. Discuss the inferno of chemistry they’d fanned to life. Only her mind was stuck there. Stuck on vivid images of him splaying her over his desk, his sofa, the floor, and continuing where they left off in her hotel room.

  But Mr Lancaster was all business this morning. And that was where her head belonged. In the game. The game of marketing for Able-Active and the game of bedroom quid pro quo. She wouldn’t become professionally distracted from the first and she couldn’t become personally distracted by the second.

  She crossed his office, her eyes flicking up to his as she passed him in the doorway, and headed back the way she’d come to the elevators. He walked beside her, his arm so close she could reach out and touch him. Perhaps she should. Apologise for last night. For leaving him...hanging. Suggest they rectify the imbalance of the situation later tonight.

  He pressed the call button and they both gazed up. The feeling of déjà vu was strong enough to send licks of flame trickling down Libby’s spine. Just like last night, the elevator was empty. Alex pressed the button for a few floors down and the doors closed.

  The crackle of tension ricocheted around inside Libby’s head. She craved more of those searing, all-consuming kisses. Damn, the man could kiss, and she’d already experienced his phenomenal oral skills. But instead of dispelling her torrid urges it had only intensified them. She wanted to stop the elevator and beg him to fuck her right here, right now.

  Her eyes scanned the interior of the car, searching for security cameras.

  And then the doors slid open, and his upper-class voice dragged her from her fantasies.

  ‘After you.’

  Seriously? She could barely walk. Her nipples ached, her panties were ruined and her fingers twitched to get hold of him. She should have asked him to spend the night—that way she could have quenched her thirst with the perfect wake-up call this morning.