by Aimee Carson
As her cry echoed off the tile, Hunter stood and took in Carly’s flushed face. Her eyes were closed, hair damp at her temples. The quiet was broken by the harsh sounds coming from Carly’s throat, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.
The moment she’d entered the shower room, deep down he’d known where it would lead, despite his attempts to drive her away. And with the risk she posed to the peace he’d achieved with his past, thwarting her attempt to run the show had seemed necessary, her bold moves, her gutsy nature captivating him like no other.
Which was why pushing her up against the wall and taking charge had been so important.
Eyes still closed, her voice steady despite the breathless quality, Carly said, “Does that count as a round?”
“I was just getting you warmed up.”
“Well done, you,” she said softly. She lifted her lids, her gaze meeting his. “Now …” she slid her arms around his neck, her eyes dark with desire “…take me to the bench.”
Hunter’s heart thumped hard. Take-charge Carly was back, and need coiled tightly in his groin, choking off any hope of refusing her anything. Blocking all thoughts of the past. The beautifully outrageous, never-backs-down woman created fires within him he might never be able to extinguish.
The surge of alarm he felt at the thought wasn’t enough to change his mind, but it made his voice harsh. “Grab both condoms,” he said, and she complied.
Hunter lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. As he carried her across the room the head of his shaft nudged the wet warmth between her legs, teasing him with its proximity. Taunting him with its readiness. Everything about her tested his restraint. She arched against him, pressing him closer, clearly wanting him inside. He straddled the wooden bench, one foot on either side, and sat on his towel with Carly on his lap, her legs draped around him. Gritting his teeth, fighting the need to thrust deep, he began to lean her back.
But was stopped by her hand on his chest.
Carly’s voice was low, determined. “My turn. My choice.” Gaze locked with his, she said, “So lie down, Mystery Man.” His muscles tensed, but he let her press him back, coming to a stop when his elbows rested on the bench. Refusing to concede any more ground. She tipped her head seductively. “I want to see how long it takes for you to come unglued.”
Hunter’s lungs constricted as pleasure, anticipation and uneasiness wrapped around his chest, their position on the bench bringing reality home. Outside the frequency and duration of his relationships he hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in his sexual life since he’d been played, like his tendency to gravitate toward women who were fairly passive.
Until right now, until Carly, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d lost with his choices.
Heart pumping, agitated, Hunter stared up at her amber eyes. Her glossy brown hair fanned across her breasts, and he was incredibly turned on not only by her dominant posture as she straddled his lap but also by her aggressive moves. Despite his troubled thoughts, desire was the clear winner, made obvious by the fact he was so hot he was ready to burst. It all got worse when she cupped his face, lowered her head, and kissed him with a potency that seared him from the inside out, slanting her mouth across his.
Lips and tongues engaged in a duel, she dragged her nails down his chest, scraping the flat nipples, and a groan escaped him. In response, Carly gently began to move her hips, rubbing her slick center along his hard length. Sweat beaded at his temples as he fought the urge to take over. The sensual moment went on, lingering, driving him mad, until she tore her mouth away, sat up and opened a foil packet. When she grasped his erection his blood sang, and his every cell urged her to hurry as she rolled the condom on. With the look of a woman who knew what she wanted, she positioned herself over him and he arched up to meet her, going deep.
“Hunter,” Carly groaned, her eyes flaring wide with shock and delight. And then her lids fluttered closed, as if the strength of her desire surprised her as much as his pleasure at her boldness did him.
But that hardly seemed possible.
She splayed her hands on his chest and began to rock her hips, nails digging into his flesh as she arched her back, angling to absorb more of him. He met her thrust for thrust. Eyes closed, cheeks flushed, her mouth parted, she—without hesitation or apology—slowly drove him higher. Pushed him further. Giving him what he craved. All the fire and sultry passion that had turned his head from day one was present in her movements.
Backing him closer to a line he didn’t want to cross.
Rocking his hips in time with hers, bench hard against his elbows, he clenched his fists, slipping further under her spell with every painfully pleasurable moment. Her soft body, her citrusy scent and her relentless, no-holds-barred attitude gained more ground, stretching his reserve. Dragging him closer to the edge.
As if she sensed his waning restraint, Carly tunneled her fingers into his hair and brought her mouth back down, devouring him. Desire shot through his veins, carrying the compelling need to the far reaches of his body. Drowning in the intensely disturbing feeling, he knew he should take over to preserve his sanity. The fact that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, made him angry with himself. Even as she consumed him, increasing the pace. Her mouth and hips greedy. Demanding he give up everything.
Carly dropped her hands to his buttocks and shifted, taking him deeper between her legs.
And he lost a little more of his hard-won control.
Carly lifted her lips a fraction, her gaze burning into his as she whispered wicked words that feathered across his mouth, her voice mesmerizing as she slowly pushed him back until he lay flat on the bench. She leaned over him, relentless as she made love to him from above. Her sweet smell, her softness and her seductive ways were threatening to undo him. His abdomen tensed. His sweat-slicked skin was damp against the wood bench as he fought the exquisite sensation of being immersed. Surrounded. Holding on by a thread.
Carly’s moans grew more frequent. More urgent. And Hunter slid deeper, losing more of himself with every passing moment as Carly drew him closer to the flame. And then Carly cried out and her nails dug deep into his skin.
Like a bolt of lightning his control cracked, incinerating him in a blinding flash even as his mind went blank, engulfed by the terrible pleasure. He arched his neck and wrapped his arms around her waist, pumping his hips wildly. Bucking hard. His need desperate and dangerous. Almost destructive. With a harsh groan, Hunter clutched Carly closer as his muscles burned, tensed and coiled ever tighter. And when the pressure became so fierce he thought it would destroy him it snapped, releasing him with a force that shot him into oblivion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“CARLY.”
The lilting female voice cut through the murmur of guests in formal wear in the posh, expansive living room of William Wolfe’s home. From the doorway leading to the back corridor—her only means of an easy escape—Carly spied the wife of the CFO of Wolfe Broadcasting approaching. Though she was pushing seventy, through the magic of expensive surgery Elaine Bennett’s face had a mask-like look that defied designation.
For a moment Carly was a teensy bit jealous, because she felt as if she’d aged ten years in the week since she’d last seen Hunter, walking away from her at the gym.
Elaine Bennett’s beaded black evening dress glittered in the light as she approached. “Your father must be so happy you’re here.”
Ignoring the urge to contradict her, Carly submitted to an air kiss from the woman. “Mrs. Bennett, you look lovely.”
The woman eyed her with the critical affection of one who had known Carly since she was five, and when the lady lifted a perfectly plucked brow Carly knew it would be followed by a carefully targeted reproof. “Since you moved back to Miami we hardly see you. Your father isn’t getting any younger, you know,” Mrs. Bennett said, almost as if aging was a sin. “You shouldn’t be such a stranger, Carly.”
Nerves stretched tight, Carly murmured a noncommittal respo
nse and took a fortifying sip of her champagne as she watched Mrs. Bennett return to the other guests, dreading the thought of a run-in with her father. Their relationship had always been tenuous, at best, but since the Thomas Weaver Affair it had been as fragile as Abby’s good humor.
She wouldn’t have accepted her father’s invitation—except not coming would suggest she was too ashamed to show. Or, worse, paint her as petulant. The elegant party was in honor of Brian O’Connor, not her—God forbid her father should ever celebrate his daughter. No, it was Brian O’Connor who had delivered a surge in ratings with the shocking history behind Hunter Philips’s app—a scoop that had been avidly sought by others. The host had even secured a third show, which was now being hyped in the media as guaranteed to be a monumental success. And there was nothing William Wolfe admired more than success.
Hence his strained relationship with his disappointing failure of a daughter.
Carly gripped her champagne flute, refusing to let old emotions from her teenage years drag her down. She’d make her appearance, hold her head high and prove to her father she wasn’t ashamed of her life, avoiding any one-on-one conversations. Because, after six sketchy nights of sleep, unable to keep her mind off of making love to Hunter, she didn’t have the energy for a confrontation tonight.
She scanned the growing crowd, spying Brian O’Connor schmoozing with her father, and tension snaked between her shoulders. She longed for the appearance of a few naked actors, Harley-riders or drag queens—anything to liven up the party and get her mind off her current train of thought.
And then, as if the powers that be had heard her wish, Hunter entered the room, wearing a beautiful tuxedo. Her heart did a double take and her mind slipped back to the moment her world had collided with a new reality …
Stunned, Carly had clung to Hunter after they’d made love, pulse pounding, chest heaving. She wasn’t quite sure what had happened, only that her body had been taken to heights that normally would require rocket fuel—and her ability to recover from the event had been greatly impaired by the knowledge of how aggressive she’d been. She’d wanted him, and had no regrets, but she’d all but hunted him down and backed him into a corner. So it had been hard to maintain that easy-breezy attitude when it was over. Especially when Hunter had retreated behind his wall.
He’d been coolly polite but decidedly detached as they’d spent an awkward few minutes getting dressed, the silence in the locker room consuming every available oxygen molecule. Carly had considered asking why he’d bothered obtaining a second condom, but her chance had ended when Hunter, ever the protector, had escorted her to her car and calmly walked away without a backward glance.
But right now he was headed in her direction.
Shoulder propped against the doorjamb, she gripped her clutch purse, smoothing a damp palm down the silk of her crimson spaghetti-strap dress. A dress that showed off way more leg than it should. At least she was appropriately attired.
Pushing aside the nerves, she said, “Mr. Philips—”
“Hunter.”
His demeanor was über-cool, untouched, his gaze as sharply alert as ever—a far cry from the man who’d briefly come unhinged in her arms. He eyed her over his glass as he sipped his champagne, the absurdity of her use of his last name radiating from his gaze.
“Nice house,” he said, nodding at the lavishly furnished living room, the moonless night obscuring its view of the Atlantic.
“Don’t let it fool you.” Her gaze swept across the imported tile and Brazilian cherrywood walls that gave off a warm, welcoming glow, carefully designed by an interior decorator with the blessing of her father. “It was decorated for effect,” she went on dryly. “To create the illusion of warmth and comfort.”
They spent a few tension-filled seconds staring at one another, until Hunter’s gaze roamed down her body, lingering briefly on her legs, and a surge of remembered desire suffused her in heat. By the collected look on his face she knew it was a deliberate act.
His hint of a smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Any number of things can be faked in this day and age.”
His tone set her on edge, and she gripped the champagne flute hard. “For example?”
His eyes scanned the crowd of people and paused on Mrs. Bennett. “Youth.”
Despite her amusement, the strained air prevented a smile. “Caring?” she said, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “Compassion?”
His words came out deceptively soft, his focus intense. “Or an orgasm.”
The statement hit hard, leaving a trail of popping electrical energy as it settled deeper in her brain. She tried to decide which was worse: him thinking she was a reckless fool or that her participation had all been an act.
Stunned, she stared at him. What had started as a game that day in the alley had led to something that now felt deadly serious—a grave threat to her sanity, her peace of mind and her heart. And the tightrope of emotional peril she was crossing with Hunter was one she’d never attempted before. Toss in an intensely hot sexual experience and—well, a girl was bound to feel a little unnerved. Because there was nothing more beautiful than Hunter Philips coming unglued. Of course, getting him there had taken a Herculean effort. He’d resisted her to the bitter end. And as soon as it was over the wall had returned. So what did that say about his opinion of her?
Her stomach twisted, and she fought the urge to retreat down the hall to safety.
Keep it light, Carly. Keep it easy.
She cleared her throat, rallying her mojo. “I can’t begin to tell you how crushed I’ll be if you confess you faked your way through Sunday night.”
The words briefly cut through the tension, easing the intensity in Hunter’s eyes a touch. “That’s where women hold a distinct advantage over men.”
“Since that often isn’t the case, I’ll take it where I can.”
His gaze dropped to her legs, his brow creased in humor. “I’m quite sure you will.”
Struggling for her usual self-assurance, she leaned her back against the doorjamb. “You’re just jealous I had visual confirmation you were very turned on.” She sent him the best charming smile she could, given the circumstances. “Helped, of course, by the fact that you leave evidence behind when you fire off your…bullets.”
He smiled. “You’re not jealous of my weapon, are you?”
“No gun-envy here.” She took a step closer and got a whiff of his cologne, bringing sensual memories of the locker room, and her tone turned huskier than she’d planned. “But you should teach me how to shoot yours.”
His body grew still and heat flared in his eyes. His tone matched his gaze. “That could be arranged.” His voice lowered to a rumble that was a mix of potent desire and distrust. “Would you approach that with pretend enthusiasm? Or would it be real?”
He clearly wasn’t comfortable with her motivation in the locker room. But the truth was too painful, cut too close to her heart, to share. What was she supposed to say? That she’d never had anyone come to her rescue before? That she’d been the damsel in distress in the past, but no knight in shining armor had ever risked anything to ride to her defense? Her profound appreciation of his gesture of protection was so enormous it was pathetic. Almost needy.
And she was a confident woman. She shouldn’t have been so desperate to conquer this man’s reserve. It wasn’t as if it proved he cared about her in any way. Or felt she was worthy of his on-air sacrifice …
Her breath hitched, but she pushed away the thought and steadily met his gaze. “Are you questioning the integrity of my responses?”
“Maybe.”
She placed a hand on her hip. “Were my moans not authentic enough?”
“The moans seemed genuine.”
“Were my groans lacking in honesty?”
“Your groans sounded sincere.” He hesitated, and his tone grew heavy with meaning. “It was the shout at the end that I questioned.”
The shout had been real, all right. She refused to look
away. “I’m crushed you’re second-guessing my enthusiasm.”
His eyes held hers as the moments ticked by. When he spoke, there was suspicion and frustration in his tone. “I have no doubt your enthusiasm for your job is real.”
Devastated by the insinuation, Carly could almost hear the creaking sound as his statement strained under the weighty load of meaning.
Outside of Thomas she’d never been involved with a man who’d hurt her when he’d walked away, as they all invariably did. Yet here she was, with a guy she wasn’t even dating, wounded by his ability to take her in an explosion of hunger, calmly walk away, and with his next breath accuse her of dishonesty. Which meant he had a power over her no man had had ever before. Damn. The smile on her face grew tight, but she pushed back the need to pop the cork on her anger.
Don’t go there. Don’t let the emotion get the best of you.
But her aggravation was evident in her hardened tone. “I wonder if your doubt is a reflection of my past—” she moved closer, ignoring his wonderful scent and the hard physique encased in an elegant tuxedo “—or yours.”
His gaze didn’t waver, but a muscle in Hunter’s cheek twitched. Four pounding heartbeats later he went on. “Before this conversation continues, I think a break is in order. I’ll get us more champagne,” he said as he took her empty glass, the heat smoldering in his eyes searing her to the bone, “but I’ll be back.”
She watched him head toward the bar and let out a breath, unaware she’d been holding it. But before she could relax another masculine voice spoke from behind.
“Hello, kitten.”
At the sound of her childhood nickname her heart took an abrupt turn in her chest, speeding south. She briefly closed her eyes, preparing to face the man who doubted her more than most.
As Carly braced to face her father her stomach bunched into a knot. She was dreading his simmering judgment about her career, her life choices—and her mistake. She was used to the disapproving tone in his every comment. No matter how hard she tried, her efforts had never been good enough. But she was an adult now. She didn’t need his praise. And she sure wouldn’t beg him for approval.