Oh my.
Paris was having a hard time remembering why they were still standing in the doorway. “Um?”
His gaze darted to the partially opened door. “Do I need to guess the password?”
“What?” Paris said, then realized she was blocking his path. “Oh. Sorry.”
She stepped into the narrow hallway leading to the main area of the room, then stopped cold. The bed loomed about nine feet away, illuminated by the one reading lamp the maid had left on.
The course of the evening suddenly seemed more real. And appealing? She paused to consider, but her hormones rushed to answer. You bet.
Common sense stepped up to the plate. Just because the room had a bed did not mean they had to put it to good use.
Alexander must have picked up on her hesitation. “Second thoughts?”
“No,” she blurted, her hormones beating her pesky common sense into submission. Then she felt herself blush, embarrassed by her quick response. “I mean, please, come in.”
Paris wanted to roll her eyes at her awkward eagerness. She couldn’t have been any less subtle if she’d ripped her dress off and thrown herself into his arms right then and there. That might be what she wanted to do, but such bold tactics lacked the proper panache. Besides, she was too much of a chicken.
And you’re not sleeping with him anyway, remember?
She sighed. Somehow, she kept forgetting that tiny detail.
As he stepped past her toward the bed, their arms brushed, sending enough current surging between them to set the building on fire. Could have, but didn’t. Instead, all that energy, all that heat, centered in her stomach and her knees. Just one touch and he’d made her go weak.
Feigning nonchalance, she leaned gratefully against the wall. Her bare back pressed against the smooth, cool paint that didn’t even begin to lessen the red-hot passion pounding through her.
He was standing there, right in front of her, so hot he should be burning a hole in the floor. So close Paris could feel his breath, could almost hear his heartbeat.
This amazing hunk of fantasy material was there for her. What a coup. She was privy to a sexual coup. But she was pretty sure she wasn’t the one calling the shots. He’d turned her on, mixed her up when she needed to concentrate. She needed to keep her head on straight, needed to strengthen her resolve before he destroyed her defenses without even saying a word.
“I’m not going to make love with you,” she blurted, as she sat back on the bed. Immediately she wanted to take it back, but couldn’t very well do that. Not without admitting how much his nearness was messing with her head. And with the rest of her.
She looked up at him, expecting to see shock or disappointment. Instead, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for letting me know.” He looked amused, damn him. Well, he wouldn’t look nearly so confident when he realized how determined she was.
“I mean it. No sex.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?” She frowned. She knew she shouldn’t be disappointed with his easy agreement, but she couldn’t help it. Alexander wouldn’t give up so easily, not if he really wanted her. Alexander was too much of a rogue.
Unless this man was just playing it cool, planning to lower her defenses for a sneak attack. That would be very Alexanderish.
He kneeled casually in front of the minibar. “Nightcap?”
“I’m…yes. Please.”
Then again, perhaps he was a gentleman and not a rogue at all. She shook her head to clear her muddled thoughts. This man and Alexander were all mixed up in her head.
He popped the cork on a miniature bottle of champagne and poured them both a glass. “How about talking? Is that safe territory?”
Talking? Talking was fine. Kissing would be even better. Kissing fell within her boundaries. But she couldn’t really say so without sounding desperate. “What do you want to talk about?”
“You’re a writer, right?”
She nodded, wary.
He moved closer and passed her a glass of champagne. His fingers grazed over hers, intimate and purposeful, and any remaining doubts about his desire for her vanished in a puff.
“I thought maybe you’d be interested in an intellectual evening. We could discuss literature.”
“Literature?” She didn’t believe him for a second, but neither could she guess what he was up to.
“Maybe Victorian-era erotic literature?” His voice had changed, it was lower, rougher. Suggestive.
A trill coursed up her spine. How easy for him to reduce her to quakes and quivers. “I…I don’t really know anything about it.”
“No? Too bad. How about kissing?” His eyes bore into her without blinking, his desire obvious but still unspoken. She licked her dry lips and looked at the floor.
“Kissing?” she repeated stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say. What had seemed like safe territory only a moment ago suddenly seemed dangerous. Wonderfully appealing, but undeniably dangerous.
Her legs wobbled and the wall no longer seemed capable of holding her up. She stumbled to the bed and sat on the edge, her hands folded primly in her lap, a reminder of what she wasn’t going to do with him.
“I thought we could talk about kissing. Is that okay?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. But he could talk all night about kissing if he wanted. That wouldn’t break any rules.
Talk? Hell, he could kiss her all night.
He lowered himself onto the bed next to her, close enough that his taut thigh muscles pressed against her. She focused on taking nice, normal breaths. But the more she tried to ignore his heat against her, the more flustered she became.
When he leaned back on the bed, she hesitated to look at him. “It’s too hard to talk sitting up next to each other. I promise I don’t bite.”
She drew a steadying breath and turned her head. He was lounging behind her, propped up on one elbow. He patted the space in front of him. “Come on.” Then he grinned, slow and self-assured. “Unless you don’t trust yourself with me.”
As a matter of fact, she didn’t. Not one bit. But she probably shouldn’t mention that. She leaned back and scooted up the bed until her face was even with his. She had to admit it was a much better position for talking. It was a much better position for kissing, too. How convenient.
“Now, about kissing.” With one fingertip, he traced her lower lip. Her pulse throbbed and she tried to steady her breathing. “Did you know that some people think kissing is more intimate than sex?”
A small sound of interest was the most she could manage.
“There are times when I think that’s right,” he said, flashing her a lazy grin. His finger teased her lip, then slid inside her mouth to graze the top of her teeth. She closed her eyes, fighting to keep from closing her lips around his finger.
“Not that I’m knocking sex, mind you,” he murmured. “I certainly can’t deny the intimacy of being naked next to a woman who makes your heart pound as it’s never done before, sheathing yourself in her, filling her up, taking her places she’s never been and watching her skin flush when she finds satisfaction.”
Paris squirmed on the bed, her thighs pressed tight together to try and forestall the liquid urgency that he was creating inside her. She lost the battle with his finger, and closed her lips over him, suckling, hoping that giving in just a little bit would douse the flames that were beginning to consume her.
Gently, he pulled his finger from her mouth. She heard herself whimper.
“But a kiss, a kiss can be sweet and gentle. Or hard and desperate. A kiss is fast and hot and deep, or slow and lingering. A kiss is sharing breath and soul.”
Something soft brushed her lips. When his evening beard tickled her cheek, she realized he’d brushed her mouth with a kiss. “Tell me what you think about kissing,” he whispered.
She quaked, imagining his lips on hers, his breath mixed with hers. Apiece of his soul. And she so wanted to see into his core. Sh
e needed to know if he could really be the man she’d dreamed of.
“Paris?”
She opened her eyes. “Just one kiss.” Her voice sounded thick, more sultry than she could ever remember.
His eyes darkened. Then Paris saw the hint of a smile. She heard his breath coming as uneven as her own. With a low groan, he pulled her across the satiny bedspread into his arms.
Her breasts pressed hard against his chest, her nipples painfully tight. He took her bottom lip in his mouth and sucked, drawing her blood through her veins with every infinitesimal increase in pressure.
Wriggling closer, she maneuvered her leg over his thigh, needing to feel him pressed tight against her, wanting to feel the evidence of his arousal against her belly.
His ministrations on her lip continued, and she moaned for him, closing her eyes and balling the material of his shirt in her tight fist as she struggled not to beg him for more.
Desperate, she crushed herself against him and opened her mouth, silently urging him inside her. He played with her mouth, teasing, sucking, nipping, but never entering.
When he drew away, she shivered from the cool air that replaced his hot breath. His attention had made her lips full and swollen. Raw with kisses. And she wanted more. Opening her eyes, she saw him smiling at her, his own mouth moist.
“Please…” She could only manage one word, but that was all it took. He cupped her face and pulled her to him, his mouth claiming hers, fast, hard, primitive and completely satisfying. Their tongues fought a timeless battle of male and female, lust and desire.
She writhed against him, wanting a satisfaction his kisses alone wouldn’t bring.
He released his claim on her mouth. “Paris. Oh, Paris…”
The poor man sounded almost wounded. She’d never imagined herself capable of causing such a reaction, but she knew well enough it was real. She brushed her lips across his. “Yes?”
“You’re killing me. I can’t keep kissing you, touching you, and not be deep inside you.” Raw and gravelly with desire, his voice confirmed his words.
“Oh. I…” She could barely force words past the haze of passion. Right then, all she knew was that she hungered for him. She’d made up rules, silly rules. But her body answered to a different law, and her rules now seemed best ignored. Or broken.
“Paris, what do you want?” His murmur stroked and enticed her, turning the rivers of lust coursing through her into white water rapids.
The space within his arms seemed to shrink. Her eyes locked with his, knowing that if he could see into her heart, he would see only passion.
For years, her only adventure had been in her books. For one night, she wanted to live that adventure. With him. With Alexander.
“You,” she whispered. “Tonight I want you.” Maybe it was just lust, but she wanted him inside her with a desperation she’d never felt before. She might regret it in the morning, but tonight she needed him. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t really be Alexander. Hadn’t he told her that, just for tonight, he was? And he had to be…
He had to be her dream man. After all, who besides Alexander could make her feel this way?
DEVIN COULDN’T TAKE his eyes off her.
Paris had said she wanted him—had said it out loud—and he intended to make love to her like no other man ever could. More erotic, more sensual, more thrilling than any lover she’d ever had.
Or had ever fantasized about.
With slow, torturous movements he grazed his hand along her thigh, her hose silky under his fingers. He watched the desire on her flushed face as his fingers moved casually up her leg. When his thumb grazed soft skin instead of silk, she shivered, and he stopped, surprised.
“Stockings?”
She nodded, her tongue flicking across her lips.
“Oh, sweetheart. I knew you were sexy under that dress. I didn’t imagine this.”
His finger skimmed the edge of the stocking until he found the snap of her garter. He moaned and took a second to fight for control, pressing himself closer to her.
“I didn’t think panty hose fit a special occasion. The publisher’s party, I mean.” She smiled at him, soft and feminine and a little shy. “I didn’t realize quite how special the night would turn out to be.”
Her innocent, sweet words and halo of golden curls contrasted with the naughty lingerie and the heated arousal of her skin under his touch. The effect was honest and feminine and breathtaking.
Devin wanted her even more. He hadn’t thought such a thing possible.
“Any more incredible surprises I should know about?”
Wordlessly, she shook her head as his fingers fumbled over the snap. He eased her stocking down and off, then traced his finger back up her leg, along the outside of her thigh to the edge of her panties.
When his finger slipped under the elastic, her breathing became ragged and she closed her eyes. He teased her a little, tracing the edge of her panties, knowing she wanted him to go farther, but not quite willing to do that yet. Not until she was ready. Not until she was desperate.
When he pulled his hand away, she whimpered, but he kissed her into silence as his hand moved higher, a light tease on the outside of her dress, over her hard nipples, to her shoulder.
He fingered the straps. “If you don’t want me to rip this off you, I suggest you slide out of it.”
The thought had a certain appeal, and for a moment he considered just grabbing her dress and tugging, leaving her surprised and naked against him.
Primitive, yes. Satisfying, absolutely.
But probably not a good idea.
She shifted just enough to let him ease the dress off her, leaving her naked except for panties, her garter belt and one stocking.
Damn, she was gorgeous. “You’re beautiful.”
An adorable blush painted her already flushed cheeks.
“It’s true,” he insisted, but she just grabbed the edge of the bedspread and pulled it over her.
He grinned. No way she was getting away with that.
“Come on, sweetheart, I want to see more of you.” He took her hand and urged her to push the bedspread away. Her easy agreement and shy smile told him the compliments embarrassed her—not their intimate activities.
Good. The evening promised to get a lot more intimate. As for the compliments, well, eventually she’d get used to those. And if not, that blush was damned alluring.
He positioned her so that she was sitting at the foot of the bed, her feet flat on the floor, her hands behind her so that her shoulders were back and her chest was out. Her breasts rose and fell erratically with her ragged breathing. Her tight nipples begged to be kissed.
His own breath came just as choppy. Just watching her, without touching her, was sending his control spiraling away into oblivion.
From her breasts, his eyes moved down to her tiny waist, so small he could probably encircle it with his hands. Next, her round hips, still clothed in the silk panties he’d already explored. By the time his eyes lingered on the small patch of black material just between her thighs, he felt as if he would burst out of his tailored slacks.
Because the material was dark and her thighs were almost closed, he couldn’t tell if she was wet for him. But he imagined he already knew the answer to that. Her breathing, her heat, her scent, her eyes. Everything about her screamed that she was as aroused as he was.
Just knowing that excited him, made him anxious to see what other feelings he could coax out of her, how crazy he could make her before the sun came up.
How crazy he could make himself.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please what?”
“Touch me.”
Her words cut straight to his groin. Yes, oh, yes.
He knelt in front of her and ran his tongue along the top of her remaining stocking, lingering over her feminine taste. He stopped just long enough to look at her. “Touch you like that?”
She opened her mouth, but didn’t answer.
He teased her with his thumb, leaving her skin tight and hot. When he traced the edge of her panties with his forefinger, sliding his finger just under the material, she bit her lip.
“Like that, maybe?”
“Yes,” Paris moaned, her voice hoarse with passion, “like that.”
He continued his erotic exploration, his tongue tasting the inside of her thigh as his finger teased her, always just out of reach of where he knew she wanted. Sweet torment for her.
And for him. He wanted to be inside her, exploring her silky folds. Touching her. Kissing her.
“Don’t stop…” she begged.
Devin’s breath caught and he smiled, more than happy to oblige.
Bang, bang, bang. The pounding filtered through Paris’s muddled thoughts, and the moment shattered around her.
She bolted upright, pulling away from all the wonderful things Alexander was doing to her body. He stared back at her, his breathing just as uneven as hers.
She looked at the clock. Two forty-eight in the morning.
“Room service?” he whispered.
“We didn’t order anything.” The pounding repeated. “Should I answer it?”
Alexander traced his finger up the side of her arm. “Do you have to?”
“Paris?” Rachel’s voice spilled into the room.
Paris cringed, sure that she was blushing. “It’s Rachel.” She looked at Alexander. “I do have to answer it.”
“It’s the middle of the night. Does she do this often?”
“Paris!” Rachel’s voice had shifted from urgent to annoyed.
“Coming,” called Paris, managing a shrug for Alexander’s sake as she slid off the bed and began hustling into a terry-cloth robe she’d left hanging over an armchair. “Do what? Girl talk after hours? Not often. Maybe she wants a shoulder to cry on. Or someone to do tequila shots with.”
Alexander pitched her dress and shoes into the closet. “Don’t let her cry for too long. I have plans for that shoulder.” He trailed his index finger over the shoulder in question.
Paris smiled. “That’s a deal.” She turned toward the door. “One second, Rachel. I was just in the bathroom.”
“Well, hurry. I’ve got some amazing news.” Rachel’s voice was laced with excitement.
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