The Marriage Agenda(4)

He dragged her closer, but the dress bunched around her waist and  created a surprisingly formidable barrier for something so damned soft.  He tugged and shoved the fabric to no avail, then finally gave up and  slipped a finger beneath her panties.

Though he didn't enter her, the barometric pressure lowered with the  force of her gasp. She caught her breath enough to utter a very  unladylike oath, and he had every intention of following through on that  particular demand.

He withdrew to his knees, gaining an edge of control with the distance.  With a laziness that belied the charge of his heart through his chest,  he explored her outermost contours with soft, intimate strokes. Little  sounds of contentment spilled from her lips, a breathy staccato of  demands for more. Clearly, he wasn't the only victim of this crippling  desire.         

     



 

She was wet and unbelievably hot, and he was an ass. When this was over  and the sun pasted a morning-after glare on what they'd done, she'd want  to fall in love and charge head over heels for a happily-ever-after  that wasn't on the agenda. Not his anyway. But sex … dammit.

He bit back a groan that had nothing to do with the erection that had  probably by now reshaped his zipper. He didn't have any condoms.

"What's wrong?" Her breathless words were punctuated by the trace of her  nails down his abdomen. Her dress, at this point, was little more than a  belt. She hadn't worn a bra, but she hadn't needed one. Her  breasts-perfect handfuls, each of them-were fully bared and begging for  his attention. Her soft, sleek hips gripped him, framing the silken vee  of her drenched underwear. He stroked her there, watching desire churn  in the oceanic depths of her eyes.

"No condoms," he muttered, fully sheathed in some sort of Chloe trance.  Whatever element she possessed belonged on the krypton block of the  periodic table. She vexed him, and he'd have been smart to remember that  before he'd gotten close enough for all of his blood to rush south and  point her way-simple instructions for a senseless man.

No condoms.

For some reasons, his words incited a riot of blush over her face. She  raised a white-tipped nail to her lips. "I … uh … in my bag. You … help  yourself."

Well, hell. Good for her, but she hadn't planned on spending her evening  in his arms. Which meant Chloe was prepared for, well, someone other  than him. A man she didn't know, per her own admission. The news stung  but didn't change the fact she lay there wet and trembling and offering  Knox the latex key to her kingdom.

He'd cope.

With the barest grasp on control, he disentangled from her legs and  undergarment. He tried not to limp on his way to the bureau, where he  found her purse and a liberal handful of condoms. He swallowed the growl  that erupted in his throat and focused on shedding his khakis. The bent  zipper thing hadn't been much of an exaggeration-the damned thing  stuck, and he almost resorted to scissors to escape-but finally he broke  free. Naked, he snatched one of her packets and rejoined her on the  bed, where he pulled her to a sitting position and roughly yanked the  dress over her head. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Smoldered. In a  move right out of a shampoo commercial, she shook free loose waves of  hair, then snared him in her arms and hauled him back to the bed with  her.

They landed in a breathless heap of tangled limbs and slick skin. He  fumbled and found that scrap of cloth she used for panties and ripped  them down with one hand.

She rewarded him with a squeal and a quick maneuver with her hips that  left his length pinned between her thighs. He sucked in a harsh breath  and froze, teetering on the verge of pre-pubescent disaster while she  lay there, wearing nothing but a Cheshire grin and strumming his pecs  like guitar chords.

"You sure?" he asked, praying it was the most useless question he'd ever uttered.

She responded with the slightest tip of her hips-a move that left him cringing and willing the boys back down the chute.

"Condom," he sputtered.

The little vixen opened her legs at a snail's pace, leaving him panting  over a barely there, impeccably trimmed landing strip. While he stared,  his manhood jolted free of its fleshy prison. He caught it on the  upswing, using his other hand and his teeth to tear into the wrapper and  extract … a bright green rubber.

He snorted. It was just the dial-down he needed to keep from shooting  her in the eye, but moreover, it was hilarious. "Got a cucumber fetish?"  he asked as he rolled it on.

She might have blushed, but it was too hot to tell. And fetish or not, he was going in.

Any pretense of a polite nudge would have been wasted. The heat searing  her lady parts made for one hell of an invitation, and when he took the  plunge, he did it balls deep.

She gasped and dug into his triceps, leaving gouges he'd likely take to  the grave. Were his eyes not lodged uselessly in the back of his head,  he might have checked for blood, but as it was, all he could see was a  kaleidoscope of color brought on by a series of unsteady dives into her  delicious body.

He slowed his strokes and took in the glorious view of her sprawled on  the mattress, vowing not to, never again, let her on top, no matter how  much she enjoyed the ride. She had him turned inside out, and that was  under the pretense of him being in control-at this rate, he might as  well turn over ownership of his loins.

She was a breather. She didn't talk a lot during sex, and she didn't  scream, but the rhythm of her breaths made clear he was doing something  right. She met his eyes and-whether physically or with a look-drew him  in. He slowed his pace and lowered himself to meet her skin to skin, his  frantic need easing into a slow burn as he rocked against her,  exploring her mouth with his tongue. She nipped in turn, murmured  laughter, and held him.         

     



 

From sex surged intimacy.

One or two late-to-the-party neurons misfired a warning. This isn't just  sex. But it didn't have to be, so he ignored those emotions, ducked his  head, and watched as he drove into her with the kind of spiraling  momentum one gained from falling down a flight of stairs.

His name tumbled from her lips in a frantic whisper. She tightened from  within-something he'd have sworn impossible with the grip she already  held-and arched against him, pushing him over the edge. Before he could  blink, he found himself tumbling head first into the land of orgasm, his  brain sputtering reminders to breathe. Not to crush her with his  inevitable collapse. Not to fall off the bed.

He dropped his head and found himself nuzzling the impossibly sexy  hollow of her neck. They took ragged gasps in unison, his rewarding him  with the scent of that melon shampoo he hadn't been able to forget. In  the cozy comfort of her arms, their bodies still joined, he felt the  sort of good a man like him had no right to feel. He hadn't exactly been  honest with her about his intentions, but he sure as hell hadn't  intended this. Wanted, maybe, but planned? Never. Chloe wasn't a casual  sex kind of woman. She believed in love and forever, and clearly some  misguided part of her still believed in him. But that belief wouldn't  last. Not once she learned he'd set her up-and not for romance.

All of his parts were either numb or made of gelatin, but through the  post-coital haze, he realized falling off the bed was the least of his  problems. He'd left one very important item off his to-do list, and it  had everything to do with the soft, willing woman trailing her fingers  in lazy circles through his hair and a proposition that would end it  all.

Fuck, but he was screwed.





Chapter Four

Chloe had forgotten her getaway.

Rather than taking off in the middle of the night as planned, she awoke  to the intoxicating scents of fresh air, coffee, and … bacon? She squinted  against the bright light of day and saw Knox, pacing back and forth  through morning sunbeams like some sort of ethereal god. His dark hair  was wet, and he was dressed in a clean pair of khakis, the crease crisp  enough to throw a shadow. He wore a white dress shirt-buttons intact,  cuffs undone-and held a phone to his ear, though he'd said nothing into  it in the few seconds her attention had been glued to his form. When a  light breeze kicked through the open balcony doors, it carried with it a  citrusy scent so enticing, she took a deep breath and feasted on it.

Knox finally looked her way. In lieu of a warm, world-thoroughly-rocked  smile, he nodded toward a tray set up beside the bed, then looked away.  Suddenly self-conscious, she drew the sheet to cover her nakedness and  removed the gleaming silver dome from the platter. Though she indeed  found copious amounts of bacon, the "wow" didn't stop there. Mounds of  fresh fruit lounged beside a trio of crepes bursting with strawberries  and-she poked a finger in the luscious white filling for a  taste-mascarpone cream. Beside the tray, a carafe promised hot coffee,  and next to it, in miniature detail, an elegant creamer decanter  delivered the means to turn the coffee her favored milky white.