The question was . . . did she want to refuse him? She was tired, frustrated, and his offer could be a fantastic way to let off steam and unwind after a hard day. Who would it harm? They were both consenting adults. There was no romance or love or hearts and flowers here. She might dislike him, but she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit to feeling sexually curious about him. Maybe just this once? Just a taste. This was sex, plain and simple, and sometimes that’s really all anybody needed.
Dante Damaso watched the play of emotions on his assistant’s ridiculously expressive face. Shock and confusion, followed by intrigue, trepidation, and definite interest. He couldn’t have surprised himself more with that damned question. She was a tempting little thing, which he’d been trying damned hard to overlook in light of their personal connection through her brother. To that end, he limited the amount of time he spent with her as much as possible. But right now he was as human as the next guy. He was irritated by the way his day had gone, and his frustration built as the hours wore on with little progress being made. Now, after seeing this woman in her distracting blue dress, he was also horny as hell. He could do something about at least one of those things, but if she wasn’t interested, they’d move on. It would probably be for the best anyway, considering the spur-of-the-moment nature of his proposition. He should withdraw his offer and leave it at that. After all, he couldn’t think of a more inappropriate—
“Yes, thank you.” Her whispered words brought his commonsense train of thought to a screeching halt, and his jaw dropped as he watched her dip her head, allowing the sharply defined points of her sleek bob to swing forward and hide her face. His throat went bone-dry, and all sound judgment fled as he watched his hands reach for that vulnerable nape. He hesitated just shy of touching her and inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of the fresh, floral scent that had tantalized his senses all evening. When his fingers finally made contact with her soft, exposed flesh, his breath shuddered out of his chest in tandem with hers.
He was instantly, painfully, and immutably hard, and he allowed himself to deepen his touch, even though every instinct in him was screaming that this was a mistake.
This is a mistake. The thought—which had been buzzing around in Cleo’s head from the moment of initial contact between them, through their first stunning kiss, into the shedding of her clothing, and then when his mouth latched onto her breast for the first time—was getting ever more insistent. But Cleo had more interesting things to focus on, like the way his large, assertive hand was making its way down her body to . . .
“Oh God!” she moaned as that hand did magical, sinful, unimaginable things. Her back arched, and his smoldering gaze fell to the beaded tips of her breasts. She uttered another breathless little cry when his hot mouth fixed on one hypersensitive nub. Her fingers curled into his silky hair as she tried to keep him there.
“I can’t . . .” Her voice tapered off into a high-pitched whine when his supremely talented mouth left her breast only to lavish the same treatment on the other mound.
She could feel his hot hardness poised at her entrance, and her hands left his hair to claw at his back and tight buttocks, trying to pull him toward her. He lifted his head to stare down at her, his eyes feverish as they pinned her with single-minded concentration.
“You want me?”
God, his sexy voice, roughened with desire and strain, nearly made her come right on the spot. She couldn’t quite believe how much he was making her feel, how very much she wanted him inside her. She couldn’t remember wanting any other man half as much as she did this one. And yet . . .
This is a mistake!
The words had grown shrill and insistent, but Cleo pushed them away as she reached up for another one of those drugging kisses.
He complied, but only for the very briefest of seconds. Her frustration reached new heights when he took himself in hand and deliberately ran his blunt, sheathed tip down her slick, sensitive channel. From the tight bundle of nerves at the apex, slowly back down to her entrance, where he came to rest for a long, aching moment.
“You want this? Yes?” He pressed forward slowly, and she hissed when she felt him breach her, so much thicker and harder than she had ever had before.
MISTAKE! The clamoring was incessant, but she ignored it again and arched toward him.
He refused to comply, remaining still, not even breathing, giving her just that one small taste of what was to come.
“Sí? Yes?” His voice remained annoyingly steady, but the fevered gleam in his eyes told her he wasn’t as indifferent as he seemed.
“Yes! Damn you.” She truly hated him in that moment, and a bit of venom seeped into her voice. “Yes, I want you. I crave this. I need . . . oh.” This last as he inched forward with such slowness and care that it felt like forever before he was buried from tip to hilt. He was almost uncomfortably large, and it took her out of the moment for a brief second. Sensing her discomfort, he rested there and gave her time to adjust to his size while he lowered his head and focused his lavish attentions on her breasts again. He braced one of his hands on the bed beside her head, keeping his weight off her, and allowed his other hand to go roaming. When that hand finally dawdled its way down to where they were joined, Cleo was already arching her hips toward his. He grinned and slid his free hand under her to palm her butt and adjust her position. He sat upright, knelt between her spread thighs, and dragged her even closer.
It was a seriously sexy position, sprawled flat on her back while he feasted his eyes on her uninhibited nakedness. He lifted her higher, forcing himself even deeper inside, and then, with a wicked grin, finally began to move again.
“Play with your breasts!” he commanded, his voice sounding a little breathless. She complied, rolling the distended nipples between her thumbs and fingertips, then flicking at them. He grunted in approval and moved his hands to her hips, angling her upward while he continued his assertive thrusting. God, he is magnificent. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampened his hair, and added a fine sheen to his bronzed skin. He kept his focus on where they were joined, watching intently as he plowed into her tightness. His brow furrowed and his chest heaved, the first real signs that he was as affected as she was.
“Give me your hand,” he growled, and she reluctantly released one taut nipple and lifted her right hand toward him. He didn’t release her hips. Instead, he leaned down, captured her middle finger in his hot mouth, and sucked it inside. After one final seductive lick, he released her finger.
“Touch yourself,” he said, and she groaned before obediently doing as he had commanded. “Good.” The word was so gruff it was barely recognizable.
Cleo was unbelievably turned on by the picture she presented to his lascivious gaze. She had never been sexually shy, but this was . . . this was way beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Her back arched off the bed, her thighs lay sprawled across his, and she was quite unashamedly pleasuring herself for his—and her own—gratification. This was complete abandonment with the least likely man in the world, and she wasn’t at all sure how she’d gotten here.
She was well past the point of no return and the inevitable was but a heartbeat away, and then . . . it was there and so cataclysmic that her whole body simply clenched. The sharp cry that she uttered died in her throat as every single atom of her being focused inward on an explosion of pleasure so powerful it tore her apart and left her feeling vulnerable and emotionally raw.
His orgasm finally took him. She watched in fascination as his eyes slid shut, his head flew back, and every cord in his neck stood out in stark relief. He gritted his teeth, preventing even the faintest of sounds from emerging. Only the sharp catch and gradual release of his breath gave any indication of how much the climax had affected him. She resented his control. Hated how she had given herself so completely while he, for all intents and purposes, had kept a cool head from that first kiss to this last lazy thrust.
His grip on her thighs finally loosened, and she imagined she’d have bruises in the shape of his fingertips on her butt and thighs by morning. She could barely move as he smoothly extricated himself from her, tugged off the condom, and fell flat on his face on the bed beside her, his long, muscular legs still entangled with hers.
“Thanks, Chloe. I needed that.” His voice was slurred. He sounded like a very drunk or very tired man, and the gentle snore that followed a mere second later confirmed the latter fact. Cleo sighed, trying not to be completely demoralized by the fact that this man, whom she had known for nearly four frickin’ months, had just called her by the wrong name. She maneuvered her way completely out from beneath him, sat on the side of the bed, and pushed herself up onto unsteady legs, feeling like a newborn calf. She knew she should probably get back to her own room, because she very much doubted that he would appreciate waking up with her still beside him.
She hunted around the room for her dress and underwear but couldn’t find her panties. Why did it have to be her panties? She dressed hastily and was thankful that her walk of shame would span only the length of his room to the connecting door that led to her room. Nobody else would see her.