Australia: Wicked Mistresses(63)

Lips that brushed her ear, generating a flutter of excitement deep in her belly.

Bad sign. She should definitely go. Her mother was expecting her for dinner, anyway.

But then his eyes locked on to hers in the reflection and he bent his head to nuzzle at the top of her shoulder. “No hurry, is there?”

Jordan leaned her head back to nestle in his throat, watching him with half-closed eyes. Behind her, his hand continued its slow progress, now in between her shoulder blades, each centimeter a wand of heat that caused her back to arch. She sent a silent apology to her mother for her anticipated lateness.

Nick Thorne was irresistible to her. It had been that way since the first clash of their eyes in an elevator in this very hotel. She was leaving an aunt’s eightieth birthday afternoon tea party. Nick was leaving a banking conference.A chance meeting so powerful, she couldn’t believe they’d even made it out of the elevator without her skin blistering. The intense attraction led to an indecently quick drink at the bar and an even more indecent mutual decision to take a room, there and then. The thrill of it all was intensified by how forbidden it was because of the hatred between their fathers for the last thirty years.

The zipper was fully up but Nick’s green-gold gaze was not that of someone who wanted her dressed. He caressed the back of her neck close to her hairline, an exquisite touch that made her breath catch. The heat of him behind her, naked and masculine, bathed her skin. He slowly moved his hand to the bow on her shoulder, watching her as if challenging her to stop him. The ribbon had as much resistance as her mind, and the front panel of the dress collapsed in front but was supported by the zipper at back. Not supported enough for the weight of her breasts, which spilled out, taut and aroused.

“Now look what I’ve done,” Nick murmured in her ear. “And I was only trying to get to know you better.”

Jordan swallowed and raised her hands, cupping her breasts. “You know me,” she said breathlessly, playing the game. “You know these.”

“Yes, I know these.” His big hands relieved hers of their burden, kneading and squeezing just the way she liked. Jordan welcomed the onslaught of sensations that had become familiar yet never failed to render her boneless. Even as she wondered vaguely why the sudden interest, it was beyond her to resist his touch. She swirled in a hazy pool of delight at his breath on her neck, his hands on her flesh, the hot, hard wall of him pressed up against her back.

He used his hands unhurriedly, feathering down her sides to her buttocks, pausing to caress them in a circular motion that made her shiver.

“I know these…” he murmured as his hands slid over the sensitive backs of her thighs, down to her knees and up again, the fabric of the dress slipping and sliding over her smooth skin, higher and higher until it was bunched around her hips.

Her breath came in shallow gasps now as he held her captive in front of him. She ought to feel wanton and ashamed, watching them in the mirror, observing her total submission to his hands, his mouth as he nibbled and licked her neck and the top of her shoulder. This was, after all, what everyone expected of her. A spoiled, rich, man-eating socialite who spent her entire life in the pursuit of pleasure.

She was on her way to perdition and pleased about it, she thought, feeling the scrape of her panties down her legs. When Nick Thorne touched her, she felt beautiful and proud that he wanted her. He was a man of substance, successful and wealthy in his own right, not some flighty playboy. Their relationship may be based on the most primitive of urges, but his desire for her, the passion he evoked from her, made her feel his equal. Love didn’t come into it, but Friday afternoons were the best thing in Jordan’s life and she wouldn’t give them up.

She brought her fingertips down to the dresser to steady herself, just as his thigh wedged between her trembling legs, nudging them apart. His breath skittered up the length of her back, making every downy hair stand to quivering attention. Anticipation backed up in her throat.

“I know this,” he insisted, his fingers lightly probing while she moaned softly, her eyes closing to contain the most sublime pleasure.

He shifted closer. A red-hot streak of sensation ripped through her and she realized it wasn’t his fingers probing and gliding now, sliding in between her legs. The weight of him leaning over her back forced her forward and she pressed her palms down on the dresser, bracing herself.

“Open your eyes, Jordan,” he instructed, sliding one arm around her waist.

Her head lolled heavily back and hit his chest. She pried her eyes open and found his, fierce and compelling, staring back at her through the mirror.

“Does it bother you,” he asked roughly, “this secret of ours? This thing between us?”

Jordan was past reason. She wanted much more of “this thing” between them, and she wanted it now. She stared at him, pushing back into his body, squeezing her thighs together to trap him.

With an effort almost too much to bear, she forced her mouth to open, to speak. “I know the score, Nick,” she told him tightly. “I’m playing the game.”

Sex.

Simple. Sensational. Secret.

It was what she wanted. What she lived for. Her Friday afternoon delight.





Two


“It’s all right for you,” the stooped man with the trembling hands told her belligerently. “You get paid to sit around all day. I had to take the morning off work and now it looks like I won’t get seen at all.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hansen. It’s been very busy this morning.” Jordan tried to warm him up with a sympathetic smile but the man sighed loudly and stomped back to his seat in the crowded waiting room.

She exhaled slowly. Not even lunchtime and already a tension headache throbbed dully in her temples.

It was her turn on the voluntary roster to work two full days in Reception at the Elpis Free Clinic, and just occasionally, uncharitable though it was, she found it a little overwhelming dealing with unwell people. Thinking she was unobserved, she dropped her head down onto her arms for a second.

Behind her, Reverend Russ Parsons put his hand on her shoulder and she jerked up.

“You should have told him that no one gets paid around here. Not the doctors, cleaners, admin staff or our beautiful receptionist.”

Jordan laughed ruefully. “Some receptionist! Some days I just don’t seem to have the knack with people.”

“You’ll never get it right all of the time, but what’s important is that you try so hard.” He took some leaflets from the counter in front of them and handed them to her. “Why don’t you give him some info on our natural healing classes?”

She took them, silently berating herself for not thinking of it.

In addition to the free clinic, the Elpis Foundation she’d set up a year ago helped Russ’s parish to identify at-risk families who were stretched financially. They also provided a raft of self-help courses. Jordan was incredibly proud of the strides they’d made in a short time, but her lack of work experience spoke volumes about how she had chosen to spend her time up until recently.

“Are we still on for the Working Bee this weekend?” Russ had turned to go but stopped at the door.

Jordan nodded enthusiastically. She had recently purchased an old backpackers hostel in the beautiful Marlborough Sounds at the top of the South Island. The hostel had gone out of business years ago and was rundown and neglected, but with the volunteers from Russ’s parish, she hoped to develop it into a retreat for the families in the program who never got to have a holiday. “How many are coming? I’ll book the ferry tickets.”

“Ten. Is Friday afternoon all right? I’ll have to get the late ferry back on Saturday for services on Sunday.”

Friday afternoon? Jordan’s heart lurched. She shook her head and lowered her eyes, feeling the onset of an embarrassed blush. “Sorry. You guys could go but I won’t be able to until Saturday morning.” Philanthropy was one thing; denying herself Nick Thorne’s body quite another—especially on her birthday. “My parents are putting on a thing for my birthday.”

A “thing” by her father’s standards would probably cost the annual wage of four or five of the people in the waiting room combined. This year, her twentysixth, she had prevailed upon Syrius not to go too over-the-top. “You’re welcome to come,” she added lamely, hoping Russ would decline. Her father didn’t approve of the way she spent her time and money and she was afraid his infamous lack of tact would offend the gentle reverend.

Syrius Lake was a man of unfashionable and inflexible opinions, especially to do with women. They were to be protected and indulged but not to be taken seriously in the workforce. “I didn’t work my fingers to the bone so that my princess would have to,” he was fond of saying.

That made her cringe these days but Jordan had made the most of her privileged upbringing for a long time—way too long—before coming to the realization that being a princess was a fairly boring existence.

“Speaking of invitations,” Russ said as she rounded the reception counter, leaflets in hand and Mr. Hansen in her sights, “this charity ball and auction you’re organizing…shouldn’t we be promoting it? It’s only a couple of weeks away.”