Breathe for Me(9)

“You can get involved with him and not break your rules.”

“Because?”

“He’s not real. Just… fantasy.”

Her lashes lowered, his torso filled her vision. Fantasy?

“You sure you don’t want to take a dip?” he asked. “You’re looking like you’re feeling the temperature.”

“I’m fine.” She swallowed—her throat parched, her limbs heavy, achy, needy.

“It’s a very hot night.”

It certainly was. If he kept up with those little touches she was going to get overexcited. Hell, she might actually come. How was that possible?

“I need to…” she couldn’t finish her sentence. She held her breath, trying to slow the insanely quick build of excitement in her body.

“Need to what, sweetheart?”

She wasn’t a sweetheart. And she wasn’t the kind to do this. “I need to—” she broke off.

“Get wet?” He smiled. “Come swim with me.”

Oh that was so much more than an innocent invitation. And it hit her like a cool breeze—pulling her back from the brink.

“There isn’t room in that pool for the both of us.” Her chin lifted as fear enabled her to regain some control.

“It’s not the biggest pool,” he nodded. “But I think we could make do.”

“I…” She couldn’t. She wanted to but she couldn’t—it wasn’t the offer but the venue. She couldn’t get in that water.

She was so stupid. The guy was sex on a stick. He was offering and if she had any kind of spine she’d be taking. Because maybe this could be exactly what she needed? Some fun? Something meaningless to get her back into the social side of life? Because she wasn’t doing meaningful. Not that this guy would ever offer that anyway. She had the feeling he was all about easy. This ought to be easy.

But her response to him was too intense. The things she was thinking? About letting him do? Wanting him to just go right ahead and—

“What do you want?” he asked.

She stared, watching his pupils widen, darken. Potent. But she couldn’t answer his question. Couldn’t reach out and take. Because that buried part of her knew she shouldn’t. He might only offer casual, but he still had that protective thing going. And she really didn’t want that.

Slowly he leaned forward, still bracing his arm against the door at her back. His marauding finger dipped into her cleavage, the merest inch. Unable to move, breathe, think, she watched him come nearer, until he loomed so large in her vision she was overwhelmed. Her eyelids lowered. His lips caressed her collarbone—the touch setting off sparks under her skin, the flickers zooming along her veins deep inside.

The last time a guy had kissed her it had been filled with love. This was out and out lust and nothing but. Vastly different. But different was good.

And this was so, so good.

Boneless, she sank all her weight back against the door, her head falling to the side, wordlessly allowing him closer. He kissed along her shoulders and then down to the swell of her heavy breasts just above her swimsuit. Both his hands were at her waist now. Big hands. Strong. She shivered as he slid a broad palm over her swimsuit, sweeping around to her butt. A spear of desire shot deep into her womb. She put her hands on his chest to steady herself. To touch. His skin was wet but warm and the muscle beneath so damn hard. Pure strength, power, and masculinity and she could only soften, dampen, heat in instinctive response. Her hand swept—seeking more of that heat, that strength.

Still he kissed—feather-light, fast brushes of hungry lips swept over her skin. Her breasts tightened. She was achingly aware of his hand now at her upper thigh. His fingers stroked gently, teasing, so nearly breaching her swimsuit. Insane as it was, she wanted to feel skin on skin. To have him stroke and slide where she was wet and aching and empty. Her sex clenched. Wanting him.

But she couldn’t rock closer into his hand. Couldn’t moan the way she wanted. Couldn’t beg. It was too fast, too crazy. She shivered as his mouth neared her nipple. She struggled to breathe, panting in fast, quick bursts. But as his mouth reached its target she gasped. His fingers slid beneath the leg of her swimsuit.

Instinctively her hips jerked. She cried out.

More. She needed more.

A loud thumping reverberated through the door she was leaning against. Chelsea nearly jumped out of her skin. She pushed out of his suddenly loose arms. She turned to see someone coming through the door. Terry—the night manager.

Superman was swearing something blue beneath his breath.

“Sorry Xander, it’s closing time,” Terry said with a smile. “Rules are rules.”

Chelsea didn’t linger to listen to the banter. She didn’t stop to grab her towel. She just fled.



Frustrated as hell, Xander watched her go. He glared at Terry, the urge to shove the guy out of the way ripped through him. He held still by sheer force of will.

“So sorry about that.” Terry backed up a pace and pushed through the door.

“Sure you are.” Xander stalked after him. He heard the soft hum of the elevator mechanism working. She was gone already.

“She’s a hottie.” Terry said as he hit the stairs.

“She’s none of your business.” Xander hesitated, hating having to ask, but necessity bit so hard he had to. “What’s her name?”

Terry turned in the stairwell, astonishment written all over him. “You don’t know her name? You’re copping a feel and you don’t even know who she is? You’re the fucking master!” The guy almost bowed in admiration.

Xander was less than an inch from losing it. “Just tell me her name.”

“If you’re that hot, I’m sure you can find it out yourself.” Terry didn’t wait for a reaction. He sprinted down the stairs three at a time.

Xander unlocked his apartment and let the door slam behind him.

Asshole.

Clearly Terry had liked watching the midnight non-swimmer and he hadn’t appreciated having his perv sessions cut. Jerk.

But then Xander was a bit of a jerk too, wasn’t he? To be almost fingering her like that without knowing her name wasn’t great. Though at the time, he couldn’t have cared less. All that had mattered was arousing her, teasing her, satisfying her. Hell he’d wanted to see her satisfied. To see that need in her eyes assuaged.

He sighed and paced around his apartment. So damn relieved the fiancé was out of the picture. But his brain unrelentingly replayed images certain to send him mad.

Her lush lips had reddened, her eyes widened, the navy deepened. He’d had only a second with that sweet, tight nipple in his mouth, feeling the shivers ripple through her. She’d been holding herself rigid to stop her hips rocking, he knew it. And the way she’d arched against him when he’d sucked her in—swimsuit and all? Damned if he could resist that.

But for someone who had such heat in her eyes, who could talk it up a little, when it came to the moment she’d been surprisingly passive. She’d clammed up, almost like she was shy. But she hadn’t said no. And when he’d talked fantasy, invoked her imagination with his lame Superman line, that’s when she’d gotten hotter. That had been the key.

So is that what she needed? Him to make the moves? To instigate? To take control?

Fine. No problem. At least ‘til she warmed up. Because when he had touched her?

Ther. Mo. Nuclear.

He half laughed, half-groaned. She couldn’t have been warmer. Her response hadn’t been virginal. Then again, she’d been engaged. Hell, she’d teased she had more than one ring, like she collected them. Well she hardly did that. The way she’d run away the second she could, showed her true colors. No real vixen there. Though, it had to be said, she had potential.

Why had she run? Was it just embarrassment at being caught by Terry? Or was it fear? There was no need for fear. Xander never asked for more than a woman was willing to give. In fact, he usually asked for less than they wanted to offer. And he was certain she was willing. So he’d corral her, soothe her skittishness. And then ride her the way he knew she wanted him to. The way he was dying to.

But he needed to understand what was going on in her head. Because while her body was screaming yes, that verbal reticence bugged him.

Screw it. He’d go stalker. Just for five minutes. Just to get the answers he needed. Her name. Her business. What had happened with the ex. Thanks be the guy was an ex. Because one thing Xander knew, he was having her lips under his and her succulent body wrapped round him, squeezing on his thrusting cock until they hit oblivion together.

He grabbed his computer and logged into the hotel system. Pulled up her unit. Accessing a client’s files for personal reasons would cost an employee his job. Good thing he was the boss.

Chelsea Greene. Temporary tenant. Only here for two months. An intern with the Wroxton Institute of Urban Art & Design. Whatever the hell that was. He re-read her residency dates. His skin tightened as his muscles bunched. A deadline then. Less than eight weeks.

Chelsea Greene. How many could there be in this world? He logged out of the system and tried Google.

Turned out there were a few, but it was easy to sort them. She was still a student—had worked on a number of random urban art projects. But there was one headline that stole his attention. Blood chilling he clicked on the link that took him to the online version of the small town newspaper. It was only a brief—an obit. A young guy, Tom Holt had been killed in a car crash when his vehicle left the road. His fiancée, Chelsea Greene had suffered critical injuries but was expected to survive. The article was dated almost two years ago.