Hot and Bothered(35)

                Not ever, if he were honest.

                Then she lifted her head, and he saw right away from her face that it was nowhere near okay.

                * * *

                THE LAST TREMOR of the best orgasm of her life had not yet faded when Haven’s brain started working again.

                Oh, my God, what have I done?

                His arms, tight around her, were holding her up. Her legs were too weak to support her.

                Standing. For a brief moment her mind was split between horror and admiration. Standing! We made each other come standing up! This was accompanied by a reverberation of vivid, intense memory, of the way she’d needed needed needed needed. An echo of pleasure, and pure, silver sensation.

                Then a flood of shame. Standing next to my office door.

                With my administrative assistant on the other side.

                Did she hear?

                What kinds of noises did I make?

                Haven couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember anything she’d done, in fact, or anything she’d thought. All she could remember was how good it had felt and how much she’d craved the momentum, the rush, loving the way her need had driven her along, clutching and reaching and grabbing. She’d never felt anything like this before, the slick heat of his mouth and how it had merged in her mind with the hot, wet need between her legs and the feel of his iron-hard cock sliding under her palm—which she had licked.

                She remembered that part because one of the things she’d never really liked about sex was how messy it was. Why couldn’t it be more civilized?

                Her hands were covered with his semen, sticky and wet. Shouldn’t she be more upset about that? She felt removed from what had happened between them, as if she’d read about it in a book. Had she really loved the way his cock had looked and felt when he’d come all over her hands, definitive proof that she’d made him lose control?

                His hands were still on her, his fingers still in her, her body still fluttering against his touch. Damn, he was an expert at that. From the moment he’d touched the lace edge of her panties, she’d known he was going to make her come and she was going to let him.

                And, oh, God, that made her remember that she’d been unwaxed and not freshly daubed clean, no newly applied deodorant—and she’d been sweating from the strain of dealing with Pete and Mark. Who knew what her breath smelled like, because she’d brushed her teeth this morning, of course, but then there had been her coffee-and-bagel breakfast.

                He knew what her breath smelled like. He knew she’d totally and completely lost control of everything—of the situation, of her image, of herself.

                The last spasms were subsiding, and her body was cooling. The mess on her hands felt far less like a gift. There was no bathroom inside her office, only the one out there past her admin’s desk. In her own desk, she had a roll of paper towels and a box of tissues.

                Shame. Regret.

                She lifted her head. He was waiting for her, his eyes questioning.

                She saw no such negative emotions there, and that made her angry. This wasn’t just her loss of control, it was his, too. She wasn’t the only one who had something to lose by screwing this up. If anything, he had more.

                She pushed his hand out from under her skirt and broke away from his embrace. Retreating to the desk and using the toe of her shoe, she opened the bottom drawer and extricated the paper towels.