Heat, hot and heavy and clawing with need, engulfed his body.
One thing was for sure. Holly Christmas wouldn’t be “taking care of it” if she was pregnant. Nothing would happen to another child of his ever again.
Grief tore at the ragged edges of his mind. He determinedly forced the crushing strength of the emotion aside. He’d take his time to grieve, later. The loss was still too new, too raw to even acknowledge. He needed to lock it away inside and deal with it on his own terms.
For now he intended to lose himself. To focus on the energy that seethed inside of him and turn it into something positive. Something that would surpass the loss and replace it with physical, pleasurable sensations.
Connor reached across and took her wineglass, placed it on a coffee table then reached to take her hand.
“I’d take care of you, Holly.” It was a promise. If she carried his child he would ensure they both had the best of everything medicine and money had to offer.
“I can take care of myself.” She lifted her chin in defiance of his words, yet her voice, tellingly, wavered. Her vulnerability cut him to the quick, and stark realization dawned. Take care of her? What the hell was he thinking? Had he been so addled by the intoxication of making love to her that he’d forgotten his position as her employer?
He forced himself to question his motives and, for the first time in forever, he didn’t like the answers. Had he been so driven by the detestable evidence he’d been presented this morning that he’d subconsciously grasped at the next available opportunity? The thought was anathema to him, yet even so, he couldn’t categorically state that in some dark and wounded corner of his heart he hadn’t been provoked into manipulating the situation, manipulating Holly, to his own ends.
He dropped her hand as if her touch burned him. “Holly, I—” For the life of him he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t apologise for making love to her—especially when he wanted to do it again.
She lifted her hand and pressed her fingers gently to his mouth. “Shhh. Don’t say it. Don’t say you’re sorry.”
She knew him that well? Shock robbed him of speech, even more than the warm gentle imprint of her fingers against his lips.
“We’re both adults,” she continued, her voice slightly hesitant at first but growing stronger with each syllable. “We both know what we want. I’m not asking for forever, Connor. Just tonight. Only tonight.”
Her fingers traced the outline of his lips and his body leapt to rock-hard attention at her touch. The sound of his name on her lips hung in the air, crashing through the final barrier of indecision. Intently he examined her face, her eyes, searching for the tiniest hint of reluctance, and could barely suppress his elation when he found none.
“Tonight, then.” His throat felt raw as the words strained from him in agreement.
Sizzling anticipation shot scorching sparks through her. Her body felt taut, like a runner at the starting blocks, every nerve, every particle on alert. Waiting. Wanting.
“Ready?” Connor murmured as he lifted her hand to his lips and gently pressed them against her knuckles.
“Yes.” Her voice was strong. There was no hesitation now. This was what she wanted. Her lips parted on a gasp of pleasure as his warm tongue stroked a hot, wet line between her fingers.
“Let’s go, then.”
In the softly lit bedroom he let her hand go. Holly stood on the threshold, seeing, but not really taking in, the lush draperies at the window and the hand-crafted armoire and matching dresser. Connor hit a switch on a remote and the curtains drew closed.
“Come here,” Connor commanded from where he stood, next to the impossibly wide bed.
Shivering with nerves, Holly did as he bade.
“Undress me.”
Where to start? Holly thought for a frantic second, then, almost of their own volition, her hands reached for the lapels of his jacket and pushed them wide, sliding the tailored garment off his broad shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.
She pulled his shirt free of his trousers and painstakingly undid each button from top to bottom until the fine white cotton hung free from his body. She reached for his hands, one at a time, and undid the cuffs on his sleeves, then pushed his shirt away to expose him to her.
He was beautiful. The latent strength of his body evident in the swell of his shoulders and the depth and breadth of his chest. She watched as a quiver ran over the taut muscles of his stomach, the same skin she’d barely grazed with her touch earlier tonight, yet could still feel searing her fingers.
She heard his swift intake of breath as she reached out and trailed her fingers across his belly before fumbling for the catch at his waistband.