He dragged her closer, but the dress bunched around her waist and created a surprisingly formidable barrier for something so damned soft. He tugged and shoved the fabric to no avail, then finally gave up and slipped a finger beneath her panties.
Though he didn't enter her, the barometric pressure lowered with the force of her gasp. She caught her breath enough to utter a very unladylike oath, and he had every intention of following through on that particular demand.
He withdrew to his knees, gaining an edge of control with the distance. With a laziness that belied the charge of his heart through his chest, he explored her outermost contours with soft, intimate strokes. Little sounds of contentment spilled from her lips, a breathy staccato of demands for more. Clearly, he wasn't the only victim of this crippling desire.
She was wet and unbelievably hot, and he was an ass. When this was over and the sun pasted a morning-after glare on what they'd done, she'd want to fall in love and charge head over heels for a happily-ever-after that wasn't on the agenda. Not his anyway. But sex … dammit.
He bit back a groan that had nothing to do with the erection that had probably by now reshaped his zipper. He didn't have any condoms.
"What's wrong?" Her breathless words were punctuated by the trace of her nails down his abdomen. Her dress, at this point, was little more than a belt. She hadn't worn a bra, but she hadn't needed one. Her breasts-perfect handfuls, each of them-were fully bared and begging for his attention. Her soft, sleek hips gripped him, framing the silken vee of her drenched underwear. He stroked her there, watching desire churn in the oceanic depths of her eyes.
"No condoms," he muttered, fully sheathed in some sort of Chloe trance. Whatever element she possessed belonged on the krypton block of the periodic table. She vexed him, and he'd have been smart to remember that before he'd gotten close enough for all of his blood to rush south and point her way-simple instructions for a senseless man.
No condoms.
For some reasons, his words incited a riot of blush over her face. She raised a white-tipped nail to her lips. "I … uh … in my bag. You … help yourself."
Well, hell. Good for her, but she hadn't planned on spending her evening in his arms. Which meant Chloe was prepared for, well, someone other than him. A man she didn't know, per her own admission. The news stung but didn't change the fact she lay there wet and trembling and offering Knox the latex key to her kingdom.
He'd cope.
With the barest grasp on control, he disentangled from her legs and undergarment. He tried not to limp on his way to the bureau, where he found her purse and a liberal handful of condoms. He swallowed the growl that erupted in his throat and focused on shedding his khakis. The bent zipper thing hadn't been much of an exaggeration-the damned thing stuck, and he almost resorted to scissors to escape-but finally he broke free. Naked, he snatched one of her packets and rejoined her on the bed, where he pulled her to a sitting position and roughly yanked the dress over her head. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Smoldered. In a move right out of a shampoo commercial, she shook free loose waves of hair, then snared him in her arms and hauled him back to the bed with her.
They landed in a breathless heap of tangled limbs and slick skin. He fumbled and found that scrap of cloth she used for panties and ripped them down with one hand.
She rewarded him with a squeal and a quick maneuver with her hips that left his length pinned between her thighs. He sucked in a harsh breath and froze, teetering on the verge of pre-pubescent disaster while she lay there, wearing nothing but a Cheshire grin and strumming his pecs like guitar chords.
"You sure?" he asked, praying it was the most useless question he'd ever uttered.
She responded with the slightest tip of her hips-a move that left him cringing and willing the boys back down the chute.
"Condom," he sputtered.
The little vixen opened her legs at a snail's pace, leaving him panting over a barely there, impeccably trimmed landing strip. While he stared, his manhood jolted free of its fleshy prison. He caught it on the upswing, using his other hand and his teeth to tear into the wrapper and extract … a bright green rubber.
He snorted. It was just the dial-down he needed to keep from shooting her in the eye, but moreover, it was hilarious. "Got a cucumber fetish?" he asked as he rolled it on.
She might have blushed, but it was too hot to tell. And fetish or not, he was going in.
Any pretense of a polite nudge would have been wasted. The heat searing her lady parts made for one hell of an invitation, and when he took the plunge, he did it balls deep.
She gasped and dug into his triceps, leaving gouges he'd likely take to the grave. Were his eyes not lodged uselessly in the back of his head, he might have checked for blood, but as it was, all he could see was a kaleidoscope of color brought on by a series of unsteady dives into her delicious body.
He slowed his strokes and took in the glorious view of her sprawled on the mattress, vowing not to, never again, let her on top, no matter how much she enjoyed the ride. She had him turned inside out, and that was under the pretense of him being in control-at this rate, he might as well turn over ownership of his loins.
She was a breather. She didn't talk a lot during sex, and she didn't scream, but the rhythm of her breaths made clear he was doing something right. She met his eyes and-whether physically or with a look-drew him in. He slowed his pace and lowered himself to meet her skin to skin, his frantic need easing into a slow burn as he rocked against her, exploring her mouth with his tongue. She nipped in turn, murmured laughter, and held him.
From sex surged intimacy.
One or two late-to-the-party neurons misfired a warning. This isn't just sex. But it didn't have to be, so he ignored those emotions, ducked his head, and watched as he drove into her with the kind of spiraling momentum one gained from falling down a flight of stairs.
His name tumbled from her lips in a frantic whisper. She tightened from within-something he'd have sworn impossible with the grip she already held-and arched against him, pushing him over the edge. Before he could blink, he found himself tumbling head first into the land of orgasm, his brain sputtering reminders to breathe. Not to crush her with his inevitable collapse. Not to fall off the bed.
He dropped his head and found himself nuzzling the impossibly sexy hollow of her neck. They took ragged gasps in unison, his rewarding him with the scent of that melon shampoo he hadn't been able to forget. In the cozy comfort of her arms, their bodies still joined, he felt the sort of good a man like him had no right to feel. He hadn't exactly been honest with her about his intentions, but he sure as hell hadn't intended this. Wanted, maybe, but planned? Never. Chloe wasn't a casual sex kind of woman. She believed in love and forever, and clearly some misguided part of her still believed in him. But that belief wouldn't last. Not once she learned he'd set her up-and not for romance.
All of his parts were either numb or made of gelatin, but through the post-coital haze, he realized falling off the bed was the least of his problems. He'd left one very important item off his to-do list, and it had everything to do with the soft, willing woman trailing her fingers in lazy circles through his hair and a proposition that would end it all.
Fuck, but he was screwed.
Chapter Four
Chloe had forgotten her getaway.
Rather than taking off in the middle of the night as planned, she awoke to the intoxicating scents of fresh air, coffee, and … bacon? She squinted against the bright light of day and saw Knox, pacing back and forth through morning sunbeams like some sort of ethereal god. His dark hair was wet, and he was dressed in a clean pair of khakis, the crease crisp enough to throw a shadow. He wore a white dress shirt-buttons intact, cuffs undone-and held a phone to his ear, though he'd said nothing into it in the few seconds her attention had been glued to his form. When a light breeze kicked through the open balcony doors, it carried with it a citrusy scent so enticing, she took a deep breath and feasted on it.
Knox finally looked her way. In lieu of a warm, world-thoroughly-rocked smile, he nodded toward a tray set up beside the bed, then looked away. Suddenly self-conscious, she drew the sheet to cover her nakedness and removed the gleaming silver dome from the platter. Though she indeed found copious amounts of bacon, the "wow" didn't stop there. Mounds of fresh fruit lounged beside a trio of crepes bursting with strawberries and-she poked a finger in the luscious white filling for a taste-mascarpone cream. Beside the tray, a carafe promised hot coffee, and next to it, in miniature detail, an elegant creamer decanter delivered the means to turn the coffee her favored milky white.