One Wicked Week. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
Jayda touched his thigh and he jumped as if he’d been electrocuted. ‘Jazz not doing it for you any more?’
He scooted back a fraction, dislodging her hand deliberately, before he swivelled to face her. ‘Do you really want to know what does it for me?’
He threw it out there, a blatant innuendo she couldn’t ignore. He had no idea if she’d been toying with him with her question but he couldn’t sit here in the dark with the boner to end all boners and pretend that he hadn’t once been inside this luscious woman and wouldn’t like to do it all over again.
The band’s spotlight dimmed, thrusting her face into semi-darkness, but he saw her tongue dart out to moisten her bottom lip as her gaze focussed on his mouth.
‘Tell me,’ she said, barely above a whisper. ‘I want to know what does it for you.’
Her eyes glowed like polished sapphires in the low lighting, the candlelight highlighting her glossed lips.
That mouth. Carnal. Made for sin. Made for him.
As he studied it her lips parted and the urge to kiss her pounded through him in time with his pulse. He couldn’t bullshit, not now. He wanted her too damn badly.
‘You.’ Before he could second-guess the wisdom of his impulsiveness he grabbed her hand and pressed it against his rigid cock. ‘You do it for me.’
She gasped, her eyes widening, her excitement reflecting his in the flickering candlelight.
‘Too much?’ he asked, with a sardonic grin, but not letting go of her hand. Her touch after all this time made him imagine all the naughty things he’d like to do to her in this alcove.
‘Not nearly enough,’ she murmured, a second before she surged towards him and claimed his mouth.
Her kiss took him by surprise and she took advantage of that, sweeping her tongue into his mouth, demanding he match her. He didn’t have to be asked twice, sliding his free hand behind her head so he could change the angle, deepening the kiss to the point where he couldn’t breathe.
She made the same soft moaning sounds in the back of her throat that she had six years earlier and it made him hornier, if that were possible. He released her hand but she maintained the pressure over his cock, palming him through his chinos, teasing him to the point he could easily ravish her without thought of fellow patrons.
A blast of trumpet made them jump and he tore his mouth away from hers, dragging in breaths to calm his addled mind. What the hell was he doing? He had to work with her for the next couple of weeks and this would only complicate matters.
But did it have to? They’d had sensational sex for one unforgettable night and that hadn’t stopped her approaching him to help her business. Would taking an erotic trip down memory lane really complicate things? She’d invited him here. She’d kissed him. And by the way she practically clambered all over him, she wanted more.
‘Brock?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah?’
A flush stained her cheeks and moved down her neck, disappearing into that ridiculously high collar of her dress, shielding what he longed to see: the fullness of her breasts spilling over the top of her bra, the deep cleavage created by her sizeable breasts.
As if she sensed the direction of his licentious thoughts, her hand hovered over her breastbone, drawing attention to her rigid nipples. Fuck, he wanted her.
‘I’m guessing you have some great jazz playlists at your place?’ Her voice turned husky, possibly from nerves or desire, as she squared her shoulders, bold and daring and delectable. ‘As good as anything these guys can produce?’
Yeah, she wanted this as badly as he did. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was using him as an emotional crutch again, a guy to help her lose herself in a few hours of sex to obliterate whatever was really bothering her.
Why do you care?
The kicker was, he did care. Even after all this time, because of how he’d felt about her all through uni, he cared. She didn’t know it, but he’d never take advantage of her.
No matter how brazen her actions, no matter how seductive her words, he had to wonder: did she want this for the right reasons? Did she really want a night of raunchy sex then to face him tomorrow without a qualm when they had to work together?
The fact he couldn’t get a proper read on her annoyed the shit out of him. Back then she’d been vulnerable and she’d needed him and he’d been there for her.
Tonight, her newfound confidence confused him. He’d made the first move, she’d responded with that kiss, and despite her daring he couldn’t help but think it had more to do with obliterating the earlier sadness he’d glimpsed than any burning desire to fuck him.
When he didn’t respond she leaned across and slanted a slow, all too brief kiss across his lips. Then she took his face between her hands, stared him dead in the eyes, and said, ‘I want you. I’ve never forgotten that incredible night and I want a repeat.’
She said all the right things, and with his cock aching to be inside her he needed to ditch the chivalry and take what she was offering.
She added, ‘Please,’ and Brock was a goner.
Because behind the boldness in her gaze as she eyeballed him with daring, behind the confident posture as she tilted her chin up in defiance, he heard something.
The slightest tremor in her voice, a hint of vulnerability that got to him, as if she expected him to turn away from her despite their sizzling attraction.
It kicked him in the fucking heart.
He couldn’t say no.
GROWING UP, JAYDA had had a secret passion for interior design. She’d loved visiting Melbourne’s swankiest homes with her parents where she’d be goggle-eyed at plush carpets, exotic velvet settees, ancient artefacts and artwork that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the world’s top galleries.
She’d developed a hankering for real estate over the years and had invested wisely thanks to her trust fund, owning two properties on the outskirts of the city currently rented to tenants, and her own luxurious town house in trendy Fitzroy. She’d bought the three-bedroom place off the plan so had carte blanche to decorate it, a project she’d loved. She’d chosen every inch, from the black marble bench tops to the glossy grey cupboards, from the polished oak floorboards to the eggshell paint scheme throughout.
She’d spent an inordinate amount of time poring over online furnishing catalogues and social media accounts of the world’s top interior designers, and had gone for simplistic sophistication over look-but-don’t-touch glitz. Her place screamed understated elegance.
It had nothing on Brock’s apartment.
‘Wow,’ she said, as she stepped into the foyer of his penthouse on the fiftieth floor of a towering complex in upscale Collins Street. This place was beyond wow. Way beyond. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows curved in a sweeping one hundred and eighty degrees, offering a stunning view of Melbourne by night. A balcony ran the same curvature, with sun loungers placed at strategic intervals. Fawn marble tiles covered the floor, with space-age metallic lighting fixtures hanging from the ceiling. Sleek chocolate-brown suede sofas were angled to face a modernistic painting with slashes of primary colours, which would turn into a TV at the flick of a button. She had a much smaller version at her place.
Overall, the penthouse exuded a subtle wealth and while her own town house had gobbled up mega bucks to channel the style and glamour she’d wanted, she knew she’d done well in enlisting his services to help get her business off the ground. To afford a place like this he must be extremely good at his job, beyond the stellar reviews she’d read online.