The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare ConnellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
flares inside me. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Hmm,’ he agrees, and then he’s lifting me up, wrapping my legs around his waist and carrying me easily through his bedroom to the tiled adjoining bathroom.
‘What are you doing?’ Though it’s self-explanatory when he flicks on the shower taps and steps past the wide glass wall.
‘Helping you get ready for work.’ He grins, and when he eases me onto his cock, I give up pretending I want to be anywhere but here.
‘I thought we were talking about handcuffs,’ I murmur as water douses me from overhead, plastering my hair to my face.
‘Let’s see.’ His eyes probe mine and then he takes another step so my back connects with the tiled wall and one of his hands captures both of my wrists, pinning them over my head. It’s just him, and yet his grip is vice-like. I couldn’t easily wriggle free, even if I wanted to.
There’s a challenge on his features as he thrusts inside me and there’s something almost painfully erotic about not being able to touch him. I surrender to the strength of this feeling as he thrusts hard and deep, filling me, awakening barely rested needs.
My ankles dig into his back and I hold on as though my life depends on it until I’m coming around him. I go to pull my hands free but he shakes his head, dropping his mouth to my breasts and pulling one of my tight, sensitive nipples between his teeth. I shake all over, the pleasure doing funny things to me.
My orgasm is intense, and even as I come he continues to torment my breasts and hold my arms high above my head so there is no reprieve from the pleasure, no relief from this insanity.
I drop my head to his shoulder as my tortured breath ravages my body and then he’s easing my feet to the floor, pulling out of me gently, letting my arms go all at once. It’s a strange desertion. He’s still rock hard.
‘You didn’t…finish,’ I murmur, hating that I can still feel so embarrassed after all we’ve shared.
‘Mmm…’ he murmurs, biting my earlobe. ‘As much as my parents are desperate for me to get married and have kids, I don’t think they have a New York–based heir in mind.’
‘Oh, my God.’ It is a shocking wake-up call. ‘I didn’t even think…’
‘I did. A bit too late,’ he says with a self-deprecating shake of his head.
‘I’m on the pill,’ I say, to reassure myself as much as him.
‘And I’m clean.’ He shrugs. ‘Still, I’d rather not take the risk.’
Why does that make my gut clench—and not in a good way?
I paste a smile on my face and reach for the body wash. ‘And now, I really do have to get ready for work.’
He runs his mouth over my cheek, capturing my lips, his smile sweet and slow. ‘Coffee?’
My heart lurches. ‘Thanks.’
I lather myself all over, my body so completely raw and tender that everywhere I touch is like an erotic shadow of last night. My breasts are pink from the brush of his stubble, my inner thighs too, and I have a row of hickeys across my hip, leading towards my buttocks.
He was right to pull out, not to come. He’s sure as hell right to protect us from any unwanted consequences.
But just the mention of that has made me think about a future that I would have said, two weeks ago, I don’t actually want. A future filled with the laugh of a small person, the dependence of a child, the love of a little one.
I’m not maternal—I have no idea what being maternal even looks like, since my mother wasn’t and I suspect I’m even less so. I don’t have anything to go on. And yet, at the mention of little Rothsmore heirs, something very close to my ovaries fired to life in a way that has taken my breath away.
Thank God we agreed this was just going to last a month. I can’t imagine much worse than being with Nicholas Rothsmore for real, allowing myself to do something really stupid and fall in love with him.
And there is such a risk there, because he’s too good at this. He’s charming and funny, sophisticated and smart, so damned thoughtful and, as for his bedroom prowess, there’s no need to wonder why he’s earned the nickname ‘the Playboy of Manhattan’.
But only a fool would fall in love with Nicholas Rothsmore, and I’m no fool. Reassured, I step out of the shower and towel myself down. When I step into his bedroom, my eyes are transfixed firstly by the stunning view of Central Park, and then by a bag on the foot of the bed. I recognise the distinctive thick black paper with the embossed white logo. Curious, I reach in and pull out a lingerie twin set. My smile hurts my cheeks.
Pale cream and the most delicate lace, it antagonises my already sensitive body, the lace so raw on my nipples that I gasp as I move, every single shift of my flesh reminding me of his possession of my body.
I suspect this is something he foresaw.
When I slip into the kitchen a few minutes later, his knowing smile confirms my suspicions.
‘Thank you for this.’ I wave a hand over my flesh.
He shrugged. ‘It seemed like a wise precaution, given the whole paint-on-body situation.’
‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep,’ I say, reaching for the coffee. He’s made it black, which is strange, because that’s just how I have it. I sip it and let out a small moan of appreciation.
‘Good?’ he prompts over the rim of his own mug.
‘Shh,’ I tease. ‘Let me drink this, then we’ll talk.’
We drink our coffee in silence, my little ritual one I’m glad to observe, even side by side with Nicholas.
‘I didn’t mean to stay over,’ I reiterate, a few minutes later, placing the empty coffee cup in the sink.
‘Why?’
‘I just didn’t plan on it.’ I shrug.
‘We were up late.’ He says the word with emphasis.
I think it was about two when I last saw the time. ‘I remember.’
‘It would have been kind of dumb to slink home at that hour.’
‘Nonetheless,’ I murmur, my voice a little icy, ‘I prefer to sleep in my own bed.’
His face shifts with something like amusement and then he shrugs. ‘Sure, if you’d like.’
I’m slightly mollified, but not completely. Our conversation from earlier sits inside me like the sharp edge of a blade and I can’t really say why.
‘Do you have much on today?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod, looking around for my clothes. They’re arranged on the edge of a chair. I stride to them, pulling the dress on over my head only to find him watching me with a small smile on his face. My blood pounds through me. ‘You?’
‘Sure.’ He shrugs. ‘But I’d like to see you tonight.’
Tonight. Pleasure sounds in my head, pleasure so intense it almost drowns out the warning bells. Because he is ever so slightly too much for me to handle. Because I would fully believe it if a doctor told me he had the addictive properties of a drug and that I was already way over quota.
‘Not tonight,’ I say, shifting into my coat, then looking around for my handbag. It’s on the kitchen bench. I lift it over my shoulder, checking I have everything.
‘Tomorrow night?’
My heart is hammering. I keep my head bent so he doesn’t see the way I’m shaking. ‘I’ll message you.’
He nods, a frown on his face that he quickly erases.
‘I don’t have my bikini,’ I say, when