Maybe the drought had left him as pent-up as she, because he released a low groan, clamped a white-gloved hand at the back of her head, and took control. And what she’d started as a funny, slightly naughty thank-you ignited into a long, urgent demand the likes of which he’d never delivered before. One her entire body begged to satisfy.
He shoved her up against the tables in a domineering move that sent a whiplash of pure, feminine lust reverberating through her. Something spilled to the floor. Her purse, she realized, but then the thought spun away as hands worked their way under her blouse and cupped her breasts, lifting them until her nipples scraped the lacy edge of her bra. The small torment coaxed a moan out of her, and then another when his thumbs brushed the tight, tingling peaks and set off answering tingles strong enough to make her thighs clench.
A proper, responsible part of her couldn’t believe they were doing something so crazy in a supply closet, with co-workers gathering in a banquet room on the other side of one thin wall. She drew back to catch her breath and level her head, but a wild, reckless part of her she’d ignored for too long took charge of her voice. “Hurry,” she whispered. “There’s not much time.”
Spurred on by her own warning, she twisted away and bent over the stack of tables to scramble for the little packet of condoms in her purse. Dammit, she couldn’t reach it. She leaned over as far as she dared, and stretched. Her fingertips grazed the bag, and… “Ohmigod!”
Swift fists yanked her skirt up around her waist. Bare hands clamped on her hips, and a hot mouth trailed over her backside. Her leg muscles dissolved. What was he doing to her?
Not bestowing gentle little kisses. Uh-uh. Whatever he was up to involved lips, tongue, and—sweet mercy—teeth. The faux beard tickled her thighs, but she couldn’t blame her restlessness on the props. He was the one making her squirm. Him.
His mouth roamed lower, and any remaining questions flew out of her mind, along with her sense of propriety and every ounce of her dignity. She arched her back and lifted up onto her tiptoes, praying he could reach the spot that craved his attention from this position. And then he angled his head, and Oooooh, thank you Santa for your fast, merciless tongue… Air rushed out of her lungs. She must have made a noise, because a stern “Shhh” reached her ears.
“Sorry.” She closed her eyes, bit her lip, and fought the urge to cry out.
Despite her effort, some sounds simply couldn’t be silenced. Her choppy breaths filled the room, punctuated by the squeak of the tables every time she moved, and the wet sound of his tongue delving in, out and around her panties.
He deliberately teased her, making her shiver uncontrollably while he whipped her to a frenzy and retreated, again and again, until she rocked backward so hard she nearly toppled the stack of tables and sent them both sprawling. Thankfully, he didn’t let that happen. He caught and steadied her, but the low rumble of his laughter washed over her skin.
Okay, it was funny. The sheer awkwardness of their cramped love nest, the Santa suit, the looks she imagined on their poor co-workers faces if someone opened the door right now. A giggle snuck past her lips.
“Shhh.” The admonishment came from behind her, and then he sank his teeth into the curve of her butt and sent two fingers between her legs, sliding into her. Slow. Deep.
She locked her jaw to stifle a grateful sound, and choked back a whimper when he withdrew and used one damp fingertip to paint her flesh with a slow, circling design.
Where had this Paul been hiding for the last few months? Wicked, playful, and devastating. This Paul intended to exploit every inch of her, and nothing—good heavens, absolutely nothing—appeared to be off-limits. She loved it, and for once in her life she didn’t care about the reasons. All she cared about were the sensations building to a crisis inside her.
She swept her arm out, snagged her purse, and used her free hand to dig around until she found the inside pocket. Condom. Clenching her inner muscles around his fingers in a silent plea, she thrust the small packet at him. A tear of a wrapper, the rustle of clothing, and then those hands were back on her hips.
He dragged her panties down. She braced herself. Time ticked by. One eternal second. Two. Her pulse pounded, and her nerve endings twitched. What was he waiting for?
Palms smoothed down her blouse, along either side of her spine, and then he moved lower, pausing to give each vulnerable cheek a squeeze. He took her hips and lifted them slightly, and she adjusted her stance to accommodate the deeper angle he wanted. His hands wandered along the insides of her thighs, long fingers sliding between for an all-too-fleeting caress, followed by another, and another. She swayed into his touch, not caring how frantic she looked. Those hands were all she could focus on. Why hadn’t she noticed how big, and warm, and talented they were before? How they could practically finesse an orgasm right out of her with a maddeningly patient stroke…
“Ooohhh!” There was no practically about it. Her body stiffened as the first ripple reverberated through her. Apparently, that’s what he’d been waiting for, because he drove into her with a single thrust that shot her orgasm into uncharted territory. Then the thrusts came fast and hard. Beyond the rush of blood in her ears, she heard him say her name in a low, nearly unintelligible groan. She clung to the edge of the topmost table and cried out as pleasure slammed into her, crashed over her, and took her under.
For long minutes after the last wave passed, she lay there like a cat in a sunbeam, too content to move. The slow, cautious friction of his body easing out of hers provoked a tiny shiver, but that was involuntary. She might have sighed when he slid her underwear into place. She definitely gasped when he followed up the gentlemanly gesture with a quick, loud slap on her butt. What the…? Hello, Santa just spanked you. Her surprised laugh echoed in the small room.
Another “Shhh” greeted her outburst.
So strict. But those magic hands tugged her skirt down, and she fought back another sigh. Interlude over. She pushed herself upright, re-tucked her blouse and smoothed her skirt. He held her purse out. She took it, and then leaned in and planted one last kiss on his beard-covered lips. “Give me a few minutes before you join the party.” She cracked the door and peeked into the hallway. All clear. “Merry Christmas, Paul,” she whispered, and slipped out of the closet.
You’re going to be sorry one of these days if you don’t stop leading your love life like a letter to Penthouse.
Rafe St. Sebastian stood outside the Las Ventanas banquet room, dressed as Santa Claus, while his little sister Arden’s warning echoed in his mind. At the time she’d said it, he’d strongly objected to the comment. Not the part about his love life reading like a letter to Penthouse. He wouldn’t waste his breath denying that.
Rather, he’d objected to Arden’s contention he’d be sorry. He worked hard. He played hard. He had absolutely no regrets. And while he liked to think he had as much personal appeal as the next guy, he didn’t delude himself into believing looks or charm alone accounted for his popularity. His social status, his family fortune, even the longstanding St. Sebastian playboy reputation, attracted attention. And yes, a secondary agenda related to his status, fortune, or reputation often accompanied the attention. It came with the territory, and didn’t particularly bother him. Both parties went in with their eyes wide open and nobody walked away sorry.
Unfortunately, this time Arden proved right. He was sorry, because the evidence suggested this latest sexcapade had been a mistake on one party’s part, specifically one Miss Chelsea Wayne.
He’d recognized her from the pre-acquisition due diligence. Her photo on the Las Ventanas website attracted almost as many views as the virtual tour of the resort. Intriguingly dark, wide-set eyes, full, smiling lips, and the sexy little dimple in her left cheek merited an extra click.