Unfinished Business: Bought: One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress
So she nodded assent and then turned the conversation back. ‘You bake often?’
‘Fairly. It relaxes me.’
‘You don’t seem like you’d need relaxing. You seem pretty laid-back. Assured.’
‘You think? I get uptight. I certainly get frustrated.’ Another innocent smile. ‘What do you do to relax, Cally?’
‘Same as you. I cook.’
‘Aren’t we a good combination? I make the bread, you make the soup. Complementary.’
It was too hot in the kitchen. She wanted to get back into the lounge or, even better, the deck. Uptight didn’t even begin to describe how she was feeling. She focused on the bread again, studying the thickness of the crust, the texture.
He looked thoughtful. ‘You know, the best way to make you understand isn’t to tell you, but to show you.’
‘Show me what?’
He grinned, as if knowing she wasn’t thinking quite along the lines he was. ‘How to bake bread.’
Oh. Right. By the time she’d told herself she really wasn’t disappointed he’d pulled out a bin of flour from the walk-in pantry.
‘You’re serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
Fascinated she watched as within minutes he had ingredients lined up on the bench and the scales out. A big old-fashioned earthenware bowl sat centre-stage.
‘Don’t you use an electric mixer?’
‘I do everything by hand.’ He gestured for her to come beside him. ‘Only today, you do everything by hand.’
He ran the taps and washed his hands; she followed. Amused and fascinated she watched; she hadn’t baked in years. He measured the flour, took yeast from the fridge, mixed in a little sugar, a little salt, water. Eventually he ditched the wooden spoon to work with his hands and then dumped the dough from the bowl to the bench.
‘Now knead.’
He stood aside, and she stepped up to his bench, painfully aware of him behind her, watching over her shoulder. She felt stupid, self-conscious, and with a sigh started pushing at the dough. He watched in silence for a few minutes and she knew he wasn’t impressed.
‘You need to put your heart into it, Cally,’ he chided. ‘If you want anything to be any good you have to give it everything. Just let go and get into it.’
Right. With the most gorgeous man ever to walk the planet at her back making her feel as if she were under a microscope. She heard a muffled grouch and then his arms encircled hers, and he put his hands on her own. Slowly he guided her, showing how to work the dough—the way he worked it.
‘If you take your time you can feel it growing more pliant.’ His voice was almost a whisper.
All she could feel was his length all the way down her back. As she bent forward over the dough it brought her bottom into contact with his groin. She heard his sharp intake of breath and fought the urge to grind back against him, wanting to rotate her hips against his. Instead she pressed back towards the bench, away from him. His hands left hers and he put a fraction more space between them.
She took the frustration out on the dough, rolling it over and over and squishing it and moulding it, pushing her energy into it until it was as smooth and supple and as ready as she already was.
Sweat formed on her forehead and she lost herself in the rhythm of the work.
He didn’t move away. She could feel him right there, watching, but she didn’t mind as she lost herself in a kind of sensual trance, the energy flowing from her core to her limbs out from her fingers to the bread.
She didn’t know how long she worked. But suddenly his arms came around her again, his hands grasping hers.
‘Enough.’ His voice rasped in her ear.
She stopped instantly. Realised she was panting. For a long moment they stood, him clasping her. Her heart rate didn’t slow, instead it started a less-than-steady increase. ‘What now?’
There was a silence before he answered. ‘We let it rest. Then do it again.’ He let go of her and she sensed him step back.
For a split second she felt relief and then she just felt cold. It took every ounce of inner strength not to turn around and fling herself in his arms like some desperate, clinging female.
Instead she inhaled deeply and turned, trying once more for cool confidence. But then she saw he’d only stepped a little bit away. Now he blocked her path and his eyes were burning. She didn’t know what to do or say, but the intense look was slowly killing her.
‘Let’s go back to the deck,’ he muttered, but not moving.
‘Are you going to let me past?’
‘Maybe. For a price.’ The reply dragged from him was so low she had to step closer to hear.
‘How much?’ She was willing to pay an awful lot.
‘A kiss.’
‘Just one?’ Not brave enough to admit to what she wanted the answer to be.
‘For now.’
The intensity didn’t lighten at all and there was no smile as he stepped forward. She almost stepped back but his hands went to her shoulders, stopping her flight.
Finally.
Seven long days since they’d touched and it was all she’d been able to think about in that time. At last she was going to get it again—and more. She lifted her face, lips parted, eyelids lowered to half-mast. He slid his hands down her arms, pinning them to her sides, not letting her put them round his neck the way she ached to. Encapsulating her fists in his own, he lowered his head, slowly, staring into her eyes, dropping his attention to lips that she knew would look red—every cell and nerve ending in them was begging for him.
There was no sweet exploration this time. It was straight into plunder territory, with her demanding as much from him.
She felt his grip tighten, felt him take that small step closer. She ached to press right against him. But just as she was about to sway forward he lifted his head with a groan. She blinked, opened her eyes and saw the slight uncertainty in his.
She leaned forward for more, but he gently pushed her back from him. ‘Just one, remember?’
He didn’t quite meet her eye, didn’t smile, just moved her to the side, and stepped forward to the bench. He picked up the ball of dough and placed it back into the bowl, brushed it with oil, covering it carefully with a clean cloth with all the focus and deliberation of a neurosurgeon performing the most complex procedure.
Ridiculously, she felt jealous of the time he took over it. She wanted all that care and attention for herself. He could still think about a loaf of bread after a kiss like that? Something had stopped him. What? And why?
Hell, maybe she could add premature menopause to her list of women’s problems. All this hot and cold business was sending her crazy.
CHAPTER SIX
CALLY stood along the edge of the pool and stared longingly at the water.
‘Want to swim?’
‘I don’t have a swimsuit with me.’
‘And that’s a problem because?’ Blake was back, in control and wicked with it. ‘It’s a very private pool. I don’t often bother with shorts myself.’
The flush blanketed her body from tip to toe—as if a hot red sheet had slowly been drawn over her. He watched and the wicked look widened to a smile.
‘You sure you don’t want to cool down?’
She turned, anger flaring. ‘You’re the one who needs to cool down.’ She pushed, totally catching him by surprise, and he tumbled straight in.
The satisfaction at seeing the splash was sublime. The giggles burst out. She delighted at seeing him toppled for once, watching as he stretched out under the water, turning around and heading back to the edge at which she stood.
She made sure she stepped back just far enough out of arm’s reach. She underestimated. In a move that totally surprised her he leapt from the water. Easily hooking his arm around her knees and heaving her over his shoulder so she went head first into the pool. It was not a graceful entry—her arms and legs were in all directions and she knew the splash was spectacular. She sank deep and took her time about coming up. When she surfaced he was standing, chest-deep and looking fiery.
‘You deserve a dunking for that, my sweet,’ he warned, peeling his tee shirt off his head.
The feeling of delight multiplied. ‘You’ll have to catch me first.’ With a laugh she dived away, quite happy for him to play catch.
Her jeans were heavy, weighing her down and clinging uncomfortably to her legs, but she didn’t care. His hand encircled her arm, he pulled her to her feet and within close range. Water racing down her face, she shivered, cold from the pool, hot for him.
He stared into her face, as if he was searching for an answer to a question she didn’t know had been asked.
‘Take your jeans off and swim in your undies. I’m going to do a few lengths.’ He let her go again and dived in the other direction. Mystified, she watched him escape. He was deliberately keeping his distance.
She stood up in the shallow end and dragged off her shirt. Sodden, it landed with a squelchy thud on the concrete surround. Her jeans were trickier to remove and in the end she had to float on her back as she wriggled them down. She stood on the step to throw them out of the pool, enjoying the warm beat of the sun on her wet skin. As she turned back to the water she saw he’d stopped swimming, was just treading water in the deep end and staring.
She glanced down and discovered neither her bra nor her undies remained opaque when wet—no. Both were utterly transparent.
And he was looking at her as if he’d never seen a near naked woman before.
The flush returned to her body. All the blood rushed to the surface and she felt hotter than the sun.
His answering flush was something else. She hadn’t known it was possible for a tanned man to flush like that. But the colour slashed across high cheekbones and his sea-green eyes were lit by a matching flame.
‘I thought the water was supposed to cool us off,’ she croaked.
‘Must be some sort of chemical thing.’ He coughed. ‘If you go into the pool house you’ll find towels and spare bathrobes hanging. And toiletries and stuff. Have a shower or whatever and put on a robe while your clothes dry. I’m going to do another length.’
He turned and splashed through the water again.
Uncaring about the drips, she padded through the pool house—a perfectly good home in itself. Why he lived in such a mansion all by himself puzzled her, but what puzzled her more was why he kept holding back when it was plain as day that they were both pretty eager to get close. That the effect they had on each other was undeniable. What was he waiting for?
She glanced at her watch—glad it was water resistant. She’d been here for hours and other than that one shattering kiss in the kitchen he’d made no move. What had happened to his promise of six big Os in the one night? She wanted that, damn it. Hell, even just one. OK, two. She’d be happy enough with that.
When was he going to get on with it because she didn’t know if she could wait any longer. And then it hit her—why should she wait? Maybe she should be honest, it was why she was here after all. Couldn’t she initiate? Maybe she could be the one not taking no for an answer.
The thrill rippled through her entire body. She stood for a moment under the powerful shower and mentally deliberated. Forcing the recollections of her time with Luc from her mind—they always snuck in at times when she wanted to be brave.
Take what you want, Cally. Take what you want.
She lathered the creamy gel on her body, breathing in the fresh floral fragrance, smoothing it into her skin and starting to feel like a siren preparing herself for seduction.
By the time she left the pool house he was out of the water. Presumably he was in the main building. She spread her sodden clothes on the wooden deckchairs to dry and then turned—it was time.
Blake stood in his kitchen and watched as she walked towards him. He was nearly at breaking-point and seeing her like this was pretty much the last straw. She’d knotted the robe firmly at the waist. She had no make-up on. Her hair was slick. She was beautiful and utterly ready for bed.
He’d been holding back all day. Biding his time, waiting for the right moment. Because he didn’t just want her willing, he wanted her wild. He wanted to know she was as out of control for him as he was for her.
That moment in the kitchen had been a mistake, but one he hadn’t been able to resist. He’d had to pull back quickly from a kiss that had threatened to send every rational thought out the window for all eternity. And that had thrown him. That she seemed to be able to make him forget anything and everything just by touching him.
He’d had to prove to himself that he could pull back. Transient lust. That was all this was, and soon to be remedied because, hell, it was crippling.
He looked back to the kitchen bench and reminded himself of his plan. He didn’t just want victory. He wanted total surrender.
‘You were so long in the shower I did round two of the bread and put it in the oven.’ He couldn’t have coped to see her hands on that dough again. He opened the fridge. ‘Wine?’
‘Thank you.’ She accepted the glass he held out and with deliberation lifted it straight to her lips and took a long, deep sip, not breaking eye contact with him the entire time. Then she lowered the glass, set it on the bench next to her and came closer to him—intention apparent in every move.
His pulse picked up. ‘Got something you want to say, Cally?’
‘No.’
He knew now. She was ready. And, please God, let him be able to handle it. She stepped closer. He looked down at her plump lips, deep pink and parted.
She was his. But he refused to leave room for regret. And he had a lesson for her—one he didn’t want her to forget in a hurry. He whispered, mouth millimetres from hers. An almost kiss.
‘There’s something I want you to do for me.’
Her eyes were cloudy, acquiescent, desire-drugged.
He walked to the kitchen drawers and pulled out the length of black fabric from the second one down, where he’d stashed it earlier. He held it out and it unfolded into a mask.
She looked at him wide-eyed.
He smiled. ‘Nothing kinky, honey. But I do have a test for you.’ He spoke quickly, not wanting the heat in her face to be replaced by fear or uncertainty. ‘You say you have bad taste, that you have terrible judgment. I think you’re wrong. So what if you made a mistake in the past? I think you need to trust your instincts more. So I have a selection here—of fake and of genuine. Fake maple syrup and the real thing, pure virgin olive oil and the chemical crap they mislabel, genuine French champagne and synthetic bubbles. See where I’m going with this?’
‘This is like some game at a kid’s party.’
‘Right. The blind taste test. Maybe your judgment will be better when you can’t see. Interesting idea, don’t you think?’
Her lips twitched and he relaxed, pulling out one of the kitchen stools, which she immediately hopped on. He set out the items on the bench in front of her. A small smile played on her mouth—she was buying in now, well and truly.
‘Close your eyes.’ This time he didn’t need to tell her twice. Her lids fluttered shut and he suppressed the flare of satisfaction at the sight of her quick and quiet acquiescence. He placed the silk band over her eyes and tied it at the back. Without her eyes on him he was able to study her freely.
The need for her was intense and the need to know she wanted him as badly was even more intense.
‘Let’s start with the champagne.’
Her breathing had accelerated, just a fraction, but he was so attuned to her he picked it up right away. Faster and shorter. He poured a small amount from each bottle into two glasses, then held them in turn to her lips, watching as she drank.
‘Which is it, the first or the second?’ He set the glasses down as she deliberated.
‘The first.’
‘Right first time.’
The smile on her lips deepened.
‘Now the oil. I’ll dip a little bread in some, OK?’
He stood close, fascinated, as her mouth took each morsel in, her tongue appearing out for a tantalising time to lick the crumb from her lips.
‘The second.’
‘Correct,’ he muttered.
‘And now the syrup.’ He poured some straight from the bottle onto his index finger and held it up to her lips. Stroked their softness just a little, to tease her. ‘Suck it off.’
He waited, tormented, as the colour tinged her cheeks. And then her mouth opened and she took him in. Her tongue swirled around his finger and then she gripped and he nearly groaned, the gentle tugging of her mouth an erotic experience unlike any other. He didn’t want to pull out. But he did, replacing it with the other finger, the other syrup, and he no longer cared about anything but how soon he could get the rest of him into her like this. Hot and wet and just how he wanted her.
‘Which is it?’ he whispered hoarsely.
She shook her head a little. ‘I’m not sure. I think I need to try them again.’
Minx.
He did groan then, half delight, half amusement, wholly desire. ‘I think we should skip it and move on.’
‘There’s more?’
‘A lot more.’ He paused, only a second longer. ‘What about this, Cally? Is this genuine?’
And he pressed his mouth to hers, tasted the last of the sweet, sticky syrup. And then it was just her and she tasted divine.
‘Does this feel real to you, Cally?’
‘It feels … it feels.’
‘This is real. Full-on roaring lust, Cally. You want me and I want you.’ As he’d never wanted another—so intensely it stirred him almost to anger. She made him angry—constantly forcing him to reassess, constantly making him feel the need to defend himself. He didn’t want her on a whim, because of some bet. He simply had no choice. From the moment he’d seen her he’d sensed the depths, felt the primal recognition of the perfect—physical—mate.
He wanted it to be the same for her. Wanted her to feel this almost animal need to have, to dominate, to possess. To surrender.
It smelt real; it tasted real; it felt real.
She couldn’t think any more. As his hands held her head, and his tongue swept into her mouth to taste all of her, she felt it through to her marrow. The very real lust. The need to have him keep kissing her like this—long and deep and so, so sweet and hot.
He whispered into her ear, his breath warm and tickling, and all she wanted was that mouth back on hers.
‘I’m not going to do anything that you aren’t willing for me to do. You can say no and I’ll stop. OK?’
As if she was going to say no.
‘There’s just me and there’s just you and we’re just going to have some fun.’
Bring it on.
‘This is what you want, right?’
He still needed to ask? Couldn’t he feel the way she was trembling? Couldn’t he feel the fire that burned through her veins? ‘Yes.’ She wanted him to stop thinking, stop questioning, stop talking. She just wanted him to take her. She knew he could make her go places she’d never been, had only dreamed being. He could do that with just one kiss. Now she wanted the rest of it.
He spun her on the stool so the bench was at her back. She heard him walk and then felt him in front of her, felt his fingers in her hair, and could hardly wait.
But as the mask slipped from her skin, so the blinding lust cooled and a speck of reason peeked in. She looked at him. Really looked at him, looking at her. And she couldn’t believe what was in his eyes.
He pushed the robe from her shoulders, so it slid down her arms, and started to slip from her body. Half naked, she looked down and felt uncomfortable.
This man was perfection. She was not.
‘I think I preferred it with the blindfold on.’
His brows lifted. ‘So you can’t see me?’
‘So I can’t see me.’
‘You think you’re ugly?’
‘No. But I’m not a model.’ It wasn’t that she was ugly. She was ordinary. Ordinarily ordinary wouldn’t matter. But when you were the daughter of a supermodel? Then it was a problem. She was miles off that striking, classical bone structure—the perfect, symmetrical face. And as for her figure. ‘I’m not slim.’
‘No.’ He grinned. ‘But who wants a bag of bones?’ He rested his hands on her shoulders, thumbs stroking, soothing her smooth skin.
‘Let me tell you what I see.’ He looked, a long, measuring look down her body, and she would have scrambled for some sort of covering if his hands weren’t firm on her arms, holding her still for his inspection. ‘I look at your breasts. I look at your belly. I look at your heaven-sent bottom and my brain shuts down. Instinct screams at me—fecundity! Fertile female. Must procreate, must procreate.’ A sharp smile, a mocking edge and an even keener look in his eye.
She stared at him. And finally, she laughed. A short brittle crack.
‘Which shows how appearances can be deceiving, I guess. You males can’t do intuition or instinct.’ She stood up, clutching the robe, walked away from the kitchen and into the living area. ‘I’m never having children.’
The silence was small but pointed. ‘You’re a career woman through and through?’ He followed her, stood beside her, heat radiating from him. She knew it wasn’t just lust spiking his temperature—there was anger too.
Let him judge. He knew nothing of her heartbreak, the way her body’s limitations had forced her to take a road she’d rather be off but that she was determined to make the best of.
‘Absolutely. Nothing matters more to me than my business.’ Bitterness made her vehement, and self-hatred sounded simply like hate.
His eyes flashed fire. Did he think she was some heartless, hard-headed workaholic lacking any kind of maternal instinct? She wasn’t—but so what if she was? It wasn’t by choice. He could think what he liked—she was determined not to care.
They stared at each other, passion clashing. But the blast of temptation and desire was too strong, transforming her emotion from angry disappointment to angry lust. Despite his obvious disapproval, despite the fact he was exactly the wrong type for her, she still wanted him. She saw the same battle in his eyes and knew that neither of them wanted to feel things this way—forced beyond boundaries that normally were easy to maintain.
‘Just us.’ She stated the rules. ‘Just sex.’ She looked at his expression. There was no smile. No tenderness. It was purely dark desire that would disappear once they’d done it. ‘Right?’
‘Right.’
He stepped towards her, ripped his fresh tee shirt over his head, shrugged out of the jeans and was gloriously naked in less than two seconds.
Her mouth, like her robe, fell to the floor. She no longer cared about her body, she only cared about his—about getting her hands on the utterly perfect form before her.
They stepped forward, any polite hesitation abandoned. It had already taken too long. His mouth fastened onto hers, tongue searching. Leaving no doubt as to what he wanted, what he was going to have. And from the speed with which they were both moving, he was going to have it all soon.
The last of her anger was consumed in flames of desire as his big hands weighed her breasts; her tight nipples begged to be taken into his hot mouth but it was his thumbs that teased them. She shifted restlessly, rocking her hips towards him. He bent his head to kiss down her neck and suddenly her legs couldn’t seem to hold her weight any more. He caught her against him and took them down to the floor together.
They kissed and touched like the sensation-starved. She was starved, and she badly wanted everything she sensed he could give her—that release, that completion.
His fingers sought her out, curving into her. He lifted his head and his eyes glowed. ‘You’re wet for me.’
She nodded, boldly reaching out to him. ‘You’re hard for me.’
He grinned, tight, his anger forgotten too as anticipation sharpened. ‘Definitely some sort of reaction.’