Harlequin Desire September 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Claimed\Maid for a Magnate\Only on His Terms (5 page)

He held her, using his mouth and hands to draw out her pleasure until she was an incoherent mess. Then he pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her and murmured sweet love words against her damp skin.

She didn't understand what was happening here, didn't know what had transformed the angry man from earlier into the tender lover she remembered, but she wasn't going to worry about it. Not now, when her body was still singing with the most powerful orgasm she'd had in six years. Not now, when she was wrapped up in his arms so tightly that she could feel his heart beating against her skin. Not now, when she felt whole for the first time since Marc had kicked her out.

She'd do well to remember that—he'd kicked her out with nothing but the clothes on her back. And she would remember it. She
would
. Later. Right now, when she was naked and vulnerable and sated, she wanted to hold him and be held by him.

Wanted to love him and be loved by him—even if it was only her body she dared to give him. Even if it was only his body she was getting in return. Well, his body and long moments of completely unimaginable pleasure.

It wasn't enough, wasn't close to enough, but if it was all she would ever have of him, she would take it.

Six years ago, she'd learned that the future would come whether she worried about it or not. So here, now, she wouldn't worry about what came next. She would have this night, have Marc, and for once, let the future take care of itself.

Six

G
od, he'd missed her. Missed the taste of her skin. Missed the feel of her body against his. Missed the sound of her cries—broken and breathless—as she came for him. Even as he held her, even as he throbbed with the need for relief, he wanted to hear those sounds again. It wasn't an admission that came easy to him, not with everything that lay between them. But it was the truth, one he'd tried to ignore for six long years.

One—like her—he was desperate to get out of his system, once and for all.

Pushing to his feet, he picked Isa up and held her against his chest. “Which way is your bedroom?”

She stared up at him with passion-dazed eyes, and even though he felt as though he would die if he didn't get inside her in the next two minutes, he couldn't help lowering his head and, once again, taking her mouth with his.

She responded to him like she always did—with warmth and fire and sweet, sweet surrender. He continued to kiss her as he headed down the hall, continued to kiss her as he lay her across the queen-size bed with the sexy red comforter. Continued to kiss her as he stripped down to the skin. And then he climbed onto the bed next to her and worshipped her the way he used to. The way he'd longed to for so, so long—with his hands and mouth and body touching, teasing, tasting every inch of her soft, sweet-smelling skin.

Isa moaned, her hands clutching at his hair, her body arching beneath him. His own need was sharp and violent inside him, but he wanted to see her come again. Wanted to steep himself in the sound and scent and feel of her as he gave her as much pleasure as she could take.

Fastening his mouth on her neck, he sucked a bruise into the sensitive skin. She shuddered, crying out his name as her fingernails raked down his back.

The quick, sharp pain loosed some wild thing in him he didn't even know was buried there. His control slipped the iron grip he'd kept on it from the moment she'd let him kiss her on that balcony.

And then his lips and tongue skimmed over her torso, her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her sex. He wanted to explore all of her, needed to find each and every change to her body that the past six years had wrought. The extra-fullness of her breasts, the new freckles on the soft insides of her elbows, the three small scars near her belly button that weren't there the last time he'd made love to her.

He traced his fingers over them, started to ask what had happened. But it wasn't his business—
she
wasn't his business—anymore, and he'd do well to remember that.

Except the words escaped of their own volition. “What happened here?”

“What? Where?” Her voice was husky, dazed with pleasure. Pleasure he had given her, he thought with grim satisfaction. Not that pansy-ass professor who couldn't keep his hands off her at the cocktail party.

“Here.” He ran a finger over the scars again.

“Oh.” She sighed, her fingers sliding down his chest to toy with his nipples as she answered, “Emergency appendectomy.”

Her answer floated past him and pleasure coursed through him as she played with him. Her fingers squeezed and stroked and pinched as she pressed hot kisses to his neck and shoulders and chest.

“Isa.” It was a warning, more a growl than an actual word.

She didn't pay any attention, though. Instead, she slid slowly down the bed as her mouth worked its way over his pecs, his stomach, his abdomen. He was still above her, but that fact wasn't hampering her at all as her mouth trailed hot kisses over the sparse trail of hair that led from his belly button.

And then she took him in her mouth, sucking him deep even as her tongue licked hotly against the length of him. He bit off a curse, taking her ministrations for several long seconds, his arms trembling as they supported his weight above her.

But when she pulled him deep and he felt his release gathering at the base of his spine, he pulled away with a groan.

“What?” she asked, eyes dazed and mouth swollen as she reached for him. “I want to—”

“I want to be inside you when I come,” he told her. He didn't know why it mattered—pleasure was pleasure, after all—but it did. He wanted the first time he came with Isa after their long separation to be when he was inside her.

Ignoring her moan of protest, he shifted off her for several long seconds as he retrieved his pants from the floor. He grabbed his wallet, pulled out a condom. Seconds later, he was back on the bed, his body covering hers.

Sliding a hand between her thighs to make sure she was ready for him, he relished the wet heat that told him she was as affected by him as he was by her.

“Marc, please,” she gasped, her hands sliding around to pull him more firmly against her.

“I'm right here, baby.” The endearment slipped out, as did the soft kisses he pressed to her flushed cheeks.

And then he was sliding inside her, sliding
home
, after far too long. Isa gasped, moaned, her body arching beneath his. Her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Her legs twining around his hips.

God, she felt good. Warm, wet, willing.
Amazing
.

He plunged into her again and again, relishing the way her body rose to meet his.

The way she whimpered.

The way her beautiful, dark eyes turned hazy as she got closer and closer to orgasm.

He was close, too—so close that it was an agony not to come. But he wanted—needed—her to come first. He wanted to see her face as pleasure took her, wanted to feel her body clutching him, holding him deep inside.

Sweat rolled down his muscles, pulled at the small of his back as he continued to build the pleasure—and the tension—between them. Isa moaned, her voice low and broken as she pleaded with him to send her over. Pleaded with him to let her come.

And while there was nothing he wanted more than to give her release—and take his own—he also wasn't ready to let her go. Wasn't ready for this to end. It had been so long since he'd held Isa like this, that he wanted to make every second last forever. Who knew when—or if—they'd ever have this chance again.

Except Isa wouldn't let him wait. Clutching at him with her arms and legs and body, she pulled him close. Pressed hot kisses to his mouth and jaw and neck. Sucked a bruise of her own right above his collarbone.

It was that mark, that brand, that sent him over the edge. Slipping a hand between them, he stroked her once, twice.

That was all it took to have her crying out his name as her body clenched rhythmically around him. And then he let go, too, coming deep inside her as pleasure roared through him like a freight train. Coming until he couldn't figure out where she left off and he began...or how he was going to live without this, without her.

* * *

He woke up feeling better than he had in years. Six years to be exact. His body was sated, his mind at peace. It was a strange feeling—so strange that it sent Marc hurtling from sleep into wakefulness with a speed that was practically painful.

His eyes flew open, and as he glimpsed Isa's bright red hair fanned out next to him on the pillow, the events of the previous night came flooding back in graphic, and arousing, detail. As his body responded to the private slide show in his head he thought about rolling over. About pulling her on top of him. About sliding into her as those gorgeous brown eyes of hers blinked open.

He wanted that, wanted her—even after all the times he'd had her the night before—with an intensity that bordered on desperation. Which was why he did exactly the opposite.

Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his pants and padded quietly down the hall to her kitchen, which was the last place he remembered having his shirt. Sure enough, it was crumpled on the ground, along with his shoes.

As he pulled his clothes back on, he tried not to think about the night before. Tried not to think about how good it had felt to have Isa back in his arms.

He'd never felt with another woman what he felt when he was with her. When they'd been together—when he'd loved and trusted her—making love to her had been an amazing high. He had lost himself in her day after day, night after night. It probably should have been scary to a guy like him—who had trouble trusting anyone—but it hadn't been. He'd been so crazy about her that he had never imagined she might betray him.

But she had and now they were here. The only problem was, he didn't know where here was any more than he knew where he wanted it to be. Yes, last night the sex had been fantastic. More than fantastic, it had been hot and exciting.

But it wasn't the pleasure that had him awake as dawn slowly streaked its rainbow fingers across the ocean outside her window. No, it wasn't the pleasure that was freaking him out. It was the way his body and mind felt balanced and rested and replete for the first time in a very long time.

He didn't like the fact that Isa was responsible for the feeling. It had been less than twenty-four hours since he'd walked into the back of her classroom and seen her teaching and already they were back in bed. Already he was thinking about taking her again. Already, he was thinking of taking her back.

And that was where the trouble lay. Because there was no way he could do that. No way he could forget that she'd betrayed him six years ago. No way he could forget that she had chosen her father—a man who had stolen from Marc, who had destroyed years of his work, who had nearly ruined everything he'd worked for—over him.

Because if she could do it once, in the middle of the most intense and powerful love affair he'd ever had, then she could do it again. And if that was the case, then he needed to walk away right now. Before he fell victim to all the little things he'd once loved about her.

Like her smile and her scent.

Like her wicked sense of humor and her even more wicked intellect.

Like how sleepy she was in the morning, when she wrapped herself around him and begged for kisses.

“You're still here.” Her voice was husky with sleep, but when he turned to face her, her eyes were wide-awake. “I thought you'd left.”

“Not yet. But I do need to get going. I've got to get to the office.”

“It's Saturday.”

“I'm aware of that. But I work on Saturdays.” He pretty much worked every day. “Especially now that I've taken on the class at the institute.”

He thought about crossing to her, about dropping a kiss on her still-swollen lips. But if he was honest with himself, he was as uneasy as she obviously was. More unsure of what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it than he'd ever been in his life. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one he didn't like at all.

“You never used to work on Saturdays.” Her voice was even, but still it sounded like an accusation. Which, in turn, made him feel guilty, even though he had nothing to feel guilty for.

He lashed out before he could think better of it. “Yeah, well, six years ago I thought I was safe. I thought I'd built the company up to a place where I could breathe a little, where I could take an occasional day off and trust things would be okay. If you remember correctly, that didn't work out too well for me.” He didn't even try to keep the temper out of his voice. How dare she accuse him of running out on her when she'd been the one to betray him? The one to disappear off the face of the earth for more than half a decade?

She winced, but kept her gaze steady on his as she said, “How long are you going to keep throwing that in my face?”

The small licks of anger grew into wilder flames. “I've mentioned it twice in the last twenty-four hours,” he told her, forcing his voice to remain steady. “And before that, I hadn't talked to you in six damn years. So tell me, please, how is it, exactly, that I'm throwing the past in your face?”

“I don't know. But it feels like you are.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself in a gesture that screamed discomfort and defensiveness.

It should have given him pause,
would
have given him pause if he wasn't so uncomfortable and defensive himself. “Maybe that's your guilty conscience talking. Maybe there's a part of you that feels like you deserve whatever you think I'm doing to you.”

“Maybe I do. But that doesn't mean I'm reading the situation wrong.” She paused and took a deep breath as if she was gathering her courage.

All of a sudden, he felt ashamed. He hadn't come here to berate her, to make her nervous in her own home. “Say it, Isa. Whatever it is you want to say, just get it off your chest.”

“All right.” She licked her lips in a gesture that was as familiar to him as her skin sliding against his own. “It's just, I can't figure out what last night was about.”

“I'm not sure what you mean.” A sick feeling stirred deep inside him. He didn't want to think too closely about his rationale for last night. At least not beyond scratching an itch that had been six long years in the making.

“I mean, what was the point of it? Was it your way of getting revenge after all this time? Of trying to hurt me?” Despite her earlier nervousness, she said the words as if they were no big deal. As if she'd anticipated he'd do something like that all along.

It got to him, in a huge way. Because last night had been about a lot of things—lust, confusion, jealousy, need—but he could honestly say that revenge had never entered into it. Not when he went out to speak with her on the balcony. Not when he made the decision to follow her home. And definitely not when he showed up at her door. Not once had he been thinking of revenge. Maybe he should have been, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd been thinking about her. Just her.

The fact that she obviously hadn't felt the same way...that she had been analyzing his motives—and him—from the moment she opened her door, wounded him. No, that wasn't true. It didn't hurt him. It made him feel like a fool, and that made him furious. She'd already played him once, and he'd be damned if he ever let her do that to him again. He wasn't that stupid.