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Plato swore in Russian and held her tight up to him, his mouth hot on her ear, ‘We cannot have sex on a dance floor.’
‘No,’ said Rose, a little shaken. She wanted to tell him she’d never felt this way before, that this—everything between them—was moving so fast she was struggling to understand her own feelings.
This afternoon had started as a primal reaction to fear and violence and threat, and then it had become something else—something infinitely more personal, about her and him and the way it was between them, and sweeter because of it, more beguiling.
It was something else altogether in this place. He was another man here. The same man who had invaded her home that first night, the confident, take-no-prisoners guy who could only be accessed by an appeal to his libido.
She’d told herself this afternoon she had uncovered the Plato she had been responding to all along, the man who needed some tenderness in his life, the sort of comfort she knew she could offer him. But right now she wasn’t so sure—and she was damn well spooked by her own response to him. Because her body seemed just as attuned to this arrogant sex god as it was to the man who cradled her tenderly in his arms. And didn’t he know it?
/> As the crowd heaved around them and the music continued its insistent throb she realised being with Plato was not about hearth and home. He was purposefully opening up the distance between them. She could patently feel his regret at their intimacy, knew he was reminding her they were just about sex and nothing else.
She was never going to swan back into Fidelity Falls with this man, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere with her…
This was all about right now, and right now it was all about sex and heat. They gazed at one another in unspoken accord. Plato moved first, his hand firmly around her waist, propelling her before him, literally surrounding her with the heat and protection of his body.
She saw him make a subtle gesture and suddenly a minder appeared in front of them and the crowd parted. Rose would have denied it under torture, but the knowledge he could do this, that with the snap of his fingers he could make things happen like this, sent a thrill suspiciously like sexual excitement through her body.
Plato moved with single-minded determination. The minder thrust open an exit door and suddenly they were alone in a narrow corridor.
‘Where are we?’
He didn’t answer. He just kicked open another door. And one moment she was standing in the corridor and the next she was up against a wall, and Plato was lifting her skirt and sliding his mouth over hers.
Rose didn’t have time to think, only to react and her body was way on board. She opened her eyes only long enough to ascertain that they were alone, the door was shut, and then she fumbled for the buttons on his trousers.
‘Rose, moyu rozu.’ He was saying her name, crooning things in Russian that she couldn’t understand, but somehow it aroused her, made her lift one bare thigh to bring him closer, to have him inside her.
She didn’t understand what was going on between them, but this she knew. But with him. Only with him.
It couldn’t be like this with anyone else for him either. She grasped his head between her hands and kissed him back fiercely, wanting him to know it was her, it was Rose, it was his Rose doing this to him.
He tore at the flimsy lace excuse she was wearing for panties and Rose felt her knees give with excitement. All she could think was that he would shortly be a part of her. They would be bonded. Nothing else mattered but this…
Voices in the corridor froze them. Plato’s hand was on her inner thigh, and her fingers had spread firmly around him, guiding him…
‘Der’mo,’ Plato swore softly under his breath.
For a breathless moment her body was screaming at him to keep going, she didn’t care that there were people just outside, and in that moment Plato seemed inclined to take this to its conclusion. Then his hand on her thigh shifted and she shuddered, gently biting down on his lip. He lowered her back against the wall, his hands going either side of her head as he leaned into her, breathing deeply.
Rose heard a door in the hall shut. Silence.
‘We can’t do this,’ he muttered against her mouth, and she nodded, eyes shut, breath shuddering. ‘Not here, baby, not now.’
‘Rose. Call me Rose.’ She opened her eyes and looked directly into his, because she’d known he was going to stop. That he could stop. Because he was in control and she was wildly out of control because this wasn’t just sexual for her. This was her heart.
He’s not going to love you, Rosy. You’re lining yourself up for a terrible fall…
What did he see when he looked at her? A girl driven by her own libido or the real Rose, who needed to be in love to do this?
Yes, Rose, in love.
‘Rose,’ he acknowledged more softly, bringing a gentle, unsteady hand to her cheek, and what she saw in his eyes demolished what was left of her defences when it came to this man.
She’d been wrong all along. Love wasn’t a decision made with the head—you couldn’t arm people with information and skills and send them out into the world to make a choice about who you loved. She’d tried that once, with another man, and it had all gone to hell in a handbasket. Plato, in every conceivable way, was not the man for her, and yet…
When love happened to you it was a matter entirely out of your hands.
‘Plato—’
