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Every muscle in his body begged for him to move. But he kept as still as still. Carefully he lowered his head, kissed her eyes closed so he couldn’t see into her soul and feel the guilt pour in. When he reached her mouth he felt the way she was gingerly keen to kiss him back. He slowed everything. Light, butterfly kisses, starting again, slow and sweet and gentle. Until it was her mouth that parted further, her tongue that sought out his. Gradually he felt her body relax, then he felt it soften and slowly, so slowly absorb his more.
When he felt her hands slide over his back he choked. Kissed her again, more tenderly than he’d ever treated anyone. Only then did he dare move just that little bit. A small rocking movement—a fraction deeper before sliding back. There was no instant tension in her this time and slowly he repeated the action.
Her mouth parted and sought his kiss again—he could feel her hunger building. He slipped his hand beneath her bottom, pulled her closer towards him, lifting her leg over his to widen her position and enable her to move.
‘Meet me,’ he muttered, moving her hips in time with his, showing her—once, twice, and then she took over, adjusting, rising higher, arching up as she understood and experimented with their sensual dance.
Slow. He kept it slow, drawing out and then pressing close again so she felt every inch as her body accepted and embraced his.
He swept his hand up the side of her torso, brushing aside her blouse and bra so he could return to her breast. Knowing she was sensitive there, determined to bring pleasure back to her.
Her breathing had stepped up; he kept the rhythm the same but deepened the movement. Kissing her breasts, caressing them with fingers and tongue while matching the deep rhythm of their joining. And then he slipped his hand low, moving to touch her most sensitive spot directly.
Her body was rigid beneath his again but it was different this time. Her breathing was fast and shallow, small moans becoming louder and her fingers curled hard into his shoulders.
‘Jared.’
‘Yes.’ He kept moving, slow, deliberate, intense. Focused entirely on her, keeping the rhythm the same as nearer and nearer she got. So close, so close it needed only one more…
Her eyes screwed shut and she shook and this time when his name left her lips it was in a high cry that slammed satisfaction into him.
His own body burned, blood bubbling, and every muscle screamed with the effort of restraint. Too long. He’d held back too long.
As her cry ended he lost control. Thrusting hard and deep and fierce and fast, gathering her to him, not caring that the buttons on his shirt were digging into his chest or that the cotton was sticking to his back like a second skin. He just had to get closer, closer, closer.
Chapter Seven
AMANDA lay burrowed deep into the soft leather sofa, crushed by Jared’s weight, blown away by what had just happened. So good. So much better than incredibly good. Her body was warm, her cells still singing, and for one blissful moment she felt utterly ecstatic and sublimely relaxed.
But then thought started to return. And all she wanted was a kiss—some sort of seal, an acknowledgement of how intensely together they’d been.
But there was no reassuring touch, no word, definitely no kiss.
Instead she felt his muscles tense and she braced herself for the unknown—his reaction. He didn’t look at her as he lifted away. Nor did he speak. The silence was louder than the way she’d screamed his name as she’d come.
He turned his back and pulled his trousers up, redid the four or so buttons that had come undone on his shirt. He pulled it away from where it clung to his back. In less than a minute he was back to the businessman. The only giveaway that anything remotely ‘unprofessional’ had occurred was the way his breathing jerked, the sweat on his brow and the red stains across his cheekbones.
Flushed with the remnants of desire or blazing anger?
Amanda pulled the cups of her bra back over her breasts and clumsily worked a couple of blouse buttons. They’d both been basically fully clothed, and yet had been so intimate—so shockingly, wonderfully intimate.
Finally he looked at her. ‘You should have told me.’ His eyes burned.
So it was anger.
‘There wasn’t really time,’ she croaked.
‘There’s always time.’
But he would have stopped. And she hadn’t wanted him to stop.
His lips thinned and he turned away again. ‘That never should have happened.’ He jammed his fists into his pockets. ‘How badly did I hurt you?’
She sat up, awkwardly pulled the front of her skirt down and did up the last button on her blouse. She had no idea where her knickers were. Didn’t want to know, just felt the imperative need to get out of there as soon as possible because he was so clearly unhappy with her.
