In Shady Grove: About That Night Part 8

She playfully bit his lower lip, then ran her tongue over it before fusing her mouth to his again. He felt wonderful. Even better than she'd imagined. All lithe muscles and carefully contained strength and power.

She couldn't wait to make him lose that control. To be the one to unleash that power.

He pulled her shirt out of her waistband, slid his hands under the fabric, his nails lightly sc.r.a.ping her spine. She tore at his b.u.t.tons, her fingers clumsy. Frantic. One b.u.t.ton snagged, and she jerked it clear, leaving it to dangle by a string. She worked the rest free, shoved the shirt down his arms, where the sleeves bunched at his wrists.

Breaking the kiss, he sat up and yanked the shirt off, tossing it aside. He leaned back, the ridges of his abs bunching, his pecs well-defined. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders. Combed her fingers through the springy golden hair covering his broad chest.

She kissed him. His lips. His cheeks and chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. His cologne was intoxicating, the taste of his skin enticing. She nipped at the pulse that was beating rapidly at the side of his neck, then slid lower, her belly brushing his hard length as she worked her way down his chest. She flicked her tongue over one nipple, and he groaned, so she repeated the action on the other side. Opened her mouth over it and rubbed it with the flat of her tongue. His breathing quickened. His hand shot to her head, his fingers digging into her scalp.

With a satisfied smile, she trailed her mouth lower. She swirled her tongue, tasting his skin, then leaned back so she could watch her forefinger follow the light trail of hair disappearing into his pants. She dragged her finger up to his belly b.u.t.ton then added a second for the return trip. Up and down again, two fingers became three. This time when she went up, she laid her hand flat on him, felt his muscles jump under her touch.

She lifted her gaze to his. He watched her through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She drew her hand down, down, down. When she reached his pants, she raised the heel of her hand, her fingers skimming over his belt buckle before she settled her palm on him.

He inhaled with a sharp hiss, pushing himself harder into her hand.

Indulging herself for a moment, she cupped his impressive length, reveling in his groan. She slid down to kneel between his legs, her fingers at his belt, loosening the buckle, eager to feel the heat of his skin, the weight of him.

He stood suddenly, in one smooth move, and she squeaked and grabbed hold of his shoulders as he lifted her. His hands went under the backs of her thighs, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he strode toward the bedroom.

She complied, looping her arms around him and threading her hands in his hair as she pressed her face against the crook of his neck. "I was just getting to the good stuff."

"Bed." The word was more of a growl than actual speech. She lifted her head. Grinned. She'd reduced the man to barely decipherable, monosyllabic grunts.

She shouldn't be so pleased, but d.a.m.n it, she was.

He stepped into the room, shifted her weight to one arm and flipped the switch on the wall, turning on the lamp next to the king-size bed.

"For what I want to do to you, cowboy," she murmured, flicking his earlobe with her tongue, "we don't need a bed."

His step faltered-not a lot but enough for her to notice. His fingers tightened on her legs. "We do," he insisted as he carried her across the room and followed her down to the mattress, "for all the things I'm going to do to you."

Her stomach churned. From excitement, she told herself. Okay, and maybe just the tiniest bit of fear, but not because she was afraid he'd hurt her. Because she was afraid of not being able to keep control.

He kissed her again, his mouth voracious, his hands seeking. She tried to get her control back, to keep the power firmly on her side, but his mouth was hot and hungry. He made it hard to resist responding with no care to the little sounds she was making, to how her hands were clutching him, how her head was spinning.

He tore his mouth from hers, and she almost cried out. Tried to pull him to her again, but he resisted, began working the b.u.t.tons of her shirt, sliding them through the holes one at a time, his moves slow and controlled. His eyes followed each new inch of exposed skin.

She reached to help him, to hurry him-and he lightly slapped her hands away. Gave his head a quick shake. "Mine."

The one word, grumbled and insistent and possessive, went through her, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Mine.

Her arms fell to the bed, as if boneless. Panic suffused her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, not with his hands on her, his palms skimming her rib cage as he opened her shirt. Not with that word echoing in her mind.

Mine.

He slipped a finger under the front clasp of her bra, tugging it away from her skin, stroking his knuckle between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"I'm not yours." She winced. Her words had come out in a croak and not the flirtatious, aren't-you-cute-to-think-so tone she'd wanted. She swallowed. Tried again. "No delusions of grandeur, remember? I don't belong to any man."

He kept up with the stroking, his other hand lightly holding her waist. "No, you don't belong to me. But right here, right now, you're mine." He flicked open her bra and she wasn't sure whether to be amused, impressed or irritated he did so with one hand. "You're mine," he repeated gruffly. "Just for tonight."

She wanted to argue, she really did, but he slid one hand up, taking his sweet time, until he reached the edge of her bra. He separated the cups, pushing them aside, exposing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to his hungry gaze. Then his hands were on her, and all ability to speak disappeared. He held her, his palms large and warm against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and she prayed he couldn't feel the hammering of her heart. That he didn't suspect what he did to her, how weak he made her.

With a moan of appreciation, he lowered his head and licked one nipple before taking it in his mouth and sucking hard. He worked her other breast, his clever fingers pinching and tugging until she was gasping for breath. Until she was squirming beneath him.

She touched his head, loving the feel of his hair, like cool silk, as the strands slid between her fingers. He kissed his way down her abdomen, held her hips as he dipped his tongue into her belly b.u.t.ton. Her heart raced, her skin heated and became overly sensitive to his touch, to the light abrasion of his whiskers, the feel of his lips, the rough pads of his fingers.

He pushed her skirt up in that same slow way-as if savoring every moment with her, every touch of her skin, every sound she made-bunching the material at her waist. His eyes narrowed as he reached out and lightly traced the edge of her black lace panties.

"Pretty." His voice was a low hum that seemed to reverberate inside her.

Hooking his fingers in the sides of her panties, he pulled them down. When he reached her feet, he lifted her right ankle, took her shoe and the panties off then repeated the action on the left. She wanted him to hurry, needed them to get back to where they'd been in the living room, was desperate for that flash of heat, the bite of hunger.

She started to sit up, only to have him settle his hand between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and gently push her back.

"I want to look at you."

She opened her mouth to remind him of the lesson she'd given earlier, about not always getting what he wanted, but then she noticed that while he kept one hand on her ankle, as if he couldn't bear to break contact, the other was fisted. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and she knew he was as affected as she was.

Smiling to hide her nerves, she eased back. But it was torture, lying there while his gaze raked over her. She'd never felt so exposed. So vulnerable.

"You are so beautiful," he said, his voice low and rough.

Her throat clogged. Her chest ached. She'd been called beautiful before, too many times to count. Too many times to feign modesty about something that was more genetics than anything she'd done to deserve the compliment. Too many times to have it mean something.

But hearing it from him? It meant something.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. They were just words. She didn't need them to know what she looked like, didn't want to be seduced or to let any man think he'd taken away her choice. Her power.

But Clinton was threatening to do just that with his light accent, his sure touch. Though he'd claimed not to like games, Ivy couldn't help but feel he was playing along. She had to regain her control. Before she could, he was nudging her legs apart.

"Mine," he breathed, then settled his mouth on her.

She arched into him, her head back, her hands in his hair. Maybe control was overrated.

Sensations flowed through her, her limbs growing heavy, her muscles lax as the pressure built. When her o.r.g.a.s.m broke, she rode the waves of pleasure with a soft cry.

She floated back to earth, her breathing ragged, her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat.

She was boneless, weightless, her body still flushed and vibrating. It took her a moment, surely longer than necessary, to focus on him. He shouldn't look so strong, so commanding, kneeling before her like that, tension emanating from his long, lean body, his hair mussed from her fingers, his face all sharp lines and angles.

She shouldn't want him this much. Not nearly this much.

She absently rubbed her hand over the odd, unwelcome catch in her heart.

And wondered if maybe he wasn't holding all the cards, after all.

IF A MAN didn't have self-control, he had nothing.

C.J. was afraid he was very close to having nothing.

Because the taste of Ivy on his tongue, the feel of her under his hands, the sight of her-all that smooth skin, all those glorious curves-threatened his resolve to keep things between them on even ground. To keep himself in charge.

She watched him, her blue eyes slowly focusing. Turning wary. Shuttered.

Mine.

He curled his fingers into his palms. She'd been p.i.s.sed when he'd said it, but he didn't want her to belong to him. Didn't want to own her or control her. He just wanted her, all of her, for one night. He wouldn't let her hide from him.

But he had to be careful. Ivy was powerful. Knew how to twist a man into knots, knew how to kiss him, exactly where to touch him to make him weak. Mindless.

In the living room he'd been nothing more than aching need. Burning desire. He'd resisted-barely-the urge to take her like an animal, to push his way into her lovely heat, but it had cost him.

Scared the h.e.l.l out of him.

He couldn't stop himself from touching her. He traced light circles above her knees, and she smiled a small, satisfied smile. He shifted onto his hands and knees, crawled over her, loving how her legs opened to accommodate him, how she reached for him.

He pressed his nose against the base of her throat and breathed her in. She was perfect. Her beauty called to him, but it was her confidence, her keen intelligence that drew her in. Fascinated him.

He raised his head, slid up her body. Her hard nipples brushed against his chest, and he bit back a groan. Shoveled his hands into her hair above her ears, his thumbs at her temples.

"You take my breath," he told her, not happy about admitting it. Even less happy that it was true.

"I'm going to do so much more than that." She leaned up to give him a firm kiss. Gently bit his lower lip, tugging at it before letting go again. "I'm going to take all of you. I want you inside me, Clinton. I want you."

Her words blew through him, and he crushed his mouth to hers with a low growl. She answered his kiss, the ferocity of it, the need, as she pushed against him, forcing him back until he sat on his heels. She scooted out from under him, tore off her shirt and bra and let them drop to the rumpled bed then wiggled out of her skirt. Her head lowered, she opened his belt, undid his pants.

The back of her hand brushed against his stomach, and he sucked in a breath. He stood, quickly shed his pants and underwear, stepping out of them as he reached for her.

She held up a hand, stopping him. "My turn."

He shook his head. How the h.e.l.l was he supposed to think clearly when his mind was buzzing? When she knelt on the bed like a fantasy come true, her hair a ma.s.s of gold, her eyes heavy-lidded, her mouth pink and swollen from his kiss?

"Your turn?" he repeated dumbly.

"My turn to look at you." She let her gaze roam over him, taking her time-payback, he was sure, for how he'd taken his with her. "My turn to touch you."

If possible, he got even harder, his entire body stiffening as she moved toward him, not stopping until the tip of his p.e.n.i.s brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. It took all his willpower not to yank her against him, not to bury himself in her, right then and there.

She laid her hands below his chest, her palms flat against his rib cage, then smoothed them down to his waist before trailing her fingers across his lower abdomen. His c.o.c.k jumped.

And smiling, she wrapped one warm, soft hand around him and squeezed gently.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he couldn't stop from pulsing against her palm. Prayed he had the strength to make it through the next few minutes without embarra.s.sing himself. Without letting her know how badly he wanted her. How much he needed to be with her.

She shifted closer, and the movement had her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swaying, her hair sliding over her shoulder. Then she bent her head, that hair a curtain, and licked the tip of his erection. Made a purring sound of approval before taking him in her mouth.

He went wild. The sight of her giving him such pleasure, the feel of her mouth on him was too much. He jerked her upright, cut off her delighted laughter with a rough kiss.

He couldn't get enough of her. Wanted only the feel of her on his fingers, the taste of her kiss on his lips. It was exciting and frightening as h.e.l.l, but he couldn't stop himself. He cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, kissed her throat and then moved down to take one tip into his mouth and sucked. Her hips bucked, and she dug her nails into his back.

C.J. fell onto the bed, had enough sense to support his weight on his elbows so he didn't crush her, but kept their cores aligned, her softness against his hardness, their hands giving pleasure as their kisses grew hotter, a clashing of tongues and teeth.

She grabbed his a.s.s, pulled him against her, rubbing her curls against him. "Clinton," she gasped. "Now."

The words sounded ripped from her throat, raw and needy.

He reared up, grabbed his pants from the floor and dug into his pocket for his wallet, pulled out a condom. He sheathed himself quickly and took her in his arms, but she pushed against his shoulders, turning them until he was on his back. She straddled him, a siren here to make all his dreams come true, a woman in control of her body and her emotions.

Until you looked closer and saw the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell quickly. Saw that her eyes were slightly dazed, her hands unsteady.

He couldn't look away as she rose onto her knees and kissed him. He wound that magnificent hair around his hands, held on as she lowered herself and took him into her body.

Her lips parted on a sound of wonder, and he clenched his fingers, tugging her head back. She was hot and tight and wet for him. She began to move, rocking slowly against him, her hands on his chest, her fingers curled as if seeking purchase. He let her set the pace until he couldn't stand it any longer.

Gripping her waist, he thrust into her, again and again, going harder, faster, deeper. Their bodies grew slick with sweat, and she made low, throaty moans that drove him crazy. She rode him, her hips pumping until she tightened around him, her back arched, her eyes closed as she came.

While Ivy was still in the throes of climax, he wrapped his arm around her and flipped her onto her back.

"Look at me," he demanded, moving inside her.

Her eyes opened and he held her gaze as he quickened his pace. His body tensed and, with a low shout, he emptied himself in her.

HE WASN'T A man to overindulge.

h.e.l.l, he wasn't a man to indulge, period.

C.J. snorted at that thought as he woke up hours later, his eyes still closed. Many would disagree, seeing as how he owned a penthouse apartment in Houston, a ranch he rarely got to outside Denver, more cars than one man needed in a lifetime and various other toys, including a boat he'd been on once and his own small airplane.

Which he fully intended to learn how to fly one day.

So, yes, one could say he indulged in material things, but he didn't indulge in risks. Couldn't afford to when he had so many people to look out for. When he had so much to lose.

But he'd indulged last night. Had given in to desire and had taken Ivy to bed.

He couldn't even regret it. Not when it had been everything he'd imagined and more.

He picked up his phone from the bedside table and glanced at the time. Not even five. He heard her moving around in the bathroom, told himself he needed to get up, get showered and shaved. He could order room service, work on the proposal sitting on the desk, make a few phone calls before his ten o'clock flight back to Houston.

But he could hardly kick Ivy out. He didn't have a lot of experience with one-night stands, but he knew better than to try to get rid of a woman before she was ready to leave. Still, he needed her gone.

If only because he wanted her to stay.