Chapter 6
SIX
Roxie ran up the stairs to her tiny bedsit above the garage, too defiant to bother about being quiet. There was no light on in the house so maybe he was still out. Maybe she’d missed him somehow and he was still at the bar waiting for her.
But she knew he wasn’t. She’d stayed for the drinks, gone on to the club and danced her heart out in the crowd, pretending she didn’t care that the coward had chickened out of following through with her. He was still treating her like someone not old enough or cool enough or sophisticated enough to be with him.
So now, nearly two in the morning, she unwound the wire cage on the P-for-performance bottle of Bolly. Stood in her open doorway and fired the cork towards his house. Then was crass enough to drink straight from the bottle.
It tasted good.
She was hot and thirsty, both angered and excited, sleep was utterly impossible. So standing on the landing out in the warm night air, swigging from a bottle that was emptying surprisingly quickly, seemed like a damn fine idea. She glared over at his house, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say to him as soon as she saw him again. With every sip she grew more riled, more defiant, more confident.
Damn the man.
She had a key to his house. After all, it was her house. And he was so going to get a piece of her mind. He owed her. Why shouldn’t she go in now and let him know all about it?
She ditched the drained bottle and grabbed her keys, kicking off her shoes before skipping down the stairs and along the path that led to his back door. She unlocked it and stepped inside. Realized then that she didn’t know which room he’d taken. No matter, the house was hardly huge.
She walked into the master bedroom downstairs. The one with the ensuite where he’d washed out her eyes. Nothing.
Which left only the bedroom upstairs on the mezzanine floor—her old room. The door was ajar; she nudged it open. He hadn’t drawn the curtains and living in the central city meant there was a lot of light pollution, so she could see quite well—especially with the full moonlight streaming in as well.
She stared at the bed. The bastard was sound asleep. How the hell could he be sound asleep when she was being eaten alive by fantasies of everything she wanted to do to him—and for him to do to her?
Without thinking she walked closer, because it was a hot night and he was sleeping with just a sheet covering him. No pjs or tee shirt or vest or anything. Just a sheet that was currently resting low round his hips. She drank in the sight of his bare chest, breathed deep as she scoped his ripped abs.
He stirred and opened his eyes. Took a glimpse of her and groaned, closing his eyes tight. ‘F... in’ dreamin’... Rox...’
Enthralled, she watched as he groaned her name again, watched his hand slide below that sheet to where it was seriously rucked up. He sighed then, frustration seeking satisfaction.
O-o-okay-yay-yay-yay.
She smiled broadly, thrilled to know she wasn’t alone in dealing with explicit dreams. She reached forward and trailed a finger down his sternum towards his belly button. ‘I’m right here.’
‘What the...!’ He sat bolt upright, his hand slamming on top of hers, squashing it against his chest so she could feel his heart thumping right through her fingers.
Roxie? ’ His eyes horrified wide. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
She tried to tug her hand free but he didn’t let it go. He glared, his chest rising and falling as if he’d been sprinting.
She glared back. ‘You ran out on me.’
‘Roxie...’ He flung her hand from him. ‘You can’t just break into someone’s house.’
‘For the record, this is my house. But don’t panic,’ she drawled sarcastically. ‘I’m not here to attack you or move in on you. I just want to give you a piece of my mind.’
He puffed out a big breath. ‘It couldn’t wait ’til morning?’
‘No, because you acted like a jerk.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ he snapped back. ‘I was very nice and helped calm your nerves.’
‘Oh, like they taught you that in med school? Don’t try to act like it wasn’t something you instigated. And don’t try to pretend it wasn’t something you’ve wanted for days. And don’t you dare try to pretend nothing more personal isn’t going to happen.’
He shifted. The sheet slipped. He hastily pulled it back.
Yeah, his ‘personal’ reaction was only getting bigger. And she was beyond sure of him now. Anticipation licked her nerves and made her laugh. ‘Did you know there’s over two hundred and fifty million bubbles in a bottle of champagne? Which means there are about a hundred and twenty-five million bubbles zinging through my veins now.’
Gabe leaned back and rested his head back on the headboard, his pulse still settling from the shock of waking to find her in his room. But this reality was no nightmare, just pure fantasy—a too-pretty girl laughing at him, daring him, tempting him. ‘Someone bothered to count?’ he drawled, trying to feign some cool—some control.
‘Apparently so.’
‘You’ve had your bottle, then?’
‘All by myself.’ She sniffed. ‘You should have had some with me.’
He shook his head slowly, ruefully smiling. He’d lick the last drops from her lips given half the chance. But the trouble was he liked her. And that was where the complications arose. He sensed hurt beneath her determinedly sunny exterior, was certain she was denying loneliness and who knew what other needs. But he couldn’t ever be the guy to give security. His lifestyle would never accommodate a serious relationship and he didn’t want emotional hassle. It had taken him too long to feel his own freedom. And he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t think she wanted more if they became fully intimate.
‘No matter.’ She sashayed closer. ‘You promised me something.’
Oh, the temptation was extreme now. ‘I didn’t promise,’ he muttered weakly.
‘After the show.’ She ignored his denial. ‘I danced how you said to. Did you see?’
His gaze dropped to the sheet as he tried so hard to expunge the image that had sprung to mind. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you like it?’ Her voice went husky.
He swallowed. This was torture. Utter torture.
‘You’re afraid to answer that?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘You won’t. So long as I’m warmed up—and I do believe I am.’ She chuckled. ‘It shouldn’t hurt that much at all, should it? I always figured the pain thing was a way of trying to put a girl off. Trying to keep us “good”.’ She gurgled with laughter.
‘Roxie.’ He felt strangled as heat consumed him. ‘I didn’t mean physically.’
‘Oh.’ She bit her lip but the giggle continued anyway.
‘I’m serious.’ He sat upright, angry and frustrated and so, so painfully hard. ‘Can you really do a one-night stand, Roxie? Can you really stay emotionally disconnected? First lovers usually go hand in hand with first love —involving more emotions than you intend simply because you don’t have the experience to control them. I don’t want emotional entanglement. I don’t want commitment. If we did this, it would matter more to you than it would to me.’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ she denied it. ‘All that matters to me is having it good and I know it’ll be that way with you.’
He screwed his eyes shut tight, because he knew it would be so much more than good. ‘You’re a virgin. A drunk virgin,’ he reminded himself. ‘What am I thinking trying to have this conversation now? Get the hell out of here.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ she asserted bluntly. ‘I want you. And I don’t want anything more than tonight.’
His eyes shot open and he took a deep, pained gulp for sanity.
‘Isn’t it every man’s fantasy to initiate a woman in the art of sensual pleasure?’ She sighed with the most witchery smile he’d ever seen. ‘Why not show me how good it can be?’
He’d been hard for her since the moment he’d found her red-eyed scrubbing the shower—long before she’d told him her secret. But her devastating frankness—that mix of innocence and carnal desire—made him want her all the more. Hell, yes, he wanted to show her how good it could be. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
Wild with both her and himself, he threw off the sheet and swung out of bed.
Open-mouthed, Roxie gazed as he stood up. He was hotter than she’d imagined. His abs rippled beneath golden skin and a smattering of dark hair that arrowed down to emphasize the huge hard-on he was packing. He advanced towards her with aggression inked all over him.
Some of her bubbles popped. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Frog-marching you home. Leaving you there. Alone.’ But his body gave him away. And they both knew it.
She shook her head. ‘I never should have told you.’
‘No, I’m glad you told me. I can stop us both making a big mistake.’
Emboldened by that skyscraper of an erection, she walked up to him. ‘How can it be a mistake, Gabe? When we both want it? I’m not a complete novice. I know how to stroke this.’
This time she went straight for the kill—couldn’t resist the chance to hold. She cupped his balls, let her fingers feather up his shaft, let her thumb rub over the broad tip. Oh, she felt dizzy now.
His hand tangled in her hair, fingers twisting in the strands and then tugging to pull her head back. Mouth open, breathing hard, she gazed up at him through half- closed lids. Unashamedly his to manipulate however he wanted.
She heard him swear, the words so violently uttered she felt the wind gust over her face. Then he crushed her mouth beneath his.
Finally.
She’d been dreaming of this for days. And for once reality was better than dreams. No soft caress, it was all erotic, all consuming and carnal. She shook with the violence of need that erupted within her, with the violence of his kiss. She pushed through the initial shock of passion to move closer, deeper into him. Not wanting him to think she couldn’t handle all he could give. Because she knew she could, now she wanted it all—with a fury that might have frightened her had she been one hundred per cent herself. But the last hint of caution had been drowned—bubbles flowed through her veins, effervescent, exhilarating, exquisite. And not the champagne; not the alcohol. Pure joy at being this close to someone. This one person, whose simple presence could set off an uncontrollable, instinctive reaction within her. And now he was where she’d wanted him most—pouring his fiery energy and focus on her. Desperately she strained, her tongue lashing with his, shivering in his embrace yet wanting closer. She curled one leg around his, bringing her pelvis into direct contact with his. But it wasn’t enough. It still wasn’t enough.
Gabe’s hands clenched hard on her body when he felt her leg slide around his, when he felt her core. Even through her knickers he felt the dampness. The evidence of how ready for him she was.
He nearly lost his mind. And it really didn’t help that she was lapping up the kiss that he knew was too rough. He forced himself to ease off, to be a little more gentle. At the very least he could do that for her.
But she mewled, her chin lifting, her lips catching his again—her tongue assaulting his mouth, her hands taking him in a too tight clutch. She was as rough as he. ‘Gabe.’
It was a demand for everything.
Frustration made him shake, until he grabbed her butt in his hands and lifted her, carrying her to his bed. He lay her back on it, lay on her. Taking pleasure in the groaning sigh she gave as he let her take the bulk of his weight. He rose a little on his elbows so his pelvis ground harder into hers.
Her pupils dilated. He saw the blood beating its rosy path to her cheeks, her lips. There was no denying she wanted it— him. She arched, her hips thrusting. Inexperienced she might be, but she had all the right instincts.
Gabe bent his head and kissed her, letting them both drown in the powerful pleasure of it again. His head spinning at how good it felt to be with her like this. But the alarm in the back of his brain was ringing louder and louder and louder. If he did this now, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. She’d been drinking and he hadn’t. But he couldn’t not touch her. He ached to satisfy her. Ached to satisfy himself. Only the former was allowed.
Even then he enforced limited options on himself. He wasn’t going to take advantage of her condition. She wasn’t sure of all she was offering. Her defenses were totally down—thanks to some expensive champagne. It was not okay to take her at her word.
But the way she moved was just killing him. The way she kissed. Passionate and hungry. She rubbed against him, hitching her dress so they could lie skin to skin.
He buried his face in her neck, all his weight pinning her now, his cock straining to push through the thin barriers between them. He could feel her tiny movements, the friction an intense, intolerable tease.
How was he supposed to resist her sighs and pleas and writhing body? How was he supposed to deny her the pleasure she sought?
He shifted, forcing himself away, keeping her in place with a heavy thigh rather than his whole body. He kissed her and swept his hand up under her skirt, finding those lace-edged knickers so quickly, sliding beneath them with even greater ease. He moaned into her mouth as he felt the hot wetness. Then he focused. Stroked. The lightest brush with the tip of his finger against the small nub that would send her into orbit if he did it right.
Seemed he did it right because her moan then, was the pure sound of sensual pleasure. He felt the throb as blood pulsed, swelling her sex, feminine moisture slicking her more—preparing her for his invasion. He ached to plunge his fingers deep, his shaft, his whole damn self. So desperately he wanted to bury deep inside her and ride hard and furious to an orgasm he knew would be out of this world. Because she was out of this world, the most beautiful, passionate woman.
His frustrated passion found release in her mouth. He rammed his tongue deep and rhythmic. Barely a kiss, more a brutal display of unbridled desire. But she took it, her neck arching, her whole body arching, making herself more accessible, more vulnerable to him. Even more impossible to resist. But he did—refusing to possess her sex, just touching her sweet spot so, so lightly. He pulled back the urgency of the kiss too—worked hard to play more, to tease her more. As she arched higher still her hands raked his back. He almost burst out of his skin, had never felt lust as painful as this. His heart hammered, his skin coated with sweat even though he was barely moving. Holding back required the most extreme effort of his life.
He felt her scream as those exquisite sensations shuddered through her, but he wouldn’t release her from his kiss, nor from the soft strokes of his finger back and forth and round and round. Not entering her, just rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, teasing that pulsing nub mercilessly. She shook, her body taut and then trembling as the orgasm tumbled her into those moments of mindlessness. He persevered, relentless in his need to wring it all from her, to exhaust her. Her fingernails scratched hard. He pressed her deeper into the bed. His mouth pleasuring hers until she went completely lax.
Only then did he ease back, pulling her to her side to cradle her from behind, trying to regulate his breathing and the unbearable agony inside.
‘Oh, Gabe,’ she breathed. A sound filled with satisfaction.
‘Shh.’ He stroked her hair, pulled her dress back down over her thighs and waited for sleep to claim her.
Mercifully it wasn’t long before it did. And then she was a warm soft bundle in his bed. And he couldn’t move. His swollen cock was so sensitive even the brush of the cotton sheet above him hurt it. He gritted his teeth, willing it to subside. But lay awake for hours tormenting himself with visions of what he could have done, once would have done without a second thought.
Having a conscience really sucked.