Chapter 10 A Better Answer #4
I rose over her and kissed her. She tasted the intimacy on my mouth and made a low sound that pulled my remaining control tight enough to hurt. Her hands found my belt and opened it, stripping away the last orderly part of the evening.
This time, I let her touch me.
Her hand closed around me, warm and confident. The slow stroke turned the air rough in my chest.
Satisfaction sharpened her face. "You hide this less well."
"Enough."
"That sounded desperate."
"It was an instruction."
I caught her wrist, brought her hand above her head, and closed my fingers around both of hers. Her body lengthened beneath me. The sight of Simone Hale held by one hand and smiling as if she had engineered the position was almost more than I could survive.
With my free hand, I opened the nightstand and took out the protection the hotel provided. She watched me open the foil and cover myself, her gaze following every movement.
"Eyes on me," I said.
Her eyes returned to mine.
"Tell me what you want now."
There was no hesitation in her. "You inside me. Hard enough that neither of us can call this restraint."
I settled between her thighs. "Hold on."
Her hands closed around my shoulders.
I joined us in one slow, unbroken stroke.
The reality of her was so much better than imagination that my arms shook with the effort of staying still. Her nails pressed crescents into my skin. I watched every change cross her face, the parted lips, the brief crease between her brows, the moment tension gave way to welcome.
"Move," she said.
I moved, slow once, then with the force she had asked for.
The first rhythm was controlled. The next was harder.
When she lifted to meet me, the discipline I had spent years making absolute began to fracture, not all at once, but in sharp, audible pieces, in the rough sound I made against her throat, in the headboard striking the wall, in the way she pulled me closer until no part of me could pretend this was measured.
"Again," she demanded.
I gave it to her again and again, harder because she answered, her legs locking around my hips while her mouth found mine and swallowed the first sound I had failed to contain in years.
The room smelled of rain, warm linen, and desire.
Sweat traced the center of my back. Her skin moved against mine, and every point of contact made the next movement less controlled until there was no boardroom cadence left in me, no cold answer, no distance, only Simone meeting everything I had told myself I could ration.
I caught her wrists again and pinned them above her head.
"Say my name."
"Conrad."
"Again."
She said it louder.
I changed the angle until her breath broke, then reached between us without losing the rhythm. Her body tightened beneath mine.
"Stay with me," I said. "I want to watch you."
She held my gaze while I moved over her, but the command became harder for both of us to obey.
Her eyes went dark and unfocused. My pace lost its last trace of precision.
She came with a cry, nails scoring my shoulders, and the force of her pleasure pulled me past control so quickly that I could do nothing except hold her close and follow with my forehead against hers and her name torn raw from my mouth.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Rain traced the windows. The acquisition remained alive, the investigation remained open, and the woman beneath me remained free to leave.
I released her wrists and pressed my mouth to the faint marks my fingers had left. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Her voice was unsteady but certain. "And that question does not count against the interview limit."
I withdrew, disposed of the condom, and brought her water. She accepted the glass without covering herself, the sheet loose across her thighs and the amber light moving over her skin as she drank.
I sat beside her rather than retreating to the desk. The difference felt larger than it should have.
She rested her head against the upholstered board and studied me. "You went quiet."
"I am separating wanting you again from any right to ask."
"And?"
"The wanting is substantial. The right does not exist."
Her fingers touched the scar beneath my ribs, not seduction now, merely contact. "That may be your second honest sentence tonight."
"Your standards are falling."
"Temporary exhaustion."
We let the quiet return. It was not comfortable, but it was intimate, and I did not know which fact concerned me more.
At last, Simone set down the water. "This does not make us a relationship."
"It does not."
"It does not create access to my room, my time, or a second night."
"I understand."
"We disclose the conflict to the committee in the morning. The fact of one consensual encounter, not details. I review the language before it goes anywhere."
The prospect of powerful strangers recording what had happened between us made every protective instinct rise. Protection was not authority either.
"You will approve every word."
"Until that disclosure is accepted, nothing happens again."
"Nothing."
She searched for resistance and found none.
"You make agreement sound menacing," she said.
"I am working with limited tools."
"Acquire more."
She dressed without hurry. I fastened my trousers and remained across the room, resisting the desire to help with buttons she had handled perfectly well for years.
At the suite door, she looked back.
"If I decide this was a mistake, I will tell you."
"If you decide it was a mistake, it still happened because we both chose it. I will not use that choice against you."
Her face softened in a way I had never earned at a negotiating table.
"It was not a mistake," she said. "It was one night. Learn the difference."
She left for her own room.
I did not follow.
The first private decision between us was the one I could not control.