“So. Dinner. Shall we order room service? I don’t feel like dodging more of Scarlett’s poison darts.”
Her voice is light, trying for casual, but I see the tension creeping back into her shoulders. The “honeypot” mission is reasserting itself.
I stop in front of her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her whisky-brown eyes, close enough to smell the coconut on her skin.
Jane turns fully toward me. Her eyes are wide now, uncertain in a way that has nothing to do with strategy. Her lips part, like she’s about to say something and can’t quite decide what it is.
The room feels smaller.
Quieter.
“Jane,” I whisper, my thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. Her breath shudders out. She leans into the touch, just slightly. She looks like she did yesterday when she straddled me—caught between panic and a reckless kind of courage.
This isn’t just attraction anymore. It’s pressure.
A slow, gathering force.
This is a tsunami.
I’m hearing sirens and warnings in my head. Abort. Retreat. Maintain the zone. This is dangerous territory. Uncharted. She’s inexperienced. This is her first time. It’s complicated. We have a job to do.
But the man beneath… who hasn’t touched or been touched in three years except by her… that man is done retreating. Done with control. The sound of her pleasure in that massage room, the memory of her body moving against mine yesterday, the sheer, terrifyingrealnessof her… it’s a siren song I can’t ignore.
I crash into her. My mouth finds hers. Desperate. Claiming.
She makes a startled sound against my lips, then melts. Her arms fly up around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. Her body presses flush against mine, soft curves against hard muscle, the residual oil on her skin making everything slide, everything feel impossibly slick and hot.
The kiss is fire. It’s need. It’s the release of tension wound tighter than a slapshot. Her mouth opens under mine, inviting, and I plunge my tongue inside, tasting her—coconut,salt, cucumber water, and pure, unadulterated Jane.
She moans, the sound vibrating against my lips, echoing the sounds from the spa but a thousand times more potent because now I’m the one causing them.
My hands are everywhere. Roaming her back, sliding under the hem of her sundress, tracing the warm, smooth skin of her waist. She arches into me, her hips grinding against mine, seeking friction. The hard ridge of my erection presses against her stomach, and she gasps, breaking the kiss.
“West…” Her voice is ragged. Her eyes are dark, dilated, swimming with desire and a hint of panic. “We… the deal… this is…”
“Screw the deal,” I growl, capturing her mouth again. My hands slide down, gripping her ass, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively. Then I set her down on the cool marble countertop. It puts us at eye level. Her legs are still locked around me, holding me captive between her thighs.
I look down at her. At the pulse fluttering wildly in her throat. At the way her gaze drops to my mouth and then snaps back up, dark with confusion and want. Then I remember she’s a virgin.
“Tell me to stop,” I say, my voice gravel. “Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me you want to stick to the plan.”
She doesn’t. She just stares up at me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I kiss her again. Not like yesterday’s lesson, or controlled exploration. My mouth crashes down on hers, swallowing her gasp. My other hand fists in the fabric of her dress at her hip, pulling her flush against me.
She melts into me instantly, her hands flying up to grip my shoulders, her mouth opening under mine with a soft, yielding sigh. It’s surrender. It’s acceptance. It’s trust, and it undoes me completely.
My control, already frayed to breaking, snaps.
“I’m done pretending I don’t want this. Want you.” My hands already pushing the straps of her sundress off her shoulders.
She’s trembling, but she doesn’t look away. Her eyes are huge, dark pools reflecting the hunger I know is blazing in my own.
I pull my shirt over my head in one swift motion, tossing it aside. Her gaze rakes over my chest, my shoulders, the old scars and newer bruises marking my skin from a lifetime on the ice. There’s no fear in her eyes. Only heat. And curiosity.
My hands slide up her thighs and find the damp lace at the apex of her thighs. She jolts, breath catching, and her hips lift instinctively. I hook my thumbs into the delicate fabric and ease it down her legs, slow enough to feel every shiver she can’t hide.
