But it was impossible to do anything but what she was doing—letting him glide her forward, not daring to speak, feeling her heart hammering inside her chest, her breathing ragged, and through her veins, her treacherous champagne-and-wine-laden veins, a river was coursing in full flood, unstoppable, pouring through her, possessing her. Desire, arousal, an intoxication of all her sensual being, all possessing her.
They reached his room, and Xander was sliding his key card through the lock, then pushing open the door, leading her inside. It was his room, she realised, in the daze that was taking her over.
“Dan,” she said faintly.
Xander slipped his hand from hers. “Wait,” he said. He was striding to the connecting door, opening it quietly, going through. Laurel, through the drumming in her head, heard dim voices, then Xander was stepping back through, leaving the connecting door open only a fraction.
“Babysitter gone,” he said, keeping his voice low, “and Dan fast asleep—”
He came towards her. Purpose in his stride. His face. His eyes locked to hers.
Through the storm inside, she made one last, frail, hopeless attempt to seize back sanity. “Xander, no. We can’t.”
It was all she said, all he let her say, for he had cradled her face in his hands, his long strong fingers cupping her head, tilting it up. She saw his eyes burning with all that she had once, so long ago and now saw again. Her breath caught.
“Too late,” he said. “Far, far too late.”
And as he said them, low and husked and final, she heard them echo inside her.
Then his mouth lowered to hers, and she was lost.
All that she could hear echoing inside her head were the words that had brought her to this point.
Just for this evening.
And now,Just for this night.
She was all that he remembered. The seven long years melted away. Her mouth was velvet, as sweet as honey, opening to his. He delved within, twining with her, hungry for her, sating himself on her. But it was not enough. His hands slid to her shoulders, down the satin columns of her bare arms to come to rest on her waist, draw her against him. Instinctively his stance changed so that he could settle her against his hips. He felt, in her throat, as their kisses deepened, the little gasp she gave as the full strength of his desire for her was manifest.
Urgency possessed him, urgency to possess her. For a moment longer his mouth held hers. But his hunger craved much more. His mouth slid from hers, down her throat, the hectic, beating pulse at the base and further still between the enticing valley of her breasts. He felt them engorge beneath his lips, their peaks unfurling, and his hunger rose. His hands lifted from her waist to the narrow straps of her dress, peeling away the vermilion silk, the lacy wisp beneath.
He heard her give another gasp, and her head went back, lifting her revealed and straining breasts to the ministrations of his mouth, as he laved them each in turm. Her hands had come around his waist, clutching and unclutching as moans escaped her. Her own stance had widened, pressing his thrusting hips into her eager cradle.
Greek burst from his lips, urgent and low. He stepped away from her, starting the essential process of stripping his clothes—his tie, so useless an object, his jacket the next to go, ripping loose the studs of his dress shirt, impatiently freeing his cuffs, shrugging it off.
She stood watching him, lips parted, eyes distended, not taking them from him, her luscious, ripened breasts exposed to him. Frustration leapt in him and he shed the rest of his clothes in an agony of haste.
Then it was Laurel’s turn.
He advanced upon her, and all she could do was stand there. Her heart was pounding, blood surging. The voice in her head frantically telling her that she must stop was silenced in the pounding. She would not listen, would only reach for him, wanting him so much, a hunger for him she could not stop. A maelstrom was in her head, and she caught at him, crushing her half-naked body against his, feeling the glory of her breasts pressed against the hard wall of his chest. She bent her head so that her cheek pressed against it too, and her arms snaked around him, fingers indenting into the strong planes of his back.
“Oh, God, Xander, I want you so much.” It was a broken cry against him across seven long cruel years…
His arms were around her, enveloping her. “And you shall have me.”
In a single fluid movement, he had loosed the gown from her, and the glorious silk pooled in a vermilion splash on the carpet. She did not care, hectically kicking off her shoes.
He laid her down upon the waiting bed, coming down beside her. Waiting only to strip the last impeding barrier from her, the matching lacy wisp around her hips, he moved across her.
She opened to him. She could not wait—not one minute more. Desperation fuelled her to possess him again, to be possessed.
He reared above her, and her hands looped around his neck, pulling him down on her. All of him.
In a single, powerful thrust he entered her.
And she convulsed around him in a burning blaze.
She throbbed beneath him, crying out, a sobbing cry, head thrashing, her long hair whipping, calling out his name over and over again. For a second, the merest second, it seemed to him he held himself in check.
