“Not just yet.”
He looked down at her in surprise. “Brianna?”
She cupped his erection, pressing her palm against his heat through the fabric. His abdominal muscles clenched and he hissed. She unbuttoned his slacks and let them fall to his ankles. With a teasing kiss to his stomach, she drew his boxers down. Once he was free from his clothing, she wrapped her fingers around his smooth shaft, leaned in, and flicked her tongue against the tip of his cock. He groaned and buried his hands in her hair, rocking his hips against her mouth.
She licked the head, then took him into her mouth. She teased him with her lips and tongue and gentle suction. His shuddering groans, the hot pulse of him on her tongue, stole her breath and left her hot, craving. His fingers clenched in her hair, spasming, and he let out a tortured sound. His hips jerked, and his c**k pushed against the back of her throat.
“You have to stop,” he gasped hoarsely.
She drew back. “Last chance for you to leave.”
When he growled, she flashed him a slow smile and tore the condom wrapper open. With one last teasing nuzzle, she rolled the condom over his length. He bit off a curse and pulled her to her feet. His lips closed over hers without a moment’s hesitation. He grabbed her skirt, flipped it up, and pressed her back against the wall again. His thumb hooked her panties and dragged them aside.
She quivered at his touch and moaned into his mouth. He pulled away for just a moment—then, with one smooth, almost violent thrust, buried inside her, filling her so completely she thought she would burst. She gasped out a ragged cry and dug her nails into his back, raking him with every inch that burned her, stretched her, took her.
He withdrew, then thrust harder. Smoother. Again and again, and she met each stroke, each touch, with a need she’d never known she could feel. Her throat was tight, her eyes hot, her ears ringing with her own wild cries. When he reached between them and found her clit, she lost all control. His strokes built the pressure to a boiling point until she tensed in his arms and her need unraveled into a burst of vivid pleasure, a pinnacle of luscious tension that threatened to break her deeply sensitized body. He snarled and plunged into her one last time, before joining her in a trembling, clutching release.
He dropped his forehead to her shoulder. His ragged breathing teased her throat.
“Holy shit.”
She let out a wordless affirmative groan and rested her head on his shoulder. She felt like she’d run a marathon, her entire body sore. God, they didn’t even make it to the bed. Hell, they’d barely made it into the room. She’d needed that, desperately. It had probably been building up inside her since Michael—
Michael.
The heat and blissful buzz bled from her, leaving her heavy and cold. What the hell had she just done? Thrown herself at a man she hardly knew, that was what. When she knew better. When she had responsibilities that didn’t give her these kinds of freedoms.
And he’d probably go back to the office and brag to the other execs about bagging the account by bagging that frigid bitch.
“You’re tense,” he rumbled. He drew back. Dark, intense eyes searched hers. “What’s wrong?”
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. Not when he’d see the shame on her face, in her eyes—and she’d likely see the triumph in his, as arrogant as the rest of him. She swallowed past her aching throat and opened her eyes.
“Let me down, please.”
He said nothing, but after a moment he separated their bodies carefully; she fought not to cry out as he slipped out of her, leaving her throbbing and sore and feeling, as much as she hated it, deliciously used. But that’s all it was, wasn’t it? He’d used her for pleasure.
And she’d used him.
She smoothed her clothing, pulling her skirt down. Damn it, her hands were shaking, fumbling, clumsy. She choked out a curse.
He took her hand, steadying it, then tugged her skirt down and handed her her shirt. She shrugged it on, hugging it closed across her br**sts. What should she do now? Thank him for the good lay? Shake his hand and run?
What had she gotten herself into?
She couldn’t think about this. She threw her shoulders back and forced words past the knot in her throat. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He stared at her, his dark eyes flinty. “Brianna, I—”
“Don’t.” She couldn’t look him in the eye right now, so she turned away. Bending down she picked up her bra and slid it on. With her back to him, she let the shirt fall and dressed herself. The whole time, she felt ridiculously exposed. Even more ridiculous, considering what they’d just done.
“You don’t have to run away,” he said, his voice guttural. “Stay for dinner.”
She wanted to look at him so badly. To see if he looked as upset as he sounded. But she didn’t turn around even after her shirt was firmly back in place. “No, thank you, Mr. Jones.”
“Brianna, don’t do this.”
“I already did. You can have a courier send the contract to my office tomorrow.” She put her shirt back on and buttoned it up. “There’s no need for us to communicate in person again.”
“Damn it.” He made an angry sound. “Tonight wasn’t about contracts or work, and you know it.”
She gritted her teeth. “Good night.”
And without giving him a chance to speak, she turned and walked from the room with her head held high as quickly as she could without running.
And her feet bare.
Chapter Five
Thomas sat in the plush upholstered easy chair in his suite and stared at the shoes on the table without really seeing them. The sun was just rising outside the window, light bursting in a brilliant panorama over the city. The beauty was wholly lost on him. It was just another filthy Vegas morning in which dozens of people would be going home with regrets and empty wallets.
Regrets. He knew quite a bit about that.
She’d run away from him. Run away. Maybe she’d strutted out with that elegant ice queen walk of hers, but he knew running when he saw it. He’d almost chased after her but pride and disbelief had rooted him to the spot. He’d been dazed, too. He’d never had sex like that. Sex where he completely forgot himself and lost control—and she’d been right there to meet him, like no woman ever had. And then she’d walked away, like she hadn’t felt it, too.
And it was irritating the hell out of him.
He picked up one slender shoe and traced a finger along the velvety toe. He vaguely remembered her kicking them off when he’d hoisted her against the wall, the dainty Dior heels flying. She’d been in such a hurry to get away from him that she’d left them, like a real-life Cinderella. First she’d accused him of faking his interest in her, like she was some kind of leper, only to run away from him like he was the one diseased.