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The Playboy's Passionate Pursuit (Monte Carlo Affairs #3) Page 15
Author: Emilie Rose

No, she admitted grudgingly. Since the first night she’d gone toe-to-toe with him in Vincent’s hospital room.

She’d informed him visiting hours were over and he’d have to leave. He’d said, “Not unless you carry me out. My buddy needs me and I’m staying.”

Vincent had been heavily sedated at the time and probably hadn’t even known Toby was there. She should have called security and had Toby removed. But Vincent’s family hadn’t arrived yet, and she’d have hated for her patient to awake alone and in pain. Add in the concern lining Toby’s face, and she’d bent the rules. She’d let him stay.

She hated to admit it, but his loyalty to Vincent in the months following the accident had impressed her. When he wasn’t on the road for a race, Toby had been by Vincent’s side, keeping his friend entertained and motivated through each stage of recovery and every setback.

Toby led her out of the spa and across the vast lobby. Amelia felt incredibly nak*d, as if everyone around them knew of her underdressed state. Her skin burned. Her palms dampened, and it shamed her to admit they weren’t the only part of her growing moist.

They stopped in front of the penthouse elevator. Toby’s eyes found hers. The hunger straining his expression dried her mouth and weakened her muscles. He drew circles in her palm with his thumbnail, scraping up arousal from deep inside her and distracting her from her pantiless predicament—but not so much that she didn’t wonder if the concierge who acted as a gatekeeper to the upper floor couldn’t guess she and Toby were headed upstairs for sex.

The brass doors opened. Toby towed her inside, propped himself in a corner and pulled her into the crook of his arm. Would he kiss her again on the ride up? Would he do more than kiss her? Did she want him to? Her pulse pounded a resounding yes in her ears and much lower.

Just before the doors closed, a third occupant entered the cubicle.

That meant no kisses. She wasn’t disappointed. Not at all. Uh-uh.

Liar.

The Mafia-dark burly guy wore a suit and an earpiece microphone thingy. Was that a gun under his coat? Hotel security? A bodyguard for someone famous? His probing gaze inspected both her and Toby from head to toe. Supremely conscious of her nak*dness Amelia squeezed her thighs together and fought the blush she was sure must be creeping up her neck. And then the man backed into the opposite corner and faced the doors.

Had Toby noticed the weapon? Amelia sought his gaze and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. If a man could undress you with his eyes, then she’d be stripped bare and they’d be making love in the elevator. Had that been his intention when he’d stolen her panties? She wasn’t wearing a bra—almost never did. What was the point when she didn’t need support? That meant only two pieces of fabric separated her from his touch.

Her skin tingled and her internal muscles clenched. For a split second she wished they were alone, but then reason reasserted itself. There were probably security cameras in the elevator, and the last thing she needed on this trip was to be arrested for indecent exposure and who knows what else. Not to mention the lack of a condom.

Tell that to her moistening parts and desert-dry mouth.

What felt like an eternity later, the elevator opened on the penthouse level. The suit exited first and headed down the opposite end of the hall. Toby straightened—carefully, Amelia noted. She followed him out. She had to take two steps for each of his long strides, and each quick tread sent a teasing draft up her skirt. He inserted the key card into the lock and then shoved open the door of his suite.

Last chance to change your mind.

No. This plan would work. It had to.

Scraping her courage together, Amelia put one foot in front of the other. She’d barely crossed the threshold when Toby palmed the door shut and leaned against it. He snagged her waist with one hand and hauled her between his splayed legs, fusing her h*ps to his. The fingers of his other hand speared through her hair, bringing her mouth to his in a hard, brief and blistering-hot kiss, a tangle of tongues, a gnashing of lips and teeth.

Her head was spinning before he swept her off her feet and stalked toward his bedroom. She snaked her arms around his neck and struggled to regulate her breathing, but it was a lost cause. He dipped. Believing him about to drop her, she squealed and tightened her arms, but instead he grasped the spread with the hand beneath her knees, ripped it back and then laid her in the middle of the cool Egyptian cotton sheets and followed her down.

His thighs separated hers, hiking up her skirt to an indecent level, and then his denim-covered erection pressed her bare center. The rough fabric abraded her tender flesh in a delicious way, and when he flexed his hips, a bolt of pleasure shot through her, stealing her breath. He braced himself on straight arms above her and then, biceps bulging, slowly lowered his torso until he blanketed her with heat, stopping with his mouth a scant inch from hers.

“Save the screams for when I’m inside you.”

His ego truly was astounding. “You think you can make me scream?”

“Guaran-damn-tee it.”

And she was just as determined to make sure he didn’t. This wasn’t last time. Her will wasn’t weakened by alcohol or grief.

His mouth feathered over hers in the briefest of teasing kisses. She tried to arch up for more, but his chest held her down. He touched down for another butterfly sip and then rolled to her side, leaving one leg thrown across hers. A big palm spread across her navel and swept upward to the buttons of her lace blouse.

“I like your girlie clothes. I like getting you out of ’em even better.”

He started at the bottom, releasing one button, folding back the plackets and then exploring the exposed triangle of skin with his lips, with his tongue. He painted a damp trail along the waistband of her skirt and then blew. The shocking contrast of hot tongue and cold air elicited a wave of goose bumps. The second button gave way. Her rib cage received the same sip-lave-blow treatment with equally mind-melting results. The third button opened. He nibbled a tantalizing path along the underside of her br**sts, and her n**ples tightened, tenting her thin blouse.

The fourth and final button slipped free, but he didn’t hurry to claim his prize—if her small br**sts could be considered a prize. His chin, covered in afternoon stubble, scraped a shiver-inducing line along her sternum. She arched her back, lifting herself toward his mouth.

“Something you want, sugar?”

He knew what she wanted. Why make her ask? “Touch me.”

“Where? Here?” He nipped her jaw, her earlobe. “Or here?”

He had to feel the pulse in her neck pounding beneath his lips. She fisted her fingers in his short hair and urged him in the right direction. “My br**sts.”

A quick rasp-rasp across her chest as he shook his head made her want to growl in frustration, until she realized he wasn’t saying no. He was nudging fabric out of his way with his chin. His stubble lightly scraped her nipple once, twice. He circled her areola with a sandpaper caress.

She groaned and squirmed as heat and tension spread through her. “Yes. There. Please.”

He rewarded her request with the hot, wet suction of his mouth, making her h*ps bow off the bed as desire yanked deep inside her. He settled her with a big, warm palm on her thigh. And then that hand climbed higher, approaching her exposed sex at a snail’s pace. Faster, faster, she wanted to cry, but his teeth snagged her nipple, holding it captive for the flick of his tongue, and the words vanished.

He switched to the opposite side, giving equal attention to her neglected flesh, sucking, laving, scraping. And then his hand reached her curls. He gave a gentle tug and she gasped. How could pulling hair be sexy? And yet she was about to come unglued. He traced her damp seam, down, up and then back again and again, approaching but always stopping just short of the spot that could send her over the edge. She dug her fingers into his muscle-corded shoulders and rocked to meet his fingers. She couldn’t help herself.

He lifted his head. “In a hurry?”

She licked her lips and tasted him. “Aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah.” His killer grin twisted her insides and her toes contracted.

He bent his head and covered her mouth. His tongue found hers at the same instant his fingers struck gold. Orgasm crashed through her in wave after wave. The thigh he’d thrown over hers held her captive for the onslaught, and his kisses muffled her cries.

She dissolved into the mattress, sated and yet still wanting. Wanting him. Too much. So much it scared her. So much it reminded her that she was losing control.

A little foreplay was a good thing, necessary even, to make sex comfortable. But too much was…dangerous. Uneasiness crept over her like a spider web. She struggled to gather her shattered composure.

He flicked open the button of her skirt, lowered the zip and then tugged the garment down her legs and pitched it onto the floor. His heavy-lidded gaze caressed her, making her feel sexy instead of skinny. No other man had ever looked at her that way—as though she was the woman he wanted instead of the one he could get.

He cupped her br**sts, thumbed the pebbled tips and then shifted his body back between her legs. His broad shoulders held her open and exposed, and then he lowered his head and did with his tongue what his fingers had done seconds before. He drove her out of her mind, carried her high and then pushed her off the edge.

And she couldn’t stop him.

Even before the aftershocks faded, he rose onto his knees, pulled his shirt over his head and reached for the waistband of his jeans.

Time to regroup. She arched up and covered his hands. “My job.”

The fabric stretched tight over his distended flesh. Determined to torment him the way he had her and to shift the balance of power back where it should be, she trailed her short nails across his chest, circled his tiny n**ples and then raked up and down his fly.

Toby’s jaw muscles knotted. His back bowed and his fists clenched. “Be quick about it,” he ordered in a strained voice.

He’d made her weak, and she had every intention of returning the favor. “What’s the matter, Haynes? You can dish it out, but you’re not man enough to take it.”

He scowled. “I can take it and I can take you—which you’ll find out as soon as you get these damn jeans off.”

She lowered the zipper one tooth at a time and then slipped her fingers into the opening to cup and stroke cotton stretched over rigid heat. The cords of his neck tightened visibly. She eased his pants over his h*ps and then wedged a fingertip beneath the elastic band of his briefs and circled his waist to tease the crevice of his buttocks.

His thigh muscles knotted, trembled. He muttered a blasphemy.

Easing the elastic out of the way, she uncovered the engorged head of his penis and glanced up to find Toby watching her. He gulped and a surge of power filled her. Ever so slowly, without looking away from the need in his eyes, she parted her lips, dampened them with her tongue. His breath hitched. She lowered her head and licked him. Air whistled through his clenched teeth. But he didn’t blink.

She shoved his briefs to his thighs, curled her fingers around his thick shaft and licked his satiny length, bottom to top. His hands cupped her head, fingers tangling in her hair. Again and again she bathed him and then took him into her mouth.

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Emilie Rose's Novels
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