Huh. Flustered? That’s an understatement.
Grinding his teeth, he entered his personal office and crossed to the mini-bar, grabbing a mineral water from the top shelf. The hiss of escaping gas filled the silence, as did the sound of the metal lid clinking on the marble counter.
He lifted the bottle of water to his lips and swallowed five mouthfuls without coming up for air. The bubbling liquid flowed down his throat, icy and smooth. And yet it did little to placate his agitation. Or cool him down.
From both his anger and ardor.
Those tiny black hipster panties and snug black tank top Sienna had answered the door in, that taunting navel of hers… It would have been so easy to just grab her, slam her against the doorframe, pin her wrists above her head, make her admit she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and then lose himself in her exquisite body.
It would have been so easy.
Playing it cool had never been so hard.
Especially at the sight of the dark smudges of what may have been charcoal across her forehead, neck, and thigh. Something about those dark marks on her smooth skin—signs of her natural creativity, of a woman who lived in the now, rather than a woman more concerned about being flawless to those who saw her, stirred him. Those kind of women—cold and fake and superficially perfect—were the kind he normally knew. But Sienna…hair wild, face free of makeup, charcoal smudges on her skin…
Christ, had he ever been so turned on so instantly? Had he ever sported such a demanding and impatient hard-on?
While his hands explored the most divine derrière he’d ever known, the all-consuming hunger that drove him, the hunger to consume her and destroy her, seemed to desert him. He was as turned on as he’d ever been, yes. Harder than he would have imagined possible. But that lustrous hunger? Its tormented darkness had lost its edge.
The pleasure engulfing him had no longer been just physical.
It had been softer. Warmer. That same sense of complete contentedness he’d experienced with her the first time they’d met. Powerful and intoxicating and right. So very right.
Slamming the bottle of mineral water on his desk, he let out a sharp curse. How could he feel like that? After what she’d done to Clinton?
Confused guilt flayed at him. How could he betray his brother’s memory like that? How could he forget what he was doing? Why he was doing it? His previous connection with Sienna, their previous flirtation, should mean nothing now. His actions, his thoughts, should be about Clinton, not how well he and Sienna connected.
He ground his teeth. She’d gotten to him. That had to be the answer. The manipulating little minx had gotten to him, gotten under his skin.
But how?
He glared out the floor-to-ceiling window at the sweeping expanse of cloudless blue sky. He’d gone to her place to throw her off guard. To unsettle her. To disturb her preconceived ideas about him. Instead, she’d sent him for a loop.
He’d been outplayed.
And while he’d been left reeling—stunned and confused by his own emotional response—she’d continued to work the scene with a hesitant whisper of his name, a slight widening of those jade-green eyes of hers, a hitching breath that moved her breasts just so.
If he closed his eyes, he could relive the moment all over again. If he pulled in a deep, long breath, he could still smell her—clean soap and delicate jasmine. If it hadn’t been for her half brother interrupting them, he would probably be putty in her hands right about now. And enjoying every moment.
Christ, how could I let Clint down like this?
He wouldn’t. He refused to. She was not going to win. There was only one set of rules in this game—his.
Clinton may not have been strong enough to survive her siren’s call, but he was.
A slow smile spread over his lips. “Get ready to play dirty, Sienna.”
He took another drink, welcoming the chilly liquid flowing down his throat. An image of her filled his head, her breasts heaving as he explored her spread thighs with his tongue and lips, her breath shallow, ragged as he destroyed her with his—
A sharp buzz jerked him back to his office. Heart pounding, muscles coiled, he walked to his desk and jabbed at the intercom. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Mr. Dyson.” His assistant’s greeting floated from the speaker. “You have a call from Clarinda Simmonds on line two.”