Vanessa is a smart, capable woman. If she wants a relationship, she'll find one. If she wants sex—
She's gorgeous.
Maybe too successful or strong or powerful for men who are easily intimidated. But there's no shortage of shallow members of my gender.
What sane man would turn her down?
Vanessa pulls back with a sigh. She stares into my eyes, asking for something. No, demanding it.
But what?
I don't have a fucking clue.
She runs her thumb and forefinger over my tie, tugs gently, moves into the bedroom.
Straight to the dresser. She finds the box of condoms. Tosses one on the bed.
No fuss, no muss, no romantic interludes.
She crosses the space to me. Hooks her arm around my neck. Brings her lips to my lips.
She kisses me hard.
With intention.
I wrap my hand around her wrist. Bring her hand to my cock.
She cups me over my slacks. Groans against my mouth as she rubs me with her palm.
Again and again.
Then she brings her hand to my belt. Undoes the buckle. The button of my slacks. The zipper.
She pulls me back toward the bed.
The backs of her thighs hit the comforter.
I bring my hands to her hips. Lift her into my arms. Onto the bed.
She groans as I push her up the comforter and climb on top of her. "Fuck."
I slip my hand between her legs.
She's still wet, but I warm her up anyway. Run my thumb over her clit until her eyes flutter closed.
Again and again, until she's groaning my name like a curse.
I should make her come here again, I know, but I'm a greedy motherfucker. I need to feel her pulsing around me.
I need to feel her.
I find the condom on the mattress, tear the package, slide the rubber over my cock. "Spread your legs."
She looks up at me as she pushes her thighs apart.
I bring our bodies closer.
Closer.
There.
My tip strains against her.
Then it's one sweet inch at a time.
She feels so fucking good. Warm and soft and safe.
She curls her hand around the back of my neck and pulls me into a slow, deep kiss.
Asking for something I can't explain.
Finding it.
Vanessa wraps her legs around my hips.
I drive into her again.
Again.
Slow to start.
Then faster.
Harder.
Deeper.
She groans against my lips, rising to meet me, pulling me deeper.
Again and again.
Until she's there, pulsing around me, digging her nails into my skin.
She pulls back with a sigh.
Her eyes fall closed. Her lips press together. Her entire body tenses and relaxes.
Her bliss is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
It pulls me over the edge.
My thoughts dissolve.
The rest of the world disappears.
It's only Vanessa.
Her low groan. Her soft lips. Her sharp nails.
Her pulsing, pulling me closer, deeper.
With my next thrust, I come.
Pleasure fills my senses.
All ecstasy and Vanessa Moyer.
She rocks through my orgasm. Pulls back. Looks up at me with hazy eyes.
All softness.
No guard.
One more moment without defenses.
Then she blinks, and the softness is gone.
I’m not hers.
She’s not mine.
Neither of us expects anything from the other.
I untangle our bodies. Take care of the condom. Clean up in the bathroom.
She waits her turn. Runs the shower. Emerges from the bathroom in a terry cloth robe. "It’s your room." She watches me fix my tie and jacket. "You don’t have to leave."
"I know."
"You can ask me to go."
"No. Stay." Usually, I stay. Usually, I’m a gentleman. But not tonight. Not with her. I don’t trust myself. "I have to check on Opal."
She nods, accepting my answer. "Good night, Simon."
"Good night."
"Take care."
"Take care," I repeat her words. As if they’re some kind of conclusion. The fulfillment of my promise. The end of the chapter. The resolution of the magnetic attraction between us.
But they aren’t.
She occupies my mind every fucking second of the drive home. As I take the elevator to my apartment, check on my kid sister, shower, slip into my pajamas, fail to find sleep.
I’m not satisfied.
I only want her more.
Chapter Four
VANESSA
I’ll say this for Simon Pierce; the man knows how to handle the morning after.
He’s waking up at home, in his bed, feet from his clothes and his coffee maker.
Whereas I’m here, in the too soft hotel bed, with only last night’s dress and a machine incapable of making a decent cup of tea.
Not the ideal Sunday morning.
But the best possible end to our night together.
The smell of his soap—sandalwood and lemon—is sending my thoughts to dangerous places.
If he was actually here, tempting me with soft kisses and dirty demands?
That’s not good for me.
This is just sex.
And this is it. Fourteen years of sexual tension resolved. No more imagining the taste of his lips or the feel of his skin or the sound of his groan in my ears.
Now I know.
Sure, I keep replaying the feel of his body against mine, but that’s just an aftershock.
I repeat the mantra as I climb out of bed and shower, slip into last night’s dress.