She had to breathe, but it was hard to make her lungs work. She had to concentrate on the act of breathing, and only when that had gone on awhile could she take notice of her surroundings. And the fact Dylan had slid her back on the secretary when he was done with her, leaving her slumped there with her jeans at her ankles, like a crumpled doll.
An image that surely should have horrified her, but instead made another spear of bright, thick heat wind its way through her.
It seemed to take an hour or so, and enough effort to climb a mountain or two, to turn her head to the side and watched Dylan as he bent over the sink tucked into the wall outside the WC. He splashed water on his face. Then he ran his hands through his hair. And when he looked at her, clearly completely aware of her and what she was doing, Jenny thought her heart stopped.
She wanted to say something arch. Amusing.
But all she could do was slump there, entirely wrecked, until the corner of his mouth kicked up a bit.
He reached down below the sink and pulled out a fresh towel, then he moved over to her. She expected him to hand her the towel, but he didn’t. He cleaned her up instead, with a brisk efficiency that made her breathless. There was something about how at ease he was with her body. As if every inch of her was his. It made her a bit light-headed.
When he was done, he tossed the towel in a basket, then set her on her feet. She was boneless and useless, so she did nothing when he squatted down, fed her foot back into the leg of her jeans, and tugged them back up. And she was only aware that she’d kicked off the flashy new heels she’d found in a boutique this afternoon when he slid them back onto her feet.
“Are you with me?” Dylan stood, then buttoned her jeans. Then he held her hips there, looking down at her.
All she could manage to do was nod.
“I’m going to need a word or two, I think.” He lifted one hand, and ran his thumb beneath her eye, collecting that moisture she couldn’t seem to keep from spilling over.
“I’m with you,” she whispered.
Though in truth, Jenny didn’t know what that meant. Or where they were. Or her own damned name.
Dylan smiled, but it wasn’t that friendly smile she knew so well. This one was darker. And far more satisfied.
He laced his fingers through hers again, and led her out of the room. And she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything. Not really. It was like a dream. He was leading her down another hall, then into a lift. And all she could think about was his hand in hers, and how sensitive her pussy was now, swollen and still molten, brushing up against the seam of her jeans because he’d left her with no panties.
He ushered her out of the lift, and then to a table on a rooftop patio festooned with walls of plants, heaters and clever lighting that managed to make every table seem private—even though she was fairly certain there were other people about. And it wasn’t until they sat down, and she looked out at the stunning, sparkling view laid out before them from the Harbour Bridge to the Opera House and the skyscrapers of central Sydney, that she could place the way he touched her.
It was proprietary.
Something inside of her curled up at that, shivering in delight.
Dylan didn’t ask her what she wanted to eat. He had a quiet word with the waiter. Another thing she wanted to find a little outrage about, and yet when the food arrived she was not only ravenous, she couldn’t have chosen better for herself.
“Good?” he asked, sounding far too entertained.
“Surprisingly, yes.”
“What’s the surprise, Jenny?” And he sounded like her Dylan again, lazy and careless, but she couldn’t quite believe it anymore. Not when she’d seen what lurked beneath. “I’ve known you a donkey’s age or two, haven’t I?”
She ate what he’d ordered her, but she kept getting distracted by thoughts of him feasting, on her. Watching him eat food seemed like a sensual act. His green eyes seemed so amused, lit up in a new way, as he watched her. Jenny ordered herself to make clever conversation. The way she always did, in her role as her father’s hostess. But for the first time in as long as she could remember, the words didn’t come.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, when their mains had been cleared away. Dylan picked up her hand again to toy with her fingers, and that didn’t exactly help. “It’s as if I lost the power of speech.”
“You’re welcome.”
And surely she shouldn’t have found such smugness appealing. She heard herself laugh. “Why would I thank you? I thought that was all for you. It had nothing to do with me.”
“You can consider it an object lesson, then. I’m greedy. I want what I want when I want it.”
He was playing with her fingers, making her right hand feel like an erogenous zone. She leaned closer to him, propping up one elbow on the table. “Is this it? Is this the famous speech?”
“Do I have a famous speech?”
“I figure there has to be something. Some careful line you throw out there to manage expectations. It doesn’t make any sense that out of all those women, not one was ever under the impression that whatever they had with you meant more.”
“I like to be clear.”