Then he was gone. And in a matter of minutes—during which Peter devoured a leftover wrap or two and brushed his teeth before returning to the little sofa—the very small, very efficient crew was gone too, as was their long-suffering PR rep. The camera and a few other pieces of equipment remained in place, ready for the next day’s gauntlet of interviews.
The door slammed shut behind the boom op, leaving the suite in absolute silence.
Peter said nothing. She said nothing. They simply sagged against the inadequately cushioned love seat as they gathered the energy for speech and/or movement.
He might still be hungry, his head hurt, and cheerful chattiness with strangers wasn’t exactly his default setting, so he had to be exhausted. And while she was a more social creature than Peter, she’d also spent the previous night at the Stockholm airport, waiting impatiently for a flight that got delayed three separate times, then flown almost halfway across the world and raced to the hotel, where she’d had only ten minutes to shower, dress, and ready herself for an entire day of interviews.
Fy fan, she was tired.
Also horny. But mostly tired.
She’d deployed strategic squirming to work him up all day, with the full intention of tackling him like a rugby player the minute they were alone, but now...
A nap sounded really, really good.
Peter sort of flopped onto his side so he could face her. Expression guarded, he studied her for a long moment, his gaze skimming from her comfy flats to her high ponytail, then returning to linger on her bare legs.
His forefinger grazed the hem of her dress. “You fucked with me all day.”
“I did.”
No point in denial. She’d wanted him to know, hoping the realization—that her wiggling was entirely deliberate, a taunt intended just for him—would turn him on even more. And gods above, all that teasing had kept her flushed and tingling for hours.
He palmed her right leg, and his thumb slipped beneath her hem, skimming in slow arcs over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her breath shuddered. Her bones turned liquid.
Her desire for a nap disappeared.
Now that they were alone, his restless lust seemed to have dissipated too, along with his headache and any lingering hunger for food. He was a man with all the time in the world. All the patience.
He watched himself touch her and said nothing.
That tiny arc of flesh under his thumb never widened. Never drifted higher. But each sweep prickled and burned, the heat burrowing beneath her skin and lapping upward with every passing moment, until it settled between her legs.
Her thigh began to tremble.
The rhythm of his thumb didn’t alter. His face remained hard and still, bent to his work.
After another minute, his other hand clasped her left knee. As he guided that leg a hairsbreadth wider, he flicked her a single upward glance.
“You going to let me fuck with you?”
It was a rumble, deep and quiet. Meant for her and her alone.
Her eyelids drifted shut. “Yes.”
When his thumb stilled, she managed to lift them again.
He held her gaze, his eyes dark and implacable. “Yes?”
“Please,” she whispered.
His jaw ticked. “Then open up.”
She spread her legs, and he exhaled slowly. Without another word, he slipped off her panties and shoes with impersonal efficiency, then stood and arranged her exactly how he wanted, his hands firm and steady and hot.
In moments, she was propped in the corner of the love seat, her left foot on the floor. The right he lifted and placed with exquisite care flat on the seat, her knee bent high and pressed against the sofa’s back cushions.
Sprawled, flushed, and entirely open to him, she waited.