Jennifer Greene - The Billionaire’s Handler

Carolina had formed…an attachment for him. He knew it. He refused to ignore it any longer. But she was vulnerable as satin, good from the inside out.

He’d been tainted from the day he was born.

He’d been in a position to rescue her, to steal her away to a princess life for a few days. Maguire got it. It was easy for her to see him as a knight in shining armor. But he was no knight. And he wasn’t-and couldn’t be-a serious part of her life long term. So it was up to him to make sure she didn’t get hurt.

He yanked off the tux jacket, then the cumberbund and stupid tie. Bleach. Frost. Calcium. Pearls-no, not pearls, that texture and shade of white reminded him too much of her skin.

He needed white words that were, well, wilters. Nonsexual. Like…frost. Whitewash. Toothpaste. He undid his cuffs, then started on the shirt buttons.

Abruptly he heard the knock on the connecting door.

He went over, and unlocked his side. “What? Are you sick or…?”

His voice dropped when he saw her. She’d slipped off the black pants and top. Pulled on a satin nightgown in peach and lace. Her feet were bare, her makeup washed off, and the expression in her eyes was a hundred percent ticked off.

“You said I could have what I wanted. That I needed to be strong enough to stand up for what I wanted. Well, damn it, Maguire. I want my good-night kiss and I want it now.”

Okay. She was cute. But he could turn on the tough button any time he needed to, could get as heartless as he needed to be, any time.

At least usually.

The damn woman.

She stepped up, stepped in, clutched his open shirt in her small fists and took. Her lips trembled, even as they pressed. Her hands were coward-cold. And the swishy lingerie was killer-sexy, but she was ironed-tight against him as if fearing he might actually see any of that soft, vulnerable flesh.

He told himself to think about snow, damn it. Calcium. Milk. All those pure white turnoffs. All those reminders that Carolina was confused, very unsure what she wanted or needed right now.

Only…her hands dropped to his hips. She brazenly palmed his butt, nesting him closer to her. Naturally, his body responded as if prodded by a firecracker. That was her, the firecracker, with the little hot fingers and the little hot tongue.

That tongue slipped between his teeth, found his tongue, retreated. Came back for more. She made a sound, a groan like a she-cat, then rubbed her breasts against his chest as if they were itchy and rubbing against him was the only cure for easing that itch.

White, he told himself firmly.

And then, Think white, Maguire.

She didn’t seem aware that winding herself around him invariably threw them both off balance. There was a moment when they both would have fallen-if he didn’t reach out to steady her. That’s all he did. Put his hands on her arms. Only for that millisecond. But even though he was chanting “white” at the top volume of his conscience…

Armageddon followed.

“Okay.” He tore out a breath. “Okay, now. Carolina, listen to me-”

“No.” That was all she said. No. And then she pushed him. Backward. Into his bedroom. His setup was similar to hers, maybe navy blue instead of feminine colors, but the same king-size bed, side couch and chair, all the usual suspects of an ultraluxurious hotel room.

She didn’t look or care, as if whether she fell against chair legs or table sides was completely beneath her notice right then. Pushing him. That’s all she was into. And when the back of his knees located the bed, she gave him one more little push and then tumbled on top of him, straddling him, leaning over with closed eyes to find his mouth again.

He had to get a grip. Get control. A man like him wasn’t seduced. Ever. Didn’t relinquish complete control with anyone. Ever. And that maxim was a mighty never where Carolina was concerned. So that was why he put his hands on her again.

It wasn’t to sweep her beneath him. It was to stop her, from rubbing against his crotch, from dancing her satined body in the opening of his tux shirt, from breathing in her scent, her tongue, the desire beading off her in torrents.

Only, something went wrong.

He intended to push her away. He was outstanding at pushing people away, had his whole life, only somehow… Magic? Miracles? Bad luck? She seemed to twist at just the wrong time, so that he ended up on top of her. And once she was beneath him, her slim legs rose up and high, clasping around his hips, inviting him in, teasing him closer, closer. She arched her back, so the brush of her breasts could cause him more torment. Her skin heated. Her damn mouth started trembling again. She made that earthy little wicked groan again.

Finally, from the scrabbled, scrambled contents of his brain came some words. “Okay. Okay. This is okay. For a few minutes. Nothing wrong…”

“You’re darned right there’s nothing wrong. This is as right as anything I can ever remember.”

“Just because…this is a little unexpected…doesn’t mean we’ve done anything…unforgivable…”

“Yet,” she qualified, and ruthlessly took a nip from his neck.

“Yet? Yet?”

“I’m about to do something unforgivable,” she promised him. “With you. Only with you.”

“Now, Carolina-”

“I don’t care if you respect me in the morning.”

“Now, Carolina-”

“What? You think the whole world’s going to crash if you take off the good-guy hat for a whole ten minutes? Or is it that you need an engraved invitation?”

He didn’t need an invitation. He needed something, someone, somehow to knock some sense into his head, but once she said “ten minutes,” he lost it. What little brain he had left. Ten minutes? That’s all she thought it’d take to be made love to? Made love with?

Hell, she might as well have tossed a red scarf at a bull.

The slightest shift and tug, and he was enabled to remove that delectable, fragile slip of satin off her skin, and then he had her naked.

His senses both blurred and sharpened. He expected the peaches and ivory…not the sizzling heat and impatience. He expected the same-as-innocent…but not the brazen I-own-you-Maguire bravado.

That was the whole problem. She touched, she stroked, she kissed, as if she owned. As if this moment was her inarguable right, to claim, to master. To feel. Everything. With him.

You just didn’t walk into forest fires. Everybody knew that, coming straight out of the womb…except for her. She needed tenderness, yet demanded rough speed and roller-coaster tension. She bruised too damn easily, yet she bit and kneaded and pulled, with her mouth, with her hands, in a fight for…he didn’t know what the hell she was fighting for.

He just knew that he wanted to fight with her. For her. His skin turned slick, his blood thick. The shine in her eyes was so fierce, so greedy. Any hesitation or caution on his part, she met with whispered dares. Real dares. Crazy, crazy dares. Like…to walk on moonlight with her. To dance on honey. To sing with their fingers. See? How impossibly crazy and silly she was? How life-young?

It was all total foolishness. Except…

Except…

That he couldn’t remember, ever, having the chance to be foolish.

Couldn’t remember, ever, letting his guard down, because he knew, he knew, how sharply a man could get hurt. How jagged a wound could be. How deeply a man could be scarred. If he didn’t protect himself.

He just didn’t know how to protect himself with her.

Carolina fell asleep, but only for a short time. She didn’t want to sleep. She’d had enough rest for aeons. In some ways, she was discovering she’d been asleep her whole life.

And looking at Maguire was a heady way to enjoy staying awake. At first moonlight flooded in the balcony doors, making his skin look silver, the wild thrash of his hair making shadows on the far wall. His face, in repose, was the strong marble of statues, the whole Greek god thing.