Gayle Wilson - Under Surveillance

Heat flooded his groin. And this time there was no astringent bite to take his mind off the growing attraction.

She smoothed salve along his eyebrow, her concentration on the task nearly palpable. This time he didn’t close his eyes.

Even from this proximity her skin was flawless. The smooth, perfect arch of her brows like wings. Her lashes incredibly long and dark.

After a few seconds she became aware that he was watching her. Her eyes met his again as the hand holding the gauze pad stilled.

He waited for her to break the contact between them as she had before. When she didn’t, he went with his instincts, leaning forward so that there were only a couple of inches between her lips and his.

Again he waited, giving her a chance to step back. To put her hand against his chest. To do anything that would signal this wasn’t something she wanted, too.

Instead her chin tilted slightly upward. Her eyes closed, lashes falling like fans against her cheeks, as her lips parted.

There probably wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t have taken advantage of the opportunity.

Certainly not this one.

Her lips were exactly as he’d expected them to be. Soft and warm and responsive. And they opened willingly to the invasion of his tongue.

The resulting kiss was no tentative touch and retreat. It was long and deep and openmouthed, expressing a hunger they both seemed to feel. Some of the niggling guilt that he might be taking advantage of the situation began to fade as she moved into his arms.

After all, as far as he knew, she might be in the habit of picking up strange men and bringing them home. Women had long ago staked their claim to the same kind of sexual freedoms men enjoyed. In the back of his mind, however, lingered the memory of her blush and those faltering sentences about wanting to take off her clothes and get into bed.

Or maybe that had all been an act. If so, it was one she had perfected until it seemed genuine.

Some women felt the need to pretend innocence until they were ready to respond. It was a form of protection, and he respected it, but then when they did decide—

She shifted position, pressing her body along the length of his. He moved the hand that had been resting just below her waist lower, relishing the smooth slide of silk under his palm. Some part of him expected a gesture of reluctance, if only a token one, before she allowed that further intimacy. None came.

Not even when his fingers spread to cover the softly rounded curves he’d noted as she leaned into the Jag to retrieve her phone. His erection hardened at the memory.

Emboldened, he moved his other hand down until both were cupped over her bottom. He lifted slightly, pulling her up into the strength of his arousal.

A breath of surprise, or perhaps of pleasure, escaped her lips. Before he had time to decide which it had been, her fingers began to pluck at the knot of his black tie. She loosened it with a quick expertise, pulling it away from the collar of his shirt.

She dropped the strip of cloth somewhere behind her, her other hand already busy with the studs that secured his shirtfront. Her efforts to undress him were punctuated by the soft ping each stud made as it hit the stone countertop or the floor.

As soon as she’d removed enough of them, she slipped her hands inside his shirt, tugging at the cotton tee he wore beneath it. When it refused to come free from the waistband of his slacks, she broke the kiss, leaning back so she could look up into his face. Her mouth seemed swollen, excitingly well used, and her eyes were slightly glazed.

Passion? Or too much champagne? he wondered. Or, considering the day she’d had, maybe what he was seeing was sheer tiredness.

“Damn it,” she said, putting her palms flat on his chest and pressing back against his hold.

Unsure what had happened to change the mood, he hesitated to release her. If they continued on the path they were on, the progression to being unclothed and together in a bed somewhere seemed almost certain.

And that was something he was vitally interested in right now. He wasn’t sure they were yet to the point where someone wouldn’t have second thoughts if they put some distance between them, even briefly.

Someone? he mocked. That assumed he was capable of second thoughts. Capable of any thought. And it was a huge assumption right now.

Rather than letting her go, he lifted his hip off the counter, keeping his hands under her buttocks. As he got to his feet, he allowed the front of her body to slide a couple of inches down his until she was again standing on the floor.

“Bedroom?” he suggested.

There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Before the emotion—whatever it was—could crystallize, he bent, putting his mouth over hers. This time he caressed her lips with a series of quick touches. A butterfly-light kiss on first one corner and then on the other before he turned his attention to the center of her mouth.

Meet and release. And then meet again. When he raised his head at last, her lips followed, clinging to his as she strained upward on tiptoe.

Reassured, he bent, placing one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. He lifted her easily, as if she weighed no more than a child.

When he turned to carry her out of that ornate bathroom, the wall of mirrors revealed multiple reflections of the red silk dress, its color vivid against the stark black and white of his tuxedo.

WHEN HE PICKED HER UP to carry her into the bedroom, Kelly had laid her head against his shoulder. She’d closed her eyes, consciously deciding not to examine what was happening between them too closely.

She certainly recognized that was a form of denial, but it was one she didn’t try to resist. Given everything that had happened during the past two months, this man’s arms seemed a haven of security in a world that had contained far too little of either. Tonight she had watched him take on four thugs on her behalf, and his body bore the marks of that encounter.

Despite the fact that he had given her every chance to back away from this, she hadn’t wanted to. She would have if he’d tried to rush or coerce her. Because he hadn’t, she had almost become the aggressor, a role she had never assumed before.

She didn’t want him to leave. She could not bear to be alone again. She didn’t want to lie in that big, lonely bed another night thinking about the crushing responsibilities that had resulted from Chad’s death.

And she also didn’t want to think about what had nearly happened tonight. Actually, she didn’t want to think about anything. All she wanted to do was to feel.

Someone’s arms around her. Someone strong enough to depend on. Someone she could trust.

She had trusted John Edmonds immediately. Instinctively. And so far he hadn’t betrayed her faith in him. At every juncture, he had left the important decisions up to her. Just as he had this one.

Allowing a man she didn’t know to spend the night was not a choice she would normally have made, but as John carried her toward the bedroom, she knew it was right. He had been willing to risk his life to protect hers. And he had done it at no small cost to himself. There was something infinitely appealing about that. Something noble and heroic.

Heroism. It was a concept most of the people she’d met in Washington would probably believe to be hopelessly out of date. Maybe it was, but she had responded to his offer of protection as women had responded throughout the centuries. If that made her weak, then so be it.

Tomorrow she would again shoulder the burden that had been thrust upon her by her brother’s death because she had no choice. For tonight—for these few brief hours—she wanted only to be held. To be rendered mindless. To be loved.