Robyn Grady - Unfinished Business - Bought - One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress

He’d been holding back all day. Biding his time, waiting for the right moment. Because he didn’t just want her willing, he wanted her wild. He wanted to know she was as out of control for him as he was for her.

That moment in the kitchen had been a mistake, but one he hadn’t been able to resist. He’d had to pull back quickly from a kiss that had threatened to send every rational thought out the window for all eternity. And that had thrown him. That she seemed to be able to make him forget anything and everything just by touching him.

He’d had to prove to himself that he could pull back. Transient lust. That was all this was, and soon to be remedied because, hell, it was crippling.

He looked back to the kitchen bench and reminded himself of his plan. He didn’t just want victory. He wanted total surrender.

‘You were so long in the shower I did round two of the bread and put it in the oven.’ He couldn’t have coped to see her hands on that dough again. He opened the fridge. ‘Wine?’

‘Thank you.’ She accepted the glass he held out and with deliberation lifted it straight to her lips and took a long, deep sip, not breaking eye contact with him the entire time. Then she lowered the glass, set it on the bench next to her and came closer to him—intention apparent in every move.

His pulse picked up. ‘Got something you want to say, Cally?’

‘No.’

He knew now. She was ready. And, please God, let him be able to handle it. She stepped closer. He looked down at her plump lips, deep pink and parted.

She was his. But he refused to leave room for regret. And he had a lesson for her—one he didn’t want her to forget in a hurry. He whispered, mouth millimetres from hers. An almost kiss.

‘There’s something I want you to do for me.’

Her eyes were cloudy, acquiescent, desire-drugged.

He walked to the kitchen drawers and pulled out the length of black fabric from the second one down, where he’d stashed it earlier. He held it out and it unfolded into a mask.

She looked at him wide-eyed.

He smiled. ‘Nothing kinky, honey. But I do have a test for you.’ He spoke quickly, not wanting the heat in her face to be replaced by fear or uncertainty. ‘You say you have bad taste, that you have terrible judgment. I think you’re wrong. So what if you made a mistake in the past? I think you need to trust your instincts more. So I have a selection here—of fake and of genuine. Fake maple syrup and the real thing, pure virgin olive oil and the chemical crap they mislabel, genuine French champagne and synthetic bubbles. See where I’m going with this?’

‘This is like some game at a kid’s party.’

‘Right. The blind taste test. Maybe your judgment will be better when you can’t see. Interesting idea, don’t you think?’

Her lips twitched and he relaxed, pulling out one of the kitchen stools, which she immediately hopped on. He set out the items on the bench in front of her. A small smile played on her mouth—she was buying in now, well and truly.

‘Close your eyes.’ This time he didn’t need to tell her twice. Her lids fluttered shut and he suppressed the flare of satisfaction at the sight of her quick and quiet acquiescence. He placed the silk band over her eyes and tied it at the back. Without her eyes on him he was able to study her freely.

The need for her was intense and the need to know she wanted him as badly was even more intense.

‘Let’s start with the champagne.’

Her breathing had accelerated, just a fraction, but he was so attuned to her he picked it up right away. Faster and shorter. He poured a small amount from each bottle into two glasses, then held them in turn to her lips, watching as she drank.

‘Which is it, the first or the second?’ He set the glasses down as she deliberated.

‘The first.’

‘Right first time.’

The smile on her lips deepened.

‘Now the oil. I’ll dip a little bread in some, OK?’

He stood close, fascinated, as her mouth took each morsel in, her tongue appearing out for a tantalising time to lick the crumb from her lips.

‘The second.’

‘Correct,’ he muttered.

‘And now the syrup.’ He poured some straight from the bottle onto his index finger and held it up to her lips. Stroked their softness just a little, to tease her. ‘Suck it off.’

He waited, tormented, as the colour tinged her cheeks. And then her mouth opened and she took him in. Her tongue swirled around his finger and then she gripped and he nearly groaned, the gentle tugging of her mouth an erotic experience unlike any other. He didn’t want to pull out. But he did, replacing it with the other finger, the other syrup, and he no longer cared about anything but how soon he could get the rest of him into her like this. Hot and wet and just how he wanted her.

‘Which is it?’ he whispered hoarsely.

She shook her head a little. ‘I’m not sure. I think I need to try them again.’

Minx.

He did groan then, half delight, half amusement, wholly desire. ‘I think we should skip it and move on.’

‘There’s more?’

‘A lot more.’ He paused, only a second longer. ‘What about this, Cally? Is this genuine?’

And he pressed his mouth to hers, tasted the last of the sweet, sticky syrup. And then it was just her and she tasted divine.

‘Does this feel real to you, Cally?’

‘It feels … it feels.’

‘This is real. Full-on roaring lust, Cally. You want me and I want you.’ As he’d never wanted another—so intensely it stirred him almost to anger. She made him angry—constantly forcing him to reassess, constantly making him feel the need to defend himself. He didn’t want her on a whim, because of some bet. He simply had no choice. From the moment he’d seen her he’d sensed the depths, felt the primal recognition of the perfect—physical—mate.

He wanted it to be the same for her. Wanted her to feel this almost animal need to have, to dominate, to possess. To surrender.

It smelt real; it tasted real; it felt real.

She couldn’t think any more. As his hands held her head, and his tongue swept into her mouth to taste all of her, she felt it through to her marrow. The very real lust. The need to have him keep kissing her like this—long and deep and so, so sweet and hot.

He whispered into her ear, his breath warm and tickling, and all she wanted was that mouth back on hers.

‘I’m not going to do anything that you aren’t willing for me to do. You can say no and I’ll stop. OK?’

As if she was going to say no.

‘There’s just me and there’s just you and we’re just going to have some fun.’

Bring it on.

‘This is what you want, right?’

He still needed to ask? Couldn’t he feel the way she was trembling? Couldn’t he feel the fire that burned through her veins? ‘Yes.’ She wanted him to stop thinking, stop questioning, stop talking. She just wanted him to take her. She knew he could make her go places she’d never been, had only dreamed being. He could do that with just one kiss. Now she wanted the rest of it.

He spun her on the stool so the bench was at her back. She heard him walk and then felt him in front of her, felt his fingers in her hair, and could hardly wait.

But as the mask slipped from her skin, so the blinding lust cooled and a speck of reason peeked in. She looked at him. Really looked at him, looking at her. And she couldn’t believe what was in his eyes.

He pushed the robe from her shoulders, so it slid down her arms, and started to slip from her body. Half naked, she looked down and felt uncomfortable.

This man was perfection. She was not.

‘I think I preferred it with the blindfold on.’

His brows lifted. ‘So you can’t see me?’