Brenda Jackson - The Millionaire's Club - Jacob, Logan and Marc - Black-Tie Seduction / Less-than-Innocent Invitation / Strictly Confidential Attraction

“The worst part is, they’re right. Well, they were right. I’ve been nothing but a…a goal-oriented workaholic. All my life I’ve been so focused on my need for respectability and stability and safety that I’ve ignored my other needs. A woman’s needs,” she said and lifted her head to look up into his eyes.

Gulp. Not those big hazel eyes. He was a sucker for her eyes.

“I want to know what it feels like to be appreciated as a woman. To be desired by a man. To have power over a man.”

Sweetheart, if you only knew how much power you had right now. She could have brought him to his knees. First with guilt. Then with the desire to kiss her tears away, to bite gently into the quivering softness of her lush lower lip.

He resisted. Only God knew how, because she felt so soft and warm and wonderful cuddled up against him. But he’d made up his mind Saturday night between a six-pack and an ESPN classic football game. He was nipping in the bud this new twist to their relationship that he’d had the misfortune to initiate.

Chris Travers needed a man who would stick around. One who was in for the long haul. Didn’t matter how much Jake loved her kisses, didn’t matter that he found her a sweet surprise, a sexy temptation, he was not the kind of man she needed.

“I’m a spinster,” she said on another teary sigh. “An old maid. And all because I’ve been too scared to take a chance on life.”

“Aw, Chrissie,” he said, feeling sad that she was bullying herself this way.

“But that’s all going to change,” she said, finding her composure again and pushing away from him.

Just look at those freckles, he thought. Dusting the bridge of her nose, riding on her cheeks like little angel kisses. It made him feel soft and sentimental in his chest. And hard in other places.

Until she said, “And you’re the man who’s going to make it happen.”

Jake’s mouth opened as wide as his eyes. “What? Me? What am I going to make happen?”

“For five years you’ve needled me, teased me, made fun of me and in general goaded me into burying my feet deeper into my principles and my head deeper into the sand. Well, Saturday night changed all that. You were nice to me. In fact, you were into me. I liked it.”

Damn. “Chris—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, some of the old starchy Chrissie back in her speech and her bearing. “I know you were just playing. I know what you are. You’re a flirt and a good-time guy. And you were just being you on Saturday night because I wasn’t being me. At least, I wasn’t being the old me. I was being the new me when I didn’t even realize I wanted me to be a different me.”

His head was starting to hurt. “Huh?”

She waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you offered to teach me how to loosen up and have fun and I’m going to hold you to it. Starting right now.”

And the next thing he knew, she kissed him. She reached up, placed her hands on either side of his face and pulled his mouth down to hers. There wasn’t any finesse to it. It was all about impulse and determination and flat-out moxie.

It should have been funny. But for some reason he thought it was sweet. At least, he did during the moments he wasn’t alternating between panic that warned him he could easily go down for the count here and a flat out case of pure, animal lust.

That mouth. She did have a way with her mouth. It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t expert. But, oh, was it enthusiastic. And that enthusiasm was infectious. He hadn’t planned to kiss her back. But there was the surprise factor. And the heat factor. And the warm, soft woman factor that, combined, sucked him in, egged him on and dragged him under.

He widened his legs, pulled her between them and dived into the kiss like a pearl diver on a treasure hunt. He urged her mouth open, swept inside her sweet, wet heat with his tongue while pressing her into his growing erection with one hand at the small of her back. His other hand pressed between her shoulder blades, encouraging the pressure of her breasts against his chest.

And sweet ambrosia, she tasted good. The soft sounds she made deep in her throat fostered a low growl of his own that had him leaning back on the top of his desk, bringing her with him. He heard something crash to the floor, didn’t care what it was because her full weight covered him now—sexy and hot and pressing in all the right places.

If their sudden horizontal tango gave her pause, she didn’t let on. In fact, she really got into the kiss then. She’d let go of his face and buried her hands in his hair, all the while squirming and sighing and doing a little pressing of her own.

He loved it. Loved the honest lust. The exuberant response. But most of all he loved the way they fit, the heady friction as she moved above him, dragging him deeper into the heat of the moment and further away from the consequences.

He was ready to take it to the next level. Make love to her right there on the top of his desk, in the middle of Monday, when she lifted her head. Looked down into his eyes through those drowsy hazel eyes of hers and in the most slumberous, seductive voice he’d ever heard, she whispered, “Consider that payment for lesson one. Come through with lesson two and there’ll be more where that came from.”

Then, as if she hadn’t just played the most amazing game of tonsil tag he’d ever been a party to, she pushed herself off him, straightened her top and left him flat on his back.

“When you do come up with lesson number two,” she said, turning around with one hand on the door handle, “give me a call.” Then she left him. Hot and bothered. Hard and hungry.

When the blood returned to his head several long minutes later, he eased himself to a sitting position. When he could take a breath that didn’t smell of her—something fresh and citrusy—he carefully stood.

For the longest time he just stared at the closed door. Finally he raked both hands through his hair, swore, then dropped into his desk chair. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling.

What the hell had just happened here?

He felt as if he’d been hit by a tank. At the very least, by a whirlwind in the guise of Chrissie Travers.

Prissy? He’d never again think of her that way.

But he would think of her. She’d made sure of that.

He’d be thinking about just how silky her skin might be. How those soft breasts would feel pressed against his palm, how they’d taste on his tongue. About how much heat the two of them could generate on a big bed instead of a hard desk.

None of that was supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to kiss her again, to flirt with her again, to charm her again, let alone think about making love to her.

But she’s the one who had done the kissing. And the flirting. And the charming.

And the challenging, he realized as a tight knot of grudging respect twisted into anger. The minx had turned the tables on him. She’d leveled a dare. He was the one who had always been in control of their relationship—if you could call what they’d had until Saturday night a relationship. Mostly it had been a good-natured—at least on his part—razzfest. He teased. She bristled. He’d liked it that way.

But then he’d been stupid enough to kiss her. He’d used the weekend to put that kiss into perspective, chalked it up to stupidity. End of story. Until the woman had barged in here, added another chapter to the book and confused the hell out of him with her talk about “old me” and “new me” before attacking him with those sizzling, mind-bending kisses.

Now he was in a daze. And that just plain fried his circuits. He did not get bent out of shape over a woman. It wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t supposed to happen.