Chantelle Shaw - The Tycoon's Desire - Under the Tycoon's Protection / Tycoon Meets Texan! / The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Mistress

Still, the fact that she’d brought up their different backgrounds in an argument riled him. “You can try chalking me up as a mistake,” he said silkily, “but we’re dynamite in bed together.”

“Go to—”

“I’m betting,” he said, cutting her off, “that the pretty boys over at the country club haven’t done nearly as good a job of satisfying you, have they, petunia? Otherwise you wouldn’t still be looking for a roll in the sack with a guy who’s seen the seedier side of life.”

Her face had gone pale with anger. “That’s right, Rafferty, and I’m glad you realized it, because that’s all you were. A nice little frolic,” she said, her voice haughty with disdain, “but certainly not someone I’d contemplate having a real relationship with.”

He grabbed her arm as she stalked by him, whirling her to face him, but she shrugged off his hand.

“Give it up!” she said, her eyes flashing.

Ignoring her request, he followed her down the corridor toward the back of the house. They weren’t done, not by a long shot. That she’d even try to dismiss him as nothing more than a quick fling had him seething.

Entering the kitchen, she went over to the sink.

“Dammit, we’re not done.”

“Oh, we’re done all right,” she said without turning around, starting to rinse a glass. “Done, over, finished.”

He laughed derisively. “If you believe that, petunia, then leprechauns live at the end of the rainbow.”

“What I believe, Rafferty,” she said, turning around, “is that you need to cool off!”

A spray of cold water hit him square in the face before he could react. “What the—!” Raising his arms to shield his face, he stalked toward her.

They wrestled with the hose from the sink, water dousing them both, until he was able to yank the nozzle out of her hand.

He was about to let her know exactly what he thought but then his gaze dropped a notch, connecting with the front of her white shirt, which was plastered to her, her nipples clearly visible through the clingy fabric of her wet bra and shirt.

His blood heated.

She raised her arms to shield herself.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

She went still. “Damn you, Rafferty,” she whispered. “I don’t want this.”

He raised his gaze, meeting her eyes. “Whether we want it or not seems almost beside the point,” he said in a bemused voice. “It’s there between us and always has been.”

She tossed her head, wet strands of hair sending droplets onto them both. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liar,” he chided softly, moving before her.

They were practically toe-to-toe now. He let his eyes drop down to her mouth, which parted on a soft breath.

“That’s right, darling,” he taunted. “Let me see how you feel.”

Her eyes sparked fire. “Go to—”

His head swooped down then and he swallowed the end of her sentence in a kiss that was searing and desperate—as searing and desperate and hot as his need for her.

He was still running on the remnants of the adrenaline that had started earlier in the parking lot, except that now the reality of their near brush with death, mixed with relief, was channeling that energy into a need for sexual release. Even understanding what was provoking him, however, was not enough for his intellect to overcome his baser instincts.

She moaned in his arms, meeting him kiss for desperate kiss, her hands tangling in his hair, anchoring him.

He lifted her up onto the kitchen counter, sand-wiching himself between her legs as her skirt rode high on her thighs.

The need to affirm life, to stamp her as his, was overwhelming.

Hot mouth met hot mouth in desperate, soul-stirring kisses. He hungered to be inside her, to give vent to his frustration by seeking the release he knew awaited him there.

He lifted his head and yanked her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt, popping the buttons on the front of the garment in his haste to rid her of it.

When he’d peeled the shirt off of her, he bent his head to close his mouth over the peak of one breast through the fabric of her bra.

She made a sound that came out as half laugh, half gasp. “Connor!”

He shifted his mouth to her other breast, his hand at her back to urge her forward toward his mouth.

He felt her fingers threading through his hair, her breath coming rapidly. “Please,” she gasped.

Her need inflamed him.

Raising his head, he let her tug him back to her as she pulled at the bottom of his shirt to loosen it from his jeans.

Their movements were jerky and desperate as they both attempted to rid him of his wet shirt.

As the shirt dropped to the floor, he realized they weren’t going to be able to wait much longer. “Hang on,” he said roughly, unsnapping his jeans and tugging the zipper downward.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

He fumbled with a foil packet from his wallet. Then his fingers pushed aside her underwear. Testing and finding her warm and wet, he groaned.

“Connor,” she said, her voice cloudy with passion.

He shifted, pulling her forward to the edge of the counter, and then over, sliding her down on him even as he pushed upward.

She gasped. “Please, yes.”

He took up a rhythm then, abandoning himself to turbulent sensation and fiery passion as she clung to him, her legs wrapped around him, her head nestled in the curve of his shoulder and her breathing rapid.

His muscles strained, and his breathing grew more labored as the tension mounted. She moaned, and arched in his arms.

Their mutual release when it came was quick and powerful. He felt her tense, gasp, call his name, seconds before he lost himself in oblivion.

Tap, tap, tap. Realizing she’d again been lost in thought, Allison put down the pencil she’d been tapping against the desk that she sometimes called hers in the District Attorney’s Office.

The events of Saturday night replayed themselves in her mind.

What had he called her? A rash, headstrong princess.

How dare he! He’d spoken and acted as if he thought she hadn’t changed much, as if she were—still—a naive, wayward teenager. Even now, having a deeper appreciation for how his protective instincts had developed, she couldn’t excuse how he’d dismissively labeld her

His words and actions rankled all the more because this time, instead of merely visiting a bar because she harbored a secret crush on him, she’d actually slept with him. She’d let him strip her bare both physically and emotionally. The betrayal this time was oh so much worse.

She’d begun to think they had a new understanding, one based on mutual respect. Instead, he’d apparently been thinking of her as nothing more than a spoiled little heiress, albeit one with whom he enjoyed amazing chemistry.

In fact, after the shooting, he’d acted just like her family with his overprotectiveness. He’d lit into her as if she were still an underage teenager lacking judgment.

Her lips tightened reflexively.

Their relationship—however short-lived—had been a mistake. Of that, she was now certain. There was no way they could have a real relationship—one based on mutual trust and respect—when he’d made it clear he saw her as nothing more than a sheltered and pampered princess.

She’d been insane to have been planning to welcome him home with a romantic dinner. Ironically, thanks to their argument, she now agreed with him about going out for ingredients for dessert.

She should have nuked some macaroni and cheese, slid a bowl at him, and told him that he was dining in style. Or, better yet, handed him a spoon and invited him to enjoy the stuff directly from a can.

Men were such animals.

Speaking of which…her face burned as she recalled the frenzied interlude on the kitchen counter that had followed their argument.