‘I don’t want anything beyond one night. Clear?’
‘Crystal.’
Chantal swallowed, Brodie had agreed more readily than she’d expected. But that was the kind of guy he was, the kind of life he led—easygoing, breezy, sans strings. She shouldn’t be disappointed.
‘Any more rules I should be aware of?’ he asked, trailing feather-light kisses from her temple to her jaw.
In heels, she didn’t feel quite so small next to him—though he still had a head on her. Perhaps she’d leave the heels on.
A wicked smile curved her lips. ‘Ladies first.’
‘Hmm…’ The throaty growl was hot against her neck. ‘A woman after my own heart.’
She thrust her hands into his hair and wrenched his face down to hers, slanting her mouth over his and stripping away any doubts, fears or reservations with a hot, combative kiss. He came back with equal force, his hands sliding down her back until they cupped her behind and forced her against him.
He was hard, salty and heavenly. She moaned, the sound lost between them.
A chorus of cheers and laughter from a neighbouring boat broke them apart.
A giggle bubbled up between her heavy breaths and Chantal pressed her hands to burning cheeks. ‘Looks like we’re putting on a bit of a show.’
‘You are a performance artist.’
Brodie lifted her and she instinctively wrapped her legs around him, groaning as her centre made contact with the hard length beneath his jeans.
‘But now it’s time for a private show.’
He walked them into the cabin, through the lounge and to the bedroom. His bedroom. A huge bed dominated the centre of the room. It was a hell of a lot bigger than Chantal had imagined it would be on a boat. It was a bed not made for sleeping but for hot, Kama Sutra–referencing, scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs sex.
Brodie turned and sat on the edge of the bed, still holding her so that she was in his lap. The friction of his jeans against the wispy material of her underwear drove her crazy. She bucked, rolling her hips to increase the pressure. His mouth came down on hers, lush and open and intoxicating.
‘Dance for me,’ he growled.
Cheeks burning, she pushed hard against his chest so he toppled back. She straddled him, grinding her hips in a slow circular motion. ‘But it’s so good here.’
‘I want to watch you.’
‘You only get to watch when I say so.’ She echoed her words from earlier in the day, heat flooding her body and throbbing out of control.
His eyes blazed like green fire and darkness. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘How?’ The question escaped her lips before she could think, before she could reason. She needed to hear his answer. Needed to absorb the experience of being with him through her every sense.
Warm palms slid up her thighs, bunching blue material around her waist. His hand brushed her sex, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. Toying with the edge of her underwear, he traced the pattern on the lace with his fingertip.
‘If you can walk, talk or function on any level tomorrow then I haven’t done my job.’
Her lips trembled. It wasn’t enough. She wanted detail. She wanted all of it with a greedy, hedonistic gluttony.
‘More.’
‘I’m going to take you to the point where you think there’s nothing left and I’m going to make you beg.’ His eyes were wild, his pulse throbbing in his neck. ‘I’m going to make you forget any word you’ve ever spoken except for my name. I’m going to be the only thing you know. I’m going to be your everything.’
‘Brodie…’ she whispered, the throbbing between her legs ceaseless. She ached to the point of pain. It had been so long… so very long.
‘Dance for me.’ His voice was rough, scratched up and torn apart with desire.
She pushed back, balancing on her heels and taking a step away from the bed. Her hands trembled, and her mouth was suddenly devoid of moisture as her hips swayed to a non-existent beat.
She wasn’t passionate… her dancing wasn’t passionate. Hadn’t that been Derek’s parting shot as he’d walked out of their house for the last time?
‘You’re a technical dancer, Chantal, but you’re all business. No passion. No one wants to watch that. You’ll never make it without me.’
Her throat closed in on itself, her heart jackhammering against her ribs. This was Brodie—not her controlling, possessive ex-husband. Smoking hot, life-loving Brodie. She could be herself around him because tomorrow this wouldn’t exist. This would never have happened.
Safe in the impermanence of their situation, she ran her hands up her body, over the curve of her bust, the ridges of her collarbones, the column of her neck, into her hair. Fingers divided the strands, shaking her hair out until it fell around her shoulders.
‘God, Chantal…’ Her name was a strangled plea on his lips. ‘Your body is incredible.’
She reached for the hidden zip that ran down the side of her rib cage, drawing it open with agonising slowness. Cool air rushed in, tickling her exposed skin. Stepping closer to him, she pulled him into a sitting position and dragged his hands to her hips so he could feel the movement.
Her head tilted back. There was nothing but the invisible beat and his hands on her. He pulled her between his legs, thrusting the dress up over her hips. His lips made contact with the flat of her belly above the waistband of her black lacy underwear. His tongue flicked out, filled with the promise of what was to come.
She yanked the dress over her head and flung it away.
‘Perfection,’ he breathed, and the hot air caressed the apex of her thighs.
His hand slid up over her rib cage to clasp her naked breast. Deft fingers toyed with her already hardened nipple, wringing a low moan from the back of her throat.
‘Your turn.’ She reached for his shirt, unbuttoning him quickly, urgently.
‘You’re far too good at that,’ he chuckled, blackened eyes looking up at her.
‘Dance costumes—fiddly buttons are no match for my fingers.’
‘You do have beautiful fingers.’ He pulled one of her hands to his lips and kissed each fingertip in turn. ‘Beautiful palms.’
His mouth was hot in the centre of her hand, tracing a line over her wrist and up to her elbow.
‘Beautiful everything.’
‘Don’t distract me.’ She pushed the shirt from his shoulders, exposing golden skin stretched tight over a wall of muscle.
The cross tattoo caught her eye. She bent to kiss it, her hands falling to his belt. She wrenched at the closure, making his hips jerk forward as she released the belt.
‘Easy, girl.’ He covered her hands with his as she lowered the zip.
Within seconds he was completely naked. Ink covered more of his body than she remembered. The cross on his chest had been joined by scrolling words down the side of his rib cage and another anchor lower down, with numbers surrounding it. The sharp V of muscle drew her eyes… then her hands, then her mouth.
Her fingers brushed over the hard length of him, tracing the tip before she sank to her knees and drew him into her mouth. The mixture of earthy masculine scents and the subtle taste of him intoxicated her.
‘Didn’t