Her hand moved the length of him, her thumb flicking over his sensitive tip.
Oh, God!
Exit rational thought.
He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away as he scooped her yet closer, directing himself at the same time that he dropped his mouth on hers. His rapid action took her by surprise—her lips already open and forming a surprised ‘o’ even as he plundered her mouth with his. And then he brought her closer still, until her legs wrapped around behind him and her slick wetness welcomed him, urging him to drive himself home.
He didn’t need further invitation. With one smooth thrust he entered her, wrapping himself in liquid velvet. She cried out something indiscernible, but even muffled by his mouth over hers he recognised the same note of victory and ecstasy he’d felt in joining her.
She felt magnificent.
Slowly he withdrew, only to slam into her again, leaning into her and forcing her lower. Her hands went back to support herself and she threw her head back, gasping for air, her shiny fake hair falling back from her pale skin like the tide receding.
He loved the way it moved.
He loved the way she moved, especially when he was inside her.
He planted his mouth over her throat in the spot where her pulse flickered and jumped as he pumped into her again. She felt so good, so damned good, and as she squeezed her muscles around him and the pressure built inside he knew that though he wanted this feeling to last longer, for ever, there was no way he was going to be able to make it last.
No way on earth.
There was nothing he could do. Control ceased to exist. Then she bucked under him, her muscles tight and urgent, inflaming, drawing him deeper and deeper inside and he was lost.
He cried out, something harsh and guttural and triumphant as he emptied himself into her shuddering body, collecting her up and pulling her down on to him in a broad conference chair.
Oh, wow!
She hadn’t known what to expect but it sure hadn’t been such an all-consuming experience. Her body still hummed from their union, her pulse and breathing slowly settling back into a more normal routine.
He sprawled below her, cradling her, as her brain tried to kick back in.
But what had she done?
She took a few deep breaths, feeling her pulse quieten and trying to make sense of what had just happened.
She’d just made love with the boss. And not just any boss. She’d made love with Damien DeLuca.
What was more, they’d not used protection. Nothing. Hadn’t even stopped to think about it.
She must be mad. She’d thought she wasn’t the reckless type but one feeling of desire, one whiff of Damien being attracted to her, and logic had vanished from her mind. Completely and utterly.
She must be crazy.
And now she was cradled on top of him, Damien’s hand at her breast, caressing her, his naked body below already showing signs of recovery.
The languid feel of her muscles and limbs vanished as cold, hard truth replaced it. Without trying to touch him too much, she tried to angle herself off, tried to edge away. How was she going to explain what had happened? How could she ever face him again? Guilt and shame settled upon her like a shroud.
She had to get out of here. Before he discovered who she was. There was even a chance she might even lose her job over this—who knew how he might react?—and she couldn’t afford that, not with the prospect of expensive hospice care for her mother coming up some time soon.
She had to get out of here. Now.
‘What’s wrong?’
She glanced at the door and her pulse went into overdrive as an idea formed in her mind. With Damien naked, at least she had a running start. Her hand patted her throat. ‘Th…thirsty.’
‘I think I can fix that,’ he said easily, easing her from his lap gently.
She pulled up the bodice on her dress and reached down to retrieve her underwear.
‘Don’t bother putting that back on,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her on her already swollen lips. ‘We haven’t finished with each other yet. Not by a long shot.’
Still she clung to the scrap of material as if it was life-support while his words turned to a desire that curled deep within her.
He wanted her again.
She wished he hadn’t told her that. She didn’t want any regrets from this night—she had enough of those already. But the last thing she wanted was to lie by herself in bed during the long lonely nights ahead thinking about what pleasures she might have missed out on.
Naked, he turned and padded his way to a built-in cabinet along the narrowest wall. She watched him go in the pale light even as she edged closer to the door, his skin deliciously firm, his legs long and powerful, unwilling to tear her eyes away. He pulled open a door, exposing a bar fridge behind and hunkered down to look inside.
This was her chance!
She hit the door running, doing battle with the lock and finally wrenching it open. Behind her he shouted for her to stop but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn.
She raced over the parquet floor to the stairs as fast as she could, the heels on her sandals clattering and echoing in the dark-filled space, blood pumping so loudly it drowned out the curses ringing in her ears.
She was down the steps and halfway to the exit before she calmed to a brisk walk, heading purposefully for the safety of the night, ears straining over the music for anything that would signal less than a clean getaway. But behind her came no sound of pursuit, no hint of a chase.
She was going to make it. Euphoria replaced panic.
She was safe.
SHE was a mess of nerves.
On Monday morning Philly sat at her desk, responding to emails and organising herself for the day and the week ahead. Walking into the office had been hairy—everyone had been talking about the ball, laughing about the costumes and the night’s revelries.
She’d purposely avoided talk of the ball, hinting at a quiet night at home with her mother—and had waited with breath frozen in her lungs for someone to out her. If anyone had recognised her, this was it. But her colleagues just expressed their sympathies that she’d missed the event of the year and drifted away to talk amongst themselves. Even Sam just grunted and headed off for a meeting with Damien.
Thank heavens Sam had recovered from the flu—she didn’t fancy running into Damien DeLuca right now. She wasn’t at all sure how she would ever face him again.
At least now Sam was back from sick leave and holding the reins again and she could keep a low profile. Sam would certainly make sure of it.
She was mid-sentence in a response to a lengthy email when the phone rang. She propped the phone up to her ear, still typing, with her train of thought still focused on her detailed reply.
‘Ms Summers?’ Damien’s voice belted down the line faster than she could make her own greeting. Her body tensed on a shiver and the phone dropped from her shoulder, landing on the desk with a loud thunk. The noise snapped her out of her temporary paralysis and she grappled for the receiver. Why was Damien calling her?
Did he know? Had Sam recognised her after all and informed Damien of her identity?
‘What the— Ms Summers, is that you?’
‘S-sorry,’