Face it, the pact’s history.
She let out a breath as she stepped into the kitchen. He wasn’t there. Good, it would give her time to stop hyperventilating and think of a more doable pact. Maybe.
She took several slow breaths and tried to ignore her throbbing breasts as she studied his kitchen. The pitter-patter of rain against the large window above the stove added yet more eerie atmosphere to the cavernous space. Even in the dingy light, the window offered another spectacular view of the cliffs. If she pushed onto tiptoe, she could see Wildwater Beach below.
She flicked the light switch, illuminating beautifully carved teak cabinets, a butler sink with an authentic wooden draining platform and what looked like an original Aga cooking range. The room felt warm and inviting, thanks to the roaring fire raging in the grate. Her feet padded against the checkerboard tiles as she walked towards the heat and dumped her wet clothes in an old wicker basket under the sink. She did a three hundred and sixty degree turn but could see no sign of a washing machine or dryer or even a dishwasher.
It also occurred to her that, apart from a bowl and cup drying on the draining board, the room was spotlessly clean and completely bare and impersonal, just like the spare room. She rubbed her hands together, chilled despite the heat.
The quaint antique decor had to date back to the eighteen hundreds and suited the gloriously Gothic old house perfectly, but when she thought of the sleek black sports car she’d passed in the driveway and her host’s overpowering physique and appearance, she realised the house and its furnishings didn’t suit its resident at all. It seemed strange he hadn’t made any effort to personalise the space. If she’d had to guess, she would have placed him in some ultra-modern city bachelor pad filled with state-of-the-art boy toys.
Maybe he’d moved in recently? Although there were no boxes or suitcases or any of the other moving paraphernalia that had lingered for months after she’d set up home in her granny’s cottage last summer. Could the house be a holiday rental? But why would he choose to rent such a huge place all to himself?
She chewed on her lip, the questions buzzing round in her head like busy little bees.
Maybe he didn’t live here alone? The thought made her heartbeat stutter. Not that it mattered to her whether he lived alone or not…
She shook her head. She needed a distraction before her hormones started working overtime again. Having filled the old-fashioned steel kettle and set it on the stove’s hotplate, she perched on tiptoe and began to search the overhead cabinets. With the rain still pounding against the windowpanes, it looked as if she was going to have to endure her host’s company for a while longer. A hot cup of tea would help soothe jumpy nerves—and, hopefully, her overactive imagination. She hummed an old soul tune as she rifled through the tinned groceries in search of tea bags.
Rye swallowed a groan and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. An off-key rendition of Percy Sledge’s When a Man Loves a Woman was accompanied by the sight of his house guest, clad in one of his old sweatshirts, her firm, beautifully rounded little bottom showcased in hot pink panties as she stretched up to reach the kitchen cabinets.
His mouth went bone dry as the heat, which he had assured himself while getting dressed was a fluke and didn’t signify a thing, shot straight back into his crotch.
Having found what she was looking for, the girl turned slightly and bounced down. Her breasts jiggled beneath the sweatshirt and his heart slammed into his throat.
Sweet heaven. No bra. I’m a dead man.
The mouth-watering hot pink bum disappeared under the sweatshirt but, as Rye devoured slender legs, smooth muscled calves and the glimpse of her profile revealed from behind the curtain of wild reddish-brown curls, he imagined plump naked breasts, the nipples hard and swollen, swaying into his open palms, and painful arousal marched through his system like an army charging into battle.
He bent his head, stared down at the enormous tent in his fly and had to resist the urge to throw back his head, beat his chest and howl with joy.
He was harder than granite, for the first time in six long months. He felt mightier than Superman. Ready to leap Everest in a single…
The shrill whistle of the kettle curbed the superhero fantasy. But only a little. She jumped, her breasts jiggled again, and granite became tungsten.
He watched her reach for the kettle in a daze of euphoria. Then her fingers closed over the handle and his mind engaged.
‘No, don’t touch…’
Too late. She yelped and snatched her hand back.
‘Damn.’ He crossed the room, grasped her wrist. ‘Did you burn yourself?’
The shimmer of tears made her eyes glitter. ‘What a twit,’ she said, spots of colour hitting her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’
She trembled, and small white teeth dug into her full bottom lip. He forced his gaze away, so desperate to taste her he thought he might explode.
A scarlet line marred the soft flesh at the base of her thumb. ‘Ouch,’ he murmured.
Get your head out of your pants, King. She’s hurt.
He thrust her hand over the sink, the punches of her pulse under his thumb making him light-headed. Leaning over her to turn on the cold water tap, he strained to keep their bodies apart. She flinched and he caught a lungful of her scent. His own shampoo layered with something spicy and unbearably erotic. Sweat popped out on his brow—and the irony of the situation struck him. After six months of nothing, he finally had lift off, poised to launch into orbit at the most inappropriate moment imaginable.
The tap gurgled and the water gushed out. She jumped as it splashed onto her palm, jerked back instinctively. And her bottom pressed straight into the colossal erection.
Chapter Five
What on earth was that?
Maddy’s eyes popped wide, the smarting pain in her hand forgotten as her nipples shot to attention and her erogenous zones went into meltdown.
A hissed curse brushed her earlobe as he shot back, letting go of her wrist.
Maddy stood stock-still, watching the water flow over her hand. She couldn’t feel it. The skin of her palm had gone blessedly numb. Unlike her buttocks, which felt as if they’d been branded.
To paraphrase Mae West, either her host had an iron bar in his pocket or he was very pleased to see her. The knowledge both petrified and excited her…But not necessarily in that order.
With all her senses on red alert, the trickle of water and the patter of slowing rain sounded almost as deafening as the low murmur of his breathing and hers. She could smell him, that tantalising hint of seawater and pine soap, feel electricity crackling along her skin at his nearness. He hadn’t moved away, but stood as still as her, just out of reach.
What the heck should she say? She turned off the tap, scared to look round and more scared not to.
‘I…’ she began. ‘Um…’ Heat prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.
Good one, Mads. That’s articulate.
He cleared his throat loudly, making her jump.
‘It’s not what you think,’ his deep voice rumbled out and her nerve-endings sizzled, before she registered the meaning.
What?
She twisted round and her gaze landed on the enormous bulge in the front of his faded jeans. As her nerve-endings short-circuited, she tried to make sense of his statement.
‘I