His eyes followed the swipe of her tongue, fresh blood pulsing in his groin. He needed to get her out of here before he offered that tongue another occupation than questioning his attempts to be a better man than his father.
‘My mother’s maiden name. A business decision.’ He lifted his chin, daring her to question.
She nodded, the move small and thoughtful. Then she rolled her shoulders back, game face on.
‘Look, I want you to know. I plan to turn the Morris Building into a school. A special school.’ Colour seeped into her cheeks, heightening her attractiveness. Would she flush like that as she climaxed? Was she ashamed she’d come here begging? Or just struggling to beg him, a man she deemed of little consequence?
Regardless, damn if he didn’t want to poke at her, to see the flashes in her eyes as she lambasted him turn to that sultry warmth as he kissed her the way her eyes had begged him in the elevator earlier. Sick bastard.
‘Yelling at me didn’t work, so you thought you’d try guilt?’ He stepped closer, the flare in her eyes a jolt of electricity to his chest. ‘Tell me, if I resist your demands long enough, can I expect a full-blown sexual charm offensive?’ Not that he’d mind—he’d be up for a little...inducement if that were how she planned to get her own way.
In fact, if he decided to toy with her, her tactics played right into his hands. A little revenge sex might be just what he needed. Of course, he’d ensure she enjoyed it too. Perhaps she’d even fall for him? Then he could walk away without hesitation as she’d done to him.
How she must hate coming to him of all people, cap in hand and clearly so turned on she couldn’t stop her gaze flicking to his crotch every few minutes.
Her hand clenched, and he expected her to slap him.
‘You really have matured into a world-class asshole.’ Her stare narrowed, hip jutted to one side.
He shrugged, impervious to her insults. She’d done her worst nine years ago. Cast him adrift without explanation, allowing him to fill in the blanks while he rode the storm of his imploding life.
In fact, she’d done him a favour, her rejection shaping him, clarifying his priorities, laying the foundations for all future liaisons with the opposite sex, which had been, without exception, on his terms.
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I plan to build a dyslexia school.’ She hesitated over the word dyslexia as if it was bulky in her throat, but then she tilted her chin, eyes hardening to emerald chips. Vulnerable or manipulative?
And why a dyslexia school? Did he care enough to ask?
‘There are lots of dyslexia schools.’ Instinct told him the Morris Building was more than important to her. It was personal.
This kept getting better and better.
‘Not in the Bronx.’ Her eyes darted away.
His fingers itched to tilt up her chin, to keep her open to him, in case he’d imagined the flashes of defensiveness. His skin tightened, as if he’d stayed still for too long. He closed the distance between them, unable to resist the pull.
Her watchful eyes grew rounder. Her lips parted, breaths short and choppy, lifting her pert breasts with each inhale.
‘Why are you here, Harley?’ If she’d come to demand he jump through her hoops, he’d kick her out. Fuck, he should kick her out anyway because the longer she stayed, the harder it became to ignore her mentally undressing him with those big eyes.
Power surged through him, flooding his muscles, demanding he act.
‘I...’ The pulse at her throat fluttered and her eyelids drooped to a sultry half-mast.
His body tensed, on high alert, an effect of her closeness and a side effect of his raging need to touch her again. He focussed on her mouth—plump lips parted to emit those breathy little pants that called to his dick.
‘Did you come for a sample of what might have been?’
He took another step.
Her huge eyes glowed, deep pools that a lesser man could drown in. But he’d never again lose his head. This close, her pupils dilated as she looked up at him. Did he imagine the regret hovering in the depths of her eyes? Less obvious than the excitement she couldn’t hide.
Had she come to explain why she’d called things off between them? The last thing he needed was to hear her belated let-down.
He braced himself to turn away. This trip down memory lane was over. Best to leave the past undisturbed. After all, he’d made damn sure he moved on. And this buttoned-up heiress, polished, sophisticated and accomplished, was a complete stranger to him.
‘Time to leave. Whatever it is you came for, you won’t be getting.’ Unless all she wanted was a fuck for old times’ sake.
She touched his arm, closing the distance between them, fingertips digging in. Her purse hit the floor with a thud that matched the pound of his pulse as she stepped up close and lifted her face to his.
His strung-taut body acted on instinct. A cathartic release of pent-up frustration as he reached for her.
‘Yes,’ she hissed seconds before his mouth covered hers, swallowing the tiny moan she released. He pressed against her, fanning the flammable connection that had sparked to life in the elevator earlier.
As her fingers tangled in his hair and her lips parted, giving his tongue access, the past grew foggy.
He didn’t need to trust her to enjoy the feel of her body in his hands. And she was right there with him, succumbing to the searing chemistry, as physically attuned as cream and coffee.
Her soft moans punched him in the gut, his balls heavy. She twisted her fingers in his hair and pressed herself against him as she’d been in the elevator, but this time her body writhed, as if she too was trying to quench an insatiable fire inside.
Perhaps it had been as long for her as it had been for him.
He cupped her ass, drawing her heated centre to his rock-hard dick, pressing her closer, to their mutual delight if the gasp she gave was any indication. He could practically feel her wetness through their layers of clothing.
She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Why wait? Why deny this? Why not slake this mutual physical need? No strings attached.
Reaching for the hem of her dress, he worked his hand up one bare thigh, the silky softness of her skin a roadmap leading him home. She shifted, opening up and giving him the access he sought. Still with him. On the same page.
As his fingertips stroked her soft lips through the lace of her panties she gasped, pulling back from their kiss to stare at him while he worked his fingers back and forth with increasing pressure.
She was clearly as turned on as him. He’d barely touched her, but her panties were soaked, and her eyes were soft and heavy with desire. He pressed himself to her hip, making his intentions clear.
‘Do you remember your first orgasm?’ He cupped her, his index finger working inside the wisp of lingerie to find her wet, swollen. So ready.
She nodded, her tongue darting out to trace the cupid’s bow of her top lip.
‘Tell me.’ A test. Did she really remember? Had it meant something to her as it had to him or was she just desperate to get off?
Her eyes rolled back, her mouth open on a broken gasp as he located her clit and brushed the nub of nerves with the pad of his finger. Her moisture slid down his fingers, and he widened his legs, pushing her thighs open with his to get closer to her centre. When he pressed home, two fingers plunging inside her tight warmth and his thumb zeroing in on her clit, her eyes flew open, her stare beseeching.
‘Tell me you remember, Harley.’ She’d get what she wanted when he did. Confirmation that, if only briefly, he’d once mattered enough.