Why couldn’t this be perfect? No, that wasn’t the right question, she realized as she blinked back tears.
Why couldn’t she be perfect?
Then Oliver leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her belly button, his hands stroking up and down her thighs before moving back to cup her bottom. He squeezed as his mouth moved lower and his teeth skimmed over the space just above the hair that covered her sex. Because she hadn’t been able to bring herself to keep up with her waxing. Being naked on a table before a near stranger? That was a gossip disaster waiting to happen, and besides, who was going to see her like this?
Oliver.
He crouched down a little more and nudged her legs apart. She should let go of his hair, tell him to stop. At the very least, she should insist they pull the drapes and turn off the lights. Then she would be able to hide her belly and her thighs from him and she might be able to let go.
Because she needed to let go. She needed to prove those voices in her head wrong.
She needed this. She needed him.
“Beautiful,” he whispered and he seemed so damn sincere that she had to believe he meant it, had to believe this was real. That was when his hand slid between her legs, brushing over her core with such tenderness that she wanted to cry. Stupid hormones. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss right there and, miracle of miracles, her mind emptied of all the hurt and criticism and pain and there was only Oliver and his mouth and his hands and her. He wasn’t in Dallas with anyone else. He was here because he chose her.
His tongue moved over her sensitive flesh and it was the same and it was different and it was everything all at once. Because she didn’t remember all these sensations crashing over her in a flood that couldn’t be held back. She didn’t remember making these noises without being able to control them. And she sure as hell didn’t remember being so swept away by the rising tide that her legs shook and she suddenly was in danger of falling over.
“Oliver,” she begged, pulling on his hair. “I can’t stand.”
He looked up at her, one arm locked around her legs and that was when she saw it—the raw hunger in his eyes. It took her breath away.
Then he surged to his feet, catching her in his arms. When he kissed her again, she didn’t taste vanilla or chocolate, but instead she was on his tongue and he was marking her as his own.
She couldn’t think. All she could do was act. So she yanked at the buttons on his shirt and jerked at the zipper of his pants because if she was naked, she wanted him naked, too.
He kicked out of his pants as she hauled his undershirt over his head and then there was nothing between them. She stepped back to see what he looked like underneath his button-up shirts and suit jackets. She got the impression of broad and lean and muscled with a smattering of chest hair. But she barely had time to say, “Oh, Oliver,” before he was kissing her again, his hands pulling her hair from her braid as he backed her up.
So she let her hands explore. His chest was hard and warm and he hissed against her lips when she caught his nipples with her fingernails. His stomach rippled with muscles as she moved her hands lower and then...
“Oh, Oliver,” she moaned against the skin of his neck as she gripped his erection. He was rock hard under her touch and she could feel his muscles shake as her hand moved up his impressive length and back down to his base.
He stilled against her, his head on her shoulder, his breath coming hard. “Woman,” he growled, skimming his teeth over the delicate skin where her neck met her shoulders, “if you don’t stop that right now, you’ll have to wait at least five minutes before I can be inside of you.”
She did that. She made him react like that. It was powerful, knowing that she could bring him to the edge, just like he’d done to her. God, it felt good to be in control of something again.
She smiled and stroked him again. “Five whole minutes?”
He groaned against her skin and then he bit her. Not too hard, but it was primal in its own way. “Maybe only three.” He grabbed her hand when she squeezed. “Renee.”
Then he picked her up. But instead of throwing her down on the bed, he spun and sat hard on a sofa. Renee blinked. She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts and in Oliver that she hadn’t even realized that his room was set up similarly to hers. There was a large—and inviting—bed done up in deep blues and a sitting area with two love seats and a simple coffee table between them.
They were on the love seat that faced the big mirror over a dresser. “I need to watch you on top,” he groaned. He rolled on a condom—where had that come from?—and then lifted her up so she could put her knees on either side of his legs. “I need to see you come apart, babe.”
His erection brushed against her center and she shuddered. “Awfully confident, aren’t you?”
She shouldn’t tease him. But this was Oliver, dang it. She’d been teasing him for as long as she could remember and she had a feeling that he wouldn’t dare turn a hose on her right now. It was safe to poke at him, to smile and laugh with him. He wouldn’t demand to know what was so funny or, worse, who else she was thinking of.
He caught her face in his hands and touched his forehead to hers. “Renee,” he said and she didn’t hear any anger or insult in his voice. “I promise
