Shit, she was so hot, so wet, so tight. Her body opened for him, wrapped firmly around him, and hell, she was beginning to move in all the right ways, stroking him, squeezing him, and threatening to send him to the moon. “You’re gonna make me lose it, baby,” he groaned.
Robin’s dark brows dipped into a vee. “I can’t wait.”
Neither could Jake. He lowered his head to kiss her, devouring her lips and tongue, and before he lost the last little bit of reason he had left, he began to move, withdrawing, sliding in again, picking up the rhythm with each new stroke. His hips circled, stroking her a little differently each time. They were both panting now; he was struggling to hold back, struggling to reach for the biggest and brightest orgasm of his life.
Then Robin began to move, circling to meet each thrust, tightening around him each time he withdrew. Jake clenched his teeth—between the swell of her breasts rubbing against his chest, the pout of her lips, and the way her body coiled around him and drew him in, he had no direction or thought in mind but to reach home, to reach the very core of her.
His body thrust deeper, faster, and harder into her, angling her legs in a way that he could reach her, pressing his body against her, slipping in and out so fast and hard that Robin had given up trying to keep pace with him. She had buried her face in his shoulder, moaning her pleasure, her fingernails sinking into his back. And when he thought he could not take another moment of it, he felt her body contract tightly around him, felt her shudder violently, felt the bite on his shoulder as she tried to muffle the cry of her orgasm.
He lost it.
Completely, totally, his life spilling in quick, burning spurts at the end of savage thrusts, until he was numb with exhaustion and contentment.
He slowly lowered himself to her, kissing the arch of her neck and burying his face in her hair as she tried to regain her breath. When he was convinced his breathing would return to normal and he would not expire, he rolled to his side, gathering her in his arms.
Neither of them spoke.
Jake watched her—she lay with her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted, her breasts lifting with each saturated breath. Robin Lear made love like a woman who had been shipwrecked for a thousand years.
And he had never been so completely, so wholly satisfied.
In the dark, she reached for his hand, clung to it tightly as she tried to regain her breath. And when she had caught it enough to talk, she opened her eyes, smiled up at him, and said, “Let’s go again!”
Chapter Eighteen
That might have been the best sex she ever had, but nonetheless, Robin tiptoed out after Jake had fallen asleep, then worried that she had really screwed things up. She hoped he wouldn’t think it was one of those wham-bam-thank-you-Sam deals, because it certainly wasn’t that. It was more a generalized fear of what she had gotten herself into, because just thinking about what had happened between them made her all warm and mushy inside and sent a delicious little shiver up her spine.
This would not do—she wasn’t about to embark on some protracted fling with her contractor. Surely he understood they were pals. Sort of. Okay, so they’d hung out a little bit. They were in close quarters—it was natural. But surely he knew, like she knew, that everything would return to normal when the job was done.
But when Jake arrived at work, he was carrying a bouquet of lilac and bridal veil flowers. “I’ve got a couple of bushes growing around my house,” he said, sort of apologetically.
Uh-oh. The man had gotten up, discovered she had left, and still had gone outside with a knife to cut her fresh flowers. In the rain. Damn. Yep, they were just about the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen. And Jake . . . well, Jake just made her sigh. Which was why this whole thing had all the markings of a complete disaster.
In fact, Robin was so preoccupied with those thoughts as she arranged the flowers in an old cut-glass vase that she was oblivious to the crews stomping about, or Zaney singing the new song he had penned (it was sooo bad), or the rain, or the phone, or the herd of pink flamingos, which, for some inexplicable reason, had been moved to her kitchen in her absence.
She put the arrangement smack-dab in the center of her dining room table, then repositioned her computer so she could surreptitiously see Jake through the flowers as he moved in and out of the entry. Then she proceeded to watch him instead of working on the figures she had picked up from Minot like she had promised Evan she would do.
And that is precisely what she was doing when Lucy arrived an hour later, sporting two cups of coffee and a thick file. “Where’d the flowers come from?” she asked as she dumped the file onto the dining table.
“An admirer,” Robin said coyly.
“Ah, come on!” Lucy whined. “Who from?”
Robin shook her head, thankful for once that the doorbell rang.