Game On

chapter 18


LUC.

Leaning on the doorjamb of the bathroom—her bathroom—hooded eyes taking in every detail, sizzling her skin from hairline to toenails. Clara self-consciously clutched the top of the towel to ensure the tuck stayed…tucked. Perusal complete, his gaze finally settled on hers, the cerulean nearly obliterated by the black of his pupils. He looked predatory, dangerous, and very hungry.

Clara felt as though she’d plunged back into the tub as heat radiated from her center, finding spots to swirl and pool, her cheeks, her breasts, her lady bits. This wasn’t the picture of the confident, professional woman she’d tried to maintain around Luc—blush cheeked, drippy hair, and completely naked of makeup.

Discomfited, Clara grasped at the overlapped side slit in the towel and clumsily dropped her hairbrush in the process.

She looked down. The brush lay at his feet.

Did she dare?

She’d be kneeling in front of him. There was no way to retrieve it gracefully. If he were a gentleman, he would pick it up. She glanced back up, appealing with her expression.

His mouth twitched. Bugger.

“Riley says we have issues to resolve,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said and took a purposeful step over her brush until they were chest-to-chest.

“Uh-huh.”



Clara Elizabeth Bean, really? Is that all you’ve got? Say something! But she couldn’t because her mind had shut down while all bodily systems went into hyper drive. He was close, so close, and the hotel towel, no matter how splendid and fluffy, seemed insignificant and scrappy when it was all that was protecting her from him.



“So, I thought we should begin with the night we met,” he said.

“Uh-huh?” she squeaked. She didn’t dare tilt her head back to look up at him, so she stared at his neck. Smooth, corded, she could see his pulse twitch and wondered what it would feel like to plant a kiss there, wondered if she’d feel his heart beating beneath her lips.

“You’re telling me it was a misunderstanding, a breakdown of communications, correct?” Luc leaned forward, forcing her retreat.

“Uh-huh.”

“And you didn’t want me to leave that night.” Another step—his forward, hers back, like a predatory dance.

“Uh, no.” Two more steps, first hunter, then prey. Her heart tripped and stumbled.

“No what?” he growled.

Clara’s logic center was screaming to run, to get away, because she knew what would happen if she didn’t. She needed to put physical distance between them or prepare to put her reservations aside, accept that what she fought against was too powerful to deny, rules be damned. She managed a small shuffle backward, an uncommitted attempt to flee, and found herself pressed against the glass dining table. Trapped.

“No, I didn’t want you to go.” Clara shook her head, causing droplets of water to rain onto her shoulders.

“And you say you did open the door, eventually?”

Luc reached up and brushed the water over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm. All except for one drop. Clara shivered as he chased a rogue bead that had spilled over the blade of her collarbone. Watched his long, masculine forefinger trail the droplet as it crept downward. The fine hairs on her body jumped to attention, leaving her skin pebbled and longing to be touched.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded small, all the air trapped in her chest, trapped beneath his hovering hand. She stood, mesmerized, and watched as the pad of his finger inched along toward the swell of her chest, leaving a line of fire in its wake.

The water drop was gone, absorbed by the towel, but he didn’t remove his hand. He ran his finger along the edge of the cloth, skimming her flesh. “And we would have had sex, correct?”

“Well I…I think…I guess—”

He tilted her chin so she had no choice but to look into his eyes.

“Say yes, Clara.”

“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

“Yes, what?” He slipped his hand into the gap at the side of her towel and placed a palm against the curve of her hip. Her skin smoldered under his touch, her nerves awakening, rocketing signals to every erogenous zone in her body.

“Yes,” she nodded. He’d gone too far, pushed too hard. She couldn’t turn back now; it would kill her. “Yes Luc, we would have had sex.” She held his gaze, direct, unabashed, offering both surrender and challenge. “We would have had great sex.”

His lids narrowed but he held her there, reading her very soul, seeking truth in her words. She felt a tug at the same time a wolfish grin flickered and, before she could react, the towel was gone.

Clara gasped, her immediate impulse to snatch it back, to cover up, but his hands were at her waist, lifting her without effort, setting her on the table, as if she were a plate of dinner.

His nostrils flared, and the grin was pure mischief. She wasn’t sure if it was his heart pounding or hers, but someone’s was. Loudly. She should be angry, embarrassed to be completely exposed while he remained clothed, but her body betrayed her by arching forward into him. He glanced down to boldly gaze at her nude flesh. She could feel it, feel every cell respond as he drank in her nakedness. Gooseflesh rose on the swell of her breasts, her nipples puckered traitorously, the muscles across her abdomen clenched and quivered. And when his gaze reached the triangle of dark curls, when he nudged her knees apart, spread her thighs open, Clara felt a rush of liquid heat.

“But now we can’t have sex, can we?” Luc said, his voice raw. He was staring at her, there, torturing her with hungry scrutiny.

She squirmed, opened her knees wider.

“We blew our chance at a one night stand and now,” he said, meeting her eyes, “we can’t f*ck because we work together. Do I understand your rules correctly?”

Clara couldn’t speak. The way he said it—f*ck—so dirty, so primal, so depraved, sent a bolt of pure heat straight to her sex. She should slap him for his Neanderthal behaviour. But she couldn’t. Neither could she deny what she felt, how her body responded to him. She was delusional in thinking this would never happen, foolish for thinking she could resist his physical beauty. She wanted him that first night and wanted him still, except now her need had simmered beyond boiling point and was exponentially staggering.

Instead of slapping him, Clara gripped the lapels of his shirt and pulled him forward for a punishing kiss—hard and demanding. If this man was intent on taking what was previously denied, Clara was going to make damn sure he walked away satisfied. Her guilt would be assuaged and, more importantly, her lust. Perhaps once they’d soundly f*cked, as he so delicately put it, he would stop haunting her every thought, every dream, every fantasy.

She opened her mouth, invited his tongue, and when he dared, she captured it in her teeth. He met her insatiable ardour, nipping at her lips, clashing against her teeth with bruising force. They fuelled each other in a competition for domination.

Without taking her lips from his, she deftly unfastened his shirt buttons, ripping the cloth aside to revel in the bounty beneath.

She was not disappointed.

Her palms swept across the vast, smooth surface, her fingers danced across the ridges, bumps, and planes. This night, she mentally avowed, not an inch of his flesh would go untouched, unexplored, or un-licked. She would feast on him until he whimpered.

Luc’s hands grazed her sides, up and down her ribcage, so close to her breasts, Clara wanted to scream in frustration. They ached for attention, ached for his hands, his mouth.

He was toying with her. He knew it, she knew it. And she would have none of it.

She snaked her arms around the back of his neck, threaded her fingers through his thick waves, an unspoken invitation. But still he teased, his thumbs barely grazing the swelling sides while his mouth was intensely focused on hers.

It was a game, his holding back, as if he were challenging her to stop him. Bollocks to that. If he needed coaxing, she would coax. Clara arched her back until her breasts were pressed tightly against his bare chest and wiggled her shoulders. At the same time, she slipped her arms around him, grabbed his firm, rounded ass and pulled him against her until she felt his erection.

Luc jumped back as if burned, his shoulders rising and falling as quick as his breathing, his head slowly shaking back and forth. The look in his eyes was fierce, a mixture of unadulterated lust and anger.

Stunned, Clara was unsure of what to do, of what just happened. But when Luc’s hand splayed across the top of her chest and applied pressure, she understood as only a woman could.

He wanted to control the show, he wanted to initiate the next step.

Fine. Yes. On with the show!

She obliged, gladly, and leaned back on her elbows, presented herself for his pleasure.

“That’s it,” he growled and moved to stand between her spread legs. He leaned over her, his face inches from hers. “You want me, don’t you, Clara?” And without waiting for an answer, he took her mouth, savagely, ferociously, the pressure of his kiss forcing her down until she lay flat on her back, her head resting on her laptop case.

“Say you want me, Clara.”

Bloody hell, heaven, and everything in between, yes, she wanted him. She wanted him to make her quiver and moan, she wanted him to touch her, kiss her, everywhere.

“I want you,” she groaned into his mouth. “You know I want you.”

Clara reached up and raked her nails over his shoulders and arms, kneaded his rangy muscles, but Luc batted her hands away. “Where do you want me, Clara?”

She reached between their bodies and found the buckle of his belt and the telling bulge beneath. “On me, in me, all over me.”

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them at her side. “Not yet,” he rasped. “Not yet.”

To hell with that! Clara wanted to touch him. She broke his hold and went back to work on his belt buckle, stopping only to palm his erection, massage the steely length with anticipation. Finally, finally, they’d finish what they’d started.

Luc let out a frustrated groan and again grabbed her wrists. This time, he drew her arms above her head and pinned them together while he yanked the power cord from the side of her computer. Without a word of explanation, he wound the cable around her crossed wrists, leaving her completely at his mercy.

His eyes locked on hers, dared her to protest.

She didn’t.

The binding was loose, merely symbolic of his dominance, and she was turned on in ways she’d never imagined.

He leaned over her, hands on either side, not letting their bodies come into contact. She arched off the table, desperate to feel his body against hers, but he arched away.

“Not yet, ma belle. Not yet.”

Clara reached a new height of arousal. She wanted to feel his weight on her, wanted his flesh against hers.

She watched, eyes wide and curious, as he lowered his head. She thought he was going for her breast but he surprised her, planting a kiss on her hip bone, then drawing a bridge to the other side with his tongue. Clara squirmed as his breath fanned her pubic area. Her eyelids dropped in preparation for the invasion of his mouth. Her *oris throbbed, anticipating the flick of his tongue.

But he surprised her again. He trailed kisses from her belly button toward her chest and finally, finally, he circled the pearl of her nipple with his tongue, taunting the peak into rock-hard tightness before catching it between his teeth. While her other breast was in his palm being kneaded, stroked, and teased with expert fingers, Luc took her into his mouth and sucked, each pull sending powerful waves of pleasure from her scalp to her toes.

Clara heard of women who could orgasm from breast play but never in her dreams thought it could happen to her. She wasn’t that easy! She prided herself on having an extremely high stimulation threshold. But, with muscles quivering, she began to doubt her tenacity.

Before she could succumb to the ultimate satisfaction, he released her.

“Look at me, Clara.”

She struggled to open her eyes when all they wanted to do was squeeze shut and let her body feel. His eyes never left hers as he finger walked a line to her center and down, down, down. Her muscles clenched as he skimmed over the contours of her abdomen, then lower, delving into her damp curls.

“You didn’t answer my original question.” He cupped her, applied a gentle pressure, then slipped his finger into her folds

Clara gasped, her eyes slipped shut, and her body writhed as he grazed her *oris.

“Look at me,” he demanded. He toyed with her, circled her bud without touching it directly.

His face was inches from hers, watching, scrutinizing, waiting for a reaction. Clara bit her lip to keep from crying out. She swallowed but couldn’t speak. If she opened her mouth, it would be to moan, to whimper, to beg. Maybe all three.

He pressed her deeper, teased the passage to her core.

She couldn’t hold it in. Her hips bucked as a primal, needy gasp ripped from her throat . “Oh God, Luc! Please, I need you inside me.”

“Not until you answer my question.” He spread the creamy liquid from her slit to the plump lips of her labia, across her inner thigh, and back to the source for more.

Clara writhed on the cold table, her body trembling for release. She was ready for him. So ready. What was he waiting for?

“Stay with me Clara,” he growled as his fingers scooped through her. “Open your eyes,” he commanded.

They felt like lead weights, but she obeyed and watched as he brought his fingers, slick with her juices, to his mouth and sucked. He savoured her taste and smiled when she groaned.

“Did I get the rules right?”

“Please, Luc,” she begged, so near the brink of explosion, his words ceased to register. Her hips rolled toward him, seeking full physical contact. He obliged only by thrusting two fingers deep inside, pumping her, taking her dangerously close to the edge. Her inner muscles convulsed, squeezed, unwilling to let him go. “Yes, yes, please.”

And then he was gone. His warmth, his touch, him. All gone.

“Sorry, ma belle,” he said, hands up in defeat.

Clara’s eyes snapped open, a shiver of icy cold making her entire body tremble.

Luc’s eyes were dangerously dark. The corners of his mouth quirked, but it wasn’t humor she saw in his expression. It was victory.

“You made the rules.”