Free About That Night by Beth Andrews Page A

heat, the bite of hunger.
    She started to sit up, only to have him settle his hand between her breasts and gently push her back.
    “I want to look at you.”
    She opened her mouth to remind him of the lesson she’d given earlier, about not always getting what he wanted, but then she noticed that while he kept one hand on her ankle, as if he couldn’t bear to break contact, the other was fisted. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and she knew he was as affected as she was.
    Smiling to hide her nerves, she eased back. But it was torture, lying there while his gaze raked over her. She’d never felt so exposed. So vulnerable.
    “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice low and rough.
    Her throat clogged. Her chest ached. She’d been called beautiful before, too many times to count. Too many times to feign modesty about something that was more genetics than anything she’d done to deserve the compliment. Too many times to have it mean something.
    But hearing it from him? It meant something.
    Stupid, stupid, stupid. They were just words. She didn’t need them to know what she looked like, didn’t want to be seduced or to let any man think he’d taken away her choice. Her power.
    But Clinton was threatening to do just that with his light accent, his sure touch. Though he’d claimed not to like games, Ivy couldn’t help but feel he was playing along. She had to regain her control. Before she could, he was nudging her legs apart.
    “Mine,” he breathed, then settled his mouth on her.
    She arched into him, her head back, her hands in his hair. Maybe control was overrated.
    Sensations flowed through her, her limbs growing heavy, her muscles lax as the pressure built. When her orgasm broke, she rode the waves of pleasure with a soft cry.
    She floated back to earth, her breathing ragged, her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat.
    She was boneless, weightless, her body still flushed and vibrating. It took her a moment, surely longer than necessary, to focus on him. He shouldn’t look so strong, so commanding, kneeling before her like that, tension emanating from his long, lean body, his hair mussed from her fingers, his face all sharp lines and angles.
    She shouldn’t want him this much. Not nearly this much.
    She absently rubbed her hand over the odd, unwelcome catch in her heart.
    And wondered if maybe he wasn’t holding all the cards, after all.
    * * *
    I F A MAN didn’t have self-control, he had nothing.
    C.J. was afraid he was very close to having nothing.
    Because the taste of Ivy on his tongue, the feel of her under his hands, the sight of her—all that smooth skin, all those glorious curves—threatened his resolve to keep things between them on even ground. To keep himself in charge.
    She watched him, her blue eyes slowly focusing. Turning wary. Shuttered.
    Mine .
    He curled his fingers into his palms. She’d been pissed when he’d said it, but he didn’t want her to belong to him. Didn’t want to own her or control her. He just wanted her, all of her, for one night. He wouldn’t let her hide from him.
    But he had to be careful. Ivy was powerful. Knew how to twist a man into knots, knew how to kiss him, exactly where to touch him to make him weak. Mindless.
    In the living room he’d been nothing more than aching need. Burning desire. He’d resisted—barely—the urge to take her like an animal, to push his way into her lovely heat, but it had cost him.
    Scared the hell out of him.
    He couldn’t stop himself from touching her. He traced light circles above her knees, and she smiled a small, satisfied smile. He shifted onto his hands and knees, crawled over her, loving how her legs opened to accommodate him, how she reached for him.
    He pressed his nose against the base of her throat and breathed her in. She was perfect. Her beauty called to him, but it was her confidence, her keen intelligence that drew her in. Fascinated him.
    He raised his head, slid up her body. Her hard nipples brushed against his chest,