Текст книги "Compromising Her Position"

Автор книги: Samanthe Beck

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Nine

Chelsea would lose at poker. Her face gave everything away. Right now, it reflected annoyance and reluctant desire. The expression made him want to keep right on pushing her buttons, until she slapped him or fucked him. Possibly both. He shrugged and picked up her nearly empty glass. “Another drink?”

She coughed into her fist and shook her head. “I’m not going to bed with you.”

“Bed, sofa, coffee table…I’m flexible about the location, and I’m not saying tonight’s the night, but we both know it’s going to happen, and we both know why.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she folded her arms across her chest. “Oh really? Enlighten me, please. Why, in your mind, is this inevitable?”

He leaned in, deliberately invading her personal space. When they were close enough he could smell the coconut-scented guest soap on her skin, he said, “Because whenever we get near each other, you remember everything I did to you in just ten minutes, in a cramped supply closet. You can’t stop wondering what I’d do if I had you naked, somewhere private, with hours to spend on every inch of you. I’ll give you a hint. The closet would look like foreplay.”

Her pulse beat strong and fast at the base of her throat. Her eyes dropped to his mouth and her lips parted, but the words that came out were pure nonsense.

“I think just the opposite, actually. The rush, the darkness, and the impropriety of jumping Santa in a supply closet were what made it so hot. Without all that”—she blinked and raised her gaze to his—“I’m sure the sex would be boring.”

Boring? He nearly laughed in her face, until he considered who she’d been sleeping with until recently. She’d no doubt experienced plenty of boring sex. Poor baby. He came nearer, stopping when their mouths were just inches apart. “Why don’t we put your theory to the test?”

She sucked in a breath and braced herself. He figured she expected more of what he’d given her last night—a hard, hungry assault. Instead, he teased his lips over hers.

For one shocked moment she stayed absolutely still, and then she sighed and melted against him, a hand on his cheek, the other curled around the slope of his neck. That’s right, Chelsea. This time it’s all on you.

But his hands were on the move, too, up the back of her dress, because only a dead man could sit there passively with her pressed against him. He opened his mouth against hers, coaxing her to do the same, and licked his way along the inner curve of her upper lip. Urgent little sounds vibrated in her throat. She leaned in to deepen the kiss, and he eased back, forcing her to work for what she wanted.

Work she did. She climbed over him, planted her knees on either side of his hips, and fused her mouth to his. Fingernails combed his scalp while her tongue searched for his. He evaded, enjoying every new angle she tried in her effort to capture him. While he kept her mouth busy, he inched her dress up—high enough to get a glimpse of blue panties—and then pushed her thighs wider so she straddled him properly. Finally, he guided her onto his lap, making sure her silk-covered center got a good, long ride down the hard ridge straining the front of his jeans. At the same time, he gave her his tongue.

Her groan flowed into his mouth and merged with his. She rocked her hips, grinding against him.

“Jesus, you feel good. Lift up and do it again.”

She made a sound of consent, but then went rogue and rocked forward for another quick grind.

“Do it now,” he prompted, and untangled her dress from around her thighs. The extra freedom only made her more restless, so he grabbed her hips and lifted her into position. “There you go, breaking the rules again. I’ve figured out something about you Miss Wayne.”

“You think so?” Those big brown eyes flashed with impatience.

“What happened in the closet wasn’t a wayward impulse. You secretly like breaking the rules.” As he spoke, he dipped his fingers into his drink, and then traced the v of her thong. She shivered when drops of the cold liquor rolled down her skin, then shivered again as he followed the wet trails with his fingertips. Her eyelids drooped, and she murmured, “Maybe.”

He stilled his hand. She lifted her hips, seeking his touch.

“Sometimes when you break the rules, you get punished.” Warning issued, he tangled his fingers into the back of her thong, pulling it tight between her legs.

Her head lolled forward. Hands clutched his shoulders. Something halfway between a moan and a sigh filled his ear. The sound waves vibrated into his brain, down his spine, and along his throbbing shaft—as palpable as a touch. He used his hold to guide her back onto his lap, then dipped his fingers into his drink again, and re-threaded them into her thong. Making a fist drew the fabric snug. He tightened and released, tightened and released until she tipped her head back and shuddered.

He kissed the vulnerable underside of her chin, her jaw, while she rocked against him. “I want—”

A knock at the door cut her off, and a melodic male voice on the other side called, “Room service.”

She froze. Long eyelids lifted and trapped him in a universe of soft, dark velvet.

Fuck it, he’d forgotten about their dinner. And now there they sat, Chelsea poised to come any second, and his cock pounding in anticipation.

Reluctantly, he removed his hand from her underwear. “Do me a favor and get that.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You want me to answer the door?”

“I’m in no condition to greet room service. I nominate you.” He rolled his hips, reminding her of his situation.

Gauging by the way her breath hitched, his reminder struck a chord, but she made no move to get up. “I don’t think you really want me to do that.”

The knock at the door sounded again. “One minute,” he called, never taking his eyes off her face. “Why?”

“You can’t be sure which side of the door I’ll end up on.”

Her assertion made him smile. How long had it been since he’d chased something besides a deal? Too long, and a primitive part of him appreciated the challenge, even though another equally primitive part would be in a world of hurt if she actually followed through on the threat.

“You’ll stay. Not just because you want this as much as I do”—to underscore the point he dipped his fingers into his rum and Coke once more, and then slid them along the warm flesh of her inner thigh, and lightly over the damp panel of her panties—“but because if you walk out the door tonight, the next time you spread your gorgeous legs for me, I won’t be such a gentleman. We’ll play by my rules.”

Another stroke. A breathless whimper. Her eyelids lowered as she gave herself over to his touch.

“I like to play dirty. I can also be very”—stroke—“very”—stroke—“exacting. I won’t give you any relief until you’re on your knees, begging, ‘Please fuck me, Mr. St. Sebastian.’”

Without another word, he removed his hand. A groan spilled from her lips before she caught the lower one with her teeth. She pinned him with a dark, frustrated look.

He met it with a smile. He had her. They both knew it. “Get the door.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

In answer, he picked up his glass and took a drink.

Her flushed cheeks turned a shade darker, and he knew she was thinking of all the curves and crevices of her body that now tasted like rum and Coke. The blush deepened when he swept his tongue over his lower lip, and he battled an odd, nearly overpowering urge to pull her back down and kiss her—just kiss her. But she turned away, smoothed her dress and headed to the door. All the better. The sooner she answered the door, the sooner he’d be enjoying the rest of his drink.

“Hi, Leo.” She moved aside as a young, uniformed man propped the door open with a small plastic wedge and wheeled the room service cart inside.

“Aloha, Miss Wayne. Would you like me to set this up in the dining area, or on the balcony?”

Chelsea tipped her head toward Rafe. “That’s entirely up to our guest.”

“Whichever you prefer.” They wouldn’t be getting around to dinner for some time, and chances looked good she’d be dining naked, in his bed, but he saw no need to share the details with the room service waiter.

“Oh, no. You have it backward,” Chelsea replied. “We strive to accommodate you. I think you’ll find our commitment to guest service unparalleled.”

“I look forward to experiencing it firsthand, Miss Wayne.”

“We invite you to do so, Mr. St. Sebastian, but I think it bears mentioning that while some things at Tradewinds are part of the service”—her accommodating smile sharpened—“some are not. Aloha, gentlemen.”

Aloha? What the fuck? Before he could utter a word, she walked out the door. Leo looked at the empty air where Chelsea had been, and then at Rafe, and then, because he was a smart kid, he looked down at his shoes and did his best to cover his laugh with a cough. “Um…sir?”

Despite the critical case of blue balls she’d left him with, he couldn’t hold back a laugh. No point denying it, she intrigued him even as she drove him insane. Some warped part of his psyche got a kick out of engaging in a sexual chess game with Chelsea—and losing. This time.

Chapter Ten

Jan. 6

5:13 p.m.

Chelsea,

Mr. Johnson in Room 310 had some kind of reaction to the paraffin in our Island Spice candle. His lady friend dripped the hot wax on his… Well, let’s just say he looks like a warning poster from an STD clinic. Know an allergist who makes house calls?

Thx.

Lynette.

Chelsea yanked her attention away from her email, took her desk phone off speaker, and held the receiver to her ear. “I’m sorry. I think I misheard you. Did you just say you want me to move into one of Tradewinds’ villas for the next week?”

“Until Rafe’s visit concludes,” Evelyn confirmed. “He’s arriving Sunday. We booked him into House of Sun as our personal guest, and we reserved House of Water for you. It’s the most logical arrangement. This deal is important to Tradewinds, and we want to do everything we can to ensure success. You need to be accessible, particularly during this next week. John and I can help by providing you with a private, convenient, comfortable place to stay.”

Comfortable? Tradewinds’ two bluff-side villas surpassed comfortable, running more toward decadent. And secluded. Perched just below the resort, only the tops of the surrounding palms could be seen by the other guests. The structures themselves flanked opposite ends of a large infinity pool that appeared to spill directly into the Pacific. Perfect for swimming or sunbathing, and private enough to make tan lines optional. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Not at all. Rafe wants to quickly, quietly learn about the resort. You’re there to help. It makes good business sense to keep the two of you close.”

Tough to argue against good business sense, but equally tough to disregard the way her stomach quivered at the thought of all the closeness. She hadn’t heard from him since the evening at his suite, when she’d walked away with her body on fire and the sound of his surprised laughter ringing in her ears. The next morning a gift box had arrived at her desk, with a card that read, “Two of the three ingredients in my new favorite drink,” and was signed, simply, Rafe. Only when she held a bottle of Rhum Clement in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other did she realize she was part of the recipe.

At the time, the gift had amused her—a strangely gracious acknowledgment of her recent victory in their little game—but now the amusement faded. The play would resume soon, on a much more advanced field, and, most concerning, she wasn’t entirely sure how she defined a win anymore. Still, she’d have the home court advantage. Rafe might challenge whatever lines she drew, but he wouldn’t cross them. His win involved enticing her to violate her own boundaries.

“I guess I could.”

“Excellent. This simplifies things. I should let you go, enjoy your last Friday night of freedom for a while. Do you have any plans?”

Chelsea glanced at the email from Lynette. “I’ve got a few more things to do.”

“Don’t stay too late. Remember, we specialize in creating exciting vacations for singles. I could argue your job includes getting out of your office now and then to experience what it’s like to be young and single.”

“Maybe tomorrow night,” Chelsea hedged.

“When we interviewed, you mentioned you liked to sail.”

“I did. I do.”

“Well…my nephew is finishing his final year of residency at Maui Memorial Medical Center in Wailuki.”

“In allergy, by any chance?”

“Emergency medicine. Why?”

“No reason,” she said, and typed “allergist” into Yelp.

“Nick keeps a Capri at the marina and can always use a sailing partner. I’d be happy to see what he’s up to this evening. He’s such a nice boy.”

Wait. Was her sweet old boss trying to set her up on a date?

Yelp came back with two local allergists, one with an after-hours number. Feeling pathetic, she scribbled it down. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

“But I’m a busybody.” Evelyn laughed. “I know. I can’t help myself. Anyway, it’s a standing offer. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will. Have a good weekend. And thank you.”

“Thank you, Chelsea. I’ll talk to you soon.”

After arranging a house call, or rather, hotel call, for Mr. Johnson with the local allergist, she sat for a moment, contemplating the empty apartment waiting for her tonight. She didn’t want to go home. More to the point, the apartment didn’t feel like home. It felt like a vacation rental. A small, lonely vacation rental.

If you didn’t want to be alone, you should’ve copped to the fact that you suck at being single, and taken Evelyn up on her offer to put you in touch with her nephew.

But she hadn’t, because she didn’t feel like going out either. Pasting a smile on her face and making small talk with a stranger required more social stamina than she could manage tonight. Impatient with her mood, she grabbed her purse and headed to the lobby. She was off the clock until Sunday, and had a perfectly good villa at her disposal. A sane woman would enjoy every moment of that perk, starting tonight. If she hurried, she could make it to her place, pack, and drive back in time to watch the stars come out from the comfort of a lounge chair on the deck of House of Water. She swung by the reception desk, wished the staff on duty a good night, and coded herself a key. On a whim, she added a key for House of Sun. No harm taking a peek in Rafe’s villa, just to make sure everything was in order. She’d do that before she headed out, and then she could call in any requests or housekeeping instructions while she drove to her apartment.

Moments later she swiped the key card through the reader at the door of the big villa and let herself into an enclave of luxury. Late afternoon sun poured into the space from entryway skylights and the retractable glass doors comprising the back wall. Interior colors and textures harmonized with those offered by nature—golden sand tones, watery blues, lush greens to rival the surrounding vegetation. The big doors framed an endless view of ocean and sky.

Thinking she’d text a picture to Laurie, she put her purse on the narrow table backing an extra long sofa, and pulled out her phone. Her heels clicked across the hand-scraped hardwood floors. When she reached the sliding door, she opened it, closed her eyes and let the breeze dance across her face, bringing the scent of plumeria with it.

Not too shabby. Even for a man accustomed to the best money could buy.

The phone vibrated in her hand. Caller ID read Las Ventanas. Paul? Cindy? Her stomach clenched, even as she told herself neither of them would still be at work on a Friday night.

“Hello?” Dread made her voice more tentative than she would have liked.

“Is my villa ready?”

Rafe heard Chelsea’s quick, surprised inhale and grinned for the first time in days. He leaned back in his chair and felt the knotted muscles in his neck relax. Man wasn’t cut out to spend hours hunched over a desk, but he had a fuckload of integration plans to approve before he left for Maui, and he couldn’t rely on Barrington to do anything.

“As it happens, I’m in your villa right now. I believe you’ll be very satisfied.” The initial hesitance in her voice disappeared under a smooth layer of professionalism and a hint of challenge.

He loved a challenge. “If you’re in my villa when I arrive, I guarantee I’ll be satisfied.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. St. Sebastian. I’m not staying. I stopped by this evening to inspect the rooms and make sure everything is in order. That’s all.”

Her attempt to sound brusque didn’t quite hold up. He heard the amusement in her voice. She wanted to spar with him. He wanted the same thing. Verbal foreplay via telephone usually didn’t interest him, but as he was quickly discovering, any interaction with her interested him. “Very diligent of you, Miss Wayne. Are you alone?”

Silence ruled for a beat, and then she replied, “Yes.”

“Which room are you currently inspecting?”

“The living room.”

He could work with that. “Is there a large sofa? I have unfinished business I fully intend to complete during this trip, and it requires a large sofa.”

The click of heels reverberated in his ear, and he envisioned her crossing the room to size up the sofa. Was she imagining them on it? If he was doing his job, she would be.

Her sultry voice flowed over the line. “The sofa is quite generous, but I fear your business may nonetheless remain unfinished.”

Gauntlet thrown. Game on. He didn’t bother restraining his satisfied smile. Playing games with Chelsea had become his diversion of choice. Hers too, he suspected, because beneath her impressive reserve, he heard a thread of excitement. He wouldn’t hand her such an easy win this time.

“We’ll see. What about the upholstery. Is it smooth or textured?”

The faint rustle of cushions indicated she’d taken a seat. “It’s a sueded cotton. Very durable, if that’s your concern.”

“My concern is comfort. If the fabric is highly textured, too much friction will leave red marks on delicate skin.”

“I see.” Her audible swallow brought another smile to his face, and sent his blood flowing south. “It’s very smooth. I’m sure your delicate skin will suffer no discomfort.”

“It’s not my skin I aim to protect, Miss Wayne, but you’ve put my mind at ease.” And his cock at attention. “The dimensions are adequate for two?”

“Um…yes. It’s long enough to stretch out on.”

“I’ll need a couple of pillows too. Sometimes the perfect position requires extra cushioning.”

“There are three pillows. If you need additional shoring up, perhaps you’d like to request orthopedic pillows? We gladly provide them. Even at a singles resort, not every guest is…ahem…in his prime. But sometimes, I’m afraid, the perfect position is simply out of reach.”

Oh yeah, he could almost see her fist-pump over that one. Not in his prime? Hilarious. “The three standard pillows should be sufficient, but you’ll be the first to know if I’m wrong. Speaking of perfect positions, tell me about the arms.”

“The arms of the sofa?” Confusion laced her reply. She’d expected more pillow talk. He congratulated himself on keeping her guessing.

“Exactly. Do they look sturdy?”

“I—I suppose. It’s a rolled arm style.”

“So I could drape, oh, let’s say a hundred and ten pounds, over the arm of the sofa and it would support that weight, and bear up even if subjected to a slow, thorough pounding?” A heavy, relentless ache started deep in his balls as he pictured her over the arm of the sofa, with her face buried in a cushion and him buried in her heat. He closed his eyes so he could focus on her voice.

“Yesss.”

The single word came out whisper soft, like delicate fingers teasing their way up his cock. Phone sex, for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so caught up in a woman he’d resorted to a long-distance tactic. All he knew was the sooner he cured the long-distance part, the better, and made a mental note to move up his flight. He intended to be testing the sofa with her, in person, by tomorrow afternoon.

Reckless. The warning played through his mind, in his father’s voice. His attention slid to the stack of paperwork on his desk—fuck it, he’d get through every sheet, even if it killed him. “The villa sounds promising, so far, but I’ll need a few additional details before I can confirm it meets my needs.”

“You’re an exceedingly high-maintenance guest.”

Despite the criticism, she didn’t sound too perturbed. “Miss Wayne, you have no idea. Are you prepared to assist me with my remaining questions?”

“I’m confident I can handle you.”

“I’m counting on it. My questions pertain to the master suite. Please go there.”