At the Billionaire’s Wedding by Katharine Ashe Miranda Neville Caroline Linden Maya Rodale Page A

it could say another word, he put a gag on his inner voice, kicked it in the arse, and locked it in a cupboard.

    Harry the Handyman had very handy hands. They were big and slightly rough and her skin liked them a lot. Especially her breasts. Her pelvis too was beginning to twist in anticipation. She was hotter than hell and they’d hardly started. The fact that she was about ready to do it on the floor—although a floor covered with a priceless antique carpet—with a man she’d met yesterday and hadn’t even kissed said something.
    What exactly did it say? Who gave a damn? Right now her brain was occupied by one problem and one that required neither sobriety nor logic. All she had to do was raise her arms, grab his head, and pull it down to hers, easy as pie. And they were kissing.
    When it came to judging a kiss, Arwen considered herself a Justice of the Supreme Court and not one of the boring conservative ones. Harry was going to win his case unanimously, but only after extensive oral arguments.
    Yes, the man knew how to kiss, strong and hot, taking no prisoners. Somehow he was on top of her, trapping her with his weight. He made her feel small and sweet and powerless and ready to be taken, dominated even. She parted her legs and thrust her hips upward, feeling denim-cased steel between her thighs.
    “Such a deliciously bossy girl,” he said against her ear. “You can have whatever you want.”
    She didn’t know what she wanted. Or rather she didn’t want to say. She relaxed into the priceless carpet and wondered if she looked like Venus who floated overhead with her mouth open, leering at her brawny Mars, naked but for a helmet and a bit of red drapery.
    “I want…” The words stuck in her throat. It must be the historical surroundings that sent decades of progress in women’s sexuality out of the window, leaving her weak and wanting like a maiden in a mobcap. “Take me,” she whispered.
    Harry grinned with wolfish humor and unbridled lust. “Does my lady want her humble servant to attend to her pleasure?” She nodded, mesmerized. He kissed her again, which was just what she wanted, then knelt back and surveyed her with a lazy grin that turned her into a puddle. “Stand up,” he said, with a laugh behind the stern words. She teetered on her heels and wondered if they’d damage the carpet. “Leave them on and remove your dress.”
    When she hesitated he frowned, so she pulled the silk jersey over her head and tossed it away where it caught and hung drunkenly off the back of a chair. His eyes followed it lazily then returned to where she stood in her black lace bra, matching thong, and silver Christian Louboutin sandals. His inquisitive gaze burned into her as he inspected her from head to gold-painted toenails, sending molten lava through her veins. This was the hottest thing that had ever happened to her.
    Then he nodded as though arrogantly accepting what he saw and calmly unbuttoned his shirt. Whether from manual labor or hours in the gym, Harry the Handyman was one buff dude. She licked her lips, closed her eyes and moaned.
    “Look at me,” he commanded.
    Not a hardship to obey. She kind of wished he was wearing a tool belt, but the jeans—Levis, not designer—hugged his narrow hips, held by a brown leather belt polished like harness to a high gloss. Dropping her eyes an inch or two lower made her squirm again. She started to ask him if he was going to remove the rest, or if he wanted her to, but he cut her off. “Quiet,” he said, “and do exactly as I say.”
    Yes please.
    “Do you see that table over there?” He pointed to a desk-sized piece with plentiful gold embellishments. “Walk over and put the lamp on the floor.”
    Oh my God, he was having her move furniture in a totally historic room. Couldn’t he be fired for this? The danger excited her even more.
    “Now lean over the table, hands on either side and spread your legs wide.”
    She obeyed and waited, night air cooling her