over the counter, he thrust hard and deep,
grunting with the effort as her nipples rubbed against the chilly texture of
the granite. He gripped and lifted her, driving into her, her clit moving over
the round handle of the lower drawer. The pressure of it coupled with each
thrust ratcheted the pleasure so high, she thought she’d never come down.
Their images shimmered in each square glass tile on the wall.
For some reason, she saw her expression in one square, his in the other. But as
he caught her gaze, they seemed to meld into one, the rapture she felt mirrored
in his face. She closed her eyes, unable to fathom the possessiveness she
experienced because of his touch.
How could he be so in tune with what her body wanted and
needed when he didn’t even know her? Every time she thought it, he did it. The
man was an expert at knowing when to touch, how to kiss, where to caress and
how much pressure he delivered to her heated skin. She could become addicted to
this if she wasn’t careful. He could become her weakness.
As her orgasm crested, Jordan let out a cry of release as he
came, gripping her hips. He shuddered against her, his damp forehead pressed to
the middle of her back, her cheek flat on the cold surface of the counter.
The only sounds in the room were their labored breathing and
the gentle ticktock of the clock on the wall. He pulled her up, moved her hair
to the side and placed a quick kiss on her shoulder. He shifted her around,
grabbed the shirt off the floor and pulled it back over her head.
“Where’d you park your car?”
Her gaze swung up to his. “What?”
“I know you didn’t park your car in the drive. Where’s your
car?”
Her stomach dropped. How could he switch himself off like
that? Like nothing had happened between them?
“On the street. A couple houses down. It’s a black Honda,”
she murmured.
He bent over, stuck his leg back in the pants of his pajamas
and pulled them up. “I’ll go get it and park it in front of the garage. Where
are your keys?”
Layla hunched her shoulders. “Somewhere upstairs with my
clothes, I guess.”
“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
“Could you bring me my purse? It’s in the trunk.”
He nodded and before she knew it, dropped another condom she
never knew he’d put on into the trash and disappeared upstairs.
When her stomach clenched again, she realized it was her own
fault. This man wasn’t her lover. Hell, he wasn’t even her friend. He’d already
told her point-blank he didn’t like reporters. He was a story and sex was a
means to an end to get that story. Every time he touched her, seduced her, she
mistakenly made it more than it was.
She busied herself straightening up the kitchen, putting
dirty dishes in the dishwasher, leftover food in containers and in the
refrigerator. She kept the mantra going in her head that she wasn’t here on a
date. They hadn’t gone out, enjoyed a leisurely dinner as a couple, come back
to his house to make love. She paled at the thought of what doing any of that
implied.
It wasn’t love. It was sex.
As she found her way back upstairs, she remembered that last
week she’d made a bargain with her conscience to only use men for sex now. She
wasn’t going to bother looking for Mr. Right anymore because he didn’t exist.
By having sex with Jordan, she was getting two for the price of one—great sex
and a story that would put her on the front page of the Tattler .
Hell, if she got enough information and her editor approved,
she could stretch the editorial out over a few weeks. She needed to get herself
back on track and mentally find a way to keep Jordan from distracting her with
sex again.
When she made it back to his room, she crossed to the
balcony. It was a beautiful night out. The sky was clear, the stars sparkled
and the neighborhood was quiet except for a few croaking frogs, chirping birds
and the occasional car that drove by.
She felt Jordan come up behind her more than
grunting with the effort as her nipples rubbed against the chilly texture of
the granite. He gripped and lifted her, driving into her, her clit moving over
the round handle of the lower drawer. The pressure of it coupled with each
thrust ratcheted the pleasure so high, she thought she’d never come down.
Their images shimmered in each square glass tile on the wall.
For some reason, she saw her expression in one square, his in the other. But as
he caught her gaze, they seemed to meld into one, the rapture she felt mirrored
in his face. She closed her eyes, unable to fathom the possessiveness she
experienced because of his touch.
How could he be so in tune with what her body wanted and
needed when he didn’t even know her? Every time she thought it, he did it. The
man was an expert at knowing when to touch, how to kiss, where to caress and
how much pressure he delivered to her heated skin. She could become addicted to
this if she wasn’t careful. He could become her weakness.
As her orgasm crested, Jordan let out a cry of release as he
came, gripping her hips. He shuddered against her, his damp forehead pressed to
the middle of her back, her cheek flat on the cold surface of the counter.
The only sounds in the room were their labored breathing and
the gentle ticktock of the clock on the wall. He pulled her up, moved her hair
to the side and placed a quick kiss on her shoulder. He shifted her around,
grabbed the shirt off the floor and pulled it back over her head.
“Where’d you park your car?”
Her gaze swung up to his. “What?”
“I know you didn’t park your car in the drive. Where’s your
car?”
Her stomach dropped. How could he switch himself off like
that? Like nothing had happened between them?
“On the street. A couple houses down. It’s a black Honda,”
she murmured.
He bent over, stuck his leg back in the pants of his pajamas
and pulled them up. “I’ll go get it and park it in front of the garage. Where
are your keys?”
Layla hunched her shoulders. “Somewhere upstairs with my
clothes, I guess.”
“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
“Could you bring me my purse? It’s in the trunk.”
He nodded and before she knew it, dropped another condom she
never knew he’d put on into the trash and disappeared upstairs.
When her stomach clenched again, she realized it was her own
fault. This man wasn’t her lover. Hell, he wasn’t even her friend. He’d already
told her point-blank he didn’t like reporters. He was a story and sex was a
means to an end to get that story. Every time he touched her, seduced her, she
mistakenly made it more than it was.
She busied herself straightening up the kitchen, putting
dirty dishes in the dishwasher, leftover food in containers and in the
refrigerator. She kept the mantra going in her head that she wasn’t here on a
date. They hadn’t gone out, enjoyed a leisurely dinner as a couple, come back
to his house to make love. She paled at the thought of what doing any of that
implied.
It wasn’t love. It was sex.
As she found her way back upstairs, she remembered that last
week she’d made a bargain with her conscience to only use men for sex now. She
wasn’t going to bother looking for Mr. Right anymore because he didn’t exist.
By having sex with Jordan, she was getting two for the price of one—great sex
and a story that would put her on the front page of the Tattler .
Hell, if she got enough information and her editor approved,
she could stretch the editorial out over a few weeks. She needed to get herself
back on track and mentally find a way to keep Jordan from distracting her with
sex again.
When she made it back to his room, she crossed to the
balcony. It was a beautiful night out. The sky was clear, the stars sparkled
and the neighborhood was quiet except for a few croaking frogs, chirping birds
and the occasional car that drove by.
She felt Jordan come up behind her more than
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