Darcy tasted like the sweetest nectar on earth, but her small sharp tongue was a pointed reminder that she had an edge. That only fired up his blood even more. She was soft, sweet, malleable...and melting into him like his hottest fantasy.
Max took ruthless advantage, deepening the kiss, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her into him, feeling his aching hardness meet the soft resistance of her body. Her breasts were full, pressing against him, and his hand snaked under her vest, spreading out over her lower back. Her skin was silky and hot to the touch.
Lust such as he’d never experienced had him in a grip so strong he couldn’t think beyond obeying this carnal need.
* * *
Darcy was dimly aware of a very distant voice in her head, screaming at her to stop and pull back. Moments ago she’d been blisteringly angry with Max. And hurt. But she didn’t care any more. She was in his arms and her world was made up of heat and glorious pounding desire.
Every part of her exulted in his masculinity and his sheer size. Big hands were smoothing up her back, lifting her vest until it snagged under her breasts. He pulled away from her mouth and Darcy sucked in much needed oxygen—but it didn’t go to her brain, it seemed only to fuel the hunger in her body.
Max’s mouth feathered kisses along her jawbone and down to the sensitive part of her neck just under her ear.
The scent of sex was musky in the air and it was mixed with something very feminine. Her desire. Oh, God. She was so weak, but she didn’t care any more.
When he pulled back to take her hand in his and lead her over to the sofa she went with him without hesitation. He sat down and guided her over him so that she ended up with her knees either side of his thighs, straddling his lap, his erection a hard ridge between her legs.
Some vital part of her brain had abdicated all responsibility for this situation. It felt dangerously liberating. He was looking at her with such dark intent that she felt dizzy even as her hands were already on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, eager to explore the wide expanse of his chest.
He said thickly, ‘Dio, I want you so much.’
Darcy couldn’t speak. So she bent her head and kissed him again. His hands gripped her waist for a moment before exploring upwards, pulling her vest up and over her breasts, baring them.
He broke the kiss and looked at her, eyes wide, feverish. ‘Si bella...’
He cupped one breast in his hand and squeezed the firm flesh. Darcy bit her lip at the exquisite sensation, and then cried out when he leaned forward and took the straining tip into his mouth, sucking it deep before letting it pop out and then ministering to her other breast with the same attention.
She wasn’t even aware that her hips were making subtle circular motions on Max’s lap, seeking to assuage the building tension at her core, where the slide of his erection between her legs was a wicked temptation. She only became aware when his hand moved down to her buttocks and held her there. His arousal was thrusting between them, touching her intimately through their clothes. She was pulsating, all over.
A wave of incredible tenderness moved over her as she saw his scar, gleaming white in the low lights. Without thinking Darcy reached out and traced it gently, running her finger down the raised and jagged length. Then she bent to kiss it.
And just as she did so the wave of tenderness finally triggered some faulty self-protection mechanism and she tensed all over, her mouth hovering just over Max’s scar.
What the hell was she doing?
He’d just been a complete bastard and yet after a brief apology and a kiss hotter than Hades she was writhing in his lap, about to let emotion overwhelm her! A man who saw her as just a means to an end.
What was even worse was that she’d already seen some pictures online, of them in Paris, outside the jewellers. She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, small and chubby next to Max’s tall, lean form, clutching at him. It was galling. Mortifying how ill-matched they were.
Darcy scrambled up and off Max’s lap so fast she nearly fell backwards. She tugged her vest down over straining breasts.
Max sat forward, his shirt half open, deliciously dishevelled. ‘Darcy...what the hell?’
Darcy’s voice was shaky. ‘This is a mistake.’
Every masculine bone in Max’s body was crying out for completion, satisfaction. He could barely see straight. He’d been moments away from easing his erection free of confinement, ripping Darcy’s clothes off and embedding himself so deeply inside her he’d see stars.
He hated it that she seemed to have more control than him—that she’d been the one to pull back. The rawness he’d felt earlier had returned. He felt exposed.
He stood up in a less than graceful movement, his body still clamouring for release, but he was damned if he was going to admit that to Darcy.
He bit out, ‘I don’t play games, Darcy, and I don’t believe in mistakes. I believe in choices. And you need to be honest with yourself and make one.’
Darcy looked up at him for a long moment and the very thin edges of Max’s control threatened to fray completely. But then she took a step back and said in a low voice, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
Frustration clawed at Max with talons of steel. That was not the answer he’d wanted to hear. As she moved to walk away he reached out and took her arm again, not liking the way she tensed.
‘Damn it, Darcy. We both want this.’