Rich (Benson Security 5)

“For the record, I thought that slap was an overreaction.”

She stopped touching him and gave him a cold stare. “And I thought you were just another rude American.”

Ouch. Well, that’s what happened when your pickup line got lost in translation. “Let’s not talk about that,” he said.

“Wise choice.” Rachel’s hands started moving again.

It was agony and ecstasy all in one. Each touch sent shock waves through him, making him desperate to return the favor.

“You’re still using that scent,” she half accused, half purred.

Harvard didn’t answer. If his deodorant had this effect on her, he planned to use it until he died. He made a mental note to stock up, just in case it was discontinued.

Slipping her arms around his shoulders, she stepped into him. Her breasts pressed flat against his chest, making his mouth water. Damn, he wished she was naked. That they both were. He wished he could feel the slide of her cool skin against his warmer one, feel the water swirl between them, caressing them as they caressed each other.

Go slow. Don’t rush it. Let her come to you. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

Rachel’s face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, breathing him deep. Her body moved against him in a sensuous wave. His hands clasped tight on her hips. She was killing him.

A groan escaped when he felt her tongue on his skin. Tiny kisses trailed up to his ear before she tugged the earlobe between her teeth.

“Let me off the leash, Rachel.” If he sounded desperate, then it was only the truth.

She shook her head, her hair rubbing against his skin. The tip of her tongue teased his ear. Her breath was loud, echoing through his whole body. He heard the desperate rhythm to it, the hitch when she rubbed her sensitive breasts against him.

“I need to touch you.” Hell, he’d beg if he had to. He was that desperate.

“Not yet.” Her voice was a dark, needy purr as she moved her legs until she’d captured his thigh between them.

His arm wrapped around her as his other hand clenched at his side. She nibbled along the edge of his jaw, her hips undulating, pressing her hot, needy sex against him. His head fell back. His eyes closed. Nothing existed but the woman writhing against him, using him for her pleasure, torturing him with her desire. For a man who was constantly aware of his environment and the threats within it, he wasn’t sure he’d notice an army if they launched an assault on the room.

“Rachel, let me loose. Let me touch you. I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”

Her answer was a kiss to his throat as she moved against him. Holding her tight, he forced himself not to take over her movements, but to keep his promise and let her have her way.

“So good,” she groaned as she rubbed against him, using the firm muscle of his thigh as though it were her own personal sex toy.

“You’re killing me,” he complained.

He felt her smile against his throat. The wicked woman enjoyed torturing him. He should have known she would.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He wasn’t sure if it was an order or a plea.

Her slender hand clasped his jaw, turning his face toward her. He went willingly, and what he saw in her eyes made him want to roar with primal possession. But desire didn’t mean she was his. Not yet. Maybe never.

Please, please, he prayed, don’t let me screw this up.

Holding his gaze, she leaned in to sip at his lips. Harvard couldn’t even describe the noise that escaped him. It was a feral explosion of pure need. Those long lashes of hers drifted down as she changed the angle of her kiss.

Harvard fought to give her the control she needed when all he wanted to do was clasp the nape of her neck and take the kiss deeper. Her teasing tongue toyed with the seam of his lips.

“Let me in,” Rachel whispered, her mouth brushing against his when he refused her entry.

“Say please.” This was a war, and she was a strong fighter; he couldn’t let her win every battle.

She rumbled her approval. “Please?”