Compromised in Paradise (Compromise Me 3)

She’d gone back to rummaging through her purse. Correction. Checking her phone. He moved the fall of her hair behind her shoulder and discovered her scowling at the small screen. “I’m taking it as a signal I need to ask a few questions, so this next round, when you scream my name, you’re not polluting that beautiful mouth with a lie.”

That got her attention. She raised her head and looked at him—a distinctly hopeful look. “Next round?”

“We said ‘all night.’” He leaned in and nibbled the curve of her neck, and got a shiver and a giggle in return. Yep, definitely ticklish. She was sensitive as hell. Everywhere. And she enjoyed being kissed. Touched. Stimulated. She’d soaked up all of it like a flower soaked up sunlight. There had been nothing contrived about her responses, until the moment of truth—or deceit, in her case. His instincts told him her head had gotten in the way, not her body. The electronic mood-killer in her hand hadn’t helped, either. “I’ve got plenty of time. You?”

She glanced at the screen of her phone again and then flashed it at him to show him the clock. “Hours.”

“Awesome.” He licked the skin he’d just tickled and ran his palm along the inside of her thigh. “I’m sure you have all kinds of responsibilities back in Siberia you need to monitor, but maybe for the next few hours you can turn the phone off? I won’t tell anyone.”

Her head tilted to the side, giving him access to her neck, and her knee inched closer to his, giving him access to a second chance. “Me, either,” she said, and pressed the button to power it down. When the screen went black, she dropped the phone into her purse.

Better already. He leaned in, biting her earlobe while stroking his way up her thigh. She let out a breathy moan and scooted to the edge of the seat.

He stilled his hand. “You like to be touched?” He already knew she did, but he wanted to hear her say it. Hell yes, he’d taken this personally.

“I have kind of a thing for—” She broke off when he lifted the purse from her lap and tossed it on the side table. “For hands. I noticed yours at the bar.”

His hands? Women occasionally complimented him on how he used his hands, but the look of them? Never. “What did you notice about them?”

She took one in both of hers. “They’re big.” She turned his hand palm side up and traced a line from the tip of his middle finger to his wrist. “Long fingers. Wide palm.” She turned it over and ran her thumb along a raised extensor tendon. “Strong and deliberate. As soon as I saw these hands, I wanted them on me. Touching me however they saw fit. I just wanted to feel.”

She wanted to be held. Handled. She might have fed him a line about her identity, and his, for that matter, but this right here wasn’t a line. He turned his hand over so it covered hers and closed his fingers. “That’s convenient, because the first time I saw you, I wanted my hands on you.” He slipped one arm around her shoulders, the other under her legs, and hauled her onto his lap.

She relaxed against him and lifted her face toward his. “Did you?”

In answer, he glided his palm up her ribs until he covered her breast. She arched into his touch. He kneaded and squeezed, increasing the intensity until she couldn’t keep still. “What do you think?”

Black lashes shielded her eyes. She turned in his arms until her head lolled against his collarbone. “I can’t think.”

He flexed his shoulder to bring her lips closer and claimed her mouth. At the same time, he eased his hand into the juncture of her thighs and cupped her. She rocked into his touch with increasing impatience, but he didn’t move, didn’t accept the unspoken invitation to part those velvety folds and delve inside. “How else do you like to be held? Tell me what you want.”

“I want you.”

“Be specific.”

“You’re so mean,” she breathed. “Are you going to make me beg?”

He ran his finger along the soft seam. “I’m just trying to keep you honest. Where would you like me to touch you next? Is your clit pouting for attention, or would you prefer I slide two fingers inside this poor, deprived pussy?”

“I want…oh God, I want—” A buzz interrupted her heartfelt request. He stilled. Fuck.

“I turned it off,” she nearly shouted, to God, or fate, or Apple. “Why is the damn thing still alive?”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, and slowly released her breast. “It’s mine. I’m sorry. I have to check it.”

“Now?” She rolled her hips in a nonverbal demand.

If it had been anyone but the hospital, he would have ignored it. But it was the hospital, and he’d had two especially tricky patients come through the ER this afternoon, either one of which could have given rise to this call. He smoothed his thumb along the velvety strip, reluctant to stop touching her. “Just a check.”

She gave a long-suffering sigh, but shifted off his lap. He leaned forward to snag his phone out of the pile of clothes he’d abandoned less than thirty minutes ago. The message confirmed his worst suspicions. Family members of one of the patients he’d admitted had arrived. The patient was an eighty-six-year-old female suffering from complications of dementia, and not likely to regain consciousness. They had questions, and he was the best source of information about her condition upon arrival.

No, he wasn’t on call, but he could be there in thirty minutes. The right thing to do was go in and offer whatever information he could to help the woman’s family come to terms with a difficult situation.

“You really are going to make me beg, aren’t you?” He looked over to find her staring at him with a pained smile on her face. “NASA emergency?”

“I hate to say it, Czarina, but I have to go.” Forcing himself to his feet, he added a lame, “I’m sorry,” and reached for his pants. He was sorry. Walking away from her was harder than he expected. Some of that was his ego, which balked at not delivering on the screaming orgasms, but some of the sorry stemmed from the fact that he’d had a good time. She was an entertaining bundle of contradictions. Bluntly up-front about what she wanted, but not above resorting to bald-faced lies to get it. A woman game for an anonymous night of fun with a guy she’d never see again, who preferred to fake an orgasm rather than wound his pride…or admit she needed more to get her there. Somehow she managed to be sweet despite the subterfuge, even when he’d called her on her bullshit.

As if to prove his impression, she reclined against the chaise. “It’s okay. I understand.”