The blush turned fiery. “I’m suffering from an over-use injury.”
“Poor baby. It’s entirely my fault. I owe you an apology.”
“It’s not your fault. I’ve just never spent an entire afternoon—”
He knelt and draped her legs over his shoulders.
“W-what are you doing?”
He held back a laugh and bestowed a kiss high on the inside of one thigh. “Apologizing.” So saying, he opened the nightstand drawer and took out a tube of Tradewinds’ Tropical Passion Edible Massage Gel.
She propped herself up on her elbows. “We charge sixty dollars for that stuff.”
“You can’t put a price on forgiveness.” He kissed the other thigh.
“I forgive you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept words.” He lubed his fingers. “Now, tell me where it hurts. Here? Or here?” He drew a leisurely figure eight, around and around, until her head dropped back and she lifted her hips to meet his touch. He hoped she had her eyes open, enjoying the view of his head framed by her thighs.
“That feels like heaven. I definitely forgive you.”
“I need to know your forgiveness runs deep. I need to hear it ringing in my ears. I need to taste it.”
“Oh, God…”
His first long, slow apology had her grabbing fistfuls of his hair. The second loosened her tongue. “I forgive you. Completely. I swear.”
He kept the apologies coming, slow and steady, until she planted her feet on his shoulders and lifted her hips. Signal received. He apologized faster, and faster still when her heels dug into his collarbones like stirrups. She practically levitated with forgiveness.
The second he closed his lips around her clit she stiffened, threw her head back and granted him something that sounded like complete and total absolution.
Moments later, as he kissed his way up her still trembling stomach, over her still pounding heart, and claimed her pliant, still parted lips, a strange thought floated through his mind. He didn’t believe in fairytales like happily ever after, but if such a thing did exist, it might feel a lot like this.
Chapter Fifteen
Jan. 10
1:15 p.m.
Chelsea,
Is the Tropical Passion massage gel gluten free??? Miss Simmons in room 202 wants to know.
Thx.
Lynette
She blushed. Couldn’t help it. Intensely aware of Rafe prowling her tiny office, talking into his cell phone, Chelsea hit reply and typed, Thank Miss Simmons for inquiring and please assure her every flavor is gluten free.
She glanced up and took a moment to admire him in profile while he stared out her window and listened to whatever information his assistant summarized for him. Steel gray trousers and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms looked unreasonably good on him. Then again, everything looked good on him. Nothing looked even better.
He shook his head in response to something his assistant asked. In the process, his gaze snagged on hers, and held. His lips curved into a smile that said, Caught you.
Guilty. She shifted her attention to her computer screen and swept her hair up into a loose knot while she scanned the rest of her emails. She’d been looking her fill at every inch of him for four days, not to mention three incredible nights, but her eyes kept coming back for more. So did the rest of her. Even sitting next to him in her office, doing something as dry and analytical as isolating trends in forty-eight months of reservation reports, rendered her half seduced. Sharing the small space left her susceptible to his cologne, his body heat, and the inherent magnetism of the man. He made it hard to concentrate on work.
Other than a bad case of sexually-induced ADD, she had zero complaints. Her newly adopted philosophy worked better than she’d dared hope. Thumbs up to fun, attraction, and mind-blowing sex. She could do this. Was doing it, and the knowledge put a happy glow in her heart, not to mention a few other places.
She scanned the rest of her emails and listened with half an ear while he wrapped up his call.