Perfect Strangers

I wakeup hours later knowing instinctively that something is wrong.

It’s that mother’s intuition. The heightened hearing. The sharper sense of smell. The finely-tuned antennae you never lose, even when your child has long since been ripped from your arms.

Heart pounding, I sit up in bed, my ears straining to hear any sound. I’m not sure if it was a sound that woke me, but I listen hard into the dark. My eyes slowly adjust until I can make out the edges of the dresser, the curved arm of the chair near the door.

And the tall figure of the man standing beside it.

I scream in terror, but he’s on me before I can jump out of bed. He grabs me and pins me beneath his heavy body, flattening me against the mattress as I struggle wildly underneath him.

“Olivia,” growls a rough voice into my ear. “It’s me. Stop. It’s only me.”

I fall still, panting, realizing from one heartbeat to the next that it’s James. It only takes another few seconds for the fury to hit.

“What the fuck!” I shout. “You nearly scared me to death, asshole!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry? How did you even get in here?” I continue to struggle, but he’s not letting me go. If anything, his hands tighten even more around my wrists. He slides a leg over both of mine, stopping me from kicking him.

“You left the front door open. I knocked and rang the bell, but you didn’t answer.”

I was so distracted by the stupid thing vs. think argument when I came in that I can’t remember if I locked it or not, but it doesn’t surprise me that I left it open. I did the same thing the other night when he took me to dinner. The man always puts me out of sorts.

“So you thought it would be a good idea to just waltz in uninvited?”

“I told you I’d come.”

“And I told you not to!”

I feel his hot breath on my neck when he whispers, “Tell me to leave and I will.”

I lie there glaring at the ceiling and grinding my teeth until I get my breathing under control. Part of me wants to snap Get the hell out…but there’s another part of me—a bigger part—that doesn’t.

I haven’t had a man in my bed in years. Years. Every neglected nerve in my body is shrieking.

And considering it’s this particular man, who gets me so hot with a single look that my eyes cross, I’m inclined to let him stay and see where this is going.

I grit out, “You can stay, but you’d better make it up to me.”

He releases my wrists, props himself up on his elbows, and kisses me. It’s a gentle kiss, a searching one, and seems apologetic. He knows I’m walking on the razor’s edge of my temper.

He says, “I want to make it up to you, sweetheart, but you haven’t given me your list yet.”

Grr.“Fine. You want a list of what I like to do in bed? Here’s the top five: sleep, read, watch TV, cuddle my boyfriend pillow while daydreaming about winning the Nobel Prize for literature, and sleep.”

It takes me a moment to realize the slight shaking in James’s chest is stifled laughter.

“You said sleep twice.”

“That’s because I really like to sleep!”

He kisses me softly in the sensitive spot under my earlobe, making me shiver. “I see. And what is a boyfriend pillow, exactly?”

Another kiss, lower on my neck, and I shiver again. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

Kiss. Kiss. Nibble. Kiss. He works his way slowly down my neck to my collarbone, then dips the tip of his tongue into the hollow of my throat. He adjusts his weight on top of me, sliding his leg between mine.

He’s so big and heavy. So warm and solid. So strong. And God, how I love it.

There’s nothing that makes you feel more like a woman than lying under the powerful bulk of a man.

“It’s…um…like a big comfy sleeping pillow about half the length of my body.”

“Mmm.” He slides a hand under me and squeezes my ass, drawing me closer against him and flexing his hips.

He’s already hard for me. My pulse goes arrhythmic. I clutch his shoulders, sinking my fingers into the fine fabric of his suit.

Why is he still wearing his suit? Did he come straight here from wherever it was he went? “It’s very supportive,” I say, breathing harder. “I love my boyfriend pillow.”

James lifts his head and locks eyes with me. His gaze is intense and heated. “Interesting.”

“My pillow?”

“No, the fact that I’m insanely jealous of it.”

Because I sleep with it or because I said I love it?My heart flutters, but I don’t ask the question aloud.

I whisper, “If anything, it should be jealous of you. I’ve never given myself an orgasm while thinking of my boyfriend pillow.”

James’s eyes flare, drilling down into mine. “You made yourself come thinking of me?”

I can tell he’s excited by the idea. His voice is raw and there’s a new tension in his body, a telling change in the rhythm of his breathing.

I nod.

“When? Earlier tonight?”

Oh God. He wants all the dirty details. Why did I even open my mouth? I moisten my lips. James tracks the motion of my tongue with the eyes of a predator. “No. After I met you at the café.”

His lips part. Astonished, he gazes down at me.

I grumble, “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging you. Fuck, Olivia, I am not judging you.” He laughs. “Especially considering I did the exact same thing.”

I peer at him, unconvinced.

Seeing my narrow-eyed look, he laughs again. He kisses my neck and jaw, chuckling against my skin, his stubble tickling me. “It was this ripe peach that did it,” he murmurs, squeezing my butt again. “You walked away from me and my dick got so fucking hard watching this ass sway that I had to go into the café’s restroom and jerk myself off.”

I shove at his chest. “That’s a bald-faced lie!”

“No, sweetheart. It’s the God’s honest truth.”

He kisses me, his mouth hard and demanding, his heart crashing against my breasts. Then he rolls off me, flicks on the lamp on the nightstand, and stands at the side of the bed looking down.

“Tell me what I did to you in your fantasy,” he says in a low, urgent voice, shucking off his jacket and tossing it carelessly aside. “Tell me exactly what I did.”

He whips off his shirt while I stare at him, feeling electrocuted.

And scared as shit.

I swallow and try not to hyperventilate as I watch him kick off his shoes, peel off his socks, unbuckle his belt, and rip off his trousers. If there’s a speed record for undressing, he’s about to break it.

Then he’s standing there in all his glory wearing only a pair of black briefs. An enormous bulge distends the front.

The sight of his gorgeous body must be crossing all the wires in my brain, because I say, “You fucked me like you owned me, body and soul.”

Without breaking eye contact with me, he palms his erection, squeezing it through his briefs then stroking his hand up and down the length. “Go on.”

His voice is controlled but strain shows on his face. His muscles are all tensed, as if he’s restraining himself from lunging.

Heat blooms over my skin, prickling all the tiny hairs on my body. A fine tremor runs through my stomach. I lie motionless on my back, watching this aroused, beautiful man fight himself not to pounce on me, and feel more powerful than I have in my life.

“You were on top of me. Fucking me. Hard.”