The Disobedient Virgin

She did. Then she gave a deep sigh and leaned against him, her head resting against his heart.

God, she was so warm. So delicate. She smelled so good, felt so good. One kiss. One little kiss, just to reassure her.

“Cat?” Jake whispered. He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face until it was level with his. Her eyes grew big and dark; her lips parted. “Cat,” he said hoarsely, and put his mouth against hers.

It was as if he’d kissed her a million times before. There was no hesitation, no cautious placement of lips and noses. The second their lips met, she sighed and opened her mouth to his.

“Jake,” she whispered. “Jake…” And everything he’d promised himself about not kissing her fled his mind.

He was lost in her taste, her scent; he slipped his tongue between her lips and she gave another of those little moans, looping her arms around his neck, digging her fingers into his hair and holding on to him the same way he was holding on to her—as if the world were liable to stop spinning at any moment and all they had to keep from flying into space was each other.

Somehow, he shifted his weight.

Somehow, she shifted hers, until she was sitting astride him, until his hands were beneath that silly sweatshirt and, God oh, God, he’d been right. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Her breasts were wonderful to touch. Truly perfect. Warm and silken against his palms. Her nipples…God, her nipples begged for the heat of his mouth.

“Cat,” he said thickly, and pushed up the damned shirt, bent his head, kissed the creamy slopes of her breasts, kissed the tips, drew one then the other between his lips, gently suckling, biting, tormenting her until she cried out in ecstasy, sobbed his name and moved, moved her hips, so that she was grinding her pelvis against his.

His erection was so hard it was almost painful. His body pulsed with life. With desire. With need for Catarina.

“Wait,” Jake whispered, and he shifted her, clasped her hips, watched her face as he positioned her against him.

There were layers of clothing between them but it didn’t matter. He could feel her muscles trying to close around him, see the blindness of passion in her eyes, hear the rasp of breath. Was it hers or his?

Nothing mattered but this.

This woman.

This moment.

This, this, this…

Jake groaned, cursed, pulled back.

“Jake?” Cat whispered.

He shuddered, shook his head, sat her on the other stool. His face was white, except for a vivid streak of color across each high cheekbone.

“Tomorrow,” he said in strangled tones. “The Brazilian Embassy. I’ll make that phone call, get some names…”

“Jake—”

She was staring at him, her eyes luminous, her skin glowing, her nipples tautly defined under the sweatshirt.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything.”

“Not for this,” she whispered. “Please don’t be sorry for this.”

Jake tried for an answer but couldn’t find one. Instead, h

e rose from the stool and went to the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he started to say, but Cat’s voice cut across his.

“Jake?”

He stopped. Inhaled. Let out a long, slow breath. Where was the power of meditation when you really needed it?