Claimed (Diamond Tycoons 1)

Except he wasn’t letting her go that easily, not when he was so close to getting answers. And not, he admitted, when he was so hard that walking was going to be a problem.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, grabbing her wrist and spinning her around.

“Away from you,” she muttered.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” He started walking, bumping her breasts with his chest, her abdomen with his erection, her thighs with his.

She backed up a step for each one he advanced, through the narrow row of seats and across the aisle, until her back was pressed against the plane wall and her front was pressed tightly against his own.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice broken, breathless.

He might have felt bad, might have retreated, if his leg wasn’t between her thighs and if her hips weren’t moving

restlessly against the thigh he had pressed against her sex.

“Because I’ve never stopped wanting you.” The answer slipped out of his lust-clouded brain. “Because I don’t think I ever will.”

“It’s not enough,” she said, even as she arched her back and pressed her breasts more firmly against his chest.

He could feel her nipples, peaked and diamond hard, through the thin fabric of her blouse and his T-shirt. He groaned, rubbed his chest against her breasts once, twice, then again and again as her breathing turned from shallow to ragged in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

“It’s more than enough,” he told her, bending his head so his mouth was right against hers. Each one of her trembling exhales left her mouth and entered his. “It always has been. Always will be.”

“Marc.” This time when she said his name it was more plea than protest.

“I’ve got you, Isa. I’ve got you, baby,” he muttered right before he took her mouth in a kiss it felt like he’d been waiting years for instead of mere hours.

Twelve

She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be letting Marc do this. But as his lips took hers, his tongue stroking, slowly, languidly, luxuriously against her own, Isa didn’t care about shouldn’t. She didn’t care about the past and she didn’t care about the future, didn’t care about how much this would hurt when the plane landed and she was once again alone. All she cared about—all that mattered—was the way Marc felt. The way he made her feel, as if her whole body was electrified. As if she could do anything, everything.

Her arms crept up of their own volition, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer, closer, closer, until every inch of her was pressed up against some part of him. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, sex to sex.

It felt so good.

He felt so good.

“Isa, baby,” he murmured against her lips. “I want—”

“Yes.” She ripped her mouth from his, pressed hot kisses against his jaw, his throat, the sensitive spot behind his ear. “Whatever you want, yes.”

It must have been the affirmation he was waiting for, because with one last kiss, he pulled away from her. She made a low, confused sound in the back of her throat, but he just grinned wickedly as he wrapped his hands around her hips, cupped her bottom in his palms and lifted her against him.

“Marc.” It was a moan, a plea, a desperate cry for more even as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing her sex firmly against his own.

He took her mouth again, his lips hot and firm and desperate. Then he was shifting her weight a little, turning, walking through a door toward the back of the plane. When she’d first come aboard, she’d wondered what was back here. Now she knew—it was a small bedroom, complete with a large bed with a black comforter and gray silk sheets.

He never faltered as he walked her backward across the room, never so much as shifted what she considered her pretty substantial weight. Instead, he kept kissing her, skimming his mouth over every part of her he could reach—every inch of exposed skin—and she marveled at his strength, at the feel of all those hard muscles against her own softness.

And then they were at the bed and he was dropping her into the center of it with no warning and a wicked, wicked grin. She gasped at the short fall—and at the sudden lack of contact with this man she should know better than to fall for again.

She did know better, she told herself as she reached for him, her fingers tangling in the soft cotton of his T-shirt. She just didn’t care, not now when Marc was here, hot and hard and as desperate for her as she was for him.

She pulled him down on top of her, then rolled the both of them until she was the one on top, her thighs straddling his hips as she looked down at him. “It’s my turn,” she told him a little breathlessly.

He just smiled, lifting that damn eyebrow of his that was responsible for so much of the trouble she’d found herself in. “You look like you expect me to protest.”

“Aren’t you?”