The Tycoon's Secret Child (Texas Cattleman's Club: Blackmail 1)

She loved the taste of him, the feel of him. And when he moved away from her to peel off his clothes, she missed his warmth, the heat of their bodies wrapped together. He stood up, and she shrugged out of her clothes, kicked her pants off and lay on the comforter, watching him. When he stopped dead, with his hands at his belt, she managed to ask, “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t do this.”

“What?”

He pushed both hands through his hair in frustration. “No protection, Belle. I haven’t kept a condom in my wallet since I was in college.”

She was glad to hear it. But she laughed a little and said, “Oh. For a second there, I thought you were changing your mind.”

“Not a chance,” he said, “but unless you—”

“In the bedside table drawer,” she said, wanting to cut this conversation short and get back to shivering and trembling.

He pulled the drawer open, then looked at her, eyebrows arched. “Quite the supply,” he said. “Been busy?”

She shook her head, licked her lips and choked out a short chuckle. “No. I think of that drawer as my hope chest. I figured it’s better to have them and not need them—”

“Than to need them and not have them,” he finished for her.

“Exactly.”

He grabbed one of the foil packets, stripped out of his clothes and said, “I do like a woman who’s prepared.”

“Show me.”

He didn’t need another invitation. He came to her, covering her body with his, and Isabelle sighed at the first soft, warm contact of his skin to hers. She’d missed this so much. His scent, his taste, his strength. He was a businessman, but his big hands still carried the calluses he’d earned as a young man. And the scrape of his rough palms along her body created a new and even more exciting layer of sensation.

He rolled over, bringing her on top of him, and she loved looking down into those sea-colored crystal eyes. His hands cupped and kneaded her behind and she writhed on top of him in response. She kissed him hard, fast, then raised her head to watch him as she shifted, rising up, moving to straddle him.

In the moonlit room, even the air felt like magic. This moment was one she’d been thinking and dreaming of since she’d first opened her door and seen him on her porch. Slowly sitting up, she dragged the palms of her hands across his chest and loved the flash of something hot and dark that shot through his eyes.

Isabelle felt a rush of sexual power that ratcheted higher and higher inside her as she went up on her knees and slowly, slowly, lowered herself onto him. She took his hard, thick length inside, inch by glorious inch, and when he was filling her completely, she sighed and reveled in everything she was feeling.

He reached up, covering her breasts with his hands, tweaking and tugging at her nipples until she groaned and twisted her body in response. That movement sent shock waves rippling through her system and made her want to feel more, to feel it all.

Unable to wait a moment longer to experience the release clamoring inside her, Isabelle moved on him, rocking up and down in a slow, rhythmic dance that created tingles that rose up and burst and rose up again. She lifted her arms high over her head, giving herself over to what was happening, and the feel of his hands on her breasts only fed the fire that burned brightly inside her.

Then his hands dropped to her hips and guided her into a faster pace. His gaze locked on hers, they stared into each other’s eyes as they claimed each other in the most intimate way possible. The tingle at her core became an incessant burn that ached and ached, pushing her toward the release she needed. And when Isabelle felt she couldn’t take it a moment more, the needing, the desire, he shifted one hand to her center and rubbed that sensitive nub at her core.

“Wes!” She cried his name but kept moving on him, kept rocking, twisting her hips in a blind effort to take him higher, deeper. That bone-deep ache intensified as they moved together in a dance as ancient as time, and when her body exploded, shattering into a fusillade of color and sensation, Isabelle clung to his forearms and rode the wave to the end.

Only then, when she was shaking and shivering, did Wes let himself follow. She stared into his eyes and watched as he surrendered himself to her. Gave himself to her.

And she wished, from the bottom of her heart, that that surrender was complete.

Seven

An hour later, they were lying wrapped together beneath the comforter. There was a bottle of wine on the nightstand, thanks to Wes making a trip down to the kitchen. He’d had to wait until he was sure his legs would work—but he’d needed those few minutes away from Belle. Away from what they’d shared, to try to think. Hopeless, though, since there wasn’t enough blood flow to fuel his brain. All he knew was that what he’d just shared with Belle had been so much more than he’d expected. So much more than he’d been ready for. He’d have to take the time—later—to examine it all from every possible angle. But for now, he was only hoping to experience it all again. Soon.

Outside, snow fell again in soft, white puffs that danced against the window and slid down the glass. Inside, the room was warm, the wine was cold and firelight tossed dancing shadows across the walls.

“Well,” Belle said on a sigh, “that was...”

Wes smiled to himself, then took a sip of his wine. “Yeah, it was.”

Belle tugged the edge of the comforter up to cover her breasts as she leaned back on the pillows propped against the brass headboard. Then she pushed one hand through her hair and sipped at her own wine. “So, do we need to talk about this?”

Why did women always want to talk? He grinned and shrugged. “We’re both naked, lying here drinking wine, and I don’t know about you, but I’m already thinking about round two. What is there to talk about?”