Faking It to Making It

And any disquiet dissolved into a haze as he pulled back and locked his gaze to hers, the stunning blue so dark with desire emotion rose thick and fast within her, expanding till it filled her all the way to her throat. There it stopped, as pleasure and pressure built inside her, and from there it was released, and the roar of his name echoed off the walls as she fell apart.

Truly spent, Saskia collapsed into Nate’s arms. He held her there, a hand tracing her spine, the other twisting her hair as wave after beautiful wave of aftershock trembled through her.

Feeling the pound of Nate’s heart against her own, Saskia took a breath, stilled her mind, forgot herself and heard her own heart.

This, it said.

And she knew exactly what it meant.

Nate Mackenzie might not talk about himself as much as she wished, but when she was with him he was more present than any man she’d ever known.

He was the first man who’d ever been with her not because he needed to be but because he wanted to be. And that made more of a difference than she’d ever imagined.

But not Nate, she told her heart. Not him.

It said nothing back. It seemed her heart had exhausted its wisdom for the moment.

“We ever going to actually make it to a bed, do you think?” she said, her voice thick.

“One of these days.”

She felt Nate’s smile against her shoulder. And then his teeth scraped over her rose tattoo before he replaced them with a gentle kiss. She didn’t need to count to know exactly how many days they had left together. It was permanently imprinted on her brain, like the ticking of a time bomb.

“In fact...” said Nate, and he dragged himself upright, bubbles and water slewing over his glorious golden skin, till he stood before her, a supreme example of manhood in every which way.

Then he pulled her to her feet, threw her over his shoulder, and padded out of the ridiculously large en suite bathroom, into his bedroom which, with its elegant striped wallpaper, leather-backed bed and dark wood trim, looked as if it had come straight out of the set of Mad Men.

“Wow!” she said, her hands on his hips. “Testosterone central.”

“The faux rhino wasn’t evidence enough? Told you—the designer went mad.”

He gave her bottom a kiss before throwing her on the bed. She bounced and settled, still covered in bubbles, and watched as he found a condom, slid it into place, his eyes roving over her wet, naked form as if he couldn’t decide where to start...

Later, Saskia lay sated beneath luxurious sheets. Nate’s arm was slung heavily across her hip, hooked so his hand settled between her breasts, and the tips of his long fingers were close enough to kiss.

In that soft place between awake and asleep, with the hot, hard length of him nestled in behind her, the last thing that entered her mind before consciousness finally eluded her, was:

This.

* * *

Saskia woke to the sound of a phone ringing. One eyelid at half-mast, she reached out for it—only to knock over a big rectangular lamp with an elephant built into the base, and an Art Deco clock from a low mahogany bedside table.

Nate’s bedside table.

Her eyes popped open like a Pop-Tart in a toaster. She’d slept over? She’d slept over. Oh, God! She’d only meant to drift off for a few minutes, regain some strength, then kiss him to distraction before heading off into the night as if what they were playing at was nothing but fun and games.

Not...not what her heart had hinted at the night before. The same heart that now gave her an unfamiliar little squeeze hello. She shut the thing down and glanced over the side of the bed at the clock on the floor to see it was some time after ten, meaning Nate would be long gone.

He could have woken her, though, sent her on her way before he left. She couldn’t help but feel a little chuffed that he’d trusted her enough to leave her be. Unless he had really good security.

Her phone rang again, and she kicked at the charcoal-grey bedding hooked around her legs, then rushed naked to the chunky leather chaise in the corner of the huge room. Rummaging in her massive bag, she found her phone. Withheld number. Probably a client.

Sitting, naked, with a whump on the edge of the couch she answered, “SassyStats. Saskia Bloom speaking.”

“Hi, Saskia!” twin voices shouted down the phone.

No. It couldn’t be.

“It’s Hope,” said one.

Then, “And Faith. We nicked your number from Nate’s phone the day you came over. Anyhoo, we have a free morning and thought how nice it would be to get to know you better—considering.”

Considering what? That she was sitting on their brother’s chaise naked? She grabbed a deep red afghan and covered herself to her neck.