Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

There was no right place. She’d start wherever she wanted to start. And right now, she wanted to explore his body, in detail and at length. Determinedly silencing the hyper-critical voice in her head that was desperate to analyse what she was doing and assess her performance, Orla moved across the blanket, avoiding the remnants of lunch, and knelt beside him, stretched out before her like her own personal banquet.

With her breath in her throat, she leaned forwards and began undoing the buttons of his shirt, taking her time, savouring every inch of gorgeous tanned skin that her movements exposed. But it was awkward at this angle. She felt like a doctor examining a patient—not the ideal scenario to be envisaging—so she shifted, yanked up her skirt, and in one smooth movement she was sitting astride him, and ah, yes, this was better. From here, she could put her hands on his shoulders, and with his help remove the shirt altogether.

As she began to trace the muscles of his chest and then lower, of his abdomen, he tensed and let out a long hiss, and when she lifted her gaze to his face she saw that his eyes were dark and stormy and his jaw was rigid.

He wanted her. A lot. She could feel the hard steel of his erection pressed against her soft centre, and suddenly, unexpectedly, a rush of liquid heat poured through her and settled low in her pelvis. Her head spun and her pulse raced, but she wasn’t going to analyse it. She wasn’t going to think about anything. Instead, she was going to kiss him.

Bending forwards and training her gaze on his mouth, Orla planted her hands on the blanket and lowered her head. Her lips settled on his and she tentatively slid her tongue between them to meet his. As she explored him, slowly and thoroughly, her eyes fluttered shut and sparks danced in her head. Her senses took over and it wasn’t even a conscious decision that she’d had to make. She was far too drugged for that. He tasted of rich wine and delicious wickedness. His spicy, masculine scent wound through her, intoxicating her further.

She could feel his restraint as he kissed her back, in the rigidity of his body and the curling of his hands into fists at his sides. To know how strongly she was affecting him gave her the biggest of kicks and the confidence to tear her mouth from his and move it along his jaw. The feel of his stubble against her skin made her shiver and his breathing was harsh in her ear. When her mouth closed over the pulse hammering at the base of his throat, he actually growled.

Badly in need of air, Orla drew back dazedly, genuinely panting, and looked down, and somehow, instinctively maybe, her hands had made their way to his chest. His heart was thundering beneath her palms, almost as hard and fast as hers, and oh, look, now they were sliding down over hot skin and a light dusting of hair that narrowed down and disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts.

She was burning up. Her T-shirt was too tight. She was struggling to breathe, and without thought, without a care, she whipped it off and tossed it to one side. Her bra—lacy today, as if subconsciously she’d known that this was a possibility—followed a moment later, leaving her bare from the waist up and exposed to his gaze. But the brush of a breeze made no difference to her temperature, not when Duarte was looking at her with such blazing hunger.

‘You’re killing me,’ he said roughly.

He sounded tortured and for a split-second Orla wondered whether she was doing something wrong, but there was no right or wrong, she reminded herself firmly. There was just heat and desire, and to her giddy delight she was still feeling it all.

But she wanted more. Much more.

‘Touch me,’ she murmured, her voice scratchy and low.

With one swift move, Duarte shifted her down and pushed himself up, one arm sliding round her back to hold her in place. Orla was still catching her breath when his other hand landed on her waist, but she nevertheless felt the sizzle across her skin, as if she’d been branded.

‘More,’ she gasped, wrapping her hands round his neck and sinking her fingers into his hair while he obliged her by sliding his hand up her side to her breast.

He cupped her there, stroking her feverish flesh, and oh, it was so very different to the night before. Tingles were spreading through her entire body, tiny sparks of electricity that she felt from the top of her head to the ends of her toes and made her tremble. She groaned, she couldn’t help it, and this time there was nothing fake or forced about it. This time it had risen up from somewhere deep within her.

She was dizzy with longing. Able to focus on nothing but the sight of his large, tanned hands moving over her skin and the burn they left in their wake. She was growing increasingly desperate to find out what she was capable of, to do something to ease the gnawing ache intensifying inside her. Breathing hard, she reached down. With trembling fingers and a banging heart, she undid his belt then grappled with his fly. Duarte shifted so that she could shove his shorts and underpants down, and then he was in her hand, velvety hot and as hard as iron.

But running her fingers over him wasn’t enough. She wanted him in her mouth, to taste him, to find out if he liked that, how he liked that, so she planted a hand on his chest and pushed him back. He let out a soft gasp of surprise, but when she scooted down his body and closed her mouth over him, doing to him exactly what she wanted to do, his gasps became harsher, more ragged, and shudders racked his powerful body.

Nature was marvellous, instinct was wonderful, and oh, he did like that. He liked every lick, every stroke. And so did she, she liked it a lot, but the clawing ache was relentless now and she badly wanted him inside her. She lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were dark and dazed and his jaw was clenched, tension gripping every muscle of his body.

‘Condom?’ she managed, her pulse hammering and her breath coming in sharp, shallow pants.

‘Basket.’

The roughness of his voice, almost a growl, scraped over her nerve endings and, about to expire with need, Orla reached over and found it.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m using you,’ she said shakily as she ripped the packet open.

‘You aren’t but I couldn’t care less if you were,’ he said through gritted teeth, taking the condom and applying it with impressively swift efficiency while she rid herself of her knickers.

Catching her lower lip with her teeth, she lifted her hips and sank down onto him, her breath hitching at the incredible feel of him, so big and deep inside her. She leaned forwards to kiss him, her hands on his shoulders for support, and began to move. She couldn’t help herself. It was as if her body had a mind of its own and she was merely along for the ride.

And what a ride it was becoming. Her blood was on fire. Her bones were melting. Their kisses were generating enough electricity to power a small country and with every wild roll of her hips, sensation blazed through her.

So this was the result when you let things happen naturally, she thought dazedly, as the pressure inside her grew. This was what it was like to moan and groan and sigh without intending to.

Duarte clamped one hand on the small of her back and the other to the back of her neck, pressing her more tightly against him and angling her head to deepen their kisses, as if able to read what she needed and taking care of it. And she found she was all right with that. She was all right with everything. More than all right, in fact.

Her movements were becoming wilder, more uncontrollable. Kissing was impossible and she was unbearably hot. Her body didn’t feel like her own. It was being driven by a need that defied analysis—huge, overwhelming, breathtaking. She ached all over, the tension filling her agonising. Her heart was thundering, the pressure was building and she was racing in the direction of something that was barrelling towards her.

And then somewhere in the recesses of her brain, she was aware of Duarte reaching round and pressing his fingers against her with mind-blowing accuracy, and suddenly, with a cry she just couldn’t contain, she shattered into a million scorching pieces. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, so intensely she saw stars. Pure ecstasy flooded her entire body and she found she was shaking all over, fighting for breath, for sanity, and convulsing around him.

And when he thrust up one last time, impossibly hard and deep, a great groan tearing from his throat as he pulsed into her over and over again, triggering tiny aftershocks of delight, she knew that it had been perfect. Wonderfully, gloriously, perfect.