Page 220 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

She felt her thighs clench.

Gazing down at his dark head, she’d felt like a goddess.

But her thoughts had been more prosaic. So that was what the fuss was all about. Because it felt momentous. Miraculous and, oh, so good that she had almost forgotten to breathe.

She still wasn’t quite clear on how it had happened. It wasn’t as if she’d woken up this morning and thought today would be a good day to have sex.

And she had done more than have sex. She had orgasmed. For the first time in her life.

She had faked it every single time with Noah. He was five years older than her and, coupled with his certainty about everything, that had been thrilling enough for her to ignore the way sex had been mostly uncomfortable and unsatisfactory. For her anyway. Which he had made clear was her fault, not his.

She knew what passion was now, and pleasure. What was less clear was why her body had chosen to discover both those things with Tiger McIntyre.

It wasn’t that unclear, she thought, her pulse twitching as she pictured Tiger’s astonishing face. He was beautiful, undeniably so with those flawless contoured features and those mesmerising gold eyes. Plus, he clearly knew what he was doing when it came sex. Only it was more than just technical expertise—he had wanted to please her.

And before that, he had wanted to make sure she was okay.

She felt her body tense at the memory of when she’d realised he had come after her. With Noah, running, hiding from him, had always been a last resort. Mostly she’d just wanted it over with, but also it would increase his rage tenfold.

‘Don’t make me have to look for you—’ he would threaten down the phone on his way home. And sometimes she hadn’t. But other times she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

A shiver ran over her skin.

Her body had taken charge just as it had in the bedroom with Tiger. Because she’d thought she had gone too far, pushed him too far, and he had been angry, and exasperated, but he’d been controlling his anger. It hadn’t been controlling him.

Instead of raging he had asked questions and listened to her answers. They’d had a conversation, and that in a way felt as climatic as her very first orgasm.

She trailed her fingers over the smooth silk, remembering the smoothness of his skin. It was a lot to take in, but not as much as she had revealed. Was it too much? It was certainly more than she had ever shared or wanted to share before. Even just the thought of doing so had made her feel naked, flayed by the curiosity and judgement in people’s eyes, but Tiger hadn’t judged.

There had been an intensity to his focus, as if he couldn’t look away, as if he’d liked what he’d seen and she had liked the way he’d looked at her. Of course, back in the States it would be different. In the real world, she wasn’t ready to let someone get close, but this wasn’t real, and maybe that was why she had felt safe enough to open herself to Tiger physically and emotionally.

Gazing up at the pale sun that was sliding smoothly up through the cloudless blue sky, Tiger checked the timer on his watch. Two minutes left.

Easy, he thought, accelerating across the grass to the beach and the shimmering sea.

He had slept badly then woken early and decided to run around the island. Because why not? The sun was shining. There was a soft, warm breeze. It was going to be a beautiful day, which was good news because today was the day of the Regata Storica.

It was also, give or take, eighteen hours since he had been inside Sydney’s body.

He swore as he lost his footing and stumbled forward onto the sand. Because it wasn’t the first time he had lost his footing over the last eighteen hours, metaphorically speaking at least. And the reason for his clumsiness was no doubt still sleeping. In his bed.

Gritting his teeth, he glanced at his watch. That stumble had cost him thirty seconds. Which meant that now he could add time to the list of things that Sydney Truitt had stolen or tried to steal from him.

Walking back to the villa with her yesterday morning, he had confidently assumed that things would go back to normal. Normal being a state where he had already moved on. Variety was good, and control. Relationships, for want of a better word, only happened on his terms, so when Sydney had said that they shouldn’t have sex again, he had been completely on board with that.

Or so he’d thought.

Everything had been fine at first. Over lunch, he’d felt calm, relaxed even, but then his body had still been suffused with post-coital endorphins. Then afterwards, Sydney had disappeared upstairs to try on some of the clothes and he had taken some calls from work, but he had found it difficult to concentrate because he could see Sydney from the window of his office. She’d been sitting by the pool, and most women, particularly a woman he’d just had sex with, would be not just wearing a bikini but languidly smoothing sun lotion on herself. He’d seen it all so many times. And the more they tried to tempt him, the less interested he got.

Because he wasn’t Gerald McIntyre.

Not even close.

Only Sydney hadn’t been rubbing sun cream onto her skin. Nor had she been wearing a bikini. She had been not quite fully dressed, but not far off it, and yet he hadn’t been able to look away. He kept remembering the parts of her body he had so briefly glimpsed when they had reached for one another in the half-light of the fisherman’s hut.

The curve of her shoulder. That doe-soft skin of her inner thighs. The pale swell of her breast.

But that was it. That was all he was going to get. A glimpse, because Sydney was not looking for anything to happen again.

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