Page 3 of Driving Him Wild

Even under several layers of insulation, the Viking-god build of the man was unmistakeable. His

shoulders went on for ever, as did his rangy torso and tree-trunk legs.

Thefuck-me hairI couldn’t verify on account of the snow-white beanie covering him from

forehead to nape. Not many guys managed to pull off a beanie. Jensen Scott managed to pull it off

with extra aplomb.

Suck-me lips.

My own addendum to Elsa’s list.

Tick.

A thinner upper and slightly overfull lower, his mouth was the perfect ingredient for wet-making

sex fantasies. The kind you could imagined latched onto your clit for hours while his tongue went to work.

A flash of heat blazed through me, welcome only because of its life-saving purposes. The rest of it

—that sweet sting to my clit, that plumping of my labia, the slow slide of hot liquid I hadn’t felt in a while and almost convinced myself had become unimportant—I intended to ignore the same way I’d

been ignoring the demands of my libido for the better part of a year. It wasn’t worth it any longer to go against what I’d denied for the better part of a decade. What I now knew went deeper than a mere

proclivity—my utter and unapologetic need for complete control. A hunger I’d attempted to feed with the wrong men and the wrong choices until I’d decided, no more.

Those eyes that looked as if they were sparked with sky and snow narrowed at me. ‘And you are?’

I chose not to be offended. Hell, I was even a little glad to not be instantly recognised. ‘I’m in

charge here,’ I stated.

To his credit, he didn’t do that subtle double-take some men did when confronted with a woman in

charge. Nor did he look to Larry for verification. He simply accepted my word, even while his

nostrils flared with his displeasure.

‘The problem is that Larry here has been less than candid with me, haven’t you, sir?’ he accused.

His deep, low voice held the faintest Scandinavian accent, probably from his Danish motherland. The kind that made my ears prickle with a need to hear him speak more, just so I could hear the inflexions in that beautifully modulated accent.

Or perhaps it was thatsir?

I kicked myself into touch, tightened my hold on control before even the mereideaof indulging in scandalous thoughts strayed into my consciousness.

‘How exactly have you been deceived?’ I pressed.

I trusted Larry implicitly. He’d been with me almost from the beginning of what had been a

throwaway job cobbled together by my family to shut me up. A project they’d hoped would occupy

my time and stop me demanding an active seat in the boardroom. Little had they known that I would

breathe my very life into it until it was an equal force in its own right on the Mortimer Group business radar.

That the award-winning charitable foundationFortune 500companies clamoured to be a part of and the associatedMortimer Quarterlymagazine named the number one for three years running would become an integral part of the family company.

---