Page 7 of Bedding his Innocent Mistress

Her champagne glass was almost full. She took two large sips, almost draining it, and then put it down on the table. Should she tell him she didn’t do this often? Or was it obvious? What if he decided he didn’t want to sleep with someone as inexperienced as her?

No.

He wanted her; the details of her past didn’t matter. This was one night.

One night out of her life – something she’d always be glad she did because finally she could start shifting Steve into a different box in her mind. His body would no longer be the only body to have possessed hers.

Determination gave her courage.

“It’s nice champagne,” she murmured, taking another sip and then deliberately sauntering to the kitchen and placing the glass on the marble bench. “The same as in the casino.”

She saw him nod in the window’s reflection.

Ivy turned, slowly, determinedly, and then walked back towards him. Her fingers were shaking slightly but not from anxiety. She was full of nerves – good nerves. Excited nerves. She wanted this with all of her being. She stopped right in front of him, drawing in a shuddering breath and locking her eyes to his. She asked a silent question; he answered resoundingly.

Ivy fumbled at his top button, loosening it after two attempts. She could feel his eyes trained on her face and her fingers shook a little more, but he didn’t say or do anything to speed her up.

It was a form of sensual torture. The slowness with which she worked was stirring his blood in his body, making it hot and wild with need. When she reached the last button on his shirt and lifted her eyes to his, as if once again silently asking permission to remove the shirt from his pants, he almost groaned with impatience. He didn’t, though. He nodded instead. A small movement of agreement and then her fingers slid inside his belted waist, pulling the fabric free as her fingers brushed against his flesh.

His body jerked.

He wanted to do this. To do it quickly. To take her here, against the wall, or on the kitchen bench; he didn’t care.

He’d been with enough women to know his impatience was unusual and unprecedented. Seduction was, generally, an art form, and Rafe Santoro had perfected it. He never rushed matters.

But her innocence was obvious, her inexperience surprising, and he held his breath, keeping still, honouring her uncertainty, allowing her tentative exploration even when he ached to take command.

Her fingertips glided over his bare chest as she pushed the shirt away, finally, now that each button had been separated from its holster. This she did slowly, too, letting her hands feel him as her eyes ravaged his exposed chest.

Ivy knew it wasn’t fair to compare this man to Steve.

She’d never noticed anything deficient in Steve; she’d loved him. But these two men were not of the same species. Rafe’s chest was a testament to one of Da Vinci’s sketches of man, with its ridged muscles and tight contours. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him; he was lean, but he was taut and firm.

He was male-model-handsome. Hollywood hot.

She bit down on her lip as she pushed the shirt further apart, until finally she could guide it down his arms and remove it completely, so that it dropped to the floor behind Rafe.

“My turn.” A gravelled voice that was a tipping point. Her pulse slammed through her body and she waited, her stomach churning, as he pushed at the straps of her dress, lowering them. Not as slowly as she had, but with the same deliberate fascination.

Heat pooled inside of her as he removed the dress, dragging it down, down, until he reached her breasts.

“No bra,” he murmured appreciatively.

“No need,” was the self-disparaging response she issued with a flicker of a smile.

She didn’t know if he’d heard. Urgency overtook him. His hands dropped to her rear and lifted her easily, as though she weighed nothing. He carried her, her legs wrapped around his waist, the dress making her squeeze him tight, and his mouth dropped to her breast, taking a nipple into his warmth and flicking it with his tongue as he moved through the apartment.

He pressed her against the wall, her back held while her legs stayed wrapped around him and his mouth tormented her with heat and flame. She dragged her hands through his hair; thick and dark, she pulled at it as he rolled her sensitive nipple in his mouth, torturing her with the ambush of feeling.

“I want to drag this out,” he groaned and the words swirled around her breasts with heat and flame. “But I need you now.”

She nodded. She felt the same. And no thought of Steve was on her mind as she agreed. “Me too.”

She ground her hips, bringing her warm heart close to his length, his hard cock was right there. She could feel it through the flimsy fabric of her underwear and she moved against it hard and fast, writhing as though he was inside of her, trying to satisfy the waves of need that were building within.

He swore – at least, she presumed he did – in his own language. A harsh, guttural sound accompanied by the clink of his belt as

he loosened it, pushing his pants apart and releasing himself so that now only her underwear stood between them. He thrust against her, joining her in simulating the act they both wanted and she cried out, hoarse and loud, as pleasure radiated through her. Now when he kissed her breasts, it was demanding and harsh, almost to the point of pain, and she could feel her world tilting off its axis, splintering into a billion tiny, hot pieces.

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