Page 21 of Craving Her Christmas Boss

Her muscles quivered. A film of perspiration covered her. She had never experienced anything so beautiful. She kept her face turned into his warm neck, panting as she breathed in his scent, not wanting to move from this weighted bliss. Even when he lifted his head and she knew he was looking at her she kept her eyes closed.

Her body was still trembling, her emotions threatening to wobble out of control altogether. She wanted to cry. It was too much. And she wanted to have him hold her close. More than anything she wanted to suspend this moment for as long as she could. She didn’t want to be over.

She was in trouble.

He lifted his weight from her chest, but his lower half still pressed into hers. His fingers ran over her face slightly—her forehead, her cheek, her jaw—as if smoothing the frown that she’d determinedly tried to hide.

‘It’s okay, Imogen.’ He didn’t whisper. He knew she was only feigning sleep. He rolled onto his back and pulled her with him, so his chest cushioned her head. His arm encircled her, holding her close, and his other hand came to tilt her chin, lifting her face a little so he could kiss her forehead. ‘It’s okay.’ He did whisper it that time. Then his fingers moved, stroking her hair, her upper arm. Light, warm touches that soothed her oversensitivity, calmed the fear clanging inside her.

He’d stripped her raw, taking every ounce of control from her, so she was utterly exposed to him, utterly vulnerable. Yet it was his arms that protected her now as the last of the tremors shook her. So gentle and comforting that some of those tears did escape. But by then she was so tired she barely noticed, and with a final sigh of exhaustion she capitulated completely and lost all consciousness.

Her head ached. Correction—her whole body ached. No wonder. He’d not let her sleep long, had ruthlessly extracted that total, raw response again and then again, until all that was left of her was a quivering mass of nerves. He’d been right. She’d lost her head—body and mind—she’d given him everything.

Only now there was now—almost the morning after. Uppermost was her feeling of vulnerability. She told him she wasn’t easy—what an absolute joke! She couldn’t have been easier—falling into his arms, begging him with impatient, desperate, total surrender.

How could she have succumbed so completely and so quickly? And he was herboss. Had she learned nothing from George?

Any remaining high evaporated as unwanted memories dredged themselves up—the humiliation of George’s betrayal, the loss of her job and the massive derailment of her career. She’d spent the last year working to reclaim it—how could she have been so stupid as to throw all that away for a few hours of physical fulfilment? Not only was Ryan her boss, he was also a guy who lived in a parallel world of untold wealth and an unreal lifestyle—one far more excessive than George’s had been. And she knew that combination spelt trouble—in capitals all the way.

She screwed her eyes shut and denied his steering attraction to Ryan—blaming hormones for the physical ache that grew all the more painful as she contemplated pulling away from him. If she walked away now—if sheran—she might be able to stop this mess from worsening. But he was so close around her—such a sensual being that even in sleep he sought full contact. His jaw brushed her ear, his fingers rested lightly on her arm, his skin heated hers. She absorbed how relaxed he was—how frighteningly carefree.

How normal must this be for him?

Part of her wanted to submerge herself deep in his embrace. But it could only be a fleeting comfort. Mostly she wanted to cry. She clamped down on the wayward emotions—bit her lips. Tears stung anyway.

Don’t get stupid, keep it simple—one night.

She couldn’t be with him again—there’d be no early morning frolic and a careless wave goodbye. Already she cared too much. Already her heart was breaking.

This one night had to be over this instant.

Hopefully it could be forgotten—by him at least. He’d move on quickly anyway. A guy like him would have no shortage of women keen to keep him company.

Whereas she? She would never forget. In fact, she had the sick feeling that she was going to leave behind a whole lot more than her head’s impression on his pillow. Her heart was threatening to come right out of her chest and set up camp under his foot.

Slowly, carefully, she slid across the bed, inching her way out of his arms and onto the cold sheet. When free of him, she got right off the bed. They hadn’t closed the curtains—even up on this floor of the hotel the streetlights below sent a pale glow into the room.

She already had her underwear and shirt back on when she sensed his movement. She turned. He was sitting up and watching her with an expression so cold she froze.

The frown on his face echoed in his voice. ‘Don’t youdaretell me you regret it.’

SIX

‘Okay.’But Imogen’s whole body ached with regret. Regret about both entering and leaving his bed. She forced her arms through the sleeves of her wretched green shirt.

‘What are you doing?’ Eyes narrow, question direct.

‘I have to go.’

‘Why?’

Because if she stayed any longer she’d never want to leave. Because she couldn’t do this anywhere near as well as she thought she could. Because she was sickly, hopelessly confused. But she couldn’t bear to admit that—not to someone so in control and confident.

After too long a moment of silence he threw back the covers. ‘Where you going to wake me before leaving?’ He shook his head at her continued nil response. ‘Unbelievable.’

He called on jeans with sharp jerks, not stopping for underwear, and then yanked on a long sleeved tee. With stubble and tousled hair—hairshe’dtousled—he was gorgeously, dangerously casual. Except there was nothing casual about the aggression emanating from him as he moved.

Her heart thudded and her belly heated.

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