Page 40 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

She waited for the water to boil, aware of the huge chasm which existed between their lives. But she couldn’t resist the opportunity to watch him, unobserved. His shoulders were impossibly wide as they stretched across the back of the couch. His hair was shorter than it had been that night, when she’d fisted her fingers into the silky waves and held onto him as he sank into her.

And made a baby.

She blinked and concentrated on the tea, the flush of heat so intense it was uncomfortable. And embarrassing. But as she poured the boiled water into her teapot and arranged a tray with two mugs and some freshly baked amaretto cookies, the hot brick in her abdomen continued to pulse. How come she could smell him over the almond scent of the amaretti and the citrus from the trees outside? That intoxicating aroma of woodsy cologne and laundry detergent and sandalwood soap which had her remembering far too forcefully the feel of him, making her his.

Not his, Bea. You belong to no one now but yourself and your baby.

But then she frowned at the tea tray. She added a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk—and tried to contain the foolish wave of emotion at the thought that she had made a baby with this man but she had no clue how he liked his tea.

Which is why you allowed him to come here. Because you need to know him better.

Heat scorched her cheeks.

Just not in the biblical sense, even if your sex-starved body is comprehensively contradicting you on that score.

Which had to be the pregnancy hormones. Totally.

She started to lift the tray.

‘Wait, I’ll get that,’ he said, and rose so swiftly from the couch the trailer rocked.

Then he was next to her in the tiny kitchen, his strong body close enough to touch. And smell not just the delicious woodsy cologne and the soap, but also the tantalising aroma of salt and man she remembered from that night.

He went to lift the tray just as she tried to step aside, and their bodies collided. Her breath caught in her lungs, her gaze trapped in his, her whole body alive with sensations she’d tried to forget. But hadn’t. Awareness and passion darkened his eyes to a mossy green, and made her insides clench.

She couldn’t seem to move. Almost as if in slow motion, he raised his hand and brushed his thumb down the side of her face. She shivered, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, her throat so dry she felt as if she were attempting to swallow a boulder.

‘I still want you, Beatrice,’ he murmured, his rough voice barely audible above the blood rushing in her ears. ‘I never stopped wanting you.’

His hand slid down to cup the back of her neck.

She should say something.Anything. But she couldn’t find the words to protest as his head bent to hers, his breath feathering across her lips.

‘If you don’t want this too, you have to tell me now,’ he murmured.

But instead of calling a halt to this madness, her sob of surrender sounded like a gunshot in the cramped space.

His lips captured hers—claiming, branding—and his fingers threaded into her hair to cradle her head and anchor her mouth for his possession. The hot rock in her stomach plunged between her thighs and throbbed, the hunger and heat so familiar and yet different.

More demanding, more intense, so much more overwhelming.

Their tongues tangled, the dance of seduction both fierce and forthright and unstoppable, the heady haze of need descending so fast she couldn’t think. All she could do was feel.

She kissed him back with a fervour she couldn’t control. She grabbed his T-shirt to drag him nearer, until her bottom hit the counter and his lean abs pressed against the tight mound of her belly.

Hard hands grasped her waist and lifted her onto the counter, until she was perched on the edge, her legs splayed around his hips.

They broke apart. She needed air, she needed time to think. What was she doing? Giving in to this insane desire was not smart.

But then he pressed marauding lips to her neck, forcing her head back against the cupboards, and palmed her breast.

Sensation spiralled down to her core with devastating purpose, and a moan escaped as he eased the front of her dress down, releasing one engorged nipple.

His lips captured the yearning peak, which was so much more sensitive now. She clasped his head to her chest, urging him on, as his palms trailed up her thighs, pushing her dress to her waist.

He swore softly and released her nipple from the delicious torment. The breeze from the open door made her aware of her bared breast, the nipple damp from his kisses, drawing tight. But then he shifted back, and her gaze locked on the thick ridge in his jeans.

Their eyes met, the flush of arousal slashing across his cheeks like the fire burning across her collarbone.

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