Page 12 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

So she nodded.

His mouth captured her sob of surrender, his lips firm, seeking and voracious. She opened for him again and let him lead the kiss, but as their tongues tangled she found herself making demands of her own.

The kiss became desperate and all-consuming, but also tender. She drove her fingers into his hair and dragged him closer still—his hunger sending her senses into a tailspin of need.

His hands clasped her bottom, pressing her to him, until she became brutally aware of the thick ridge revealing the effect she had on him, which he couldn’t hide.

As they came up for air, his harsh pants matched her ragged sobs.

He swore softly, then boosted her into his arms. ‘Wrap your legs around my waist,’ he rasped.

She did as he asked, unable to deny the dizzying rush of emotion at the realisation he was protecting her bare feet from the broken glass. She clasped his face, kissed his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, loving the feel of his skin on her lips and the harsh murmur of his breathing.

He carried her down a corridor at the back of the space and entered a huge bedroom.

A vast picture window on the far side looked out across the Thames Estuary towards Rotherhithe and the docks—the view was less romantic but somehow more real than the one at the front of the building.

He put her down and her bare toes sank into thick carpeting.

‘I want you naked, Beatrice,’ he said, the gruff demand in his voice impossibly seductive.

But the raw request made her hesitate.

No man had ever seen her naked before. She’d always been self-conscious about her body, knowing her boyish figure was at its best displayed in designer couture. Would he be disappointed, appalled even, when he saw her virtually flat chest, her narrow hips, her thin frame? She didn’t want to risk all her newfound confidence evaporating before they got to the main event.

But she forced herself to nod. As he reached for her, though, she evaded him.

‘I want you naked too,’ she said.

Perhaps if they were both naked, she would feel less exposed.

His eyebrows lifted, but then he laughed. ‘All right, Princess.’ The words were mocking, but when he began to unbutton his shirt, revealing the tattoo of barbed wire that looped around his collarbone, her self-consciousness faded, washed away on a surge of heat.

He stripped off the shirt and flung it away.

Oh...my.

If she’d thought the view from the lift had been spectacular, it was nothing compared to the sight of Mason Foxx’s naked torso.

Her gaze raked over the defined slabs of muscle, the hair-dusted pecs, the ridges of his six-pack, the muscles which arrowed towards his waistband. And the many small scars and two other tattoos—one crude, one intricate—all evidence of the uncharmed life he’d led.

He flipped open the button on his trousers, revealing a pair of black boxer shorts, but just as the rush of moisture flooded her mouth...and her panties...he paused.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he said, the teasing note doing nothing to disguise the rasp of urgency. ‘I thought we were in this together?’

‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ she said, the last of her self-consciousness incinerated by that playful, provocative tone. She found the side zip of the designer gown with clumsy fingers, slid it down, then paused as he kicked off his shoes, stripped off his trousers.

‘You need some help with that?’ he asked as he stepped closer.

She nodded because she couldn’t seem to move.

His quick grin was feral as he used one fingertip to edge a strap off one shoulder. She shuddered as he eased the other strap down, and the silky dress slid over her body to pool at her feet. She shivered, but she wasn’t cold. Not even close.

He stepped back and cleared his throat. ‘You’re beautiful, Beatrice,’ he murmured, his voice so rich with appreciation and approval she felt beautiful for the first time in her life.

‘Your hair...’ he said, glancing at the elaborate chignon. ‘I’ve been wanting to mess it up all night.’

She wasn’t sure if he was asking her permission, but she nodded anyway, loving the thought of him destroying the hairstyle an exclusive stylist had spent over an hour creating.

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