Page 54 of Hot Nights in Morocco
For a second he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. It’s as if he can’t believe that I’m going to let him off the hook this easily. And then his arms are closing around my shoulders like a vise and he’s kissing the top of my head, running his fingers through my dark hair, and pulling me even closer. I feel my body relax and melt into his embrace, unleashing all of the angst of the last twenty-four hours.
“This is unexpected,” he murmurs, his deep rumble filling every chamber of my heart. “I imagined all sorts of scenarios, but I never envisaged this. Are you changing the rules again, Books? Or is this false pretenses and smokescreens? Is your bag full of painful torture devices?”
“Couldn’t get them through security,” I say, admiring the length of his jawline, so delectably darkened with two days’ worth of stubble. “I guess you’re off the hook…for now.”
He laughs. Warm breath furls against my cheek. “You’re not a woman to cross under any circumstance.”
“You’d do well to remember that.”
“I will. But first I need to taste you.” And he does just that, dipping his head and governing my mouth with his tongue until his private jet becomes a blur in the background, and nothing else exists except us.
“We’re not done untilIsay we’re done,” he murmurs.
“Is that right?”
“My dick’s demanding another extension to the whole three-night thing, and quite frankly I’m agreeing with him. I take it you got my letter?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t opened it yet.”
“But you came anyway? Even after…?” He sounds odd, like he’s declaring the words to himself and not me. “Never mind,” he says briskly. “I had to keep the press guessing. They’d gotten wind I was hot for a member of my crew. I figured if they got a picture of Cassie and me in Marrakech it would take the heat off us. I called in a favor, set up the shot, and then flew back to Erizo as soon as I could.”
I’m still trying to process it all as he takes my hand and leads me up into the aircraft. He walks me right through the luxurious cabin with its dark mahogany trim and cream leather seats, and into a small double bedroom at the rear.
How close istooclose?
Is he worth it?
“I’m not dragging you into the limelight, Charlie—that’s my cross to bear.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and yanks me astride him, nuzzling into my neck. “I know that isn’t the claim to fame you’re striving for. You want to be defined by your actions, not by the man you’re fucking.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” I whisper, tipping my head back so he can’t see my expression. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s helping to keep my past away from us, which is good enough for me.
Grasping the tops of my arms, he twists away and pushes me backward onto the bed. He follows me down, dragging my legs apart and falling between them. The weight of his pelvis pins me to the mattress, the thickness of his erection telling me exactly how pleased he is to see me.
His masculinity is blitzing my senses again. My panic fades to a dull residue as the security of his embrace filters down through my body, quickly replaced by that tight coil of lust he inspires so effortlessly. I reach up to cup his jaw as I wrap my legs around his waist. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He runs the length of my nose with his own. “Have a little faith in me, Books. I can’t give you more than a moment, but I’ll make it count.”
“Can I show you how much I appreciate it?” I slide my hand beneath the waistband of his jeans for the best treasure of all.
“Sounds tempting… But as much I’d like to fuck that gratification out of you, we really ought to take our seats.”
I catch his smirk as he peels away from me and rises from the bed. He knows what he’s done. I’m going to be squirming the whole way through takeoff.
At the last minute, he reaches down and touches my cheek as a conciliatory gesture.
“Where are we going?” I ask, leaning into his hand.
“On our first date,” he says, his dark eyes gleaming. “And, lucky for you, I always put out.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hotel Yasmina is every bit as luxurious as Rachel implied it would be. A place designed to cater for every A-lister whim.
We exit the car at a private entrance to avoid the press, and with one hand glued to the small of my back, Jake guides me up through a lobby the size of a basketball court and into a gold and glass elevator.
“I’ve booked us into the Royal Suite,” he says, moving his hand upward to caress the sensitive spot between my shoulder blades. A shiver ripples through me and I fight the urge to purr.
“Does that mean we have our own thrones?” I say, arching my eyebrows at him.
