Be My Bride: The Right Mr Wrong / A Most Suitable Wife / Betrothed for the Baby. Natalie Anderson

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СКАЧАТЬ sprinted. It was too quick, her heart thumping too fast, too hard. She couldn’t breathe at all. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to break the seal of her lips to his. The moan came from some place buried a mile within her.

      Such a long time.

      The kiss grew hotter, wetter. So did she.

      Her body weakened, strengthened, slid. She wanted to fall to the floor and lock her legs around him. Wanted the weight of him, all of him on her, inside her. Most of all she never wanted it to stop.

      He held her close, taking her weight with his large, strong hands. Kissing her the only way a woman should be kissed in France—stroking her tongue with his, nip-ping her lips. She felt the spasms inside, the precursors to physical ecstasy. It wasn’t going to take much—but she wanted it all.

      She felt flayed, so hot it felt as if her skin could be peeled from her. It was so much more than a kiss.

      Nothing sounded in the room but roughened breathing and the occasional moan pulled from that locked place inside her. It threatened to burst out of her completely. He pulled her closer, crushing her against him. Her fingers tightened on him as uncontrollable desire smashed into her. She wanted him. Everything. Now.

      ‘Liam.’

      He broke away, his head snapping back with a violent jerk. His eyes went straight to her mouth. ‘I’ve bruised you.’

      He hadn’t. She liked the kissed-to-full feeling. She wanted more of it. She wanted him to fill her in every way imaginable.

      His eyes were wild and wide, but his face was surprisingly pale. He coughed. ‘I’m leaving now.’ His breath came fast and uneven.

      ‘Okay.’ Her wits were completely scattered. And it wasn’t okay. She didn’t want him to go.

      He cleared his throat. ‘You have to work.’

      Work? Oh, yeah. She did. ‘Okay.’

      ‘So I need to go. Because if I don’t go now…’ He looked at her.

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘Victoria?’

      ‘Okay.’ She just sat where she was, landing on her miserable, single bed. Her legs felt wobbly, her brain fried.

      He hunched down in front of her and looked into her face. ‘Okay if I stay or okay if I go?’

      She stared at him. Then her glance slid past, to her table—and she remembered all the ink and pens and pretty card she had to spend hours over.

      ‘I’m going to go,’ he repeated roughly, standing.

      She looked back at him—encountering his long, strong, legs. ‘Okay.’

      Cold descended on her. If he hadn’t made that decision, if he hadn’t pulled back, she’d be beneath him right now and not caring at all about the deadline hurtling towards her. Well, not ’til she’d come floating back to earth.

      Then she’d feel bad.

      ‘Your timing is so lousy,’ she said softly. ‘It always was.’ He whirled away, scooping up her small bag from where she’d slung it on a chair when they’d first got in.

      ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

      He’d unzipped the bag and pulled out her phone. Now he tapped the screen. ‘If you don’t want people playing with this, you should put a password lock on it.’

      ‘That slows me down.’

      ‘And you don’t like to go slow?’ A whisper of a chuckle. ‘We’re not so different, you and me.’ He tapped the screen a few more times, then walked closer, stretching out his arm to hand her the phone but staying well out of touch zone.

      She took it, watching his face but unable to determine a thing.

      He looked back at her. With a small sigh he took one step closer and ran a finger along her lower lip. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

      ‘Okay.’ Victoria tossed the phone onto the bed before she dropped it from her trembling fingers. How was she supposed to work now? How could she possibly hold her pen with a steady hand? She clenched her fists.

      He’d gone already. The door banged, she could vaguely hear the thuds as he headed down the kazillion steps. And what was she doing sitting here like a lemming?

      All she’d been able to say was okay. Okay, okay, okay.

      She punched the jelly feeling from her legs and stood. She was as pathetic as she’d been all those years before. So meekly acquiescent. All her progress had been obliterated in less than a minute. From what—some kissing? To just swoon in his arms and say okay? It was beyond pathetic.

      Why hadn’t she shoved him away and said enough? Or, given she’d really wanted it, why not haul him close and have him completely? What was with the passivity? Why had she let him make the decision for her?

      She wasn’t the malleable, eager-to-please girl she’d once been. She couldn’t revert to that type. She had more focus and strength than that now. But that weak part of her whimpered—so good. It had been so good.

      Fantasy, she told herself. Just fantasy. Even though she’d blocked him from the forefront of her brain, she’d built him up. Finally being in his arms, it was sensory overload. Anyway, it had been so long since she kissed a man. Over a year. Maybe it wasn’t him; maybe it was hormones? Her body saying she needed to get out more, score herself something of a social life?

      Or just score.

      She closed her eyes and pulled on some strength. She’d work. She’d fake it. That was what she did these days. She’d get this work done. Then she’d find a love life.

      And she’d never see Liam Wilson again.

FOUR

      Cold showers. Many, many, cold showers. Showers to wake her up, showers to keep her awake and—most importantly—cool her down and keep her thoughts from straying into the forbidden hot zone. But that part of her feeling socially deprived needed some happy thoughts, so she mentally planned, listing the nightclubs she’d go to once the job was done. She’d head out on Saturday night when Liam was at that wedding. There’d be hotter looking guys than him at those clubs.

      Liam.

      Damn, she was thinking about him again. She bent closer to the huge sheet of card in front of her, narrowing her eyes as she prepared to write the next, the forty-fifth, name on the seating plan. She almost had the nib down when her phone rang.

      Surprised, she lifted her pen quickly and checked. No blot or mark. Good. She scooped up her phone and put on her ‘professional’ voice.

      ‘Victoria Rutherford Design.’

      ‘How many have you done?’

      She squeezed the phone hard so it wouldn’t slip from her fingers. Her heart squeezed harder. He’d always СКАЧАТЬ