chair, she stroked the tiny button of flesh encased in her folds with increasing rhythm, with wild impatience. In her head, she fought to make her lover’s hair blond, fought to make the fantasy man giving her such pleasure the man she’d promised her future to.
And when she reached the edge of control, by the savage thrusts and mauling of her own hand, she forced her lips and tongue to call out Matt’s name, even as it was another that tore at her mind and whispered through her head.
When she came, it wasn’t to the thought of Matt, but to a rock star.
A rock star. A fucking egotistical, smirking rock star.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Guilt scraped at her sanity. Hot and sour and absolute. It tainted the fading throbs of her orgasm. Mocked her.
She withdrew her hand from between her legs, her heart too fast to be medically sound, her head roaring.
Throat thick, breath labored, she let her other hand slip from her breast and opened her eyes.
Staring at the painting opposite her, Matt’s gift to her a lifetime ago, she pressed her balled fist to her mouth and cursed Josh Blackthorne.
How dare he make her…make her…do this . How dare he come into her life and…and…
Make you feel something? Want something?
A tight pulse of pleasure contracted in her heat at the thought, eager and sated and aching for more. Aching for the real, not just the imagined.
Caitlin let out a choked sob, guilt lashing at her anew.
“No,” she rasped, her voice a husky, strangled note. “No, this is…not right. This is…”
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, as hot and acrid as her guilt, and she squeezed them shut.
God, what had she done?
What had she done?
Chapter Six
All it took was one phone call. Well, two, if he counted the call he made to Pepper from the back seat of the taxi telling her what he wanted to do. After he got the go-ahead from Synergy’s manager—and an assurance she would let the rest of the guys know—Josh spent the remaining hours of the morning in an excited state bordering on feverish.
By the time the dawn sun broke over the eastern horizon, turning the waters of Sydney Harbour to a shimmering golden-pink blanket, he’d mapped out a plan.
Waiting until it was a decent hour to ring Zach Chapman was the difficult part.
At seven-fifteen, unable to hold off any longer, he snatched his mobile phone from where it sat on the balcony’s table and, watching the water taxis zigzag across the harbour’s surface, dialed the Chaos Room’s second-in-charge.
Josh’s heart thumped faster. His gut churned. A nervous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
All he needed now was a yes from the man.
Just one yes.
And then—
“Who the fuck is this?” a sleepy voice growled into Josh’s ear through the connection. “And do you know what time it is?”
“Zach?” Josh shifted his feet and rested his elbows on the balcony’s rail. “It’s Josh Blackthorne. How serious were you about me coming back to the Chaos Room whenever I wanted?”
“Blackthorne?” The word was less sleepy, more dubious. “Bullshit. Who is it really? Daz? Strop?”
Josh chuckled. “Nope. It’s really me. Last night when we were talking soccer I told you I could get you season tickets to the Sydney FC games and you gave me your number. Remember?”
“Fuck.” Not a hint of sleep or suspicion cut the exclamation. Now Zach sounded surprised. Shocked. “I remember. I didn’t think you would. Remember my number, that is. Or be serious on the offer. Shit, dude, thanks. I mean…fuck, sorry. You caught me still asleep.”
“No apologies needed.’ Josh smiled, tracking the path of one particularly manic water taxi as it cut across the water under Sydney’s iconic harbour bridge. “Sorry for waking you. I wanted to run something past you, if that’s okay? An idea I had during the night.”
A pause came at the other end, long and weighted, before Zach said, “If it’s how to get into the boss’s pants, I
And when she reached the edge of control, by the savage thrusts and mauling of her own hand, she forced her lips and tongue to call out Matt’s name, even as it was another that tore at her mind and whispered through her head.
When she came, it wasn’t to the thought of Matt, but to a rock star.
A rock star. A fucking egotistical, smirking rock star.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Guilt scraped at her sanity. Hot and sour and absolute. It tainted the fading throbs of her orgasm. Mocked her.
She withdrew her hand from between her legs, her heart too fast to be medically sound, her head roaring.
Throat thick, breath labored, she let her other hand slip from her breast and opened her eyes.
Staring at the painting opposite her, Matt’s gift to her a lifetime ago, she pressed her balled fist to her mouth and cursed Josh Blackthorne.
How dare he make her…make her…do this . How dare he come into her life and…and…
Make you feel something? Want something?
A tight pulse of pleasure contracted in her heat at the thought, eager and sated and aching for more. Aching for the real, not just the imagined.
Caitlin let out a choked sob, guilt lashing at her anew.
“No,” she rasped, her voice a husky, strangled note. “No, this is…not right. This is…”
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, as hot and acrid as her guilt, and she squeezed them shut.
God, what had she done?
What had she done?
Chapter Six
All it took was one phone call. Well, two, if he counted the call he made to Pepper from the back seat of the taxi telling her what he wanted to do. After he got the go-ahead from Synergy’s manager—and an assurance she would let the rest of the guys know—Josh spent the remaining hours of the morning in an excited state bordering on feverish.
By the time the dawn sun broke over the eastern horizon, turning the waters of Sydney Harbour to a shimmering golden-pink blanket, he’d mapped out a plan.
Waiting until it was a decent hour to ring Zach Chapman was the difficult part.
At seven-fifteen, unable to hold off any longer, he snatched his mobile phone from where it sat on the balcony’s table and, watching the water taxis zigzag across the harbour’s surface, dialed the Chaos Room’s second-in-charge.
Josh’s heart thumped faster. His gut churned. A nervous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
All he needed now was a yes from the man.
Just one yes.
And then—
“Who the fuck is this?” a sleepy voice growled into Josh’s ear through the connection. “And do you know what time it is?”
“Zach?” Josh shifted his feet and rested his elbows on the balcony’s rail. “It’s Josh Blackthorne. How serious were you about me coming back to the Chaos Room whenever I wanted?”
“Blackthorne?” The word was less sleepy, more dubious. “Bullshit. Who is it really? Daz? Strop?”
Josh chuckled. “Nope. It’s really me. Last night when we were talking soccer I told you I could get you season tickets to the Sydney FC games and you gave me your number. Remember?”
“Fuck.” Not a hint of sleep or suspicion cut the exclamation. Now Zach sounded surprised. Shocked. “I remember. I didn’t think you would. Remember my number, that is. Or be serious on the offer. Shit, dude, thanks. I mean…fuck, sorry. You caught me still asleep.”
“No apologies needed.’ Josh smiled, tracking the path of one particularly manic water taxi as it cut across the water under Sydney’s iconic harbour bridge. “Sorry for waking you. I wanted to run something past you, if that’s okay? An idea I had during the night.”
A pause came at the other end, long and weighted, before Zach said, “If it’s how to get into the boss’s pants, I
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