there anything you won't do?" Her lips parted on a startled breath. She swallowed dryly. "What do you have in mind?"
Placing a hand on each of her knees, he slowly pushed them apart again.
When he lowered his face into her, her initial cry of surprise dissolved into a moan of pure animal pleasure. He wasn't timid. He wasn't shy about sliding his hands beneath her hips and tilting them up to him.
Tentatively her fingertips explored his hard length. Her thumb glanced the smooth tip. Then she turned and sought him with her lips. He groaned a rich curse when she took him into her mouth.
But even those minutes of absolute, blind sensation couldn't prepare her for the first thrust of his penis into her, nor for the tempered savagery of his strokes. No slow, warm, rippling tide of sensation, this climax.
No. It was a meteoric burst of energy and fire that was upon her suddenly, snuffing out everything else, leaving in its wake an airless, soundless, sightless void.
When she finally recovered and opened her eyes, he was standing beside the bed. His skin was dewy with perspiration, which had caused some of his chest hairs to curl. His
92 Sandra Brown
face was set and tense. At his side, his fists were reflexively clenching and relaxing.
"Don't think you've changed my mind. When I get out of the shower, you'd better be gone." He turned and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Barrie closed her eyes and lay perfectly still. It was one of those times when she pretended that she was dreaming. The game was a carryover from childhood. When things became intolerable at home, when her parents' fights got out of control, she would get into her bed and shut her eyes tightly and make believe that her waking world was the nightmare, and that she would soon awaken in another world, one of enchantment, and love, and peace, a world where everything was pleasant and the people in it found joy in one another.
The trick had never worked when she was a child, and it was no different now. When she opened her eyes, she was still in the bedroom of Gray Bondurant, on his bed, and her clothing-what little she still had on-was in disarray.
As was everything else.
She gathered her wits enough to get up and dress. The water in the shower was still running when she left the bedroom. Her satchel was where she'd left it on the sofa. She picked it up, stuffed her ripped camisole into it, and went to the front door.
But there she paused. If she left now, she would have gained nothing except an embarrassment so severe that she could never have fathomed it before. There was no explanation for her behavior, so she didn't insult her conscience with any attempt to justify or rationalize.
It had happened. She had let it happen. Correction: She had actively, avariciously participated in making it happen. It was a fait accompli. She couldn't change history.
The experience had cost her dearly. All she could do now was live with the consequences of her actions, make the
EXCLUSIVE 93
best of a disastrous situation, and hope to recapture at least a shred of her dignity. In the process, maybe she could learn something from having come here.
When he entered the kitchen ten minutes later, she was waiting for him, her back to the countertop, on the defensive. "Just for the record, Mr.
Bondurant, I don't know what happened in there."
"Just for the record, Miss Travis, I do." Casually, he took a mug from the cabinet and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot she had taken upon herself to brew. "Get out your notepad. You might want to write this down." Then he turned to her. "It's called `fucking.' "
Inwardly she flinched; outwardly she kept a stiff upper lip. "You're hoping that if you're horrible enough, I'll leave. It won't work."
"What will?"
"Talk to me."
"No way in hell," he said angrily. "Part of the reason I left Washington was to get away from reporters. Most of you would sell your souls for a story. And if there isn't a story,
Placing a hand on each of her knees, he slowly pushed them apart again.
When he lowered his face into her, her initial cry of surprise dissolved into a moan of pure animal pleasure. He wasn't timid. He wasn't shy about sliding his hands beneath her hips and tilting them up to him.
Tentatively her fingertips explored his hard length. Her thumb glanced the smooth tip. Then she turned and sought him with her lips. He groaned a rich curse when she took him into her mouth.
But even those minutes of absolute, blind sensation couldn't prepare her for the first thrust of his penis into her, nor for the tempered savagery of his strokes. No slow, warm, rippling tide of sensation, this climax.
No. It was a meteoric burst of energy and fire that was upon her suddenly, snuffing out everything else, leaving in its wake an airless, soundless, sightless void.
When she finally recovered and opened her eyes, he was standing beside the bed. His skin was dewy with perspiration, which had caused some of his chest hairs to curl. His
92 Sandra Brown
face was set and tense. At his side, his fists were reflexively clenching and relaxing.
"Don't think you've changed my mind. When I get out of the shower, you'd better be gone." He turned and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Barrie closed her eyes and lay perfectly still. It was one of those times when she pretended that she was dreaming. The game was a carryover from childhood. When things became intolerable at home, when her parents' fights got out of control, she would get into her bed and shut her eyes tightly and make believe that her waking world was the nightmare, and that she would soon awaken in another world, one of enchantment, and love, and peace, a world where everything was pleasant and the people in it found joy in one another.
The trick had never worked when she was a child, and it was no different now. When she opened her eyes, she was still in the bedroom of Gray Bondurant, on his bed, and her clothing-what little she still had on-was in disarray.
As was everything else.
She gathered her wits enough to get up and dress. The water in the shower was still running when she left the bedroom. Her satchel was where she'd left it on the sofa. She picked it up, stuffed her ripped camisole into it, and went to the front door.
But there she paused. If she left now, she would have gained nothing except an embarrassment so severe that she could never have fathomed it before. There was no explanation for her behavior, so she didn't insult her conscience with any attempt to justify or rationalize.
It had happened. She had let it happen. Correction: She had actively, avariciously participated in making it happen. It was a fait accompli. She couldn't change history.
The experience had cost her dearly. All she could do now was live with the consequences of her actions, make the
EXCLUSIVE 93
best of a disastrous situation, and hope to recapture at least a shred of her dignity. In the process, maybe she could learn something from having come here.
When he entered the kitchen ten minutes later, she was waiting for him, her back to the countertop, on the defensive. "Just for the record, Mr.
Bondurant, I don't know what happened in there."
"Just for the record, Miss Travis, I do." Casually, he took a mug from the cabinet and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot she had taken upon herself to brew. "Get out your notepad. You might want to write this down." Then he turned to her. "It's called `fucking.' "
Inwardly she flinched; outwardly she kept a stiff upper lip. "You're hoping that if you're horrible enough, I'll leave. It won't work."
"What will?"
"Talk to me."
"No way in hell," he said angrily. "Part of the reason I left Washington was to get away from reporters. Most of you would sell your souls for a story. And if there isn't a story,
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