and making a grab for it before it could topple over and crash onto the floor. Brian took his finger off the button almost too late for her to recover. She fought the pleasure radiating from her desperately clenching muscles before it could consume her like an inferno.
Candace didn’t know whether to kill him for getting her that close or kill him because he’d stopped.
Who knew how long the reprieve would last, though? She drew a labored breath, looking up…right into the alarmed eyes of Jennifer Rodgers, her best friend Macy’s mother.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure,” Candace said brightly, casting a glance around. No one else had seemed to notice her nearly collapse in racking waves of ecstasy. “Just…stumbled a bit, there. Oh, I love your dress.”
Distraction. That was the way to go. Not that Mrs. Rodgers’s ivory gown wasn’t lovely; she’d always had impeccable taste.
“ Thank you, but are you sure you’re okay? You look really flushed.”
“Do I? I think it’s…a hot flash or something.” She flapped her hand at her own face.
The other woman laughed as she turned to go. “Oh, honey, you’re way too young for those.”
Not when Brian Ross is standing across the room remote controlling my orgasm.
She made for the stairs before he could fire the thing up again.
“Candy!” The voice she heard in her nightmares cut through her distress, and she cringed. Sylvia was summoning, and God help anyone who didn’t come running.
Breathing deeply in the hopes of calming her agitated heart rate, she spotted her mother at her station near the fifteen-foot red-and-gold Christmas tree. Only Sylvia Andrews sparkled brighter than that eyesore, dripping with diamonds and gold, her lithe figure shown to its fullest advantage in sleek red satin.
Candace glanced back over her shoulder at Brian, who was watching her now. She could only hope he read the meaning as she narrowed her eyes at him: Don’t you fucking dare.
The way the corner of his mouth kicked up didn’t bode well.
Sylvia broke away from her guests and tilted her head toward the towering doors of the study. Candace obediently headed in that direction, gritting her teeth, marveling at how fast the prospect of dealing with her mother killed any below-waist sensation. Now she’d sweat for an entirely different reason.
The dark paneling of her dad’s study was a welcome change from the glitz and glamour outside, and as her mother closed the doors behind them, the light piano rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” faded to a familiar but still awkward silence.
Candace bit her tongue on asking, “What have I done now?” She’d worn the dress. Her tattoos were hidden. She’d even colored her hair back to its natural blond—the pink streaks had nearly driven her mother insane. But when Sylvia turned toward her with a smile instead of her usual critical eye, she was taken aback.
“How are things, Candace?”
Candace? Instead of Candy? Instant alert. This must be serious. “Fine.”
Her mother strode to the side bar and poured herself a drink; Candace still white-knuckled her flute of champagne. Sylvia didn’t like to drink alcohol in public for some reason. At least not at parties she was hosting. “We haven’t really talked for some time, have we?”
There’s a reason for that. “No, we haven’t.”
Sylvia turned toward her, now reinforced with a glass of scotch. Her gaze drifted down to Candace’s champagne, and for a second she wondered if her mom was about to impose a similar restriction on her. To which she would tell her to bite it. Candace occasionally made good-hearted efforts to make Sylvia happy—hence the dress and the hair—but try as Sylvia might, she didn’t rule her daughter with the iron fist that she used to.
Candace took her preemptive battle stance, lifting her chin and softly clearing her throat, preparing for the worst.
“Things are all right with Brian?”
Wow, she’d actually said his
Candace didn’t know whether to kill him for getting her that close or kill him because he’d stopped.
Who knew how long the reprieve would last, though? She drew a labored breath, looking up…right into the alarmed eyes of Jennifer Rodgers, her best friend Macy’s mother.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure,” Candace said brightly, casting a glance around. No one else had seemed to notice her nearly collapse in racking waves of ecstasy. “Just…stumbled a bit, there. Oh, I love your dress.”
Distraction. That was the way to go. Not that Mrs. Rodgers’s ivory gown wasn’t lovely; she’d always had impeccable taste.
“ Thank you, but are you sure you’re okay? You look really flushed.”
“Do I? I think it’s…a hot flash or something.” She flapped her hand at her own face.
The other woman laughed as she turned to go. “Oh, honey, you’re way too young for those.”
Not when Brian Ross is standing across the room remote controlling my orgasm.
She made for the stairs before he could fire the thing up again.
“Candy!” The voice she heard in her nightmares cut through her distress, and she cringed. Sylvia was summoning, and God help anyone who didn’t come running.
Breathing deeply in the hopes of calming her agitated heart rate, she spotted her mother at her station near the fifteen-foot red-and-gold Christmas tree. Only Sylvia Andrews sparkled brighter than that eyesore, dripping with diamonds and gold, her lithe figure shown to its fullest advantage in sleek red satin.
Candace glanced back over her shoulder at Brian, who was watching her now. She could only hope he read the meaning as she narrowed her eyes at him: Don’t you fucking dare.
The way the corner of his mouth kicked up didn’t bode well.
Sylvia broke away from her guests and tilted her head toward the towering doors of the study. Candace obediently headed in that direction, gritting her teeth, marveling at how fast the prospect of dealing with her mother killed any below-waist sensation. Now she’d sweat for an entirely different reason.
The dark paneling of her dad’s study was a welcome change from the glitz and glamour outside, and as her mother closed the doors behind them, the light piano rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” faded to a familiar but still awkward silence.
Candace bit her tongue on asking, “What have I done now?” She’d worn the dress. Her tattoos were hidden. She’d even colored her hair back to its natural blond—the pink streaks had nearly driven her mother insane. But when Sylvia turned toward her with a smile instead of her usual critical eye, she was taken aback.
“How are things, Candace?”
Candace? Instead of Candy? Instant alert. This must be serious. “Fine.”
Her mother strode to the side bar and poured herself a drink; Candace still white-knuckled her flute of champagne. Sylvia didn’t like to drink alcohol in public for some reason. At least not at parties she was hosting. “We haven’t really talked for some time, have we?”
There’s a reason for that. “No, we haven’t.”
Sylvia turned toward her, now reinforced with a glass of scotch. Her gaze drifted down to Candace’s champagne, and for a second she wondered if her mom was about to impose a similar restriction on her. To which she would tell her to bite it. Candace occasionally made good-hearted efforts to make Sylvia happy—hence the dress and the hair—but try as Sylvia might, she didn’t rule her daughter with the iron fist that she used to.
Candace took her preemptive battle stance, lifting her chin and softly clearing her throat, preparing for the worst.
“Things are all right with Brian?”
Wow, she’d actually said his
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