The Billionaire’s Handler by Jennifer Greene Page B

was similar to hers, maybe navy blue instead of feminine colors, but the same king-size bed, side couch and chair, all the usual suspects of an ultraluxurious hotel room.
    She didn’t look or care, as if whether she fell against chair legs or table sides was completelybeneath her notice right then. Pushing him. That’s all she was into. And when the back of his knees located the bed, she gave him one more little push and then tumbled on top of him, straddling him, leaning over with closed eyes to find his mouth again.
    He had to get a grip. Get control. A man like him wasn’t seduced. Ever. Didn’t relinquish complete control with anyone. Ever. And that maxim was a mighty never where Carolina was concerned. So that was why he put his hands on her again.
    It wasn’t to sweep her beneath him. It was to stop her, from rubbing against his crotch, from dancing her satined body in the opening of his tux shirt, from breathing in her scent, her tongue, the desire beading off her in torrents.
    Only, something went wrong.
    He intended to push her away. He was outstanding at pushing people away, had his whole life, only somehow… Magic? Miracles? Bad luck? She seemed to twist at just the wrong time, so that he ended up on top of her. And once she was beneath him, her slim legs rose up and high, clasping around his hips, inviting him in, teasing him closer, closer. She arched her back, so the brush of her breasts could cause him more torment. Her skin heated. Her damn mouth started trembling again. She made that earthy little wicked groan again.
    Finally, from the scrabbled, scrambled contentsof his brain came some words. “Okay. Okay. This is okay. For a few minutes. Nothing wrong…”
    â€œYou’re darned right there’s nothing wrong. This is as right as anything I can ever remember.”
    â€œJust because…this is a little unexpected…doesn’t mean we’ve done anything…unforgivable…”
    â€œYet,” she qualified, and ruthlessly took a nip from his neck.
    â€œYet? Yet?”
    â€œI’m about to do something unforgivable,” she promised him. “With you. Only with you.”
    â€œNow, Carolina—”
    â€œI don’t care if you respect me in the morning.”
    â€œNow, Carolina—”
    â€œWhat? You think the whole world’s going to crash if you take off the good-guy hat for a whole ten minutes? Or is it that you need an engraved invitation?”
    He didn’t need an invitation. He needed something, someone, somehow to knock some sense into his head, but once she said “ten minutes,” he lost it. What little brain he had left. Ten minutes? That’s all she thought it’d take to be made love to? Made love with?
    Hell, she might as well have tossed a red scarf at a bull.
    The slightest shift and tug, and he was enabled toremove that delectable, fragile slip of satin off her skin, and then he had her naked.
    His senses both blurred and sharpened. He expected the peaches and ivory…not the sizzling heat and impatience. He expected the same-as-innocent…but not the brazen I-own-you-Maguire bravado.
    That was the whole problem. She touched, she stroked, she kissed, as if she owned. As if this moment was her inarguable right, to claim, to master. To feel. Everything. With him.
    You just didn’t walk into forest fires. Everybody knew that, coming straight out of the womb…except for her. She needed tenderness, yet demanded rough speed and roller-coaster tension. She bruised too damn easily, yet she bit and kneaded and pulled, with her mouth, with her hands, in a fight for…he didn’t know what the hell she was fighting for.
    He just knew that he wanted to fight with her. For her. His skin turned slick, his blood thick. The shine in her eyes was so fierce, so greedy. Any hesitation or caution on his part, she met with whispered dares. Real dares. Crazy, crazy dares. Like…to walk on