exceedingly capable in all ways.
And still new.
He was so good that it sometimes stymied Murray, wondering why a man with Trace’s assets would bother working for anyone else. He had the skills to be independent, yet he lived in hotels and made himself accessible day or night. In so many ways, Murray felt that Trace should be an adversary, not a lackey.
If Trace ever proved untrustworthy, if he failed in any way, Murray might enjoy watching Helene have her way with him.
“Her way” was seldom comfortable for others.
“But right now, love, I want you on your knees. You’ve stirred me with your impudence, but my time is limited. Get me off, and you can take care of yourself after I’ve gone.”
On a broken breath, Helene slid off his thighs and to her knees on the thick carpet. Excitement lit her icy-blue gaze as she opened his belt buckle and slid down his zipper.
At the feel of her hot little mouth on his cock, Murray closed his eyes and put his head back. Yes, he enjoyed Helene. For now.
Every good whore had her uses.
And as far as he was concerned, they were all whores.
P RISS TASTED LIKE WARM , wanton woman.
But she kissed like a schoolgirl.
Drawn inexplicably by the snare of inexperience, Trace teased her lips with his tongue. She had the most amazing mouth, so full and soft, so damn sexy.
On a shaky breath, she parted her lips, and he dipped his tongue inside.
Priss went very still, poised on tiptoes, breathing fast and hard through her nose. Unable to help himself, Trace held her head in both hands and fit himself to her more securely, deepening the kiss, gently ravaging her sweet mouth.
She moaned, excited and accepting, but not really…participating. He had the awful suspicion she didn’t know how.
Could it be possible? Trace eased back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her nostrils flared, her body leaning into his, flushed and ripe.
Over a kiss.
Slowly, her thick lashes lifted to reveal her dilated eyes. “Trace?”
Son-of-a-bitch. He knew women, and while he suspected Priss was devious enough to outact an Emmy winner when it suited her purpose, he didn’t think she was faking it now. The woman reeked of sexual purity, of carnal curiosity and a craving of the unknown.
Why him? Why the hell did he have to be the one to gain her attention? Not that he much liked the idea of anyone else initiating her— Jesus, what an old-fashioned idea —especially not that freak, Murray.
Priss looked at his mouth with naked yearning. Each deep breath caused her breasts to strain against the soft cotton tee, repeatedly drawing his attention to them.
Her tongue touched her upper lip, then retreated. “What’s wrong?”
Trace wanted to implode. Seconds ago, she’d edged near panic at the mention of rape; now she sounded as eager as he felt.
But he didn’t dare follow through with all he wanted. Not yet. Not with so much on the line.
“Go get dressed.” Taking a deliberate step away from her, and then another, Trace tried to distance himself from her. He could see the fine trembling in her small but lush body. Her nipples pebbled against the T-shirt, begging for the touch of his fingers.
Or his mouth.
A delicate flush warmed her skin.
He steeled himself against it all. “I’ll see you back here in ten minutes.”
Confusion, and then shame, shadowed Priss’s hungry expression before that stubborn chin of hers went into the air. “In a hurry to leave, are we?”
“We have a lot to get done.” Unable to bear the hurt still visible in her gaze, Trace turned his back on her. His pulse pounded and his guts clenched. “Wear your regular clothes, something comfortable for a long ride.” God, I’d like to take her on a long ride, with both of us naked, her straining under me—
“Where are we going?”
Pushed to the limit, Trace ignored her question; conversing with her further would do nothing to cool his desire. He needed away from her. He needed her fully dressed.
Besides, the
And still new.
He was so good that it sometimes stymied Murray, wondering why a man with Trace’s assets would bother working for anyone else. He had the skills to be independent, yet he lived in hotels and made himself accessible day or night. In so many ways, Murray felt that Trace should be an adversary, not a lackey.
If Trace ever proved untrustworthy, if he failed in any way, Murray might enjoy watching Helene have her way with him.
“Her way” was seldom comfortable for others.
“But right now, love, I want you on your knees. You’ve stirred me with your impudence, but my time is limited. Get me off, and you can take care of yourself after I’ve gone.”
On a broken breath, Helene slid off his thighs and to her knees on the thick carpet. Excitement lit her icy-blue gaze as she opened his belt buckle and slid down his zipper.
At the feel of her hot little mouth on his cock, Murray closed his eyes and put his head back. Yes, he enjoyed Helene. For now.
Every good whore had her uses.
And as far as he was concerned, they were all whores.
P RISS TASTED LIKE WARM , wanton woman.
But she kissed like a schoolgirl.
Drawn inexplicably by the snare of inexperience, Trace teased her lips with his tongue. She had the most amazing mouth, so full and soft, so damn sexy.
On a shaky breath, she parted her lips, and he dipped his tongue inside.
Priss went very still, poised on tiptoes, breathing fast and hard through her nose. Unable to help himself, Trace held her head in both hands and fit himself to her more securely, deepening the kiss, gently ravaging her sweet mouth.
She moaned, excited and accepting, but not really…participating. He had the awful suspicion she didn’t know how.
Could it be possible? Trace eased back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her nostrils flared, her body leaning into his, flushed and ripe.
Over a kiss.
Slowly, her thick lashes lifted to reveal her dilated eyes. “Trace?”
Son-of-a-bitch. He knew women, and while he suspected Priss was devious enough to outact an Emmy winner when it suited her purpose, he didn’t think she was faking it now. The woman reeked of sexual purity, of carnal curiosity and a craving of the unknown.
Why him? Why the hell did he have to be the one to gain her attention? Not that he much liked the idea of anyone else initiating her— Jesus, what an old-fashioned idea —especially not that freak, Murray.
Priss looked at his mouth with naked yearning. Each deep breath caused her breasts to strain against the soft cotton tee, repeatedly drawing his attention to them.
Her tongue touched her upper lip, then retreated. “What’s wrong?”
Trace wanted to implode. Seconds ago, she’d edged near panic at the mention of rape; now she sounded as eager as he felt.
But he didn’t dare follow through with all he wanted. Not yet. Not with so much on the line.
“Go get dressed.” Taking a deliberate step away from her, and then another, Trace tried to distance himself from her. He could see the fine trembling in her small but lush body. Her nipples pebbled against the T-shirt, begging for the touch of his fingers.
Or his mouth.
A delicate flush warmed her skin.
He steeled himself against it all. “I’ll see you back here in ten minutes.”
Confusion, and then shame, shadowed Priss’s hungry expression before that stubborn chin of hers went into the air. “In a hurry to leave, are we?”
“We have a lot to get done.” Unable to bear the hurt still visible in her gaze, Trace turned his back on her. His pulse pounded and his guts clenched. “Wear your regular clothes, something comfortable for a long ride.” God, I’d like to take her on a long ride, with both of us naked, her straining under me—
“Where are we going?”
Pushed to the limit, Trace ignored her question; conversing with her further would do nothing to cool his desire. He needed away from her. He needed her fully dressed.
Besides, the
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