The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection. Kelly Hunter

his eyes, and then her hands moved to his jeans. Unbuttoning, unzipping as his breathing turned harsh and laboured. She loved the way his breaths came like that when he was excited, almost past bearing but trying to control it—control himself, control everything.

      She straddled him, facing his feet—which might have felt weird if they hadn’t both been masked, but now felt perfect. Her core was on his warm skin, just above the band of his boxer briefs. Just that was enough for her to long to have him inside her. She started pushing his jeans down his legs, hands stroking as she leaned further forward with each push. She loved his legs. Long, hard, strong, the perfect amount of hair. Down, down, down. And then—stop.

      She’d forgotten about his sneakers. Well, blindfolded or not, she could undo a shoe. She fumbled with the laces, wrenched the sneakers off, threw them. They landed on the floor with a soft thud. Next she pushed his jeans off, threw them too. Started to turn around.

      But Scott kept her exactly where she was with a hand on her back. She got the message and stopped, on her knees, one either side of his hips. Stayed…waited. What was he going to do?

      And then the hand on her back was gone and both Scott’s hands were under her dress, reaching between her spread thighs, snagging against the French knickers she’d put on today before she’d come up with a plan that meant he wouldn’t actually see the frothy pink lace.

      He didn’t seem to care about the lace, because his fingers were impatient, almost rough, as he yanked the knickers aside, his fingers sliding into her drenching wetness, in and out, until her breaths were nothing more than rasps and she was trembling. She felt so hot, so lush, aching as those fingers continued to dip in and out of her while the fingers of his other hand joined the action, circling her clitoris, precise, constant, inexorable.

      She hadn’t removed his underwear, but that didn’t stop him thrusting hard against her bottom as he circled and slipped and probed every millimetre of her sex until she was coming in a luscious roll.

      She didn’t know how it had happened, but a moment later she found herself flipped onto her back. She waited, breathless, for what Scott would do—regretting the damned dress, deciding she would help with her own unwrapping.

      But before she could lift a finger to even one zipper, Scott had gripped the cotton at her neck and torn the dress right down the front, spreading the two halves wide…

      ‘Scott.’ she whispered, shocked.

      ‘No talking,’ he said, and reached for her bra straps, accurate despite the blindfold.

      He yanked them down her arms until her breasts were bared. Unerringly, his mouth found her nipples, sucking, licking, building the pressure from barely there to strong and demanding, unrelenting as his cotton-clad erection strained against her.

      She reached down to try to push his underwear off him, clumsy because of her bra straps, but he knocked her hands aside and kept up the suckling. Next moment he was scooting down her body, between her legs. The French knickers were shoved down and his mouth was there, licking fast and frantically, and she was coming again with a loud cry.

      He kept his mouth there through the last undulation of her hips and then he came back up her body, kissing her almost brutally. He fumbled with the scarf over her eyes, ripping it away. Rising up over her, on his knees, he tore off his own blindfold. Stared down at her for a scorching moment.

      Before Kate could reach for him he was off the bed, throwing his clothes on helter-skelter.

      ‘But— But— What about you?’

      ‘Owe me,’ he said, zipping up his jeans.

      ‘I can do it now.’

      ‘You should have grabbed a condom before the blindfolds went on. Because now I’ve ripped the masks off, Play Time’s over. We’re seeing…we’re talking. And that’s not in the rules for today, is it? You don’t want to talk to me today. You don’t want to see me today. I’d say you didn’t even really want me to touch you, or you wouldn’t have worn that chastity belt of a dress. You wanted it over with quickly today.’

      He grabbed his sneakers, shoved his feet inside them, yanked on the laces.

      ‘Well, you’re done—all sorted, all serviced with time to spare—and now I’m going.’

      ‘Scott…’

      But he was out of the room, and her curse was floating behind him.

      ‘Scott—wait,’ she said as she got off the bed, impatiently shedding her ruined dress, wrenching up her bra.

      The door slammed before she was even out of the bedroom.

      He was gone.

      Eyes swimming, she walked over to the dining table, picked up the parcel he’d left there. Opened the brown paper. Removed a…a plaque? Yes, a simple metal plaque. Black type on dull silver. Two words: Castle Cleary.

      Her swimming eyes overflowed.

      To hell with Play Time, Scott thought savagely as he got into his car. And to hell with being made to feel like a male prostitute with an allocated time slot.

      Not that the whole blindfold experience hadn’t been intense. He’d been insane with need by the end of it. So needy it had made no sense to run out when he did. She would have serviced him even without the blindfolds.

      Serviced him.

      And didn’t that say it all?

      She would have serviced him. The way he’d serviced her.

       Scott Knight, Escort Service, at your beck and call.

      So what? his sane self asked.

      It was perfect, wasn’t it? Exactly what he’d wanted? A sex contract. Month to month. No strings. No emotions. Complete control. No pretending they were forever. No need to call her unless it was to schedule a hot bout of sex. No deep and meaningful conversations. No conversations at all, lately—not with Lorelei, not with Officer Cleary. And not with Kate.

      And today not only no speaking, but no looking either!

      Just feeling—which was a good enough euphemism for just sex.

      Just sex.

       Perfect.

      And he was a freaking idiot not to just take that and run with it.

      Scott pulled out his phone. Stabbed the buttons.

      Play Time, my house, Tuesday, 7 p.m.

      Half a minute later, back came a reply.

      Fine.

      ‘Right,’ he said out loud to his face in the rearview mirror.

      But something about his face wasn’t normal. He looked like a freaking psycho killer!

      Well, to hell with that too! He was not going to see that every time he glanced in the rearview mirror on the drive home. He’d have a crash if he had to see that.

      He had to calm the hell down.

      Cursing, he banged out of the car, strode across to the marina, focused on the boats.

      Which made him feel even crazier. And just miserable again.

      Kate had had her first sailing lesson yesterday. With Brodie. How had it gone? What had they talked about? Fireside chats aplenty with Brodie, for sure. Because Brodie was easy to talk to—easier than Scott. Easier, kinder. Better all round.

      Everything inside Scott clenched—including the growl that he wouldn’t let loose from his chest.

      And then he put his face in his hands—because the sight of the boats was suddenly unbearable.

       CHAPTER