The Dare Collection: February 2018. Anne Marsh

whimpered. Gave a single nod. Desperation in her eyes.

      Batting her still moving hand aside, he slammed his mouth over her slick folds with a grunt, glorying in the euphoria of touching her at last.

      She yelled—a cry of ecstasy—twisting her fingers in his hair.

      He groaned out his pent-up frustration. Her taste coated his lips, his tongue, the back of his throat. He located the hard, swollen nub of nerves, flicking wildly with the tip of his tongue before sucking down on her—hard.

      He stared up from between her legs. Her head thrashed from side to side as she watched him, her cries growing louder, more primitive. He managed to push a single finger inside her tight warmth just before she exploded, her internal muscles a contracting wave around his finger and her thighs trembling against the sides of his face. He kept his mouth glued in place, wringing the last spasms from her, while the uneasy swirl of triumph and failure stole his high.

      With a final gasp she twisted away, pushing at his head when only seconds ago she’d been pulling.

      He released her, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and staggering to his feet. His cock was harder than ever. She lay on the bed, boneless, her beautiful face flushed with the aftermath of intense pleasure, but her eyes were wide and wary, as if she was uncertain what he’d do next.

      Fuck. He’d failed. She’d set him a test and he’d bombed spectacularly. Now he wished she’d tied him to that chair—although he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t have torn the building down, trying to get to her. The sight of her had been too much for the mere mortal he’d proved to be.

      He held out his hands, their fine tremors matching the adrenaline jitters pounding the rest of his body. For a second he thought she’d refuse. Tell him to get out. But she struggled into a sitting position, put her hands in his, allowing him to pull her up so that he stood between her knees where she sat on the edge of the bed, dishevelled and breathtaking.

      Slowly, as though coaxing a frightened animal, he cupped her face. Her hair, still in its ponytail, was less than immaculate, with freed wisps clinging to her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had lost their unfocussed haze, and pleasure was draining away to be replaced by a wariness that shrank his balls.

      This hadn’t been part of the game—wasn’t in the rulebook. He’d messed up.

      He released a sigh—slow, controlled, careful not to expel all his frustration in one explosive blast. He bent over her, eyes fixed on hers, and placed a single, firm, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. The effort of withdrawing almost buckled his knees, but he dropped her face and stepped back.

      She’d been perfect. Given him everything she’d said she would. Given him an experience that he’d remember on his deathbed. And he’d failed her. At the first hurdle.

      Without a word he turned away, his back on fire, urging him to look at her again. But as the heavy hotel door closed behind him and he made his way to the lift on legs with the potential to let him down at any second, he congratulated himself. He might have fallen short, let her down. But he was damn proud of the hidden strength that allowed him to walk away.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      LIBBY’S SCALP REBELLED. She’d pulled her hair into a severe braid this morning, as if an austere hairstyle might protect her from the reckless impulses of last night. Impulses that had not only had her agreeing to work with Alex Lancaster, but to stay in London for a week when she’d planned to be back in New York in two days.

      Not to mention the crazy tit-for-tat deal they’d brokered—the one in which she’d pleasured herself in front of him, forced him to watch, and come so hard she was certain her heart had stopped for a beat.

      She stepped from the elevator, the chafe of her stocking tops grazing her thighs, which were already embarrassingly slick.

      She’d almost cancelled. Called his PA. Booked an earlier flight home. She wasn’t a coward, but the thought of what she’d done, of seeing Alex again in the cold light of day…

      Whilst last night’s antics had blown her away with the best orgasm of her life, she’d be lying if she said she and Alex had concluded their business—either with Able-Active or in the personal game they’d begun.

      His face flashed before her. He’d kept his word. Conceded control. Hadn’t once balked at her demands. She’d never have guessed a man as powerful and influential as him would be able to shelve his arrogance and give her what she needed. And now what had started as a battle of wills, a way to deal with her lust for him, had become the most daring and exhilarating game ever.

      Not that she’d expected him to follow her instructions to the letter. She had almost sobbed with relief when he’d prowled from the chair and finished her off with his mouth. She closed her eyes, remembering the sight of him looking up at her from between her thighs.

      How had he managed to walk away unfulfilled? She’d been on the verge of running after him, dragging him back to her room and riding his magnificent-looking cock. Not that she’d had a chance to get her hands on him. He’d barely broken a sweat. The man had some frustratingly impressive willpower. She’d just have to try harder.

      But business first.

      Libby pushed through etched glass doors emblazoned with the company logo and approached a sleek, minimalist reception desk.

      ‘Libby Noble for Alex Lancaster.’

      Late last night, after showering, she’d checked her e-mails, spying one from his PA, Molly—the young woman now sitting in front of her, according to a name plaque on the desk—advising her of today’s itinerary.

      ‘Ah, yes, Ms Noble. He’s expecting you. I’ll show you in.’ Molly stood, her outstretched arm directing Libby towards another set of etched glass doors and an office beyond.

      Her legs threatened to give out. She swallowed, plastered her most convincing, polite smile on her face and steeled herself against the impact of seeing Alex again—steeled herself like a butterfly about to enter a hurricane.

      He stood at his desk, shoulder to shoulder with a shorter man in his forties. Their focus was directed to the screen of the tablet the other man carried, but as she hovered in the doorway Alex lifted his head, harpooning Libby with a dark, inscrutable stare across the space that divided them.

      A flush of heat slammed through her, and the hurricane morphed into a tropical cyclone on the surface of the sun. She’d been right to fear the impact. It hadn’t lessened.

      Even though she’d broken her dry spell, achieved some measure of relief from the sexual haze she’d been in since meeting him, the blow was twice as potent as the first time their eyes had met across a room.

      She saw him now. The true him. Her eyes had been cleared of the self-imposed veil of abstinence. His raw sexuality simmered beneath his cultured, polite exterior. He stripped her with his stare, leaving her aching and needy and desperate to sample more of him than his spectacular mouth.

      Libby swayed on her heels—a minute wobble in his direction that told her everything she needed to know about her chances of her steering her mind out of the bedroom and into the boardroom. No amount of prim business suits or severe hairstyles could protect her from Alex’s potent sex appeal and her body’s awakened cravings.

      From behind her, Molly cleared her throat. ‘Ms Noble.’

      Of course—they weren’t alone.

      Alex gave a single nod to his assistant. ‘Thanks, Molly.’

      The older man moved into Libby’s peripheral vision.

      Alex kept his eyes on her. ‘Olivia, this is Jeremy Wells, my financial director.’

      Jeremy tucked the tablet under his arm and moved in her direction.

      Dragging her thoughts and her eyes