The Price of Fame. Anne Oliver

dirty.’ He reached behind her, snapped the catch on her bra and peeled it away. Creamy flesh, dark, ripe peaks. Greed hazed his vision but she didn’t give him time to feast, surging forward to rub the hard little nubs against his chest as she watched him.

      ‘I like playing dirty, don’t you?’ Her laugh was low and sexy as she massaged and squeezed. ‘Fast and dirty even better.’

      He tried to laugh too, but it snagged in his throat. His control was fraying, his whole body one throbbing ache. ‘You’re a wicked woman.’

      ‘Too wicked for you?’

      ‘Not possible.’ He cupped her damp heat and watched her eyes smoulder, her playful smile fade to serious. Her hands stopped being busy and he grinned. ‘Pay-back time.’ He slid a finger along the edge of her panties and felt her shudder. He slipped beneath to stroke her slick flesh and heard her moan. Arousal heightened, breathing quickened.

      Somehow he managed to reach over his shoulder and drag his trousers off the chair, fumbling for his wallet and a condom in the rumpled folds while he thanked the stars his clothes were within reach.

      Impatience, desperation and demands and needs. He freed himself, rolled on protection. A quick tug and her panties shredded beneath his fingers. No laughter now, no teasing wordplay. Just pure passion and dark desire and every fantasy he’d ever had. He plunged deep, thrusting up into silky heat and willing delight.

      He held her silvery gaze long enough to see that her response matched his own. He gripped her hips, her hands fisted in his hair. They found their rhythm. The world evaporated leaving only speed and greed and heat.

      The chair rocked beneath them. He thought he heard the tinkle of a glass as it toppled and rolled but maybe it was the sound of his sanity shattering.

      She came on a stunned gasp, her inner muscles clamping around him. He gave himself up to glory and followed.