Payback Affairs. Emilie Rose

across his engorged tip, catching a slick droplet and rubbing it in.

      A sharp stab of hunger had him sucking a swift breath. He bent to tackle his socks and shoes. Finally, he kicked both aside, then he turned and tumbled Tara back onto the pillows. He couldn’t let her set the pace. Couldn’t let her push his buttons. Couldn’t let her make him lose control. Couldn’t let her make him forget why he was here.

       Do the job.

      He kissed her on the lips. Hard. Fast. And then he worked his way lower. His tongue found and circled one nipple while his hand found the other. He plucked, sucked, rolled and licked until she squirmed beneath him and panted his name. Navigating south, he drew a damp line to her navel and then lower. Her fragrance went straight to his head. Both of them.

      Every muscle in his body tensed. It took him a full ten seconds before he could think again. He found her swollen flesh. Smelled her. Tasted her. Laved her. Sucked her.

      Too good. Too familiar. Too much.

      He traced her slick entrance with his fingers and then plunged deep. Her hips arched. She dug her fingers into his hair and whispered his name. Using knowledge he thought he’d lost, knowledge he should have lost, dammit, he drove her relentlessly toward a climax with his mouth and hands.

      Moments later orgasm broke over her, convulsing her body, contracting her internal muscles around his fingers. Her low, shuddery moan had him grasping himself with his free hand and damming the eruption about to happen.

      He clenched his teeth until the white-hot haze ebbed.

      What in the hell? He’d almost lost it. And he wasn’t even inside her. He hadn’t come prematurely since his teens. His early teens. And he’d almost—

      He shook off the unsettling thought. Tara had always had that effect on him. She’d always made him want to rush. Going slow with her had been a challenge every time.

      He grabbed the condom and shoved it on. And then he grasped Tara’s buttocks, lifted her hips and drove deep into the wet, tight glove of her body. Buried to the hilt, he froze, locked his muscles and fought for control as sensation scorched a lava trail up his spine.

       She’s a job, dammit. Do her. Screw her. Forget her.

      But she didn’t feel like a job. She felt hot and slick and soft and so damned good. The fingers she dragged down his back sent sparks skipping down his vertebrae.

      “Rand, don’t stop. Please.” She wiggled impatiently and clutched his waist. His brain short-circuited and his nerves crackled like downed power lines. He withdrew and surged in harder, faster.

      Do her, screw her, forget her, he silently chanted with each thrust.

      He tried to focus on the mechanics. His arms and legs trembled with the effort to hold back. His lungs burned. And then he made a mistake. He looked into her deep blue, passion-darkened eyes, and the hunger on her flushed face sucked him into a black hole of need. She cried out and her body quaked as another climax rippled through her.

       Did she come like that with him?

      The rogue thought slammed his libido like a submerged iceberg, stilling his movements, sinking his desire. Struggling to fill his deflated lungs and ban the repulsive image from his mind, Rand pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head clasped between his hands.

      Damn. Damn. Damn. He couldn’t do this.

      When he had a measure of control he turned and looked at Tara, at her flushed face and her heavy-lidded eyes.

      “Good for you?” He bit out the words.

      “Yes,” she said on an exhalation. Her brow furrowed. She rolled to her side and reached for him. “But—”

      He shot to his feet before she could touch him and gathered his discarded clothing. “Then good night.”

      “But, Rand, you didn’t—”

      He slammed the bedroom door, cutting off her words.

      No. He hadn’t. But he’d come close.

      Too damned close to forgetting why he was here.

      Blackmail. His father’s. Tara’s.

      And he’d almost forgotten who he was, what was at stake and that she’d lied to him before.

      And that was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make.

       Four

      Why had Rand left without finishing? Tara wondered as she swiped on her mascara Wednesday morning.

      He’d been lost in the passion with her. She was sure of it. She’d felt his heat, his hardness, the rapid slamming of his heart and the trembling as he tried to slow his pace. And then he’d just … stopped.

      Had she done something to repulse him?

      Her idea of getting closer to Rand by getting closer to Rand had failed. Sex hadn’t brought them together. It had driven them further apart, and now her emotions about last night were a tangled mess. He’d given her exactly what she asked for, but despite the climaxes, she wasn’t satisfied. Physically or emotionally. In fact, she felt a bit … icky.

      Not that the sex hadn’t been good up until he’d walked out. But making love was supposed to be about two people. Not one. She needed more than just a superficial encounter.

      She needed to know she mattered to someone.

      In her experience Rand had never been the cuddle-until-morning type, but in the past he’d held her afterward at least until their pulses slowed and sometimes until she’d fallen asleep. But this time he’d—

      She stopped midthought and stared at her reflection as realization dawned. She’d done it again. She’d let him walk away without demanding an explanation. Why?

      Because she was afraid of what he might say.

      The sobering reminder that she lacked courage when it counted chilled her. She’d learned the hard way that being a coward and taking the easy way out left too much room for regret. And hadn’t she vowed not to do that again? If she wanted to make this relationship work, then she’d have to find the courage to ask what went wrong.

      No more avoiding conflict. No matter how much she preferred not to make waves.

      She put away her makeup and left her bedroom determined to ask difficult questions and possibly receive hard-to-hear criticisms. She paused in the hallway to gather her nerve and silence settled over her like a heavy, smothering quilt. An old, familiar emptiness filled the house. Rand wasn’t here. She knew it even before she tapped on his door and didn’t get a response.

      Nonetheless she turned the knob and pushed open the panel. He’d made his bed. No discarded clothing littered the floor and no personal belongings cluttered the furniture surfaces. Only a lingering trace of his cologne hinted at his occupancy.

      Desire and disappointment, relief and regret mingled in her belly. Since Rand had apparently left the house before she’d awoken for the second morning in a row, she’d have to ask her questions at the office. Not the ideal place for awkward morning-after encounters or private conversations.

      Had he planned it that way? Was leaving before sunrise his way of keeping the walls between them intact?

      She left his room and went downstairs. Last night’s black silk dress draped the back of the rocking chair instead of lying puddled on the floor where she’d dropped it. Only Rand could have put it there.

      She entered the kitchen. Like yesterday, Rand hadn’t left any signs of his passing through. There weren’t any breakfast dishes cluttering the sink or drain board, and the coffeepot stood cool and empty. If not for the slight tenderness