Her Dirty Little Secret. JC Harroway

his hand. Just like the first time he’d made her come, her cries muffled into his shoulder.

      She could barely speak, her breathy voice punctuated with staccato moans that matched the rhythm of his plunging fingers.

      ‘We were at the...lodge, in Aspen. You said...that you’d make the next one better. Oh.’

      Triumph surged through him, and he ramped up the circling of his thumb. Her breath caught, her head fell forward. She clung to him, her nails gouging his arms as she held on tight, her bold, uninhibited sexuality a wet dream come true.

      His own desire ramped so high he searched his mind for the location of the closest condom, reluctant to move too far from this spot before plunging inside her.

      Every muscle in his body tightened to snapping point. He pressed closer, grinding his erection between the crush of their writhing, jerking bodies.

      ‘I was a kid then.’ He twisted his wrist, his fingers probing deeper, curling forward to rub her walls. ‘I’m not any longer.’

      As firsts went, he’d been damn proud that he’d taken her there. But he’d honed his skills since then, never had any complaints. If she wanted it, he’d show her everything she’d thrown away.

      No emotions.

      No entanglements.

      And just like her, no regrets when he walked.

      ‘Look at me, Harley. Look at me and I’ll make this one better.’

      Her head lifted, her eyes heavy, swimming with lust. He cupped her breast with his free hand, his thumb brushing her nipple erect through the layer of frustrating wool.

      He ground his teeth. It wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her naked. He wanted her laid bare so he could touch every inch of her sexy body. He wanted his mouth on her, every part. Laving and lapping until she went off like a rocket and screamed his name. He wanted to be inside her so bad he had to bite his cheek to remind himself he didn’t know this woman aside from his ability to get her off.

      He tweaked the bud, twisting and rolling her nipple between his fingers.

      ‘Yes.’ Her mouth dropped open.

      Euphoria pounded through his blood. She was close. She would come for him, just like the first time. He held her eyes captive. A roar in his head deafened him to everything but the frantic little whimpers she made as he worked her higher and higher.

      His hand started to cramp, but he’d die before stopping, something primitive in him demanding her orgasm, showing her the man he’d become.

      ‘Kiss me.’ His voice wasn’t his own. Gruff. Challenging. But getting him what he wanted.

      She cried out, cupping his neck and yanking him down roughly to meet her needy mouth. Her tongue welcomed his, every surge and retreat, every slide as perfect as the first time they’d kissed, the excitement of firsts eclipsing the awkwardness back then.

      But there was no awkwardness now. He wasn’t a fumbling teenager any more, and she was all woman, writhing on the verge of climax.

      She pulled back, wild eyes clinging to his.

      ‘Jacques... I—’

      With her use of his French name, he groaned, the bittersweet wash of memories unleashing his raw need to stamp his mark on her as Jack Demont, not the dismissible Jacques Lane.

      Her kisses turned frantic and then she tore her mouth from his, her orgasm slamming her against the wall as she cried out, her hooded stare wildly flicking between his eyes. Spasms rocked her and she rode his hand with sublime abandon.

      Fuck. Perfect.

      He kept up the pressure, his hand slowing but not retreating from between her legs and his thumb circling her peaked nipple. Still she twitched around his fingers, her body lax in his arms as her breaths slowed.

      Finally she pushed his hands away, and he released her. A flush caressed her cheeks, her eyes slumberous, and a small, satiated smile tugged her red and swollen mouth.

      She rested her forehead on his chest, the gesture so familiar, something in him recoiled from the intimacy. He pressed his body along the length of hers.

      Just sex.

      ‘I’m a man of my word, Harley.’ She couldn’t deny she’d had a good time, and once he got inside her, he’d take her there again.

      A small sated sigh. ‘We’ll see,’ she mumbled against his shirt.

      He froze. Ice water replaced his blood. Had he heard her right?

      He stepped back, steadying her by the forearms until she stood tall, taking her own weight.

      ‘What did you say?’

      The post-orgasmic flush in her cheeks darkened, but she lifted her chin.

      ‘I said we’ll see. You’ve certainly broken your word on the Morris Building sale.’

      His balls shrank as quickly as if she’d kneed him in the groin. A red film lowered over his vision—he’d always assumed that was an exaggeration, but, no, he was definitely seeing red. Hearing red. Fucking feeling red.

      So she doubted his integrity, his professionalism, still blamed him for the delay despite her mistake?

      He shook his head. What a fool. He stepped back, adjusting his diminishing hard-on.

      ‘I’m my own boss. I call the shots and I choose who I do business with. The cock up with the Morris contracts came from your office.’ His enamel creaked where he ground his teeth together.

      She pushed down her dress, eyes blazing.

      ‘I told you, Give has nothing to do with Jacob Holdings. I’m my own boss, too.’ Her eyes flared but colour highlighted her cheekbones, and she looked away. ‘So I messed up the paperwork. But we’re not so different, you and I.’ She retrieved her purse from the floor, glaring at him again. ‘You’re so desperate to disassociate yourself from your father and the mess he made with his business, you’ve changed your name.’ She mashed her lips together, breathing hard through flared nostrils.

      Perhaps he imagined the moment’s regret on her face. Either way, he was done. This—whatever this had been—was over. He turned away, gathering the last shreds of his resolve. His fingers formed a fist, frustration with his stupidity tensing every muscle in his body. How had he been so blinkered? Harley was a Jacob. She knew as much about him as he did her, but she’d already tarred him with his father’s brush. Used him to get off and then insulted him. Clearly thought no more of him today than she had nine years ago.

      At least the timely reminder of the distrust between them had finally cured his hard-on. He turned back, keeping the emotions from his face. The best advice his father had ever given him—show no weakness. Not that he was weak, professionally. Only, it seemed, where his dick and Harley Jacob were concerned.

      ‘Well, I guess we both have something to prove.’

      He needed this deal like he needed a hole in the head. He’d been half tempted to renovate the Morris Building himself. And, until the issues resolved and he was certain Hal Jacob had no hand in it, the deal stayed stalled.

      ‘I’ll have my lawyers contact yours when the issues are rectified to my satisfaction.’ He loosened his tie. ‘If the timing was that important to you, perhaps you should have taken better care to avoid errors.’

      Her fuming glare followed the path of his fingers as he popped his shirt buttons but the satisfaction was short-lived.

      ‘I’m going to take a shower. You know the way out.’

      Even with the water switched to arctic, he couldn’t wash away the scent of her, which clung to him as if he’d doused himself, head to toe. Nor could he banish the flash of hurt in her eyes as he’d walked away, leaving the society princess to put herself back together and show herself out.