The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace. Roxanne St. Claire

his eyes slate-gray as he levered himself above her. His lips were parted, releasing tight, quick breaths.

      Wordlessly he dropped his head and suckled one breast, the response flashing like a bolt of heat lightning in her body. Shuddering, she burrowed her fingers into his thick hair, as he teased her nipple with his tongue and then took more of her in his mouth.

      She moved on instinct, driven by some basic, primal need she barely recognized. When he lifted his head, her hands roamed his chest, yanking at the buttons of his oxford shirt, aching to feel his flesh against hers.

      With a gentle chuckle, he helped her remove his shirt, then returned to the delivery of wet, hungry kisses to her face and body. Their rhythm intensified as she rose to meet his hips and slide against his swollen manhood.

      Time and space and sanity vanished from her senses, leaving her mind blank and her body in complete control. Deep in the core of her, a knot of desire and want tightened, pulling at her, twisting her low on the inside.

      The need to have him inside her nearly made her cry out.

      Reaching down, she slid open his belt buckle, tugged at the snap of his pants and grasped the heated skin of his shaft.

      He moaned in appreciation of her touch, his eyes squeezed shut as though he simply couldn’t take the pleasure. Her fingers almost encircled him, sliding up the length of him to caress the moistened tip.

      Desire coiled through her as she imagined how he would feel inside of her. She had no doubt—none—that she wanted exactly that. In the darkest recess of her mind, she was aware that a lump had formed in her throat, an emotional juggernaut that was rivaled only by the throbbing ache between her legs. An unfamiliar twirling, swirling sensation of need spun through her, dizzying her.

      He kissed her mouth again, as his talented fingers played with her nipples, his incredible body smothering hers.

      He felt so good. So good she wanted to scream, but that tender pain in her throat grew tighter, and she choked out a desperate breath. But it sounded more like a sob.

      Could this be happening? Could she have this kind of power over Matt? Gorgeous, brilliant Matt? She hardly knew him, but she never wanted anything so completely.

      Suddenly he stopped moving, his gaze locked on her face.

      “What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice strained and rough.

      She shook her head. No, don’t stop. Don’t talk. Don’t—Nothing,” she managed.

      “You’re crying.” It sounded more like an accusation than an observation.

      Slowly she lifted a hand to her face. Her cheeks were wet—soaked, in fact. And the salty taste trickling in her mouth wasn’t sweat.

      She was crying.

      She tried a quick laugh, but it came out as another sob. She wanted to curse herself, her childish, insecure self. Why was she crying?

      “You have quite an effect on me,” she finally said. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

      A dark expression colored his face. Gingerly he lifted his hands from her, placing them on the chaise and hoisting himself up.

      “I do,” he said simply.

      The finality of his tone neutralized all the sensations zinging through her nerve endings. She reached for his arm, but he backed farther away. “C’mere, Matt.”

      She sounded desperate. Who cared? She was desperate. For more of his body, his mouth, his—

      “No. We have to stop.”

      “What?” She pushed herself up on two hands, her jaw opened in shock. “Why?”

      “We have to.” In one move he was off her, refastening his pants, refusing her eye contact. Which hurt almost as much as his denial of body contact.

      What was going on? “Matt? What are you doing?”

      He wet his lips and ran his hand through his hair with a hand that now trembled nearly as much as her whole body, but still he didn’t look at her.

      With a deep sigh, he finally perched on the side of the chaise. He lifted her sweater from the ground, turned it right side out and gently laid it on top of her, covering her bare breasts.

      All that erotic desire that had delighted her thudded to the bottom of her stomach. Of course. He didn’t want her. She wasn’t attractive. When you got right down to bare skin, she wasn’t enough woman for him.

      “I’m really sorry, Paige. I got carried away.”

      She just stared at him. “I think the carrying was two sided, Matt.”

      He finally looked at her, the discomfort clearly visible on his face. Of course. He didn’t know how to tell her. She just wasn’t for him.

      “You deserve better than this,” he said softly.

      That was a clever way of saying it.

      Without arguing she sat up and pulled the sweater over her head. She had some shreds of pride left, damn it.

      With all the regal bearing she could muster, she stood, tugged the sweater over her jeans and smoothed her hair. He watched her, a questioning expression on his face.

      “Paige.” He stood next to her but didn’t touch her. He was really over this, she thought bitterly. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

      Tapping her jeans pocket to be sure her car keys were still there, she looked at the door. How would she get across this endless room without letting yet another sob give away her shame and hurt?

      She would. She just would.

      “No need to apologize, Matt.” There. Her voice was under her control. “And I really didn’t mean to…” What? Lead him on? Beg for sex? Respond like a woman? “Flirt with you.”

      Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room and opened the door without looking back. She was all the way to her car before she realized she’d left her bra on the floor.

      Well, he could burn it for all she cared. Isn’t that what happens when you play with fire?

      Sticking her key into the ignition of her car, she took one more look at the sun-drenched stone of Auberge du Soleil. Why had she cried? Was she so uncertain and pathetic that one man’s attention reduced her to a weeping mess?

      No more, she swore silently. She’d gotten burned, yes. But she’d be damned if she’d let Walker or Megan or Matt Camberlane know. He could flip her underwear across the conference room table for all she cared.

      Because she would most definitely be seeing him at their scheduled meeting tomorrow. She didn’t know what made him suddenly pull back from her, but he couldn’t have faked his response to her.

      He wanted her. Whatever changed his mind…could be changed back.

      And this time everything would be different. She wanted him just as much, and, damn it, she was going to get him. Or at least make him miserable wondering what he’d missed.

      Matt lifted up the whisper of white lace that lay crumpled on the floor, muttering an angry, ugly curse of frustration.

      What the hell did he just do?

      He closed his eyes and brought the silky thing to his face, torturing himself with a deep breath of lavender or roses or some delicate flower. Paige. She had a floral scent all her own. And a taste and feel and sound all her own.

      And tears all her own. Damn it. The tears had annihilated him.

      At the sight of them, the realization of what their coupling meant to her kicked him square in the face. What was he thinking, seducing an angel? God, she could be a virgin for all he knew. And he’d treated her like any other girl who succumbed to his charm. Some easy conversation, a few quick kisses, then back to his room like another