Page 51 of Worth the Wait

We're playing a dangerous game, and Christine is a far more experienced player.

The second nightof the retreat descends with a heavy tension lingering from our daytime activities. I stand at the window of my hotel room, watching lightning flash across the distant sky over Lake Geneva, electricity in the air mirroring the current running beneath my skin.

Jackson's text appears on my screen.

Jackson: Still thinking about last night. Meet me for a drink?

I stare at the message, heart skipping before I reply.

Me: Too risky with Christine watching. Use the connecting door instead.

I barely hit send before I hear the gentle tap at the adjoining door between our rooms. My body responds immediately, pulse quickening as I cross the carpeted floor, barefoot and already changed into silk pajama shorts and a thin camisole.

When I open the door, Jackson stands there with two crystal tumblers of amber liquid, wearing only low-hanging sweatpants that leave little to the imagination. My mouth goes dry at thesight of him—broad shoulders illuminated by the soft glow of bedside lamps, hair still damp from a recent shower.

"Peace offering," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my chest. "I figured we could both use a drink after that disaster of a team-building exercise earlier today."

I accept the glass, our fingers brushing in a deliberate caress that sends heat spiraling through me. "Christine pairing us with different partners wasn't subtle."

"Nothing about Christine is subtle." His eyes drop to my lips as I take a sip, tracking the movement with hungry intensity. "Though I'd argue her attempts at separation are having the opposite effect."

I raise an eyebrow, taking another slow sip. "How so?"

"Being forced apart all day…" He steps closer, invading my personal space with confident ease. "Just makes me want you more."

The whiskey burns a path down my throat, nowhere near as intense as the heat igniting under my skin at his proximity. I back up slowly, maintaining eye contact as he follows, like a delicious predator-prey dance.

"We shouldn't," I whisper, as my body betrays me. "Christine could?—"

"Christine is at the bar with the Westfield executives," he interrupts, taking the glass from my hand and setting it beside his on the nightstand. "I checked."

His fingers trace the hem of my camisole, barely touching skin but leaving fire in their wake. "Besides," he continues, voice dropping to that register that liquefies my insides, "I'm very good at being quiet when necessary."

The promise in his words sends a rush of heat pooling low in my belly. "Is that so, Counselor?"

His answer comes in the form of a kiss that obliterates rational thought. His mouth claims mine with possessiveintensity, hands sliding into my hair to angle my face upward. I melt against him, arms winding around his neck as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I eagerly grant.

The taste of whiskey mingles between us as the kiss deepens, his body backing mine toward the bed with clear intent. My hands explore the broad expanse of his chest, nails scraping lightly across skin that burns beneath my touch. When my legs hit the mattress edge, he breaks the kiss, eyes dark with desire as he stares down at me.

"Last night was too quick," he murmurs, fingers tracing my collarbone with devastating precision. "Tonight, I want to take my time with you."

His palm slides up my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast in a teasing caress that draws a soft gasp from my throat. "What if someone hears?" I whisper, though I'm already arching into his touch, seeking more.

The smile that curves his lips carries wicked promise. "Then you'll have to be very, very quiet."

His mouth captures mine again as he lowers me to the mattress, weight pressing me into the plush bedding. I hook one leg around his hips, drawing him closer, feeling the hard evidence of his desire against my center. His groan vibrates against my mouth, hands sliding beneath my camisole to find bare skin.

"You're not wearing a bra," he observes, voice rough with approval as his palm cups my breast.

"I was preparing for bed," I lie, knowing I've been half hoping for this since we parted after breakfast.

"Were you?" His thumb circles my nipple, drawing it to a tight peak that sends lightning racing through my nerve endings. "Alone?"

The possessive edge in his question sends another pulse of heat between my thighs. "Not anymore."

He tugs the thin fabric upward, exposing my breasts to his hungry gaze. The cool air makes me shiver, or perhaps it's the intensity in his eyes as he drinks me in. When his mouth replaces his hand, hot and wet around my nipple, I have to bite my lip to stifle a moan.

His tongue swirls in deliberate patterns, teeth grazing sensitive flesh with just enough pressure to ride the edge between pleasure and pain. My back arches involuntarily, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him closer. The scrape of stubble against my skin creates delicious friction as he moves to my other breast, lavishing it with equal attention.

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