addictive love ,Cleopatra

She padded over to the huge floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Tokyo in all its sparkling glory. She had never seen anything remotely close to this spectacular view. The city was vast, and its lights sprawled as far as the eye could see. Despite being forty floors removed from the heaving excitement of the city, Cleo could feel it calling to her like a seductive siren. She turned away from the allure and found herself inadvertently appreciating a spectacular view of a different kind. Big, sexy Dante Damaso as she had never seen him before, ruffled, stubbled, and completely disheveled. The look suited him and gave him an edge that the normally smooth, urbane man kept hidden beneath layers of intimidating sophistication and flawless tailoring. It was an image of the man she really preferred not to have in her head, because it made him seem a lot more human—more approachable—than he usually was. Advertisement He looked up and happened to catch her eye, and even from across the room, she could see something spark and smolder in his gaze. It was gone in a flash, and she wondered if her tired brain had tricked her into seeing things. She wandered over to the exquisite coffee table where she had left her cell phone to charge and checked her messages. A couple from her brother, Luc, and her best friend, Cal, and one informing her that she could very well have won five hundred grand already! Fantastic. She allowed herself a moment of pure whimsy—with her “winnings” there’d be no further need to spend her mornings making coffee, watering Dante Damaso’s precious ficus, or sending the polite equivalent of “Thanks for the s*x. Let’s never see each other again” notes with flowers to her boss’s random lady friends. In the nearly four months that she’d been working for him, she’d already sent five notes accompanying equally polite, pretty floral tributes. It was sickening. Her nose wrinkled at the thought, and she jumped guiltily when the object of her thoughts called her name curtly. “Yes, sir?” “Ready to get back to work?” Not really. “Of course, sir,” she said, proud that she managed to keep her voice relatively emotionless. She sat down at the antique secretary that she had claimed as her workstation and tried to hide her wince when her butt and back hit the hard, unforgiving surface of the ornate high-back chair. She rolled her shoulders and sighed quietly as she closed her eyes and kneaded the tightly knotted muscles in the back of her neck. “Tired?” She jumped when Damaso’s voice came from behind her, and she looked up over her shoulder to meet his dark, enigmatic gaze. He’d come up to within half a yard of the back of her chair and had his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. He was staring down at her, his eyes narrowed and intent. “A little,” she admitted. He nodded, never taking his eyes off hers, and seemed to weigh his next words before speaking. “Would you like a neck rub?” Cleo blinked, shocked by both the question and the heat that flared in his eyes. She knew very well what that neck rub would entail, where it would lead, and he meant for her to know that. Until that very moment, she would never have guessed that the man had even noticed her as a female, yet the way he was looking at her right now told her that he very much appreciated what he was seeing. He kept his hands to himself and his expression—despite everything going on in his eyes—impassive. If she refused his offer and all it entailed, she imagined he would simply shrug it off, and they would carry on as if this crazy moment had never happened. The question was . . . did she want to refuse him? She was tired, frustrated, and his offer could be a fantastic way to let off steam and unwind after a hard day. Who would it harm? They were both consenting adults. There was no romance or love or hearts and flowers here. She might dislike him, but she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit to feeling sexually curious about him. Maybe just this once? Just a taste. This was s*x, plain and simple, and sometimes that’s really all anybody needed. Dante Damaso watched the play of emotions on his assistant’s ridiculously expressive face. Shock and confusion, followed by intrigue, trepidation, and definite interest. He couldn’t have surprised himself more with that damned question. She was a tempting little thing, which he’d been trying damned hard to overlook in light of their personal connection through her brother. To that end, he limited the amount of time he spent with her as much as possible. But right now he was as human as the next guy. He was irritated by the way his day had gone, and his frustration built as the hours wore on with little progress being made. Now, after seeing this woman in her distracting blue dress, he was also horny as hell. He could do something about at least one of those things, but if she wasn’t interested, they’d move on. It would probably be for the best anyway, considering the spur-of-the-moment nature of his proposition. He should withdraw his offer and leave it at that. After all, he couldn’t think of a more inappropriate— “Yes, thank you.” Her whispered words brought his commonsense train of thought to a screeching halt, and his jaw dropped as he watched her dip her head, allowing the sharply defined points of her sleek bob to swing forward and hide her face. His throat went bone-dry, and all sound judgment fled as he watched his hands reach for that vulnerable nape. He hesitated just shy of touching her and inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of the fresh, floral scent that had tantalized his senses all evening. When his fingers finally made contact with her soft, exposed flesh, his breath shuddered out of his chest in tandem with hers. He was instantly, painfully, and immutably hard, and he allowed himself to deepen his touch, even though every instinct in him was screaming that this was a mistake This is a mistake. The thought—which had been buzzing around in Cleo’s head from the moment of initial contact between them, through their first stunning kiss, into the shedding of her clothing, and then when his mouth latched onto her breast for the first time—was getting ever more insistent. But Cleo had more interesting things to focus on, like the way his large, assertive hand was making its way down her body to . . . “Oh God!” she moaned as that hand did magical, sinful, unimaginable things. Her back arched, and his smoldering gaze fell to the beaded tips of her breasts. She uttered another breathless little cry when his hot mouth fixed on one hypersensitive nub. Her fingers curled into his silky hair as she tried to keep him there. Advertisement “I can’t . . .” Her voice tapered off into a high-pitched whine when his supremely talented mouth left her breast only to lavish the same treatment on the other mound. She could feel his hot hardness poised at her entrance, and her hands left his hair to claw at his back and tight buttocks, trying to pull him toward her. He lifted his head to stare down at her, his eyes feverish as they pinned her with single-minded concentration. “You want me?” God, his sexy voice, roughened with desire and strain, nearly made her come right on the spot. She couldn’t quite believe how much he was making her feel, how very much she wanted him inside her. She couldn’t remember wanting any other man half as much as she did this one. And yet . . . This is a mistake! The words had grown shrill and insistent, but Cleo pushed them away as she reached up for another one of those drugging kisses. He complied, but only for the very briefest of seconds. Her frustration reached new heights when he took himself in hand and deliberately ran his blunt, sheathed tip down her slick, sensitive channel. From the tight bundle of nerves at the apex, slowly back down to her entrance, where he came to rest for a long, aching moment. “You want this? Yes?” He pressed forward slowly, and she hissed when she felt him breach her, so much thicker and harder than she had ever had before. MISTAKE! The clamoring was incessant, but she ignored it again and arched toward him. He refused to comply, remaining still, not even breathing, giving her just that one small taste of what was to come. “Sí? Yes?” His voice remained annoyingly steady, but the fevered gleam in his eyes told her he wasn’t as indifferent as he seemed. “Yes! Damn you.” She truly hated him in that moment, and a bit of venom seeped into her voice. “Yes, I want you. I crave this. I need . . . oh.” This last as he inched forward with such slowness and care that it felt like forever before he was buried from tip to hilt. He was almost uncomfortably large, and it took her out of the moment for a brief second. Sensing her discomfort, he rested there and gave her time to adjust to his size while he lowered his head and focused his lavish attentions on her breasts again. He braced one of his hands on the bed beside her head, keeping his weight off her, and allowed his other hand to go roaming. When that hand finally dawdled its way down to where they were joined, Cleo was already arching her hips toward his. He grinned and slid his free hand under her to palm her butt and adjust her position. He sat upright, knelt between her spread thighs, and dragged her even closer. It was a seriously sexy position, sprawled flat on her back while he feasted his eyes on her uninhibited nakedness. He lifted her higher, forcing himself even deeper inside, and then, with a wicked grin, finally began to move again. “Play with your breasts!” he commanded, his voice sounding a little breathless. She complied, rolling the distended n*****s between her thumbs and fingertips, then flicking at them. He grunted in approval and moved his hands to her hips, angling her upward while he continued his assertive thrusting. God, he is magnificent. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampened his hair, and added a fine sheen to his bronzed skin. He kept his focus on where they were joined, watching intently as he plowed into her tightness. His brow furrowed and his chest heaved, the first real signs that he was as affected as she was. “Give me your hand,” he growled, and she reluctantly released one taut n****e and lifted her right hand toward him. He didn’t release her hips. Instead, he leaned down, captured her middle finger in his hot mouth, and sucked it inside. After one final seductive lick, he released her finger. “Touch yourself,” he said, and she groaned before obediently doing as he had commanded. “Good.” The word was so gruff it was barely recognizable. Cleo was unbelievably turned on by the picture she presented to his lascivious gaze. She had never been sexually shy, but this was . . . this was way beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Her back arched off the bed, her thighs lay sprawled across his, and she was quite unashamedly pleasuring herself for his—and her own—gratification. This was complete abandonment least.