ONCE THE DINNER GUESTS had left, Brook had escaped to her room. Her initial intent had been to duck off to the guesthouse, but her father had curtailed that, the second she’d moved for the door, with a shake of his head—which meant she’d spent the past twenty minutes whispering into her mobile so as not to be overheard.
Each time Kyle’s deep voice rumbled along the line, her stomach tightened. Each time he chuckled, her toes curled against the rough covering of her bed. More than either of those, the promises he made, of pleasures to come, the commentary of his body’s responses each time she answered with promises of her own, all left her chest rising high beneath hastened breaths.
Kyle’s low groan hit her ear. “Jesus, this is killing me. I hate—” He blew out a breath.
“I know.” Brook’s
