Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 14

He felt her tense, and smiled. 'Cyn. You know I'm an architect.'

'Yes.'

'So I appreciate form.'

'Ye-es.' She sounded even more worried.

'So stop panicking.' He s.h.i.+fted so he could whisper in her ear. 'I happen to like curves. You're all soft and feminine. Glorious. And you turn me on in a very big way. Remember what I said earlier tonight? "If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee."'

'What is that?' she asked.

'John Donne, a poem called "The Good-Morrow",' Max said. 'I studied his poetry for A level.'

'Ah.' She looked embarra.s.sed. ' I've never read poetry, apart from the bits we did at school for GCSE. I stayed with maths, further maths, economics and physics for A level. But I'm not a total Philistine,' she added swiftly, clearly not wanting him to think badly of her. 'Lisa's taught me a lot about the theatre.'

He grinned. 'Good. That means I get the fun of teaching you about poetry. Especially Donne.'

Her brow furrowed. 'What's so special about Donne?'

'He married the woman he loved, when she was seventeen-in secret and against the wishes of her father-and he stayed with her, despite the fact it ruined his political career and it took her father nearly a decade to accept the marriage. And he wrote the most incredible poetry. His love poems are almost religious, and his religious poems are definitely love poems, too.'

'Right.'

She clearly wasn't any the wiser; so she really didn't know anything about poetry. He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. 'There's one where he talks about his mistress undressing. He only talks about her clothes, but you can tell just how much he wants her.' Just as much as he wanted Cyn. And one night he was going to get her to undress for him, and recite the poem to her as she undressed. Bit by bit.

The thoughts that evoked were enough to blow the rest of his common sense away. He brushed her earlobe with his lips. '"License my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below,"' he whispered. Just what he'd started to do on the Embankment. What he'd wanted to do at the tube station. What he wanted to do right now.

Her eyes widened. 'Max!'

Shocked, perhaps-but she didn't move away. And there was a glimmer of desire in her eyes, too: the idea of him touching her all over turned her on. So the reality was going to blow both their minds. He gave her a lazy grin. 'That's just a foretaste.' Of the poem-and of what he wanted to do with her.

He wanted her naked.

In his bed.

And he wanted her there for a long, long time. So he could explore every inch of her. So he could find out exactly where and how she liked being touched, where and how she liked being kissed. And how her body would feel round his when she came. Repeatedly.

When they left the train, Cyn began to think that Max had some kind of sixth sense. Every time he realised that she was starting to think, to worry about how reckless she was being by going home with him tonight, he spun her into his arms and stole a kiss. And every time his mouth touched hers, her brain cells scrambled again.

She had no idea which roads they walked down or how long it took them to walk to his flat. Flat? It was a three-storey eighteenth-century townhouse. Then she remembered Lisa telling her that the ground floor of the building was his office and he lived on the top two floors.

The entrance hall was light and airy, painted a pale shade of aqua, with high ceilings and huge sash windows; there were intricate mouldings around the cornices and ceiling rose. The polished parquet flooring-the original, or at least an extremely accurate reproduction, she guessed-was set off by a rug in tones of aqua and cream.

'Wow,' she said.

He beamed, clearly pleased by her reaction. 'Like it?'

'It's fabulous,' she said honestly. 'I can see why Lisa loves working here-she said it had a lot more character than the modern office block she worked in with me. Is the rest of the place like this?'

'It is now. When I first saw the house, it was riddled with woodworm, the walls were cracked, the plaster was flaking off, the ceilings were a mess and the windows were rotting. It needed a lot of TLC-and it was a bit out of my price bracket, despite being in that sort of state. But I fell in love with it. Love at first sight. I just knew this was where I wanted to be. Where I needed to be.' He shrugged. 'So it was either keep my flat and find myself an office I could afford and try to forget my dreams, or sell the flat and sweet-talk my bank manager into giving me just a little bit more money, and rough it upstairs until I'd finished renovating this place. Until it looked the way I saw it in my head when everyone else was looking at a pile of rubble.'

It had been an easy choice for him, she could tell. And his face showed that he was still in love with the building. She remembered what he'd told her about the first building he'd ever worked on; and she'd bet that this house had been just as much a labour of love for him.

'How long did it take?'

'A couple of years. Every spare second I had, as well as ones I wasn't supposed to have.' He grinned. 'I got my friends to come here and help me paint walls in exchange for me cooking them dinner. My social life consisted of painting parties for about six months.' He paused. 'Which reminds me. We left the party early tonight. Did you have the chance to eat anything, or are you hungry?'

Cyn hadn't bothered having dinner first or nibbled at the canapes in the gallery. She'd been too keyed-up to eat. Still was. 'I'm fine.'

'Good,' he said, lifting her left hand to his mouth and kissing each finger in turn. 'Because food's the last thing on my mind. And although I'll give you a guided tour with pleasure, I'd rather it wasn't at this precise moment.' He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the post at the foot of the stairs, then removed her wrap and draped it over his coat. 'Right now,' he said softly, 'I want you. And nothing else but you.'

He bent his head and brushed his mouth over hers. The lightest, gentlest caress. Promising. Asking. And leaned back to wait for her response.

'Yes,' she said.

He pressed a kiss into her palm and folded her fingers over it.

'Take off your shoes,' he whispered.

She stepped out of them.

Then, to her shock, he picked her up. He cradled her in a way that meant she had to put her arms round his neck and hold on tightly, just as she had on the tube. And then he actually carried her up the stairs.

Any second now, she'd wake up and realise she'd just gone past her stop on the tube. That she'd been so tired, she'd fallen asleep and dreamed all this, just from catching that glimpse of Max at the party.

But then he kicked his bedroom door shut behind them. The sound was loud enough to make her realise this wasn't a dream. It was happening. Max Taylor had just carried her up the stairs to his bed.

And what a bed.

A polished cherrywood bateau-lit, definitely wider than the average bed. Soft, deep, fluffy-looking pillows. The pintucked duvet cover and bedlinen were pure white and perfectly smooth, with not even the hint of a crease.

Tomorrow morning, they'd be rumpled from a whole night of lovemaking.

Panic flared through her. Max was high maintenance. She'd bet that bed was either craftsman-made to order, or was a proper antique. Like the matching cheval-mirror, bedside cabinets and chest of drawers. This was way, way out of her comfort zone. Even the colour scheme was cool and urban and sophisticated, unlike the deep reds and old golds and terracotta shades she favoured. This was the house of a connoisseur. The floor was polished wood-and that was definitely real wood floor, not veneer-and the cream rug with a pattern that picked out the duck-egg blue of the walls looked as if it was silk.

Max let her slide down his body until her feet touched the floor-keeping her close, so she was in no doubt about how much he wanted her. Then he touched the base of the ceramic lamp to the left of the bed. Immediately, a soft glow lit the room. And then he closed the curtains-dark blue damask, which fell to the floor in soft pleats and shut out the sodium glow of the streetlights.

This was it. They were all alone. And it was too late to change her mind.

As if Max guessed what she was thinking, he walked back over to her and stood behind her, cradling her back against his body. 'It's okay,' he said softly. 'Don't worry about tomorrow. It's just another day. Lose yourself in me tonight.'

'I...' Her throat was so dry that her voice came out as a croak. And what on earth was she going to say, anyway? She couldn't exactly string a sentence together right now. Not when he was so close. Not when she could feel the heat of his body, smell his clean, citrus scent.

Gently, he turned her to face him. Touched his mouth lightly against hers. 'If you've changed your mind, I'll understand. I won't push you. But I think you want this as much as I do. Need this as much as I do.' He traced the outline of her face with his thumb. 'Be with me, Cyn. Let's forget the world outside. Right now it's just you and me and how we feel. Go with it. Make love with me.'

'Yes.'

It was the quietest whisper. For the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat, she didn't think he'd heard it. And then his hand reached behind her back to the top of her zip. Guided it slowly, slowly downwards. His fingertips brushed against her bare skin. 'So soft,' he murmured. 'I want to see you, Cyn. I want to touch you. All over.' He pushed the material of her dress from her shoulders and let it puddle to the floor.

Part of Cyn wanted to wrap her arms across her body, protect herself from his view. Yes, they'd slept together before. Yes, they'd made love together before-up to a point. But it had been in a darkened room. Here...there was light. Soft light, admittedly, but it was still light enough for him to see her exactly as she was. Which made her feel vulnerable. Exposed. Naked.

Scared.

He sucked in a breath. 'Oh, wow.'

He didn't sound as if he was regretting this. As if he wanted one of the tall, skinny blondes his type usually went for. His voice had grown deeper, huskier. 'Beautiful,' he breathed, drawing a finger along the lacy edge of her bra. 'And everything matches.'

Perfect grooming. High maintenance. Something she couldn't live up to, long term. Or even short term. Cyn was more comfortable with practical things. Business suits. No-nonsense underwear, not this frilly confection of lace. Things a world away from what a man like Max would want.

'You're thinking too much,' Max said, skimming his hands down her sides so they moulded to her curves. 'Stop listening to your head, Cyn. Listen to your body. Feel what I feel. Soft, soft skin. And the sharp contrast of the lace.' He brought his hands up again so that he cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 'It's slightly rough against my fingers.' His thumbs slid over her cleavage. 'Whereas here, you're so soft. Warm. Curvy. So very, very feminine. Just looking at you turns me on. I want to touch. I want to taste. I want you.'

She could feel her nipples hardening with antic.i.p.ation. He was going to touch her. Maybe he'd make her wait. Maybe he'd make her ask him. But he was definitely going to touch her. Taste her. Take her to paradise and back.

'And here...' He circled her areola with the tip of his middle finger. 'Here the texture of your skin will be different.' There was just a thin layer of lace between his skin and hers, but it was still too much of a barrier for Cyn. The friction of the lace against her erect nipple was driving her crazy.

Perhaps she'd spoken aloud. Perhaps what she felt was obvious in her expression. But at last Max slid one hand round to her back and unsnapped the clasp of her bra. Let the black lace drop to the floor.

And then he wasn't smiling any more.

His face was intense. Yearning. Wanting. 'Beautiful,' he whispered, cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and bending his head so the tip of his tongue teased her nipple.

Oh, Lord. He was good at this. So good. Cyn felt her knees buckle and gripped his shoulders for balance.

Max muttered something she didn't quite catch and lifted her. The next thing she knew, he'd pushed the duvet aside and she was lying on his bed, propped against the softest, plumpest pillows. Still keeping his gaze fixed on hers, Max slowly rolled down her hold-up stockings and dropped them on the floor beside the bed. He caressed every inch of skin as he revealed it, and Cyn discovered erogenous zones she hadn't even known she'd had. A sensitive spot at the back of her knee. The hollow of her anklebone. The soles of her feet, even: when Max touched her, every nerve end quivered with need and desire.

She arched back against the pillows, closing her eyes. She wanted a much, much deeper intimacy. Wanted his body to fill hers. Now.

And then she opened her eyes again as she felt Max's weight leave the bed. He was ripping off his clothes, clearly wanting exactly what she wanted and hardly able to wait.

The cashmere sweater hit the floor first. Lord, he was beautiful: perfect musculature, broad shoulders narrowing down to a neat waist, strong arms, long, narrow fingers, which could draw a plan in neat, meticulous detail-and which could also draw sheer pleasure from her body. She s.h.i.+vered in antic.i.p.ation. Soon, she could touch him. Soon, he'd touch her again.

Soon, he'd be inside her.

She watched him unzip his trousers and push the material over his narrow hips. His jockey shorts and socks vanished at the same time-a man who knew that socks definitely weren't s.e.xy, she thought with a grin.

But Lord, Lord, he was beautiful. Washboard stomach, a perfect bottom. And his s.e.x...

Her mouth went dry.

Then his eyes caught hers and she forgot to breathe at all.

'We're equals, now,' Max said softly as he joined her on the bed. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her knickers. 'Well, nearly. And this is what I've wanted all evening. You, naked, in my bed.'

She tipped her head back against the pillows as he kissed his way down her body. Gentle pressure on her lower back made her lift her b.u.t.tocks, and he peeled her knickers down. Baring her completely to him.

'"License my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below,"' he murmured.

He wanted to touch her. All over. Was going to touch her all over. And she was near the point of hyperventilating. If he didn't do something to ease the ache soon, she was going to implode. She tilted her hips against him. 'You're driving me crazy,' she whispered.

'Good.'

Good?

'Now you know what it's like for me.'

He felt this same desperate need?

'I want you so much, it hurts,' he confirmed. 'I can't think straight. All I can see is you. All I can feel is you. And all I want to taste...' He leaned forward and circled her areola with his tongue. 'All I want to taste,' he whispered, 'is you.'

She was definitely hyperventilating, now. Her whole body was quivering. Wanting him. Wanting him to fill her and ease this desperate need. 'Now, Max,' she breathed. 'Please. Now.'

He leaned over her, removed a condom from the drawer and rolled it on. He knelt between her legs, and she closed her eyes.

'Don't close your eyes,' he said softly. 'I want to see you.'

See the look in her eyes. Read every thought in her head. So incredibly intimate. And when she opened her eyes again, all she could see was the desire in his eyes. Hot, smouldering desire. All for her.

She couldn't even remember the last time she'd done this with the light on, much less watched someone's face as they'd made love. This felt dangerous. But she couldn't stop. Not now. She wanted him too badly.

He slid one hand between her legs, cupping her. Teasing her. She wriggled, needing closer contact. Needing friction. Needing him to rub at the spot that ached for his touch.

His finger skated along her core, and her breath hissed.

'Okay?' he asked.

'No.'

His eyes widened. 'I'm sorry. I'll stop.'

'No!' She'd die if he stopped now.

He frowned, and then his mouth stretched in a lazy grin. 'So that first no was a yes, was it?'

'No, it was a no. As in I want...' Tell him. She had to tell him. She dragged in a breath. 'It wasn't okay because it wasn't enough. I want-I need-more.'

'Uh-huh. I think we'll have to work on your phraseology.' He slid one finger inside her, pus.h.i.+ng deep. It was good. Good. But not enough.

'More,' she said again. 'Please. More.'

He bent his head, drew one nipple into his mouth. Sucked. Hard. She tipped her head back, thrusting her ribcage up. This was what she wanted...almost.

She tilted her pelvis so she rubbed herself against the base of his thumb, and rocked her hips.

'Better,' she said.

'Tell me what you want.'

It wasn't a demand. It was a plea. And she knew exactly what he wanted to hear. What she wanted to feel. What they both needed, right now. 'I want you inside me, Max. I want to feel you buried inside me. Deep as you can.' She sounded like a s.l.u.t! Desperate.