Waking Up to You Overexposed - By Leslie Kelly Page 0,28

play this straight, that’s what she would do. If he wanted to change the rules of the game, he needed to be the one to say so.

In the end, he didn’t say anything. He just nodded, headed to the door and walked out into the night.

6

OLIVER SPENT THE next day wishing he hadn’t consumed so much wine the night before, and steering clear of Candace.

He took care of the wine with some aspirin.

Her decision to visit her grandfather for almost the entire day took care of Candace.

That was good. He wasn’t ready to run into her again. Not when every time he closed his eyes, he saw her beautiful face, suffused with pleasure, so wanton and gorgeous, he knew she would haunt his dreams forever.

Sometimes, doing the right thing just sucked.

He had thought it was the right thing at the time. Unfortunately, right now, he couldn’t remember the reason why.

He’d tried to work out the frustration, spending the day laboring in the storehouse, which still held a number of antique vats. Buddy was hoping to restore and use them. Having tasted the amazing wines aged in antique wood last night, he had to agree that they were worth salvaging. And fortunately, the work was hard enough that he was able to put Candace, and the amazing moments they’d shared on that couch, out of his thoughts. At least, for the most part.

Finally, though, when he glanced at his watch and saw it was after six, he knew he had to call it quits. She would probably be heading back to the estate soon. He intended to go down to the rehab center to visit Buddy. Hopefully, their cars would pass in the night and they wouldn’t run into each other, there or here. He just couldn’t take another evening of sexual tension with the woman. Not when he knew how sweet she tasted, and how those feminine cries of pleasure sounded when she came apart in his arms. Not when he was dying to slam his cock into her and forget the rest of the world even existed.

As he toweled his hair dry and eyed his jaw in the mirror, he realized he ought to shave. Not because he intended to rub his face on someone sinfully soft and wanted to prepare, but because he was beginning to look a little scruffy. Buddy had made a point of mentioning it yesterday.

“It’s not about that soft skin,” he told his reflection. “Not about that stomach. Not about those breasts.” God, had he been dying to end the kiss if only so he could look down at the perfect breasts he’d held in his hands. He swallowed, seeing the condensation he left on the mirror as he breathed ever harder. “It’s not about wanting to bury your face between her thighs and see if she tastes as good as she feels.”

Somehow, though, as he finished shaving and stared at his smooth-cheeked reflection, he knew he was fooling himself.

No, he didn’t deserve her. No, he had no business taking up with her. But oh, hell, yes, did he ever want her.

Yesterday, when she’d walked up those stairs, giving him a glimpse of heaven between two limbs, it had taken every ounce of his strength not to follow her. He’d pictured it, a flash of erotic images storming through his brain. He’d seen himself pounding up after her, three steps at a time. Stopping her before she got to the top. Guiding her down onto her knees. Gently pushing her forward until she was on all fours and he could take his place a few steps below. He’d instinctively known how perfect it would be to position her sweet, wet sex above him, to bury his face in it, lick into her until she bucked and cried, then to drive into her before she’d even stopped screaming over the multiple orgasms he’d give her.

Oliver closed his eyes, willing the images to leave his head. But they wouldn’t. They were imprinted there, the vision so real it was almost memory.

Then came the images from last night. He could still taste her lips, still feel the softness of her skin, still remember how it had felt to slide a finger into that slick, tight channel and play with that pearly little clit until she whimpered.

He groaned, reached down and found his cock hard and erect.

“Damn it, Candace,” he muttered, grabbing himself, squeezing, pumping. His hand was in no way as good—wet, hot—as she would be, but