wasn’t quite finished with my risotto…”
He stood and pulled Natalie to her feet as he wrapped his arms around her. “You are now.” His mouth came down on hers.
She gave herself over to the taste and feel and sheer physicality of him – the muscled length of his arms, the heat of his body against hers, the thick softness of his hair beneath her fingers. He smelled of a heady mix of soap and the outdoors, fresh and very, very masculine.
As his lips moved down the column of her neck to her throat, leaving a wet trail of heat, Natalie groaned.
“I want you,” she breathed, “now…”
He undid the top buttons of her shirt with agonising slowness, until her lacy black bra was revealed. “I want to make love to you properly, on sheets with an indecently high thread count, and I intend to take my time doing it.”
Natalie’s hands slid over his shoulders and down the muscled length of his torso. “I can’t wait,” she said huskily against his mouth, and reached down to unclasp his belt.
He stayed her hand. “I don’t want our first time to be on the kitchen floor.”
“I don’t care where it is.” She put her hands on either side of his face and crushed her mouth against his.
He picked her up and carried her into his bedroom. “You’re very impatient, Miss Dashwood,” he said, his blue eyes fixed on hers as he lowered her onto his bed. “I had no idea you were so demanding.”
“I hope you’re worth the wait, Mr. Gordon.”
“Oh, I am,” he promised, and hooked his fingers on either side of her jeans and slid them slowly, teasingly, down the length of her legs.
Natalie kicked them off and reached behind her to unclasp her bra. Rhys’s mouth collided with hers, demanding and receiving and giving all at once. When he lifted his lips from hers and devoured his way down her neck to her breasts, she let out a low whimper.
Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as his tongue laved first one nipple with wet heat, then the other.
“I’ve wanted this since the night of that bloody party,” he growled. “I don’t know how I resisted you.”
“Lots of very long, very cold showers,” Natalie murmured, her skin tingling as his mouth began to move lower, down her stomach. “You…told me so yourself.”
“Do shut up, darling.”
Natalie clutched at the sheets as his lips and tongue moved slowly, oh so slowly, along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, closer and closer to her most sensitive centre…
“If you want me to shut up,” Natalie breathed, desperate with desire for him, “then you’d better make it good…”
And he proceeded, very skilfully, to do exactly that.
“Well…was I worth the wait?” Rhys asked afterwards, raising himself up on one elbow to look at her.
“Umm,” Natalie sighed. “Worth every minute. You were brilliant.” Her eyes drifted closed.
He kissed her shoulder. “Sleep, darling.”
She smiled and murmured something unintelligible.
Rhys pulled the blankets up and covered her, then kissed her tenderly on the side of her mouth. He studied her, loving the sight of her in his bed, then flung his arm over her and fell into a deep and satisfied sleep.
The sound of the newsreader’s voice on the clock radio woke Rhys and Natalie the next morning.
“—shocking video of the fashion designer verbally and physically abusing an Indian store clerk in Knightsbridge has gone viral—”
Rhys lifted his head from the pillow and squinted at the clock. “Shit!” He sat up abruptly and slapped the alarm off, then flung back the covers. He had a meeting with Sir Richard at nine, less than forty minutes from now.
“What time is it?” Natalie murmured, and rolled over sleepily.
“Eight-fifteen. We overslept.” He pulled on a shirt and buttoned it up quickly. “I’ve a meeting with the board at nine to update them on the re-launch. Hurry and get dressed.”
“But…we can’t go in together!” she exclaimed as she got up.
“Why not?”
“Because then everyone will know we slept together.”
He grabbed a tie from the tie rack. “Natalie, the entire UK already thinks we’ve slept together.”
“That’s different! I don’t want Gemma, or Alastair, or, God forbid, grandfather to know about us just yet.” And especially not Ian, she almost added. “I want to keep our relationship private. At least for now,” she amended.
“Fine. Take a taxi, then,” Rhys said shortly. “I haven’t time to argue, I’ve got to go.” He leaned forward as he knotted his tie and kissed her briefly. “I’ll see you later.”
Traffic through Knightsbridge on Monday morning was as thick and slow as treacle. Alastair moved to switch off the radio just as the presenter said, “Klaus von Richter, head of design for Maison Laroche couture, is in a bit of hot water this morning—”
Hannah stayed his hand. “Wait, dad, I want to hear this.”
“Why, in heaven’s name?” Alastair demanded irritably.
Hannah shushed him and leaned forward to listen to the newscaster. “A video of von Richter’s verbal assault of 19-year-old store clerk Rajid Singh was posted to YouTube late yesterday and already has over three million hits. Singh’s father has filed assault charges against the designer. Executives at Maison Laroche are demanding von Richter’s resignation—”
Hannah switched off the radio and leaned back, stunned. Her mobile began to vibrate. Holly.
“Oh my God!” Holly wailed. “Klaus might lose his job because of me! Why did you post that bloody video? I told you not to! If anyone finds out—”
“Don’t worry, they won’t,” Hannah assured her, aware of her father’s curious glance. “I just got to work, talk later.” She thrust her mobile in her handbag. “Holly,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “She’s such a drama queen.”
Alastair negotiated a turn, his thoughts elsewhere. “Hannah, there’s been a change in your work schedule.”
She glanced at him warily. “What sort of change?”
He parked the Mercedes in his designated spot in front of the department store. “You’ll be in the ladies’ sportswear department for the rest of the week.” Human resources assured him that Jago Sullivan would be sacked on Friday afternoon.
“But I only just started in the stockroom!” she protested.
“You’ve been there nearly a month. There’s much more to Dashwood and James than the stockroom.”
“It’s because of Jago, isn’t it?”
Alastair’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No. I told you when you started that you’d be moving departments.”
“You don’t like him, so you’re moving me out.” When he said nothing, Hannah snapped, “You’re judging Jago because he’s working class. You’re wrong about him, dad. He’s ambitious. He’s going to school at night to learn to be a chef—”
“We’ll talk later.” Alastair shut off the engine. “For now,” he added as he cast his daughter a quelling glance, “report to the third floor. And I’ll hear no more about it.”
Natalie