Australia: In Bed with the Playboy

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, her voice still slightly tremulous.

They were crossing the harbour bridge to the northern side of the city. He threw a reassuring smile at her, but her gaze was now fixed on the road ahead of them.

‘I have a house at Balmoral. I’m taking you home with me,’ he answered, hoping she was not about to protest the move.

She didn’t.

She sat in motionless silence as he drove on over the bridge and took the turn to Military Road. Maybe she was having trouble putting thoughts together. Whatever…there were no stop signs coming from her and Jordan felt the buzz of anticipation shooting through his body again. He knew the desire was mutual. No doubt about it. It was only a matter of rekindling it, stoking the fire, making it a slow build-up of heat so the intensity didn’t burn them out too fast.

He wanted the whole experience of Ivy Thornton.

A wham-bam on the trunk of a car was almost an insult to the fascinating woman she was.

He’d make it better for her.

A lot better.

Ivy’s mind still felt as though it had been hit by a brick. Thoughts came slowly, as though emerging from a sea of molasses. She’d had sex with Jordan Powell. On the trunk of her car! He was driving her to his house at Balmoral. These were definite facts. She found it impossible to decide how she should be reacting to them.

Sex had never been like that for her…so compellingly reckless, so explosive, so erotically euphoric. Whether it was the man he was, the unusual set of circumstances, the long lack of any physical excitement in her life…Ivy couldn’t quite put it together. He was a tempting devil and she had been tempted into going along with him, at the gallery, to the restaurant, and now to his home.

Why not?

Luck had blessed her in what could have been disastrous carelessness. She was in a safe week—no chance of falling pregnant. And it was too late to worry about sexual-health issues. Hopefully Jordan Powell was too fastidious a man to run those risks. Though he had done so tonight. Probably part of his shock at his behaviour.

Anyhow, she was problem-free and she hoped he was, too, because it was done now. She’d gone past the point of no return and finishing the night with him had a lot of appeal. How good a lover was he in bed? Could he give her an even more amazing experience? She’d never been inside a billionaire’s house. It would be interesting to see how Jordan Powell lived, the paintings he had talked about, whether his bedroom had playboy stamped on all its furnishings.

Her car would be parked outside. She could leave whenever she chose to. This was an experience that was unlikely to ever come her way again and she wanted it. Yes, she did. Of course, it had to be limited. One night would satisfy her curiosity. She could allow herself that much. Any further involvement with Jordan would definitely not be sensible. Tomorrow she could leave with a smile on her face…knowing all she wanted to know.

Decision made.

Her mind moved on to working out how she should handle this new situation. It was hard to be cool and objective in these circumstances, having just shared such incredible intimacy with the man. Her nervous system was still buzzing. It seemed best simply to follow his lead. Unless his lead struck wrong chords, which wasn’t likely with his well-practised charm. He’d done this with umpteen women. Though on the trunk of a car might have been a first, given his comment of disbelief. It was certainly a first for her.

All her inner muscles contracted with the memory of such intense pleasure. If Jordan could give it to her again…was she wicked to be wanting it? So what if she was! Did it matter just for once? Heather would undoubtedly say go for it. It wasn’t as if she’d be hurting anyone. She was free to do as she liked.

Her gaze dropped to the hand still firmly linked to hers—a hand that knew how to touch, how to arouse overwhelming sensations, a tempting hand, a winning hand. But she was winning, too, wasn’t she, being the object of its expert attention? She might never get to feel like this with any other man.

His fingers caressed her palm, making her skin tingle. ‘Are you okay with this, Ivy?’ he asked caringly, his deep rich voice washing over her thoughts.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, wincing at sounding like a prim schoolgirl. The plain truth was she was not a player, not like him, and she didn’t have any experience of acting like one. ‘You can show me your paintings,’ she quickly added, flashing him a smile to show she could be sophisticated about spending the night with him.

He laughed and squeezed her hand again. ‘Your plea-sure will be my pleasure.’

Which surely meant she should have a marvellous time with him. Just relax and let it happen, Ivy told herself.

He drove into a large paved courtyard fronting a very large white house with a double garage on the left and another double garage below an extended wing on the right. ‘You have four cars?’ Ivy asked as he parked hers adjacent to the very elegant portico framing the double front doors.

‘Three,’ he answered. ‘The fourth space is taken up by Margaret’s.’

‘Who is Margaret?’

‘My housekeeper. She lives in the apartment above the garage on the right, and Ray, my handyman and chauffeur, lives in the apartment above the garage on the left.’

Naturally he would need people to maintain such a luxurious property, as well as cater to his needs. ‘How long have you had this place?’ she asked, wondering if he really considered it his home or whether it was simply one of a string of residences.

‘About five years. I like it here.’ He flashed her a smile before alighting from the driver’s side. ‘I hope you’ll like it, too.’

It didn’t matter if she liked it or not, Ivy told herself, watching him round the bonnet to the passenger side, his mouth still curved in pleasure at having achieved his aim with her. She had her own aim, which was simply to satisfy her curiosity. And then leave. It would be really stupid to be seduced into staying more than one night with him, by what he had in his house or anything else. But when he opened her door and she stood up beside him she found her body still shaken to the core by his physical impact on her. It took gritty determination to keep her wits.

‘My car keys,’ she said, holding out her hand.

He gave them to her as he closed the door. She locked the car with the remote-control button and put the keys in her handbag. ‘Lead on,’ she invited, trying to adopt a nonchalant air, desperately hoping her jelly-like legs would firm up enough to allow her to walk with dignity in the perilous high-fashion shoes.

They didn’t. She took one wobbly try and sat down on the steps leading up to the portico. ‘I’m taking off these killer shoes right now,’ she declared, bending over to unbuckle the straps.

‘Let me help.’

In an instant he was crouching down in front of her, his strong fingers brushing her fumbling ones aside. He propped her foot on his bent knee for easier access and Ivy leaned back and let him do the job—much easier than doing it herself. And she let herself enjoy the way he caressed her ankles and massaged her toes when he’d freed them from all constriction.

‘Better?’ he asked, the blue eyes twinkling satisfaction in his handiwork.

‘Yes. Thank you. Sorry about discarding the model image, but barefoot is more me,’ she said flippantly, not wanting him to know she was craving a lot more of his touch.

‘I’m happy for you to be comfortable with me,’ he purred, kicking her heart into pounding at the thought of how comfortable they might get together.

She picked up her shoes, placed her feet firmly on the wide stone step and stood up. Which brought her virtually face to face with him because he stood on a lower step. Their eyes met. Raw desire in his. Ivy had no idea what he saw in hers, probably the naked truth of what she was feeling because she’d had no time to disguise it.

Instinctively she scooped in a quick breath. Then he was kissing her again and she couldn’t help kissing him back. Her arms flung themselves around his neck, shoes and bag dangling from her hands. His arms crushed her into a fiercely possessive embrace. Excitement surged. She felt his erection furrowing her stomach, felt the moist rush of her own wild anticipation to experience him again. Her lower body automatically squirmed against his.

One hard muscular thigh pushed past hers, stepping up. He started arching her back, stopped, wrenched his mouth from hers. ‘Must be out of my mind!’ he muttered, shaking his head as though to clear it. His eyes blazed fierce determination. ‘Come on, Ivy. We’re going to do this in bed. In comfort!’

She’d completely lost it! Twice in one night! Passion-crazed!

Without his arm around her in support, she doubted her legs would have carried her to the front door. He swept her into the house with him. She didn’t have the presence of mind to notice any decor details of the foyer. She saw nothing but the staircase in front of them. When they reached it her foot didn’t lift high enough at the first step and she stumbled. He caught her before she fell, hoisted her up against his heaving chest and charged up the flight of stairs so fast he had to be taking them two at a time. It was like being rocked in a speeding train.

Ivy didn’t notice anything else.

They landed on a bed.

‘And we’re not going to do this in the dark!’ Jordan said, still in that tone of fierce determination. He reached across her and switched on a bedside light, but all she saw was his face hovering above hers, the strong masculine lines of it, the incredibly sensual mouth, the vivid blue eyes burning with wicked purpose, the black hair she had mussed with her fingers, the spiky look giving him a devilish aura.

I’m a fallen woman, she thought dizzily, but couldn’t bring herself to care, only too acutely aware that her body was willing her to fall all the way with Jordan Powell tonight.

‘Let’s get rid of these clothes,’ he said, taking her shoes and handbag and tossing them on the floor, then straddling her thighs as he worked on removing her sequinned jacket, cami, bra, half-lifting her up from the pillow, laying her back down.

It was easy to be passive, let him do it, silently revelling in the glide of his hands on her naked skin. She didn’t want to talk, only to feel. The bed linens were not linen. They were satin. Black satin. As befitted a playboy, she thought, but enjoyed the decadent sensuality of it for this time out of time.

He moved aside to strip off her skirt and panties—quick, deft actions—then paused to softly rake his fingers through her pubic hair, staring down at it as though fascinated, making Ivy wonder if the women he was usually with all had Brazilian waxes. She’d never had it done, only a bikini wax, and that only for indoor swimming. The sun was her enemy.

If her natural state turned him off…

‘Amazing,’ he murmured, and bent over to brush his mouth over the tight red-gold curls.

Definitely not a turn-off.

And the hot kisses he planted there were a nerve-jumping turn-on for Ivy. His tongue slid into the crevice between her thighs and teased her clitoris with mind-blowing delicacy—a tantalising tasting that generated an exquisite level of pleasure. It was all she could do to hold still. She wanted to focus on it, remember it forever. She forgot to breathe. Her whole being was concentrated on what he was doing to her. When he lifted his head, the trapped air in her lungs gushed out in a long, tremulous sigh.

‘Don’t move!’ he commanded, placing a staying hand on her stomach. ‘I want to feast my eyes on you while I undress.’

Feast…

He’d made her desperately hungry for him.

‘You look incredible!’ he said, his eyes glittering with awed excitement as they roved over her. ‘Your skin…the pale creamy sheen of it…like the sheen of perfect pearls. And the red-gold blaze of your hair…what a brilliant contrast! The black pillow underneath it makes it even more vivid. You’re a living work of art, Ivy. More fantastic than anything I’ve seen in a gallery.’

His admiration completely wiped out any build-up of angst about being viewed naked. Not that she had been fretting over it. They’d gone too far too fast for it to be a factor. And her attention was now totally fixed on him, watching the emergence of his naked physique as he stripped off his clothes.

He truly was a magnificent male—his body in perfect proportion to his height, muscular enough to be beautifully masculine without looking like a gym junkie obsessed with weight-lifting. The darker tone of his olive skin gleamed with good health. The sprinkle of black hair across his chest arrowed down in a narrow line, provocatively pointing to the impressive evidence of his sexual arousal.

He certainly didn’t disappoint on the physical front. Ivy’s inner muscles quivered at the sight of him. Her hands itched to touch, her breasts yearned to feel his weight on her, her arms and legs buzzed in anticipation of curling around him, holding all that male power, feeling it. She had never known such compelling, urgent lust for a man.

But when he came to her, he caught her reaching hands and held them above her head. He lay beside her with one strong thigh slung across both of hers, locking them down. ‘I want to taste all of you, Ivy,’ he said, his hotly simmering gaze dropping to her breasts.

Her breath caught in her throat as he dipped his head and circled one aureole with his tongue, causing her nipple to harden further into a taut bullet. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the wild flow of sensations as he licked and sucked. He was so good at it, soft and slow, flicking, lashing, drawing her flesh into his mouth at just the right strength. It was so blissful, her back instinctively arched, inviting him to do more, take more.

She slithered her hands out of his grasp, wanting, needing to touch him, to stroke his hair, to glide her fingers over his back, to press him closer, imprint all of him on her memory. She felt his flesh flinch under her caresses and smiled, knowing he found it erotic, glad she excited him as much as he excited her.

‘Can’t wait,’ he muttered, jerking up to change position, swiftly inserting his leg between hers.

At last, she thought exultantly, moving just as swiftly to accommodate him, to give him achingly ready access for the intimacy she craved. A wave of ecstatic satisfaction swept through her as he thrust inward, filling the yearning core of her need. She fiercely embraced him, her legs goading him into a hectic rhythm, harder, faster, deeper, revelling in the explosive action, feeling it drive her closer and closer to the exquisite splintering chaos of intense pleasure he had given her earlier tonight.

He took her there again.

With even more shattering intensity.

Ivy heard herself cry out at the incredible peak of tension before it broke, flooding her with a tsunami of sweet sensation. Some loud unintelligible sound broke from his throat, too, and he collapsed on top of her, breathing hard. She hugged him tightly, wallowing in the possessiveness of the moment, loving him for the gift of this marvellous experience.

He rolled onto his side, carrying her with him, hugging her just as tightly. Her head was tucked under his chin. He kissed her hair, rubbing his mouth over it as though he had to taste that, too. Ivy felt drained of all energy, yet beautifully replete. A perfect feast, she thought contentedly. It had been right to give in to temptation. She would never forget this as long as she lived.

He started stroking her back, lovely, long, skin-tingling caresses. She sighed with pleasure. He knew exactly how to touch a woman. She wished she could always have a lover like him. It was a pity a relationship with him wouldn’t last, but Ivy was not about to fool herself on that score. She was a temporary episode in the life of Jordan Powell, and it was best for her to cut it short and not get too attached to him.

One night.

That was what she had decided.

It was a very sensible decision—one she would definitely keep.

‘This time we are going to do it nice and slow, Ivy,’ he said in a tone of determined purpose.

She smiled, wondering if it annoyed him that he hadn’t managed to completely control the pace. She stirred herself enough to say, ‘I liked it fine the way it was, but carry on as you like.’

If he wanted to do more, she was not about to object.

The night was still young.

She was happy to pack as much into it as he was capable of giving her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IVY’S BODY-CLOCK WOKE her at six. It was her usual rising time at the farm. Still feeling tired from the night’s unusual activities, she could have easily gone back to sleep, but looking at the man lying beside her—the absolutely yummy and extremely seductive man—she decided this was the time to leave, before he woke up and used his very persuasive powers on her to stay with him for the weekend.

Which would be terribly tempting.

However, she was half in love with him already. What woman wouldn’t be after the night they had just spent together? Any longer with him would be getting in too deep and being dumped when he’d had his fill of her could hurt a lot. Better for her to do the dumping right now.

Her curiosity about him had certainly been satisfied. She hadn’t seen much of the house he lived in but that was relatively unimportant. Her gaze roved quickly around the bedroom as she eased herself off the bed. Everything was black and white, like the en suite bathroom she had visited during the night.

There were two paintings on the walls she hadn’t noticed before—both of them from Sydney Nolan’s Ned Kelly series. It seemed a strange choice to have the legendary Australian bushranger on display in his bedroom. Ivy had imagined there’d be something more erotic—nude scenes or whatever—but the black frames and the famous black armour Ned Kelly had worn did suit the decor.

The thick white carpet muffled any sound her footsteps might have made on her way to the bathroom. Very quietly she closed the door and had a quick wash. A black silk wrap-around robe hung from a hook near the shower. She borrowed it to wear down to the car—easier than redressing in the sequinned stuff, which she could put in the trunk where her normal clothes for driving were stowed. A quick change into them and she would be on her way.

Jordan was still sound asleep as she swept up her high-fashion gear and underclothes from the floor. Having crept out of the bedroom and closed the door on the scene of her surrender to temptation, she found herself on an inside balcony overlooking the foyer. It was easy to spot the staircase. She was bolting down it when a woman emerged from a room to the left of the foyer—smallish, grey-haired, wearing a white uniform.

They both halted in surprise at seeing each other.

The woman looked Ivy up and down, the expression on her face clearly saying, Here’s a new one.

It had to be the housekeeper, Ivy thought, trying to fight a hot tide of embarrassment.

‘Good morning,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Margaret Partridge, Jordan’s cook and housekeeper. You can call me Margaret. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

‘Hello,’ Ivy blurted out, grateful for the matter-of-fact tone of the other woman’s greeting though her heart was still thumping madly over being discovered in the act of doing a runner. ‘I’m Ivy…Ivy Thornton. I…uh…need to get some day clothes out of my car.’

‘I’ll unlock the front door for you,’ Margaret said obligingly, moving to do so. ‘I was just on my way to the kitchen. Would you like a cup of coffee? Jordan rarely rises before nine on a Saturday morning so there’s no need to hurry over anything.’

‘Thank you, but I won’t wait. I have to get home,’ Ivy explained in a rush, quickly resuming her descent to the foyer.

Margaret’s eyebrows lifted quizzically. It was probably something else new to have one of Jordan Powell’s women leave his bed before he did. Ivy was super-conscious of the housekeeper’s firsthand knowledge of her employer’s affairs. The flush she hadn’t been able to stop was burning fiercely on her cheeks as she walked briskly to the opened front door.

‘I’m happy to cook you breakfast before you set off,’ Margaret offered, obviously curious about her.

‘That’s very kind.’ Ivy managed a polite smile. ‘But it’s only an hour’s drive. I’ll eat at home.’

‘You should have coffee before you go. It will perk you up for the drive. I’ll make it while you dress and have it ready for you in the kitchen.’

The uncritical manner of the housekeeper did ease some of Ivy’s embarrassment. Nevertheless, while there might be no danger of Jordan waking up any time soon, the situation was too uncomfortable for her to delay her departure any longer than she had to.

‘You probably don’t know where the kitchen is,’ Margaret ran on. ‘Last door on your right at the back of the foyer leads into the breakfast room. You walk through it to the kitchen. And there’s a powder room under the staircase where you can change if you don’t want to go back upstairs.’

‘Right! Thank you,’ Ivy said firmly, not committing herself to anything though she welcomed the information about the powder room. The handyman/chauffeur might be roaming around outside the house.

‘There’s no need to hurry,’ Margaret repeated, apparently sensing Ivy’s urge to bolt and wanting to reassure her that time wasn’t a problem.

Which might be true, but Ivy still didn’t want to risk having a clean escape foiled.

The housekeeper left the front door open for her. Ivy made a quick trip to her car, unlocked the trunk, dumped the clothes she was carrying, grabbed the blue jeans, white top and flat navy sandals, and was back inside the house with the door closed within a few minutes. The powder room was smaller than Jordan’s en suite bathroom but just as classy in grey and white and silver. Having dressed in her casual clothes and plaited the messy cloud of her hair, she looked for a hook to hang the black robe on. There wasn’t one. After dithering for several moments, she folded it up neatly and placed it on the vanity bench.

The seductive aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit her as she stepped out of the powder room. Again she dithered, aware it would be very rude to the helpful housekeeper to simply walk out without acknowledging her efforts to please. It was also very ill-mannered not to thank Jordan for the pleasure he had given her last night. Being dumped without a word was really quite nasty.

Deciding to risk staying a couple of more minutes, she followed Margaret’s directions to the breakfast room, which had such a fantastic view it momentarily stopped her. Beyond a wall of glass, a tiled patio surrounded a glorious blue swimming pool. Past that was the harbour, sparkling in the early-morning sunshine and already busy with water traffic.

Her gaze quickly swivelled around to take in the whole room. White tiles on the floor were largely covered by a beautiful thick rug in shades of blue and aqua. On this stood a glass-topped table surrounded by white leather chairs. Two Pro Hart paintings dominated the back wall—bushland scenes with vivid blue skies. This was how a billionaire enjoyed breakfast, she thought, pushing herself on to the kitchen.

It, also, was predominantly white and with the same view as the breakfast room. A quick glance around from the doorway revealed an extremely professional set-up with top-of-the-range appliances which would have seduced a master chef—a dream working area for any cook.

The housekeeper was pouring freshly brewed coffee into a mug. She smiled a welcome at Ivy and waved her to the stools on one side of an island bench. ‘Milk? Cream? Sugar?’ she inquired.

‘Please excuse me. I can’t stay. I must get home,’ Ivy said firmly. ‘I’ve left Jordan’s robe in the powder room. I hope you won’t mind returning it for me.’