Waking Up to You: Overexposed Read online

  “Yes, I guess it is,” she replied slowly, wondering if he had been making small talk or offering a sideways comment on the fact that her nipples were hard, poking visibly against the silk sliding so sinuously over them.

  He continued to stare, falling silent. She knew the answer to that question. He’d finally noticed her apparel—or lack thereof. Oliver was definitely reacting to it. Looking at her. Staring at her.

  Visually devouring her.

  Her lips parted on a tiny helpless sigh. He didn’t acknowledge the sound, instead merely swept that dark-eyed attention over her, from damp-haired top to bare-toed bottom. The gaze was like a touch, lingering here, skimming over there, and she reacted to it instinctively. Here went soft, there went hard, and her most vulnerable places went all hot and wet.

  She knew she should yank her robe more tightly around her body and glare him into stopping, or else turn and flounce up the stairs, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d been looked at by men before, of course. By lovers, by potential lovers, by strangers, but she had never felt as thoroughly studied as she did now. It was as if he was examining her, tucking away every detail of her into his prodigious internal memory bank. His dark eyes gleamed, and he made absolutely no effort to disguise his focus or make her think he was doing anything other than memorizing all the things he could see, and imagining all those he could not.

  He wanted her. It was stunningly obvious. He was imagining what wild, wicked things they could do together, of that she had no doubt. She knew because she’d been thinking the same thing since the night she’d arrived. So how could she blame him?

  A mental voice shouted a warning. But another part of her—the part that had been trying to figure out if he had been avoiding her for the past few days because he wasn’t attracted to her, or because he was—appeared to be calling the shots.

  She couldn’t walk away from him now. Not just yet.

  “This is a really bad idea,” he muttered.

  She knew what he meant but still replied, “What is?”

  He swept a hand through his dark hair. The movement made his arms bulge against the white T-shirt he wore, and drew the thin fabric tight against his shoulders. “You standing there, looking like that. Me standing here, looking at you looking like that.”

  Her mouth went dry.

  Turn around, Candace. Go upstairs. Pray your vibrator is still safely tucked in your suitcase and wasn’t pawed over by some luggage guys, dig it out and remember you don’t technically need a man to give you orgasms.

  But she remained still, as if her feet were glued to the floor. Her vibrator couldn’t fill her the way she so desperately wanted to be filled. It couldn’t hold her, stroke her, touch her, lick her. It couldn’t make her feel as utterly jittery with excitement as she felt just standing here, knowing he wanted her.

  Besides, she suddenly realized she couldn’t run away up to her room. Not while he was standing at the bottom of the steps. Her robe was short and tiny, which was why she’d stuffed it in her carry-on bag, and she had never been more conscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Although she and her sister had done their share of mooning during her younger, wilder days, the only way she wanted to wiggle her bare bottom at this man was if she got on all fours and invited him to make her howl.

  Unfortunately, it seemed a bit early in their relationship for that kind of invitation.

  No relationship. There’s not going to be any relationship. Remember?

  “Go upstairs,” he ordered, his voice strangled. That was pretty far from an admission of lust.

  She instinctively shook her head.

  He stepped closer, scowling, almost threatening, as if he could intimidate her into going. “Walk away, Candace. Please.”

  “No. You walk away. The door’s right there.”

  “I can’t.” His hand rose and he stroked the sleeve of her robe, fingering the silk. He didn’t look down, never took his attention off her face, and she wondered if he even realized he’d moved so close. So incredibly close.

  “It has to be you,” he insisted.

  “Why?”

  “I need you to turn your back on me, to make it clear that you want me to leave.”

  He waited. She didn’t turn.

  “All right, at least say it,” he ordered. “Make it clear.”

  She knew what he was asking, but she couldn’t give him what he wanted—a verbal command to go. Not when she suddenly wanted, with every fiber of her being, for him to stay.

  “Tell me to go,” he pleaded.

  She wordlessly shook her head.

  He muttered a curse. Reaching for her, as if unable to control himself, he caught hold of the silky bathrobe tie at her waist. He tightened it a little, maybe not even realizing he was doing it, as if he was fighting an inner battle between pushing her away and pulling her close.

  But she realized it. Her nerve endings were roaring now, her heart thudding in her chest. There was something almost predatory in his expression, and the tightening of the sash around her waist made her feel somehow claimed.

  If he pushed her away, she would be devastated.

  If he pulled her close, she’d be lost.

  “Go upstairs,” he insisted.

  “I don’t have to.”

  “God, you’re stubborn.” He leaned in closer, until his pant legs brushed her bare calves. The fabric was deliciously rough and warm from his body and she couldn’t help stepping closer, sucking up that warmth. The early morning air was still chilly but heat wafted from him, like he’d absorbed the first sunbeams of the new day and could now reflect them back.

  He inhaled deeply, as if he needed her scent in his lungs. She knew she smelled fresh, soapy and clean, not perfumed or lotioned, but the man looked intoxicated all the same.

  “This is not why I came in here.” His face was so close to hers, she could feel the gentle fall of his exhalations on her skin. A slight shift and there was the most delicate rasp of his stubble upon her cheek.

  “You came to bring my suitcase,” she murmured, not really thinking about the words they exchanged, able to focus only on his closeness. His power. The scent of his body, the roughness of his strong jaw. She wanted that roughness scraping all over her, knowing his soft, delicious mouth could kiss away any soreness.

  “Right. And now I have.” He moved his body even closer. Their thighs came together.

  “So you can go.” She arched against him, sighing as her hard, aching nipples met that masculine chest.

  “You want me to?” One of his hands dropped to her hip and he squeezed lightly, again making her feel claimed.

  “The choice is yours.” She tilted her head to the side, offering him the bare expanse of her neck.

  “I’ll go then.” He moved his face to her throat, not kissing, not tasting, just breathing in and out, a millimeter from her skin, increasing the tension, heightening her senses.

  So close. So incredibly close.

  “If you say so.” She closed her eyes, swaying slightly on her feet, willing him not to go, and, for heaven’s sake, to just stop talking about it and kiss her.

  “I’m going.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Damn it,” he muttered as if he’d finally realized she wasn’t going to order him to leave, and had finally snapped himself out of the sensual spell. But he still couldn’t back away completely, and brushed his cheek against her hair. “Do you always have to get your way?”

  “Ask me in an hour.”

  And she gave up, stopped playing coy and took what she’d been wanting since the night they’d met. Not giving him a chance to fight it anymore, she twined her fingers in his hair and pulled him to her. His eyes flared and he tensed. Then, with a deep groan, he gave in to her and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Their lips parted, the kiss hot, sensuous and wet. There was nothing tentative about it, no hesitation, no regret. He simply devoured her and she let him, tilting her head, loving the
feel of his tongue in her mouth. Their bodies were pressed together, his hands at her waist, hers tangled in his thick hair, and the kiss went on and on, deep and hungry. She had sensed this man’s mouth had been made for kissing, and now she knew. He dined on her, sipped from her, swallowed her exhalations as if he needed her breaths to expand his lungs and fuel his cells.

  Against her groin, she again felt the rigid heat that proclaimed his desire for her more than words ever could. Clad only in the robe, with his body slammed against hers, she couldn’t help but notice the rock-hard strength of him. She moaned, low in her throat, and rocked toward it, so filled with need she thought her legs would give out.

  He suddenly tensed, as if realizing they were one step away from too-far-to-stop. Dropping his hands, he ended the kiss and pulled away, staggering back a step to punctuate the end of their embrace.

  The sound of their ragged breaths filled the silent air. Candace felt certain every ounce of blood in her body had pooled in her most intimate places, which now throbbed and boiled with demand. Her breasts hurt, the nipples so sensitive that the scrape of the silk robe was almost unbearable, and she knew nothing would make them feel better but his hands, his tongue, his lips.

  But the look on his face said she wasn’t going to get any of those things. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his tongue was back in his mouth, his lips were sealed tight and turned down in a frown.

  He was trying to pretend he regretted the kiss.

  She knew he didn’t.

  “That was...unexpected,” she admitted, hearing the weakness of her voice.

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

  “Oh, of course you meant to. Just as I meant to.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t mean it can happen again, or go any further.”

  She opened her mouth to argue.

  “You’re only here for a short time, you’re my boss’s granddaughter and he trusted me to look after you.”

  “I think he was sort of hoping you would romance me,” she said, her tone dry.

  “Yeah, but not bang you up against the front door.”

  “Is that where we would have ended up? Gee, and the sofa is right in the next room.”

  “Damn it, Candace.”

  She held a hand up, palm out, stopping him from saying anything more. “Forget it. I know you’re right. I have reasons of my own for not insisting you rip off your clothes and do me until I can’t remember my own name.”

  He coughed and laughed, both at the same time. Then, as if the laughter—and her saucy words—had snapped some kind of spell, he reached out, put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around so she faced the staircase. Gently pushing her, he ordered, “Go.”

  She spun back around. “I can’t.”

  His jaw turned into granite. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  All because he needed her to be the one who walked away and ended this before it really began? As if he had no free will? As if he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing to her exactly what she’d practically dared him to do unless she removed herself from his presence?

  You don’t want him to do it, either, remember? You know you can’t do this.

  Her grandfather was being moved to a rehab facility today. He’d be there for about a week, and then he would be coming home. But coming home to what? Her having an affair with his groundskeeper, then the descent of the paparazzi once her engagement was announced? Did he really need that while he recovered? Did Oliver, who was obviously here for reasons he hadn’t yet revealed to her? Did she need the scandal? Did Tommy?

  No. She might want Oliver, and having sex with him might even be worth what she would go through afterward if people found out. But nobody else deserved it. She needed to cool this, here and now. She had to be the one who walked away.

  Which still wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I’m telling you, you really don’t want to watch me walking up those stairs.”

  “Yes. I really do.”

  “And you’re honestly not going to get out of here until I do?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll regret it.”

  “Hell, I already regret it,” he said, tunneling both his hands through his hair this time, leaving it more tousled than before.

  “Not as much as you’re about to.”

  A helping of anger had been heaped upon her sexual frustration. Yes, she’d decided she couldn’t have him, but did he have to be so damned insistent about it?

  She hadn’t been kidding that he was going to regret it. Because she was ready to give him what he was asking for...and wondered if he was ready for what came along with it.

  Without another word, she spun around again, squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine and ascended the stairs. He stood below, watching her, and when she reached the fourth one, she couldn’t help pausing to glance over her shoulder at him.

  “Oh, Oliver, do you want to know why I didn’t want to walk up the stairs until you left?”

  He didn’t reply, just gave her an inscrutable look.

  She told him anyway. “Because of this.”

  Candace took another step, knowing she’d reached the point of no return. Knowing full well he could now see what she was not wearing beneath her robe.

  She wished she could say his strangled, guttural cry of helpless frustration made her feel better about walking away from what she sensed could be the best sex of her life.

  But she just couldn’t.

  5

  EVER SINCE HE’D started getting involved with females, Oliver had known how to handle them. Maybe it was because he’d had sisters, lots of girl cousins and parents with an honest, loving marriage in which nobody held the upper hand. Maybe because he’d had girls after him since he hit puberty. Maybe he’d just been born with the gene.

  The point was, he’d always been sure of himself when it came to women. He’d always known when one was interested and when she wasn’t, been able to gauge how soon was too soon, or when it was too late and he’d missed his shot. He’d set the pace, led the dance, taken the right steps at the right time.

  Until now. Until her. Until Candace.

  She had him twisted inside out and upside down, not knowing what to do or say next. He didn’t know whether to resist or keep on fighting. Part of him wished she’d never shown up at Buddy’s house, and another part dreaded the day she would leave.

  “God, what a mess,” he muttered that evening as he finished taking inventory in the wine cellar. He hadn’t even realized there was one in the house until today, when he’d gone to visit Buddy in the rehab center. He’d watched for Candace to leave the room, heading to the cafeteria for lunch, and then stopped by, not wanting to run into her after what had happened this morning. Coming face-to-face with her would have been more than his heart could have taken, even a couple of hours after she’d marched her bare little fanny up the stairs.

  No, not little. Round, supple, perfect.

  Just right for cupping in his hands, or pounding against as he took her from behind, the way he’d been dying to as he’d watched her sashay back to her room.

  He swallowed hard, wishing he hadn’t allowed himself to go back there in his mind. He’d managed to avoid thinking about her most of the day, but now the images came washing in. He was again overwhelmed by the memory of the gorgeous, naked ass she’d flashed at him as she’d ascended the stairs. He suspected he would keep seeing that vision for a long while, every time he closed his eyes. “You’re a complete idiot,” he muttered to himself. “You’re the one who insisted she walk up the stairs while you stood there like Pavlov’s dog, drowning in your own drool.”

  To give her credit, she had tried to warn him. No, she hadn’t come right out and told him what would happen—that he was about to be given a free peep show that would drive a grown man to his knees. And he suspected his own stubbornness had inspired hers. Still, he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive her for
showing him what he could have had, if not for his own foul temper and his need to keep punishing himself by not taking anything he truly wanted. Being noble was all well and good, but if it came with blue balls, he’d far prefer being selfish.

  “Enough,” he reminded himself, trying to return his focus to the task at hand. The wine cellar. He still couldn’t believe it was here, or that it held so much.

  Buddy had found a treasure trove in the basement right before his accident, one he hadn’t even realized was there until he’d started trying out keys to locked rooms. That’s what had sent him hurrying down the porch steps to find Oliver. He’d intended to show it to Oliver and ask him to help inventory it.

  Now that it looked like Buddy wouldn’t be doing any stair-climbing for a while, Oliver had promised he’d get started. Buddy had agreed gratefully, telling him to help himself to anything he found...unless it was worth a king’s ransom, in which case he would need it for his medical bills.

  He hadn’t even thought about that, but now that his employer had brought it up, Oliver couldn’t help worrying about it. Buddy had sunk his life savings into this place. God, he hoped this accident didn’t bankrupt the man.

  Caught up in the old man’s excitement, he’d stopped by the store to pick up reference books with grades, rankings and values of old wine. Once he’d found the room and gotten started, he’d been shocked by the sheer quantity of bottles. Obviously, his own great-uncle, who’d bought out his siblings, including Oliver’s grandmother, hadn’t even realized what he had in his possession. He’d been from back East and never done a proper inventory on the place. The group that had bought the estate from him had intended to get investors to renovate it into some corporate retreat, but had never fully investigated, either.

  Buddy had bought the whole place—and its contents—out of bankruptcy and was legally entitled to everything here. Including this treasure trove. If the previous owners had realized what they’d had, this stuff would have been on auction blocks around the world, not still stored in this secure room, created solely for keeping wines in pristine condition.