She’ll need more than a safe word to survive Porter Loughton.
Too broke to fly home for the holidays, ski instructor Emily is stuck on the slopes, giving lessons to the rich and the privileged. She doesn’t expect to see Porter Loughton, a former friend who broke her heart in college, ten years later and half a continent away. The mesmerizing billionaire suggests dinner, and Emily soon discovers how it feels to be bent across his knee, to be dominated by him. Their chemistry is hotter than in her dirtiest fantasies.
Emily knows it would be foolish to let him get too close after what happened before. She’s broke, her career nonexistent. The last thing she needs is to be in love with a man who doesn’t feel the same way. But when she receives distressing news, Porter is there to soothe her, and he won’t leave her side. Soon she has no control over her feelings.
I’m so stunned that I don’t even realize what’s happening at first, but then Porter’s tongue traces the closed seam of my mouth.
My lips soften, opening to him.
In response, his large palms cup my face even tighter, and his body rocks a little, inching closer.
A moan of longing rises in my throat. Embarrassed, I try to pull away.
Porter releases me. “Are you okay?”
All I can do is nod.
“Good.” He steps in close. His warm breath caresses my lips. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing this ever since…” He shakes his head and the next thing I know, his tongue is sliding over mine.
He tastes like the wine. Strong. Powerful. I’ll never be able to drink red wine again without remembering this, without getting turned on.
Because I am turned on. Pulsing heat throbs in my core, and I feel my pussy getting slick with desire.
I’m about to reach for him, to finally feel his perfect body under my fingertips, when he breaks our kiss.
Eyes closed like he’s savoring the moment, he continues to hold my face, then brushes his lips over mine, which are throbbing like the rest of my body. They feel swollen, lightly bruised.
“I think dinner is ready.” His voice is husky and raw.
Dinner is the last thing on my mind, but I think it would be rude to suggest we skip it in favor of doing more of the kissing thing.
When he releases me and turns his attention to the pan on the stove, I flee to my glass of wine. I don’t bother with the polite dance of asking if I can have more; it’s not like he’s going to say no.
I fill my glass and take a long swallow. Heaven help me—the wine tastes like his kiss.
“Can you carry these?” He slides two plates, two red cloth napkins, and two sets of silverware onto the counter. “It’ll save me a trip. This way.”
I follow him out the open side of the kitchen, toward the window. We enter a dining room with a table long enough to comfortably seat the entire U.S. Olympic alpine ski team.
A fancy centerpiece of candlesticks surrounded by holly adorns the end closest to us. Porter lays down two red cloth placemats and a trivet, on which he places a glass bowl of stir-fry.
I begin to distribute the place settings while Porter returns to the kitchen. He makes about six trips in all, and even though he tells me to sit, I hover uncomfortably to the side, my mind still buzzing from that kiss. Why did he do it?
The answer seems obvious: because he wanted to.
He’s not the same as he was in college. He’s even more self-assured, which I hadn’t thought was possible. It makes me unsure of myself, like there’s a predetermined amount of confidence that can exist between two people, and Porter has taken it all.
I learned a lot about men through my twenties, and while a big part of me only wants to know what Porter is like in bed, another part of me already knows I’ll be disappointed with just a one-night fling.
After all these years, it’s possible that the fantasy is better than the reality could ever be. I never thought of it in these terms before, but Porter is the perfect man in my memory, an unattainable ideal that no one could possibly live up to. What if he’s bad in bed? What if he’s a selfish lover?
Worse, what if he’s amazing, but then he disappears? He’s successful, rich, powerful. It’s insane to think his interest in me is anything more but casual. Really, with so many tourists in town with their families, and so many of the transplanted locals out of town, it’s not like there’s much choice for a man looking for fun between the sheets.
The wine isn’t helping me sort through my jumbled thoughts. As soon as I reassure myself on one front, the assault starts again from another angle.
If only this weren’t Porter, but some other gorgeous millionaire. No, billionaire. He was already a multimillionaire before college, thanks to the family fortune.
I snort. There aren’t many gorgeous billionaires to be found, and why can’t I enjoy the evening? I wish I weren’t buzzed.
About the Author:
If Cleo Peitsche isn't writing (or reading) erotica, she's probably sitting on her balcony, watching the wind blow through the trees. She loves horses, snowstorms, and piña coladas. If she won the lottery, she would hire an assistant to take care of the technical side of e-publishing so that she could write all day.
Some random facts about Cleo: 1. Thinks life's too short to forgo HEAs and HFNs; 2. Sprained an ankle joining the mile-high club. (Never again!); 3. Favorite writers include Cormac McCarthy, Junot Diaz, and Rachel Caine.; 4. Gets weak-kneed for bookish guys who know how to fix things with their hands. *swoons*
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