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Every nerve-point in Gypsy’s body had come alive, treacherously telling of her inability to deny this desire. His head had lowered and his mouth had slanted over hers, stifling anything else she might say. After a futile moment of trying not to react to his kiss, to his proximity, Gypsy’s mouth had opened and Rico had plundered ruthlessly, tongue stabbing deep, making Gypsy’s back arch.
Her hands had instinctively clung to his arms, fingers digging into hard muscle. Before she’d known how he did it, the buttons of her pyjama top were undone and he was spreading the sides apart to bare her breasts to his gaze. The hardening rosy tips had tingled as he’d brushed a hand over one, and then the other.
Gypsy’s breath had come fast and shallow, and when he’d lowered his head and mouth to suck one tip deep she’d all but bucked off the bed, so sensitised it had hurt.
Just as his hand had been travelling down to the waistband of her pants, a mewl had come from Lola in the other room.
They’d both stopped, waiting, and it had come again—stronger. Louder. She’d woken up. With a veritable turmoil of tangled emotions and frustrated desires in her belly Gypsy had pushed Rico away and got up, hastily buttoning her top again. Reluctantly she’d looked back to the bed, to see Rico lying there, arms behind his head, the sheet just managing to hide the extent of his arousal, chest broad and awe inspiring, gleaming dark olive with a smattering of masculine hair.
He’d smiled wickedly and drawled, ‘Next time we won’t have a convenient interruption. I can promise you that…’
Gypsy had fled.
Now, as Rico’s far too assessing eyes looked at her, she burned all over. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she’d caught him looking at her periodically over the last couple of days with a speculative gleam. He just arched a brow now, and asked laconically, ‘So, did you find anything interesting on the internet?’
All the heat that had just warmed Gypsy’s cheeks leached out. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said easily. ‘Isobel told me you’d been on the internet, and it’s an easy thing to check the history. I think you possibly found out everything but my shoe size.’
No wonder he’d been looking at her; he knew she’d been snooping. The heat flooded back—and she hadn’t even found out anything about his personal life, his real father in Greece, or what had happened to him between the ages of sixteen and twenty, when he’d burst on the scene having become a dotcom millionaire overnight.
Gypsy’s arms tightened across the sleeping Lola, causing her to shift slightly. Stiffly she said, ‘I felt that perhaps I owed you the benefit of the doubt. I realised that I really didn’t have much basis for my…’ She faltered tellingly.
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