Just This Once by Rosalind James Page A

could look at him, one
leg tucked under her. “I’m sure. But . . . I’m all sweaty. Shouldn’t I go home first
and take a shower?”
    He laughed. “Oh, we can take a shower. Later. Good idea.
Water. And soap. But you’re having me, sweat and all, first.”
    The words sent another thrill through her. She watched him
as he drove. Watched him as he pulled into the little town at the base of the
mountain at last, and into the drive of a tidy motel.
    “Wait in the ute,” he ordered. “Don’t get out.”
    He was back within a few minutes with a key, ready to move
the truck again.
    “Why wasn’t I supposed to get out?” she asked, puzzled.
    He looked at her, frowning. “You don’t want people to see
you with me, checking into a motel in the middle of the afternoon. Nobody needs
to see that photo.”
    She was still mystified. Who would there be to take their
picture? But she couldn’t bring herself to give much attention to the issue, as
he was pulling up to one of the simple units, leaping out, and coming around to
pull her down with him and through the front door.

Chapter 7
    Drew slammed the motel door shut behind the two of them,
pulling her into his arms even as he did, the key dropping unnoticed to the
floor. He pulled the bandana from her hair and threaded his hands through,
around her face, kissing her again, walking her backwards until her thighs hit
the bed and she sat down suddenly, jolted by the sudden change.
    He followed her down onto the big bed, pulling her with him
so they both lay sprawled across the duvet. His hands were everywhere,
unbuttoning, pulling her blouse from around her and lifting her to take it from
her body and drop it over the side of the bed. Then his hand was on the button
of her khaki shorts, and he was pulling them over her hips and throwing them
where they joined her blouse, disregarded on the rug where they fell.
    He pulled back then, looked at her as she lay beneath him,
dressed only in bra and panties, her hair streaming around her, behind her, her
eyes huge and focused only on him, her lips parted, her breath coming fast now.
    Slow down, mate, he told himself. Slow down and make it good
for her.
    But she was pulling at him, reaching to wrench his shirt
from his body and run her hands over his chest, his arms, his back, and his
resolve was gone, replaced by need alone. She wasn’t naked yet, and he needed
her to be. He reached for the fastening of her bra, looked at the pink and
white of her, had to touch her. To taste her.
    He moved down to taste the salt of her breasts against him,
pulling one nipple into his mouth as she cried out with pleasure. He licked,
bit, sucked, and felt her moving against him, heard her cries as she held his
head against her. His hands went lower, wrenched off the panties, and then he
was holding her, cupping her against his big hand and feeling the warmth of her
against him.
    Needing to see all of her, he pulled back and looked. And
stared. Her body was all white, rose, gold, the brown of his hand against her where
her legs met, against the white of her flat stomach, her hips, her thighs. He
moved his hand again, heard her gasp, felt his own heartbeat quicken in
response to her movements as she bucked against him.
    He needed to see more of her. He moved down her body, gently
moving her legs apart and looking at that most secret part of her as she lay
beneath him, clutching at him, moving her hands over his shoulders and back. He
dropped down, just to touch her, to kiss her, there where she was so open and
vulnerable.
    Hannah felt as if she were in an electric field. A lightning
storm. The feelings were too much, too intense. She wanted him so much, she was
about to dissolve. His mouth on her was shockingly warm, electrically hot,
taking her spiraling up, up, out of control. Sensation filled her, and she grabbed
him by the hair, holding him against her, needing more of him.
    Just as she felt she was about to lose control, to go over
the top, she