Silk.

Aw, man, they were silk and flimsy. One little tug and he’d rip them free. Because he couldn’t actually see them, he wondered what color they were. Black? Red?

She lay on the table utterly motionless, holding her breath, he guessed, and slowly-so slowly he had to grit his teeth-he traced the edging of the panties to the string over either hip.

String bikini. His favorite.

“What color?”

“Wh-what?”

He almost didn’t recognize his own hoarse voice. “What color are they?”

She remained still for a beat, then let out a breathless laugh that shook her shoulders. “I can’t remember.”

He ran his finger over the very tops of them now, drawing a line low on her spine.

Her breath caught. “They might be peach.”

Now it was his turn to hold his breath.

“Or black.” She said this in a whisper.

His body tightened. His fingers wrapped around the material of her skirt and slowly pushed it up, past her knees, revealing a gorgeous set of legs he wanted wrapped around him. Her thighs were every bit as taut and creamy smooth as he remembered from the spa, and his mouth went dry.

Then he pushed the skirt up even farther, to her waist now, and exposed her ass, covered in a silky pair of barely there bikini panties.

Black.

His heart was drumming in his ears, all the blood in his head draining south. Reaching out, he traced his finger over her hip, then curled his finger around the string.

She squirmed again.

One yank, he thought, just one yank…His knees actually wobbled.

“It’s…warm in here,” she murmured very softly, making him realize he’d been staring down at her like a sixteen-year-old virgin with his first glimpse beneath his girlfriend’s dress.

Hell, he felt like a damn virgin, a clumsy one. “You’re wearing a sweater.”

“I could take it off…”

Great idea. Reaching up, he pulled the sweater over her head.

Beneath, she wore a pale pink camisole, spaghetti straps, one of which had slipped off her shoulder. He nudged the other one, helping it to the same position, absorbing her caught breath, getting a surge of possessive desire at the sight of her flat on her belly, gripping the sides of the table, her shirt shoved high, straps off her shoulders, face turned away.

God. He had to stand there and purposely drag air into his lungs. Massage. He was here to give her a massage, and drive her as crazy as she drove him.

And to make her beg. Let’s not forget that. Teeth clenched, he poured more oil into his hands, and with her skirt still bunched at her waist, worked on her bared shoulders, dragging more soft moans from her. “How are you doing?” he murmured, moving inward, to the back of her neck.

“Mmm,” was her only answer, so he took his hands down her shoulder blades, and when the top of the camisole got in his way, he merely tugged it down to her waist.

On her belly, gripping the edges of the table for all she was worth, she gasped.

He smiled grimly and went back to work.

After a stiff moment, she let out a breath and relaxed into his touch, and when he’d removed every bit of tenseness from as much of her back as he could reach, he leaned in, kissed her jaw, and said, “Turn over.”

Her eyes flew open. “Um-”

“Unless, of course, you’re afraid I’ll actually do it.”

“Do what?”

“Make you beg.”

She squeezed her eyes shut again for a beat.

This was it, he thought with mixed feelings of relief and regret. He’d pushed her past her boundaries. She was going to tell him to take a flying leap. She was going to run back to her room, then back to Los Angeles, certain she’d met the worst of the worst.

And then she did the unthinkable.

She turned over.

She bared her body, and given the way her eyes held his, open and vulnerable, she bared her heart and soul, as well.

Shit, he thought, feeling something deep inside him give. Crack. Break.

Desperately afraid it was his heart, he shoved it out of his thoughts by letting his gaze gobble her up. And there was a hell of a lot to gobble; the woman was a walking wet dream. Her bare breasts were perfect handfuls. No, make that perfect mouthfuls, with their soft curves and rosy nipples, hardening for him into two tight buds that made his jaw ache because he was holding it so tight.

Her ribs rose and fell quickly with her accelerated breathing, and though her camisole and skirt blocked a strip of her belly, he could see enough to know that it was softly rounded and pale and so smooth he wanted to rub his jaw right there.

Just below her bunched-up skirt were those heart-stopping panties. Black. Silky. And riding high enough to fully outline her.

His little L.A. producer was waxed or shaved or whatever mysteries it was that a woman did there. Her long, long shapely legs beckoned, and he ran a hand up one, feeling her tremble. “Cold now?”

Eyes never leaving his, she shook her head.

Holding her gaze, he added his other hand, dancing his fingers up both her thighs, past her panties, skirt and camisole, settling his palms on her ribs.

Again her breath caught, an audible sound in the room.

He stroked over her flawless skin, the very tips of his fingers just barely brushing the undersides of her breasts.

Her nipples tightened even more.

She licked her lips, swallowed hard, but kept looking at him, even when he shifted his hands, gliding them up to cup her beautiful breasts in his palms.

“Oh,” she breathed, startled.

His thumb brushed her distended nipples, then he bent his head to take one into his mouth.

Arching her back, she gripped the sides of the table and let out a soft, erotic hum.

And he was a goner. Lifting his head, he looked down at her, then put his mouth to her jaw, her ear, inhaling her, the scent of her shampoo, her skin. Had he really believed he could just tease her, tease himself, and then walk away without sinking into her body? “Em…”

Her eyes fluttered open, filled with heat and need and something that nearly brought him to his knees.

Affection. Her eyes were swimming with it.

So he closed his and concentrated on the intoxicating scent of her, the feel of her glorious body. “We’re going to do this.”

“Yes,” she shocked him by saying, reaching up, fisting her hand in his shirt, holding him over her, leaving him no choice but to look deep into her eyes. “Now. Please, now.”

As if he could possibly resist. Bending, he kissed the heavy underside of her breast, licked his way to her nipple, and sucked it into his mouth.

Crying out, she arched up again, reaching for him, her warm hand running up his torso and then down again, her fingers tracing the ridges of his ab muscles.

With her breast in his mouth, her nipple pebbling against his tongue, and her hand warm and soft beneath his shirt now, he couldn’t have walked away to save his life. She murmured his name on a sigh as her hand stroked over his bare belly now, then lower, toying with the waistband of his jeans.

It was both heaven and hell. Heaven because touching her like this, looking at her, felt so good. Too good. Hell because he already knew one time with her would never be enough.

Knowing it, pushing it out of his mind, he slid his hand down the length of her arm, twining his fingers with hers, lifting her hand over her head so she couldn’t keep touching him, because if she did, this was going to be over before it started. Apparently with her, he couldn’t control himself. So he took her other hand, pulling it out from beneath his shirt, bringing it up, as well, squeezing lightly.

Her response was a rocking of her hips, a soft wordless plea, which he answered with a kiss. Leaning over her, he opened his mouth on hers and claimed her as his.

Hot, wet, deep, the kiss said it all, sending waves of need and desire to pool behind the buttons on his Levi’s.

“Jacob,” she whispered into his mouth, her breath sweet and hot, the little catches in her throat the sexiest thing he’d ever heard, making him forget the suite, his job, her job, the reason they’d even met, making him forget everything but how soft and giving her mouth was, her tongue just a little shy until he coaxed her with his. It was a kiss that left him wanting a hell of a lot more than what he could get in this position.

He broke contact, his body hardening even further at her low, mewling protest. Moving around from the side of the massage table to the foot, he put a hand on each of her hips and tugged, bringing her up flush against him, her legs sprawled, her black silk-covered crotch snug to his denim-covered one.

Blinking up at him, she smiled, and if his heart hadn’t clutched hard before, it did now. She sat up and reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head, tugging him forward to catch his mouth with hers while her fingers danced over his flesh, making his muscles jerk and bunch with each stroke over his chest, over his stomach, then lower.

Again she toyed with his waistband, and this time didn’t stop there, but pulled hard until the first button popped open. And then the next.

His body surged; his toes curled. He was going to lose it before they’d even started, something that had never happened, even when he’d been young and extremely stupid. He was quickly spiraling out of control here, wanting nothing more than to sink hard and fast into her body, forget finesse.

Again he bent over her, pressing her back to the table, stroking his hands up the undersides of her arms, bringing them back over her head, leaning down to kiss her long and hard, until he felt her writhing against him, until she was panting with the need for more, until she was lost in the passion. There. He had her now. He trailed hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down her torso, flicking his tongue over one nipple, then the other, swirling past her belly button, past the bunched-up clothes in his way.