She raised her eyebrows, the hottest look of satisfaction in her gaze as she wrapped her lips around his dick once more, then grabbed his ass in her hands and rocked him into her mouth.

This was it. This was the motherfucking blow job of his life. He gave it to her good and she took it, obliterating his hold on any thread of sanity with the way her wicked tongue licked him and her lips sucked hard, so hard that the pressure built and built and built, then it simply crashed into him, ripping all the breath from his lungs. White-hot light erupted behind his eyelids.

He gripped her head, curling his fingers around her skull as she dug her sharp nails into his ass. He came hard in her mouth. It was an explosion of pleasure in his body, a sheer blast of intoxication rocketing through his cells.

Blow jobs were certainly known to sink a man’s hold on logic, to lead a man to say things that he wouldn’t ordinarily say. But he’d retained some awareness of his surroundings, and the proximity to other people beyond the dressing room doors. Otherwise, he probably would’ve blurted out something he wasn’t ready to reveal. Not just something sexual or dirty, but something deeper, about how much he had wanted that from her. For years.

As she stood up, he was damn near ready to tell her then he had dreamed of that, and not merely because he wanted her physically, but because he simply wanted her. More than he’d ever expected to.

But her finger was back on his lips again, keeping him quiet. She had no idea he’d been about to tell her how long she’d been the star of his fantasies, and how he hated the idea of ever letting go of their new reality.

Turned out Harrod’s really did have the dress she wanted. Casey didn’t even need to try it on. She told him she knew Herve Leger fit her like a glove, so she’d grabbed the dress from the dressing room, slapped down her credit card, and snapped it up for the rehearsal dinner.

When they slid back into the car a few minutes later, zipped back up, hair straightened, she spoke first, brandishing her shopping bag. “Look! It was so worth the stop. Thank you for waiting for me.”

Nate put the brakes on a naughty grin, turning his head to stare out the window so his colleagues wouldn’t know that their boss had just gotten blown in Harrod’s.

18

London, noon . . .

The top floor of The Luxe in Kensington was stunning, with gold-trimmed walls and a royal blue carpet leading them down the hallway to a penthouse suite. He slid the card through the slot, then held the door open for her. She had stayed at his hotels many times, so she knew better than to let her jaw drop when taking in the richness and sensuality of the rooms, but she had never stayed in the penthouse suite in London before. The suite was palatial, and impeccably appointed with a British flair to the furniture, but still outfitted in the sleek and sexy style The Luxe was known for.