Though he had apologised. Far too late.
Such a late apology couldn't begin to make up for how he'd made her feel for over a week of miserable days and even more miserable nights.
All the same, maybe she shouldn't wear the dress. Maybe she should return it to the boutique and get her money back. Being vengeful wasn't about to result in anything good. It just kept her thinking about him and his response to her.
Was that a knock on her door? Yes.
Nicole hauled herself out of the bubble bath, thinking it might be Hannah dropping by for a little chat before they had to dress, probably unable to contain her excitement over Gina's premiere, wanting to share it. She had raved to Nicole about Gina's voice, certain that her sister-in-law was going to be a star in tonight's show, but first-night nerves might have got to her.
Nicole gave herself a quick towelling, then wrapped herself in the big white bathrobe supplied by the hotel as she hurried through the bedroom.
Another knock urged her into faster action. Without pausing to check the identity of the caller, she opened the door and stood in paralysed shock at being confronted by Matt King.
With him standing right in front of her, barely an arm's length away, she was swamped by how big he was, how male he was, and all of him bristling with aggression, sending an electric charge through every nerve of her body. She was instantly and acutely conscious of her nakedness under the bathrobe, and the blistering force of his glittering dark gaze reminded her that her hair was piled carelessly on top of her head, pinned there to keep it out of the bathwater.
"Let's talk, shall we?" he said in belligerent challenge, stepping forward, driving her back from the door and the intimidating power of his advancing presence.
She was hopelessly unprepared for this. It didn't even occur to her to try and stop him as he entered her room and closed the door behind him.
She was too busy backpedalling to put some distance between them, checking that the tie-belt was tied, clutching the lapels of the robe together to prevent any gap from opening, catching her breath enough to speak.
"What do you want to talk about?"
He looked at her mouth. Was it quivering? She had no make-up on, no armour at all in place to give her any confidence in maintaining some personal dignity against the raw onslaught of his sexuality.
His gaze dropped to the hollow in her throat. She could feel the dampness there that she hadn't had time to wipe away. He took in the clutching position of her hands on the hotel robe, an obvious pointer to how vulnerable she felt. His eyes missed nothing. He probably saw her toes curling as he looked at her bare feet, and he surely absorbed every curve of her body as his gaze slowly travelled back up to her face, her mussed hair, her eyes.
"Maybe talking isn't what either of us want," he said gruffly, his deep voice furred with the desire for a more primitive means of man/woman communication.
Sheer panic galloped through her heart, contracted her stomach, shot tremulous waves down her thighs. "I don't know what you mean," she gabbled, her mind totally seized up with a clash of fear and excitement.
"Yes, you do." His eyes mocked her denial as he moved forward and cupped her chin, fingers lightly fanning the line of her cheek. "You know exactly what I mean, Nicole Redman. The only question is...will you give an honest response?"
He was going to kiss her.
And she just stood there, mesmerised by the blazing purpose in his eyes, mesmerised by the tingling warmth of the feather-light caress on her cheek, allowing his cupping thumb to tilt her chin to a higher angle, a readily kissable angle, and when his mouth covered hers, it wasn't just her lips yearning to know what his kiss would be like. Her whole body was zinging with anticipation, vibrantly alive to whatever sensations this man would impart.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. She hadn't expected it to be. Didn't want it to be. He'd churned her up so much, the need for some outlet for all the pent- up feelings crashed through her, urging answers from him. His mouth was hotly demanding and hers demanded right back, no holds barred as they merged in a rage of passion that craved satisfaction.
An arm clamped around her back, slamming her against him. The hand that had been holding her face to his, raked through her hair, dislodging pins, exulting in freeing the long tresses, and she exulted in it, too. She revelled in being pinned to the hard surging strength of his powerful physique, loved the feel of his hand in her hair, its aggressive need to tangle in the long soft silkiness of it.
Somehow it freed her to touch him as she liked; the muscular breadth of his shoulders, the wiry curls at the back of his neck. Every contact with him was intensely exciting, the squash of her breasts against the firm hot wall of his chest, the pulsating sense of their hearts drumming to the same fierce escalation of desire for each other, thighs rubbing, pressing, wanting flesh against flesh.
She felt the tie-belt on the robe being yanked, pulled apart. Matt wrenched his mouth from hers, dragging in air as he lifted his head back. His eyes glittered an intense challenge as he moved his hands to hook under the collar of the robe, intent on sliding it from her shoulders. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The words zapped straight into her mind.
Stop me now if you want to stop.
Her mouth throbbed with the passion he'd fired. Her breasts ached to be touched, kissed, taken by him. Her whole body was aroused, screaming for the ultimate intimacy with this man, uncaring of any moment beyond the experience he was holding out to her.
She didn't speak.
As her hands slid down from his shoulders to make the disrobing easy, her eyes told him there'd be no stopping from her and it wasn't a surrender to his will. It was her choice. And it was up to him to prove the choice was worth taking.
He eased back from her to let the robe slither to the floor. He didn't look down at the nakedness revealed. His gaze remained fastened on hers, the challenge still very much in force as he brought her hands up to his chest, resting them beside the buttons on his shirt.
"Don't give me passive," he growled. "Show me. Get rid of my shirt."
He released her hands. He stood there, inviting her touch but not forcing it. She could feel the burning pride behind his stance, the tension of not knowing whether she might refuse, the determination not to leave himself open to any accusation that he'd taken unfair advantage of her, yet the wanting was not in any way diminished. The heat of it was sizzling around her, bringing tingles to her bare skin and the sense of partnership he was demanding acted like a heady intoxicant to the cocktail of excitement already stirred.
Her hands moved with eager purpose. He'd stripped her naked. He had to be naked, too. She wanted him to be, wanted to feast her eyes on all that made him so masculine, wanted to touch, to absorb the power of him, to experience exactly what it was that compelled such a strong sexual response in her, even against her will, against her reason. She didn't want to fight it now. She had to know.
The shirt was open. She slid it from his shoulders. Warm, satin- smooth skin, tightly stretched over firm muscles. His chest was magnificent. She couldn't resist grazing her fingers through the little nest of black curls below his throat, gliding her palms down towards his flat stomach.
It spurred him out of his tense immobility. It was his hands that unfastened his trousers, got rid of the rest of his clothes, stripping with a speed that was breath-taking in its effect of instantly revealing more than she had let herself imagine. He was a big man, big all over, and a little shiver ran through her at the thought of mating with him.
Too late to back off now. Besides, she didn't want to.
Her heart was thundering in her ears. Her whole body was at fever- pitch anticipation. And there was a wanton primitive streak inside her that was wildly elated when his strong hands gripped her waist, lifted her off her feet and swung her onto the bed.
He loomed over her, all dominant male, and there was a fierce elation in his eyes at having won what he wanted. Though she knew it wasn't true. She was the one taking him. And her eyes beamed that straight back at him. No surrender. A searing challenge to complete what had been started, complete it to her satisfaction.
It was like a battle of minds...a battle of hearts... intensely exhilarating...all-consuming...concentration totally focused. There was no foreplay...none needed... none wanted...just this apocalyptic coming together... the ultimate revelation of all the uncontrollable feelings they had struck in each other.
Every nerve in her body seemed to be clustered in that one intimate place, highly sensitised, waiting, poised to react to his entry. There was a tantalisingly gentle probing, a teasing test of how welcome he was.
Instinctively, needfully, she clasped him with her legs, urging him on. He plunged forward and her whole body arched up in ecstatic pleasure at the sense of him filling her with his power. It was glorious, having him so deeply inside her, then feeling him thrust there over and over again. Her own muscles joyously adjusted to his rhythm, revelling in the exquisite sensations, craving more and more peaks of pleasure.
Her whole being was centred on how it was with him. She'd never felt anything like it in her entire life, hadn't known what was possible. She lost all sense of self. This was fusion on such an intense level there was no room for any other reality and even when she reached the first incredibly sweet climax, it simply set her afloat on a sea of pleasure that kept on rolling with waves that crested even more deliriously.
How he held his climax back for so long she didn't know, but when it came it was wondrous, too, the fast friction, the powerful surge of energy, the explosion of heat spilling deeply inside her...and a feeling of overwhelming love burst through her, tingling right to her scalp, her fingertips, her toes. And she found herself hugging him to her, hugging him with every ounce of strength she had left in her arms and legs.
His arms burrowed under her and hugged her right back, and there was no letting go, even when he rolled onto his side. He carried her with him, as blindly and compulsively intent as she was on holding on to the togetherness. Time had no meaning. Nothing had any meaning but this.
Until the telephone rang.