Love Can Be Murder

to take advantage."
    "Asking for help when you need it isn't taking advantage."
    She pursed her mouth. "That's easy to say if you've never had to ask someone for help."
    He looked down at their hands. "Everyone needs some kind of help at one time or another."
    She gave him a wry smile that belied the desire that coursed through her body. "This has been the neediest week of my life—you caught me at a bad time."
    "Or a good time," he said, reaching for her other hand and pulling her between his knees. He curved his arm around her lower back and drew her closer. She wanted so badly to be kissed by him, but things were different now. Gary was gone...she was in real trouble...nothing good could come of an affair with this man. Well, nothing good that would last longer than a few minutes.
    When their mouths were a mere inch apart, he whispered, "Jolie Goodman, what am I going to do about you?"
    Her lips parted involuntarily, and she leaned into his kiss. Their mouths met in a gentle exploration that grew in intensity as he slid his hands down her back. All she could think of was...nothing, actually...and it was nirvana to be lost in the moment. The fear, the sadness, the confusion she'd felt over the past few weeks and for most of her adult life, all of it channeled into pure passion for a man who was so compelling to her, she felt a little desperate around the edges.
    He moaned into her mouth and stood, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, pressing her chest against his. He carried her to the bed as effortlessly as if she were a hat that just happened to be folded around him. Somewhere along the way, her shoes slipped off her feet. When he lowered her to the massive white bed, she'd never felt so reckless, her senses never so keen. His face was pained with desire, his dark eyes hooded as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and slid onto the bed next to her.
    She skimmed her fingertips over his collarbone and shoulder, captivated by the smooth muscle of his powerful torso, the mat of light brown hair over his chest that narrowed to a dark furrow over his stomach.
    He unbuttoned her blouse, celebrating every liberated square of skin with his tongue. Jolie had always been modest, but with Beck she wasn't revealing her body—she was revealing everything she wanted to be and might never have the chance. Gone was any awkwardness, any hesitation. Beck controlled his body with athletic grace, every movement intentional and effective. Anticipation coiled tighter between her thighs as each piece of their clothing was cast aside. At the sight of him nude, Jolie felt the shudder of Eve inside her, breathless with the necessity of him. This was the essence of life: a magnificent man, and hormones run amok.
    But time was ticking, so when he parted her knees and kissed the heart of her, the frugal girl in her arched in appreciation of his attention to detail and economy of motion. Determined to be more participatory than a hat, Jolie returned the favor with equal consideration, then after a few mental calculations regarding expansion, contraction, and overage, she straddled him in what proved to be a gradual yet successful maneuver. They found a natural glide, urging each other to higher heights. She came first, and second, and he arrived a gentlemanly third, breathing her name with an urgency that resounded in her defeated, gullible heart. She lowered her head to his chest, but his heart gave no indication of a similar distress.
    He stroked her hair and made satisfied noises. She closed her eyes tightly, knowing that remorse was looking for her and would find her soon enough.
    A knock sounded on the door, and her eyes flew open.
    Beck lifted his head. "That will be Pam."
    Hello, remorse . Jolie disengaged herself from him as elegantly as possible, scooped up her clothes, and sprinted toward the bathroom.
    "Jolie."
    She turned back and raked her hair out of her eyes.
    His head popped through the neck of his sweatshirt. "That was great."
    That was inappropriate sprang to her lips, but it wouldn't be fair to drag Beck into her guilt event: Goodman, party of one .
    Instead she nodded, then dove into the bathroom. After running a damp washcloth over key areas, she jumped into her clothes and gave herself a good mental shake. What was she thinking, entertaining the idea of having feelings for Beck Underwood? As if she didn't have enough to worry about right now—her reputation, her career,