The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

fallen in love with him.
    “Oh yeah,” Megan said, turning around to slide off the cushioned bench, “my life’s a party.”
    “Am I invited?”
    Her head snapped up and her gaze shot to the open doorway of the bedroom. Simon stood there, jacket hooked on an index finger and flung over one shoulder, his tie opened and the top button of his dress shirt undone. He looked tired, a little harassed and too damn good.
    She swallowed hard and wondered if she’d ever get used to the simple joy of just looking at him. God, he could turn her insides to a gooey puddle with one glance out of those fog-gray eyes. No point in letting him know that, though.
    She cleared her throat. “What?”
    “You said your life’s a party.” Simon echoed her words as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I was just wondering if I was invited or not.”
    How could he not know that he was the party?And how was she going to be able to live with him for a whole year and not eventually blurt out the truth about how she felt? Oh, she wished she were a better liar. Or even a better actress.
    She sucked in a gulp of air, told her nerves to shut the hell up and forced a smile. She’d just have to find a way to keep the fact that she loved him her own little secret.
    Now that he was home though, thoughts and worries rushed out of her mind, leaving her body hungry and her heart trembling. He might not love her, but even as he mentally distanced himself from her, she knew he still wanted her. So for the moment, she’d let go of tomorrow and concentrate on tonight.
    “Sure you’re invited,” she said and walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the thick, plush carpet. Slipping out of her robe, she let it slide down her arms to hit the floor, leaving her wearing only a silk pale-green camisole and matching panties. The cool night air brushed her skin, but she didn’t feel it. How could she ever feel cold when Simon’s heated gaze was on her?
    One dark eyebrow lifted as he watched her approach. “Just what kind of party is this?”
    Even his voice was rich and dark and sexy. The deep rumbles of it rolled through her, setting her nerve endings on fire. Firelight cast dancing shadows across his features and flickered in his eyes.
    “It’s a ‘you’re late and I missed you’ party.”
    He frowned slightly, tossed his jacket to the foot of the bed. “Didn’t mean to be this late, but—”
    Megan shook her head, reached up and covered his mouth with her fingertips. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
    One corner of his mouth lifted and something flashed in his eyes. “Just in time for the party?”
    “You’re the guest of honor, actually.”
    “Yeah?” he asked, allowing her to pull him over to the wide continent of their bed. “What do I win?”
    “Me.” Megan unbuttoned his shirt, dragged the end of his tie free and tugged it off of him. Then scraping her hands along his arms, she pushed his shirt down and off, then slid the palms of her hands across his chest. He hissed a breath of air through gritted teeth and she smiled to herself, loving the knowledge that in this, at least, she could touch him.
    She couldn’t tell him she loved him.
    But she could show him.
    Dipping her head, she pressed her mouth to the base of his throat and sighed against him as his hands came up to stroke her skin beneath the silk of her camisole.
    “You feel so good,” he whispered, his breath brushing the top of her head, ruffling her hair. “You always feel so damn good.”
    “I’m glad,” she said, her words muffled as she continued to kiss him, moving, shifting, until she tasted first one of his hard, flat nipples and then the other.
    He groaned, clutched her to him and fell back onto the bed.
    She lifted her head and looked down at him. His features tight and drawn, his eyes were now the color of night smoke, dark with need, glittering with desire. If she couldn’t have his love, she would at least claim his need.
    For now.
    For this one moment, Simon Pearce needed her. Wanted her.
    And that was all that mattered.
    “I don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he admitted, reaching up to stroke her hair back from her face, over her shoulder. His voice was rough, as if he were forcing the words out past a tight throat. “But I think about you all the damn time.”
    That was something, wasn’t it? He thought about her. He wanted her. It wasn’t love, but it was something.
    “I’m glad of that,