The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans Book 4)

by Nikki Sloane

  I’d thought his kiss last night was the best of my life, but he topped it easily with this one. I was naked, held in his suit-clad arms while his lips were fused to mine, and his hands skated up and down my back. He trailed the hollow of my spine with the sides of his thumbs, and the way he touched me . . . it was reverence.

  Like I was some priceless thing he’d chased after for so long and couldn’t believe was finally his.

  I wanted to touch him the same way, but when I put my palm on his chest, buttons reminded me of the barrier in my way. I picked at the first one, clumsy and fumbling, struggling with my urgency.

  Perhaps he wanted my touch even more, because Macalister broke the kiss. He delivered his piercing stare while he effortlessly undid the buttons and opened his shirt, revealing the beautiful landscape of his chest.

  There was a faint scattering of dark hair across his upper body, and a line of it that led my gaze downward. He was toned and sculpted, looking like he spent more time in the gym than in an office, which up until recently had probably been true. Damn, he was way too good-looking to be fifty-five.

  I placed my hand on the center of his chest and gently pushed, urging him back, and as he slumped into the couch, I trailed my fingers down over his skin and the faint notches of muscles they discovered.

  Lust filled my bloodstream like a drug, and Macalister peered at me with anticipation brimming in his eyes as I took hold of his cock, resettled myself on my knees, and went down on him again.

  His knees were spread wide, but his halfway-off pants were still sort of in my way. Once I tucked my legs beneath them, I had complete access. I looked up the long, bare slope of his body while I sawed my mouth side to side, inching as far down as I could go.

  He’d promised he’d tell me how he liked it, but I must have been doing a satisfactory job, because he gave no notes. Macalister’s lips parted and his face twisted with pleasure, which sometimes was so strong it looked a little like agony. I pumped my mouth on him, alternating between short, quick strokes and long, deep ones where I could tease with my tongue.

  There was a quiet thud as he tossed his head, and it banged against the back of the couch. His chest heaved when I squeezed my hands along the part of him I couldn’t take inside my mouth. My fingers were wet with my saliva and the drops of arousal that had leaked out of him.

  It was so fucking hot.

  Hotter still when his hand went back to gripping the edge of the couch, and his knuckles went white.

  I slid my fists and lips over him faster, and faster, and—

  “Slow.” He was hoarse with lust. “Make it last.”

  I paused my mouth, resting his tip against my smiling lips, using my tight fingers to stroke from the base to the head at a measured pace.

  “Yes,” he whispered, looking down at me with a hunger I felt in my bones. He was short of breath, making it come out between two pants for air. “That feels incredible.”

  My smile widened to a full grin. Seeing him like this? That felt incredible too, like a secret he was sharing only with me. His fingertips brushed across my cheekbone, and his hand slowly curled behind my head.

  This time, he was intent on directing. He’d given up control to me long enough. His other hand abandoned its grip on the cushion so he could gather my long blonde hair up into a loose ponytail, and he held it out of our way. It gave him an unobstructed view as he disappeared beneath my rounded lips and slowly reappeared, glossy and wet.

  He gently pushed and pulled me, establishing a slow, steady tempo to seesaw in my mouth. The deep breaths he took carved dark hollows beneath his cheekbones, making him look powerful and commanding. I heaved my hands up and down outside of my lips, twisting and squeezing and wringing pleasure from him with each pass.

  The pace he demanded began to build, both in speed and urgency, like a switch had been flipped inside him and now he was desperate for release. His hands tensed in my hair, some of the strands pulling awkwardly to the point of pain, and my jaw ached with discomfort. But it was worth it, because his sighs had grown too loud, too full of satisfaction.

  They were moans, the kind that welled up from deep in his chest and the back of his throat.

  I moaned softly too, thinking about what was happening, how I was naked between Macalister’s large thighs, my head bobbing furiously as I went down on him and brought him closer to ecstasy.

  “I want to finish,” he gasped, “in your mouth.”

  He didn’t phrase it as a question, but he was asking for consent. If I didn’t like this idea, all I had to do was pull away. Of course, I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t just enjoying it. I wanted to please him, to push him over the edge and make him lose control. And he sounded oh-so-close.

  It took only a few more pumps before it happened. The muscles in his legs strained, and he jerked, his breath cutting off. One of his hands let go of my hair, making it spill like a curtain around my face, but I could still see well enough to watch his head tip back to the ceiling. He threw his forearm over his eyes, his entire body shuddering.

  “Fuck,” he groaned.

  I nearly came myself, hearing my favorite word draw from his lips and to know I was the cause.

  He spurted in rhythmic jerks, filling my mouth, and I swallowed as quickly as possible, keeping my lips fixed tight around him. Not that I could go anywhere. His hand cupped the back of my head and held me in place as his climax rolled through. When the pleasure began to ebb, he eventually released me. The flick of my tongue as I made my retreat caused him to flinch, still overly sensitive from the orgasm.

  I sat back on my heels and gazed up at him sprawled across the couch. He looked devastatingly gorgeous laid out like this. As if I’d drained most of the power from him, but each ragged breath he took worked to restore it. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and he finally lifted his head and set his intense, focused gaze on me.

  He’d found his release, but he stared back at me like he wasn’t yet satisfied. Macalister was still famished, and the pleasure he wanted to consume now would be mine.

  But trepidation flooded my stomach, and years of anxiety weighed me down. I craved attention, but only when it was for the right reasons. Foreplay for me was nice and all, but it was an exercise in frustration. With sex, I was able to just enjoy without feeling the pressure to achieve. Because everyone knew women didn’t come every time they had sex, so it seemed normal to guys when I didn’t.

  But foreplay?

  I’d never had an orgasm from someone going down on me.

  Or using their fingers.

  In fact, I’d never come in front of anyone else. I could do it myself, but only in the darkness of my room, alone in my bed.

  Macalister leaned forward, his face close to mine and his woodsy aftershave faintly noticeable, grabbed the sides of his pants, and pulled them back up. He tucked himself away, zipped up and buttoned, then refastened his belt, moving with practiced hands. The mood in the room was still sexually charged, but it morphed into one that was taut with tension.

  “Stand up,” he commanded.

  I wasn’t trying to defy him, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. All I could do was stare at his feet. I sensed his confusion, even without looking at him. A breath passed between us, and he climbed to his feet, standing beside me before holding out a hand to help me up.

  I took it, only for him to haul me upright and into his embrace. His fingers were cold, but his body was hot, and when my breasts flattened to his bare chest, desire licked at me. It burned in his eyes as well, but I only caught a glimpse before he buried his mouth in the crook of my neck.

  His stubble scraped across my sensitive skin as he feasted on my neck, sucking and nibbling. I was pliant in his arms, growing weaker with every kiss. And then he leaned down, just enough so he could course a hand between my thighs and drag it upward, pulling a moan from my throat.

  God, that felt good. Just the brush of his hand over me gave a warm flash of pleasure.

  His voice
was wrapped in seduction, slinking through the cloudy desire in my head. “Give me the name,” he whispered, “and I’ll let you come.”

  The laugh that burst from me was unstoppable. He might as well have said he’d let me sprout wings and fly away, so I didn’t bother to rein in my sarcastic reaction. “No, thanks.”

  He went wooden, his eyes turning hard. “Why do you find that amusing? You don’t think I can bring you to orgasm?”

  “Nope,” I said without hesitation.

  It was like I’d just spit on his mother’s grave. Macalister’s eyebrow lifted sharply, and his posture straightened. “I’m good at nearly everything I do, but there are two things I truly excel at.” His expression dripped with arrogance. “Banking is the other one.”

  I rolled my eyes for the second time tonight. “Awesome.”

  “I am not exaggerating.”

  There was something about me that made people want to confess their secrets, like I was human truth serum, but I wondered if he was the same for me. I’d already revealed things to him I hadn’t told anyone else, so what difference did it make if I did some more?

  “Maybe you are great, but your talent would be wasted on me.”

  His brain hit a wall while going sixty miles an hour. “What the hell does that mean?”

  I sighed. “I don’t have orgasms.”

  Horror washed down his handsome face, and his arms tightened like steel bars around me. “Ever?”

  My heartbeat was frantic, fluttering in my chest. “Not with other people.”

  Macalister was at a total loss, unable to process. His gaze drifted down to my lips, and it went unfocused as he considered my statement. Abruptly, his eyes sharpened, and his attention snapped back to mine. “But you can orgasm? You have before?”

  “Yeah.” It was weird to be shy about this, given what we’d just done, but it felt like I was admitting I was abnormal, and I didn’t want to see judgment from him.

  The last thing I expected was to see him smile. It widened until it spread all the way to his eyes and consumed his face. It was the first genuine grin I’d ever seen from him, and it was breathtaking.

  “You’ll allow me to be the first, then,” he said.

  To prevent discussion, he bent and swept my legs out from beneath me, scooping me up into his arms.

  Was he aware this was also a first? No man had ever picked me up and carried me before, and it was hardwired into my brain to respond to the swoon-worthy gesture. I blinked up at him with my mouth hanging open in surprise, but he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze surveyed the space, searching for something, and when it was located, he strode deeper into the room.

  Our destination was the tan, single-armed chaise lounge in front of the fireplace, and he deposited me there before righting himself and moving to the mantel. I sat up and banded an arm across my chest to hold in my warmth while watching him turn the key to activate the gas. The fire in the fireplace burst to life, its orange-blue flames dancing over the realistic ceramic logs.

  Had he done it to light the dark room, or to keep me warm?

  With that task completed, Macalister turned and faced me, and I had the strangest sensation he was visualizing his next move the same way I did before each shot in skeet. It made my already racing pulse skip faster and my breathing go shallow.

  “You seem certain,” he said, “that I won’t be able to bring you to orgasm. Why don’t we strike a deal?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the side of the fireplace, and although his shirt was still unbuttoned and his posture attempted to be casual, I was smart enough not to fall for it. For one thing, Macalister Hale wasn’t casual. Another was that I was naked, and he was dressed, plus there was his positioning, since he was standing while I was perched on the lounge. He had the upper hand in every way, all the power.

  I hesitated. “What kind of deal?”

  The fire was already putting out warmth, and it cast flickering light over his face. It made him look sinister and provocative. “An orgasm for the name.”

  Had he forgotten how our last bet had worked out for him? I smiled, thinking about how bad the hit would be to his massive ego when he lost to me a second time. I was competitive, always playing to win. “There’d have to be rules, though.”

  He nodded. “Of course, such as a time limit to complete my task. Should we say an hour?”

  I jolted and my eyes widened. “You think it’ll take you an hour?”

  Annoyance glanced through him. “No, I think it’ll take me less than fifteen minutes.”

  I stared at him hard. “Then make it fifteen minutes.”

  Amusement tugged at his smile. “No, you misunderstand. Just because I can do it in fifteen minutes doesn’t mean I will. I’d prefer to take my time with you.”

  Well, fuck if that didn’t turn me on, just a little—but he didn’t need to know that. “It’s late,” I said. “Aren’t you tired?”

  He paused, hesitant to reveal it but then accepted it. “I suffer from insomnia, so, yes. But I am always tired. I would rather give you pleasure for the next hour than spend it on the treadmill, working myself to the point of exhaustion.”

  It was impossible not to picture him running, beads of sweat darting erratically down his amazing chest. I swallowed thickly. “What do I get if I win?”

  Some of Macalister’s looks were easy to read, and this was one of them. There was no doubt in his mind I’d lose, and he was only humoring me with his answer. “Then I won’t ask again.”

  He was entirely too smug, and his confidence reminded me not to underestimate him. He’d done that with me, and I’d made him look bad. It was smart to be cautious.

  I’d gotten close to orgasm once with a partner. I’d been tipsy and high, and my boyfriend at the time had gone down on me long enough to make me wonder if he was going to get me there. Macalister had been married twice, so it stood to reason he wasn’t clueless about sex. His personality was persistent and methodical. Given a full hour, he might be able to do it with his tongue.

  “You can only use your hands,” I said, throwing his carefully selected word back in his face. “That should be adequate.”

  I expected him to push back, but all he did was tilt his head. “All right. To clarify, no oral sex.” He pushed away from the wall, and as he moved closer, shadow fell across his face. “But I am allowed to use my mouth elsewhere. Agreed?”

  There was a worried voice in the back of my head that I promptly silenced. “Fine.”

  He gave a conquering smile as he sat on the lounge beside me. “Do you think you’ve hindered me, Sophia?” He skimmed his knuckles across my cheek, and his eyes, which never seemed to miss a thing, swept down over my face, zeroing in on my mouth. “You may think you’ve taken away my only weapon, but I have so many more.” He leaned in and whispered it against my lips. “Eleven twenty-two.”

  I was already succumbing to his magnetic pull. “What?”

  “My hour starts now.”

  ELEVEN

  MACALISTER

  SOPHIA WAS VISIBLY NERVOUS. Anxiety tensed her shoulders and kept her posture stiff, which I found fascinating. I was the one beneath the clock, but if her apprehension was over losing to me, then it wasn’t misplaced.

  This was easily the smartest wager I’d ever made.

  If I won, not only would she tell me who she wanted named in DuBois’s book, but I’d get to be the first man to give her an orgasm, and I loved nothing better in this world than being a woman’s source of pleasure. In the unlikely event I lost, I’d get an hour of almost total rein over her body.

  And what a body she had. The mouth that went with it was another story.

  I despised the way she’d taunted when she called me Daddy, but what was more troubling was my own reaction to it. A warped and twisted delight lingered even after her fetishized word had dissipated.

  It had pushed me beyond sense, and the spanking I’d delivered escalated far beyond what I had intended. Th
e desire to discipline and correct had been my original goal, and then abandoned at the wayside the very moment my cock had grown hard.

  My selfish needs had taken command, and I’d been weak enough to let them.

  Sophia had alleviated much of the ache she’d created tonight, and thankfully, now I was back under control, my mind firmly in charge. I was displeased I’d let myself get into this situation, but happier now with the turn of events.

  I’d allow myself to indulge, as long as I remembered this was all there’d be. One night of indiscretion was easy to write off, but it could not happen again.

  She sighed when I brushed my lips against hers and softened further when I kissed her in earnest. The meeting of our mouths worked to dispel her anxiety one layer at a time, like fingers unlacing a corset. Each slow stroke of my tongue freed her more.

  Yet kissing her was . . . worrisome.

  After Julia, I viewed kissing as a tool. It was an act to be performed by the man and experienced by the woman, and I typically used it to deepen my level of seduction. Kissing was the most effective way to establish who was in control.

  But whenever my mouth was on Sophia’s, I hadn’t a clue who was leading our kiss, or who between us was in charge. It was disorienting, leaving me unbalanced. Kissing was supposed to be a device. A checkpoint to pass on the way toward a sexual encounter. But with her, it had feeling—it had its own version of pleasure.

  I kissed her with no motive or agenda, other than I enjoyed the way she kissed me back. I surrendered to the experience, rather than be the one driving it. Thankfully, my competitive nature, which had been lurking in the back of my mind, cleared its throat to remind me of my responsibility.

  I used my body and my kiss to drive her down onto her back, and her golden hair fanned around her on the lounge’s cushion. She looked so young and untouched, staring up at me with her big eyes. Why did she stay, when she seemingly knew every awful thing about me? She’d sought me out when she should have run the other way.