by Evans, Katy
So I sheathe myself and grab her hips, take her lips, and ease in . . . slow.
Slow, focusing on slowing down the roll of hips, the rocking of bodies. I want to feel this energy we have, feel the way we connect and latch on to that.
She gasps and rocks faster, wanting me to go harder and quicker. But I won’t.
“Shh,” I quiet her, lifting both her hands now and pinning them beneath mine.
We’re palm to palm, body to body, locked in this eye-opening moment, a moment that suggests maybe, just maybe, a woman like Lizzy could fall for a guy like me. Not the perfect man she’s making, the one that she’ll soon show off to the world, but just me, the YouTube guy, the guy who has something intriguing enough to catch her eye just like she caught mine.
I need her to fall FOR ME.
I need her to know that she’s mine.
Her hands slip free, and she grabs at my hips and pushes me down harder, showing me how she likes to fuck.
That turns me on.
That hits home. Cranks me right the fuck up.
She drives me so fucking crazy.
“Like this?” Feed that rhythm. “Or this?” Slow that grind.
“There,” she rasps. “Right fucking there.”
I’m hard as hell as I stroke her.
Fuck her.
Claim. Her.
I want to stay right here, right like this, until she comes and I come. I want . . .
. . . it all.
“Tell me what you love, gorgeous. Right there.” I splay my fingers against her back and pull her up, closer to me. “Here?”
She nods vigorously.
Go slow, Jimmy. Take it fucking slow.
And I try.
God knows I try.
But this little vixen throws her hips against mine and begs me to fuck her. Begs me to give it to her.
I’m living the ever-loving fucking dream.
“Harder.” She moans and licks my lips. “Fuck me crazy.”
And I do. I go at her like I’ve never loved on another, burying myself so deep for so long that I’m just part of her now.
So fucking lost I’m soon doing mathematics in my goddamn head just to keep from coming.
’Cause I want it to last.
Last and last and fucking last.
I want her to be willing to go on and on. More of her sweet cunt around me. More of her moans. More of her.
She gives as good as I do, and before I know it, I can’t help myself. I can’t stop. I won’t stop.
1,345 minus 204?
769 plus 69 plus another 69 plus . . .
Fuck me, this girl’s got me riled in the best ways.
She comes with a soft cry, and her walls squeeze around me. I clench her body to mine as the milking motions of her pussy make me groan. I drive my dick as deep as I can go and yell as I come with her, shooting off several times, increasing my tempo to prolong the pleasure.
When we finally fall against the sheets, entirely spent, I wonder what the hell just happened.
I tip her nose with a quick kiss. “I’ve always heard that you have to watch the quiet ones,” I tease her.
“Probably,” she croons, smiling up at me.
I watch her for a minute, liking that she isn’t hiding from me. The soft white sheet is folded under her breasts, and I want to touch her again, just touch and kiss her, give her the kind of pleasure that she’ll never forget.
“Oh, and I BET you like the quiet ones, right?”
“Right now? No. I don’t want quiet, Lizzy. I want you to scream Jimmy, over and over and over again.”
“James,” she moans.
“That’ll fucking do.”
JAMES ROWAN
Lizzy
I slept with him.
I slept with James Rowan.
My creation, perfect-man-in-progress. My manbabe, like Jeanine would say.
And my, is he a manbabe.
I glance around my rumpled bed, reaching out in want to trace the muscles on his back with my fingertips. I glance at the time and stop myself before making contact. Nope. No time for that.
“James,” I say, nudging his thick shoulder.
He groans and grabs my hand, stilling it at his side.
I squeeze his fingers. “Jimmy,” I coax in his ear, forcing myself to my feet and opening the curtains.
James groans in bed. “Did you just call me Jimmy?” He lifts his head, turning to blink at me in confusion.
“No,” I lie.
He’s like a beast awakening from slumber.
My beast, I think before I can stop myself.
I run my eyes along his back.
Wait.
Are those red streaks catlike scratches?
Did I do that?
Me? Elizabeth Banks?
James flops to his back and drags his arm to shield his eyes. “What time is it?” His voice is groggy with sleep. It’s . . . sexy.
A strand of dark hair falls across one eye.
His arms ripple as he sits up halfway on the bed, his neck propped on a bunched-up pillow.
I walk over and try not to notice all those inches of sexed-up beefcake in my bed as I reach out to brush the hair out of his face. Ignoring the skip in my heart, I sternly say, “Time to wake up. We need to go. We have a lunch with an important client.”
He smiles at me and slowly reels me into bed, on top of him.
I’m sunk.
God, I’m so done for.
I’m creating this perfect man, this man who has easily stepped right into his role at Banks LTD, and suddenly I don’t know what to do with him.
He shows me a new side of himself when I least expect it and somehow manages to make me feel like he’s just a man and I’m just a woman, but together we’re so much more.
As he caresses my cheek and stares into my eyes, I watch the twinkling lights in his eyes. He’s so gorgeous—I’m breathless. Everyone at Banks LTD loves James. They’ve bought the act. No one would believe that I found this guy in a bar fight.
But the thought makes a knot of fear curl in my stomach. Because what if Dad ever finds out things are not quite what I’ve made them out to be?
“What are you thinking?” He tilts my face up to his.
“How can I think at all after last night?” I tease.
“Good answer.” He kisses my forehead and whispers. “Let’s get you fed and ready.”
I’m beaming as my luggage arrives, and we leave the room a little later. I’m beaming because I’m happy, because I don’t remember ever being this happy, but also because I never thought sex could be like last night with Devil.
He makes me feel protected and precious, yet strong and independent. I wonder how he does it and makes it seem so effortless as I let him hold my hand in his grip.
That’s when it hits me. It’s easy because when I’m with him? I can be me.
At lunch, he exudes the same charm as we meet the buyers for Dray’s, a famous department store from Florida with over twenty stores across the continent.
“James Rowan,” James immediately greets the group of buyers as we introduce ourselves across the table.
“Wow,” one of the women tells me breathlessly as she invites me to the seat next to hers. “We saw the ad on GQ dot com. He’s a bona fide god. We’re fans already. We’re in.”
I smile, thrilled that it’s up already. I watch her click on an image on the screen of her phone, where a huge ad of James on the GQ home page appears.
She turns the screen to him, and I see his eyes widen momentarily before he shields his gaze with a cool smile and leans back in his chair, all poised and collected as if he’s not one bit surprised his face is that big, that live, on an online site.
“I’ll send you the PDF of the catalog,” I tell her, back to business.
She motions to James then, her hand sweeping in the air from the top of his perfectly combed hair to the tips of his perfectly polished leather shoes. “We want what he’s wearing. Not just what
he’s wearing—we want it all,” she laughs, then winks at him. “Right down to the socks.”
He plays along and winks back.
I shoot him a scowl, and he smiles a look at me that says, You want me to play along or not?
Afterward, I’m so happy I think I might die.
“We got an order for five thousand pieces!” I leap on him, kiss his jaw. “You’re slaying, James.”
“She wanted my dick. I just made her think if she ordered a few pieces she might get it.”
“Stop it,” I laugh, and he raises my chin.
“We got anything tonight?”
“Of course we do. We’re booked solid until the last night.”
“Well, save that night.”
“Why?”
“Thought I’d take you out on that date.”
He leads me, and I am confused as to what he’s talking about. “You’ve already got me where you want me. You don’t need to do anything special.”
“Oh, lady, there’s a long way to go to having you where I want you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that when we get to that last night, you’re mine for the evening. The whole evening.”
OUT
I’m standing in front of the mirror, applying lipstick and having a conference call with my father, who never made it to Los Angeles after all.
Which is actually a very good thing, considering that though the meetings have been amazing, I don’t think he’d be too happy with what’s been going on after those meetings.
“The press has been positive,” I say. “Did you see the piece in the Times? They said James Rowan is America’s answer to James Bond.”
“Hmm,” he says. “LB says he never actually met James in person.”
I frown. “Well, we just ran out of time. But the proof is in the pudding, Dad. We’ve gotten great response so far.”
“Yes. I’m encouraged,” he says.
Encouraged? That’s . . . positive. No, he didn’t say “good job,” or that he was impressed, but this is good! I suppose that’s the most I can hope for from my dad.
“Thanks,” I say, my whole body prickling with goose bumps.
I end the call and set my phone down. It’s the last night of West Coast Fashion Week. Everything has gone amazing. Orders have been steadily pouring in. This is probably the most successful launch Banks has ever had.
But that’s not what’s got me excited.
What’s got me excited? I’m going out on a date with James.
This isn’t a big deal, really.
And yet why am I locked in the bathroom?
Staring at myself for the dozenth time?
Checking to see that not a single hair has escaped my updo?
That the dress—a simple, curve-hugging, navy-blue number—still hugs my body attractively like it did three seconds ago?
I reach for the glass of wine that I poured before stepping into the shower and take a long gulp before looking at myself again.
There’s a knock, and I jerk at the sound.
“You okay in there?”
It’s James. He sounds amused and just a tiny bit confused.
“Yes, I’m coming.”
Oh yeah, you’ve got that right . . . I think to myself.
Inhaling a deep breath, I step outside. And spot James standing there, just two feet away. In black slacks and an electric-blue shirt that brings out the bluest blue in his eyes. His hair freshly showered, standing up attractively atop his head. Perfectly shaven. His thick, kissable lips shaping the most delicious smile as his eyes rake me, top to bottom, several times.
“You’re fucking gorgeous.”
My heart does a little happy dance.
I think my choice of dress was spot on.
“Thank you. You clean up nice yourself.”
I offer him my arm, and he tucks it into the crook of his as he leads me toward the balcony. “Where are we going?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath from my excitement.
“You’ll see.”
I suddenly have a feeling I might end up getting drunk tonight. Even without alcohol. Because the thing is . . . being with James? I get drunk on him.
He opens the door, and there is a beautiful candlelit dinner for two. For just me and James. There is a light wind blowing off the ocean, the sun is setting, and I’ve never seen anything more romantic. “I thought you wanted to take me out?”
“No,” he says. “We’ve been out enough this week. Tonight, I want you all to myself.”
I couldn’t have wanted anything more.
We eat in a leisurely way, talking about our successes of the week, our legs tangled under the table.
When we are done, he stands up so fast that the chair rattles behind him. Then he walks us into his room, holds me in only one arm as he shuts the door as quietly as he can, and then stumbles us frantically to the bed, where he drops me and strips me in about three beats of my frantic, eager little heart.
He’s got me naked, and he is still in his slacks, looking down at me.
He spreads my legs open and up over his shoulders, bracing me against the wall as he buries his head between my thighs. I gasp. My fingers wildly clutching fistfuls of his hair. I want to pull him closer, but at the same time I can barely take the excruciating pleasure of those deep, wet flicks of his tongue. I thrust my hips up and fist his hair so hard that I’m afraid I’m hurting him. But I can’t be hurting him, or if I am, he’s not aware of it. Because he’s groaning between my thighs, only driving his tongue in for a deeper taste. A better taste. A taste of . . . me.
I push him back on the bed. He falls on it, but not before he clutches my hips and brings me down with him.
“Ride me,” he says.
I’m straddling him, leaning down, my hair falling like a curtain down the sides of my face as I drop my head—taking from his hot, wicked, and delicious lips again. He palms my ass, squeezes and massages it as he slithers out his tongue to give me a kiss to remember. A kiss for all kisses. THE kiss of kisses.
He shoves his fingers up the back of my legs and works them along the fissure, caressing my ass cheeks with nothing separating us. When he slides his index finger into the fissure of my cheeks and drags it up and down my clit, I jerk with a gasp and arch back with a soft moan. “Oh god.”
I love it. I CAN’T control myself. “You make me lose it,” I gasp.
He rolls me to my back and pulls one of my legs, draping it around his shoulders. “You haven’t lost it enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve yet to come all over me,” he says, pushing me down and thrusting in without a condom, eyes flashing with desire as he watches me take every thrust and meet him with a thirsty roll of my hips.
“We ran out of condoms.” I pout, which is a feat in itself.
“I’ll pull out—I’m safe. Do you trust me?”
We stop for a moment, our breaths coming in gusts. I hold his gaze and feel myself nod. “Yes,” I gasp.
He pulls my hair back to expose my neck and give it a thousand and one fierce licks.
He groans as if he likes my taste. I clutch his hair and count my lucky stars that I’m on the pill. I can’t stop him. Won’t stop him. Want him, this, desperately.
My breasts heave up and down from the force of each of those breaths. His body covers mine, all muscle and sinew, so hot that we’re both sweating from the combined heat of our bodies so close together. Draped in sweat from the absolute ideal and perfect exercise that we’re both doing as we fuck like rabbits.
I go off with a soft cry, and James lifts up and smothers the tip of one of my breasts in his mouth, groaning my name as he pulls out, grabs his dick in his hand, and pulls as he comes all over my abdomen.
I groan and watch his semen fall like rain on my skin, my whole body clutching in fresh new arousal.
“Best I ever had.” James shoves his two longest fingers into his mouth and pops them out, a growling ummm following. Then he
smiles down at me. My smile silently admits to him the feeling is mutual.
GOING HOME
I’m giddy when we get into Atlanta. The first thing I did at LAX was pick up the hot-off-the-presses issue of GQ, and there, in a full-color spread, was gorgeous James, wearing a black Banks suit. Just as I’d hoped, the ad popped like crazy. He’s going to make Banks LTD a mint.
But having that gorgeous man in the seat next to me isn’t the reason I’m giddy.
Holding James’s hand in mine, I’m thinking about what he said. Life without risks is just surviving.
I want to live.
So right there, I make a resolution. I’m going to tell my father who James is, and that he and I are together.
My father will think I’m insane. He will be disappointed. He might not speak to me, and this could drive a wedge between us, which will make my assuming the reins at Banks impossible.
But I don’t care about that. Not as much as I care about James. And if my father really loved me, he’d support me.
“You look like you’re thinking some really deep thoughts,” James says, leaning in, his breath tickling my ear.
He’s completely oblivious to every woman on the plane looking at him. And they are all looking, probably wondering what movie star he is. It only makes me more certain that this is what I need to do. I say, “Just thinking about some things I need to do when we get back.”
“We have more shows, right? More places where you need to show me off?”
I nod. “We do. A few. My father and LB will be at those. But you’ve impressed everyone so far. I’m sure you’ll continue to do so.”
“That’s the name of the game, Miss Banks,” he says.
“You can cut the formal act,” I say to him. “It’s not like any clients are here.”
“But we’re still in public,” he says. “And I can’t say I hate it so much, anymore. It’s growing on me.”
I suppose it is. I didn’t tell him how to dress for the flight, and yet he put on slacks, loafers, and a button-down and looks about ready for drinks with the rest of the Rat Pack. Me? I slipped into jeggings and an oversize sweater, for comfort. For the first time around him, I feel a little underdressed.
“What I was thinking,” I tell him, “was a little more about us. You and me.”