“Soon, honey.” I slip one fingertip under the fabric. And my body tightens as I discover how wet she is for me. I glance up into Posy’s huge eyes. She’s propped herself up on her elbows, her hair spread out on her tits, her cheeks pink.
I’ve always wanted to shake her loose like this. My gut told me how much fun she would be when she let her hair down. Posy is the kind of girl who makes people work for it. She doesn’t trust easily, and she keeps her own council.
It’s a privilege to see her like this—hair mussed, lips red. She looks wild. Debauched. And I’m the lucky guy who gets to be here for it.
Slowly, I slide the panties down her legs. Then I look up and check her face. Posy is breathing hard, her eyes heavy with lust. Holding her gaze, I lean down and lick up the center of her. “You taste better than any pie.” I place my hand across her mons and use my thumb to gently tease her clit. “Reach into the bedside table, would you?”
“O-okay,” she stammers. Then she flops back on the bed and reaches for the drawer.
That’s when I drop my head and pleasure her again with my kiss. Posy arches against my tongue and moans loudly.
I love teasing her. Posy is usually so wary and cautious. But not right now. She’s a hundred and ten percent invested in her own pleasure. It’s so beautiful watching her let go to reach for it. I’m going to make her yell my name.
In a minute.
I back off just at the crucial moment, and Posy lets out a moan of dismay.
“Where’s that condom I asked for?” I ask calmly.
Pink-faced and cursing, she sits up, reaches into the drawer, grabs a condom and throws it at me.
With a chuckle, I move to sit up near the headboard, and then I open the packet. I’m so hard it hurts. Posy watches me cover myself, her chest rising and falling with each rapid breath.
“Lie down, honey,” I say. “I need you on your back.”
She gives me the sort of frown that I always get when I try to boss her around. And then she defies me, swinging a knee over my thighs instead, climbing into my lap.
“Oh I see,” I whisper at close range. “Well, you’re welcome to ride this bull. But I won’t be using the amateur setting for you.”
Posy rolls her eyes at my ridiculous taunt. When I smile, she smiles back. Then she kisses me.
And it’s quite a kiss, full of heat and yearning. My hands find their way into her hair, and I pull her more tightly to my chest, just to make sure we can’t be any closer than we already are.
Oh wait—we can. “Do it, honey. I need you now,” I say between kisses. It’s not an exaggeration. For fifteen years I’ve needed this.
I’ve needed her.
And I feel like I’m dreaming when Posy rises up on her knees, trapping my cock beneath her. Our eyes lock as she slowly takes me inside, her tight heat surrounding me inch by luscious inch. When she lowers her ass into my lap, fully seated, her eyelashes flutter. She lets out the most deliciously helpless sound.
For a moment, everything stops. We share a slow breath. Her face is flushed, and her pupils are blown. And my world shrinks down to the small space of my lap, where Posy and I are locked into this most intimate embrace. “You’re exquisite,” I breathe, my hands cupping her face. I give her a quick kiss, and then I move her hands to my shoulders. “Go on. Don’t lose your nerve now.”
I’m desperate for it. Fifteen years of hunger surges inside me as Posy rocks forward, clenching her shapely body around my cock. Then she rises up on her knees and sinks down again, before I remember to breathe.
“Fuck,” I curse as the sudden friction sparks a jolt of pleasure.
Her eyes widen, and she does it again, setting a quick pace.
“More,” I urge. “Don’t ever fucking stop.” My hands find their way to her hips, and I work her body against mine. Words of praise fall from my lips as she continues to move. Beautiful. Yes. Goddess.
I’m blissed out and trouble-free, except for one problem—this will end too soon if I’m not careful. So I move my hands to Posy’s breasts, which bounce erotically with every thrust. She gasps when I give her nipples a light pinch.
“Gunnar!” she pants, throwing her head back.
That’s a girl. “Don’t come yet, honey,” I tease, moving my hand down her belly.
She arches her back and moans.
“Not yet, okay?” I manage to work my fingertips between our bodies, teasing her sweet pussy. “No matter how good it feels, hold on.”
But I’m back to my old tricks again. I’m only bluffing. I need to make her cry out in pleasure. I need her to feel what I’m feeling right now.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
And that’s what tips her over the edge. Posy looks deep into my eyes and shudders helplessly. Her body clenches around me, and I grit my teeth to stave off my own release.
She’s beautiful as she comes, moaning and sighing into my mouth, her arms tightening around my chest. I actually have to think about the Yankees vs. the Mets for a second to keep myself in check.
“Oh no,” she says as she sinks down onto my cock for the last time, going still. “I-I’m sorry. I’m bad at this.”
“What? How do you figure?” I kiss her twice. “I haven’t had this much fun in years. Maybe ever.” I can’t stop kissing her as she softens against my body. “Hold onto me.”
“Hmm?” she asks, her voice pure bliss.
I roll us over, until she’s lying on her back, and I’ve braced myself on my forearms over her. “You okay?”
“I’ve never been more okay,” she slurs.
“Good.” I rock slowly against her. “Kiss me, and I’ll take you there again.”
“It won’t work,” she gives her head a shake. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re doubting me right now?” I give her that smile she was teasing me about earlier. The full wattage tip-jar smile. “Then I guess I have something to prove.”
She rolls her eyes. But I mean business. So I take her mouth in another heated kiss. And I do what I do best. Until she’s whimpering and shaking and begging.
This time I don’t hold back. With a groan that could wake up lower Manhattan, I release every last ounce of tension in the form of a climax for the record books. And she answers me with a happy shout, as her fingernails dig into my back. “Gunnar!”
Finally sated, I flop down onto the sheet. My body is spent, but my smile might never go away.
* * *
We lie there quietly afterward. My satisfaction is deeper than mere sexual release. I can’t stop kissing her hair, and I can’t stop caressing her soft skin. So many things went wrong tonight.
But so many more went absolutely right.
“I have so many questions,” Posy whispers. “But I’m sleepy.”
“Tomorrow I’ll answer them all,” I tell her. “Put your head down right here.” I ease her onto my chest. “Rest now, sweetheart.”
Her body goes still. And even if nothing has been settled, I feel more at peace than I have in years.
21
Posy
When my phone blares a Green Day tune into the darkness at four-forty-five a.m., I’m confused about several things at once.
Where am I?
Is there really a hard-bodied man stretched against my back?
Why does my body feel so well used?
Then I open my eyes and realize I’m in Gunnar’s bedroom, not mine. And it all comes rushing back to me. The hotel. The threatening man on the sixteenth floor. The van. The spying.
The sex.
Whoa. That last thing is almost more unbelievable than the rest.
Gunnar groans beside me. “What time is it?”
“Quarter ‘til five.” I sit up, slide sleepily off the bed and fetch my bag where I dropped it in Gunnar’s living room. I shut off my alarm and then go back into the bedroom. “Can I borrow your shower?”
“Anytime,” he mumbles into the pillow.
I cross the cool floorboards toward hi
s bathroom. When I flip on the light, I find the room to be even more impressive than I remember it from my hasty visit here at midnight.
Seriously. What the fuck, Gunnar? I’m still angry about his lies. I really need this job, he’d said. It tugged at my heartstrings.
And I hate feeling gullible. Why is it always men who make me feel that way? My father was the first asshole to make me feel like a fool. And then came Spalding.
My track record is terrible. Just introduce me to an asshole. Any asshole. I’ll believe him.
So here I stand in Gunnar’s bathroom, which would fit right in at the Playboy Mansion. There’s a bamboo floor and elegant glass tiles on the walls. Big fluffy towels wait on a gleaming towel bar outside the walk-in shower.
I’m so annoyed. But I’m going to shower like a queen anyway.
After taking care of business, I turn the water on full blast and wait for it to heat up. And then I slip out of the T-shirt Gunnar lent me to sleep in, and step beneath the warm spray.
Oh, this is heaven, even if it belongs to a liar.
He didn’t do it for a bad reason, my hormones weigh in.
“Shut up. You don’t know,” I whisper.
But then I zip my lip, because the bathroom door opens. And Gunnar walks right up to the shower, opens the door and slips inside.
“Morning,” he says gruffly. Then he leans down and kisses the juncture of my neck and shoulder.
And I am shook. “Morning,” I squeak. “What are you doing out of bed? It’s your day off.”
“It’s never my day off,” he says, grabbing the soap. He lathers up his hands and then begins washing my back.
I want to argue, but it feels really nice. So nice that I let out a groan as he begins to massage my lower back.
“Too much?” he asks quietly.
“No way. But I don’t know why you’re up, and I don’t know why you’re doing that. I can’t go back to bed with you. Someone has to make the pies.”
His hand pauses on my back. “I know that, Paxton. I just wanted to be near you. Turn around.”
Reluctantly, I turn to face him. The water rains down on us as I stare up into his gorgeous eyes.
“I’m coming to work with you this morning,” he says.
“Why?”
“Just to make sure you’re safe.” He picks up a bottle of shampoo, dispenses a blob into his hand, and then begins to rub it through my hair.
Holy moly. His hands are magic. Maybe I have some kind of undiscovered scalp-rubbing kink. It feels so good.
When I close my eyes to keep the soap out of them, it makes the moment seem even more unreal. I’m naked in a fancy shower with Gunnar Scott. Is this real life?
I plant a palm in the center of his chest. His skin is slick and warm. “Mmm,” he says, and I feel the vibration under my hand. “Are you sure you can’t open late this morning?” Soapy hands take a quick, gratuitous trip down my breasts. And then he kisses my neck.
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say quickly. Because if I get into bed with him again, I’m afraid I’ll never leave. I tilt my head back to rinse off the shampoo. “Behave yourself.”
I hear his chuckle, and when I can see again, Gunnar is already lathering himself up in a businesslike fashion. As if this were a perfectly normal way to start the day.
It could be, my hormones suggest.
But they’re wrong. Gunnar is a temporary blip in my life, and I’d better not forget it. I wouldn’t even be here right now if it weren’t for the mess I’m in. “How much danger am I in, exactly?”
Gunnar closes his eyes to rinse his hair, and I ogle him shamelessly while he can’t see me. There’s that tattoo again. A work of art, on a work of art. “Probably not much, but I don’t want to risk it.”
“Who was that guy last night?”
“I’ll explain while we walk to work,” he says, turning off the water. “Ladies first.” He opens the shower door, and points at the towels. “I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t have any. I don’t even have a coffee machine.”
I step out and grab one of the fluffy white towels. “Did you learn to make espresso just to work in my shop?”
“Yup.” He ties a towel around his lickable waist. “But if you want that story, you’ll have to get it out of Max or Duff. You’ll laugh your butt off, I’m sure.”
“And when I called that reference for you in California—”
“Just one of Max’s agents. Sorry,” he says.
That icky feeling comes back—the one that makes me feel certain I’m doomed to be duped by fast-talking men. “Were you even in California? Where did the lies begin?”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m in San Jose about three quarters of the time. I hate New York.”
“And this apartment?” I ask, leaving the palatial bathroom. Even in the predawn darkness I can tell that Gunnar’s place is beautiful. If it’s even his. “Where did it come from?”
“It’s mine. I bought it. But it’s empty most of the time.”
“But why?” I ask.
“Well, it’s an investment.” He walks over to a nice maple dresser and opens a drawer. “And my company is based here. I don’t just work for Max. I own a stake in The Company. But that’s not really what motivated me to buy this place.”
“Then what did?”
“Owning a sweet pad in the city was a bucket list item. I spent the first twenty years of my life getting stomped on by rich New Yorkers. So owning a piece of the pie felt like revenge. But maybe the joke’s on me, because the taxes and the condo fees aren’t cheap.”
“Revenge on who, exactly?” I grab my shirt off Gunnar’s bedroom floor and try to shake it out.
“Rich assholes in general.” He shrugs, and then removes his towel to step into a pair of boxer briefs. “It’s not the most logical thing I’ve ever done. But this is a great neighborhood.”
God, that butt, my hormones sigh. The most perfect butt in New York City.
Still.
“I just need four minutes to get dressed and then I’d better scoot off to work,” I tell him.
“I’m at your service,” he says, looking over his shoulder to give me a slightly dirty wink. But his smile is warm.
I’d better stay far, far away from that smile. It’s dangerous in so many ways.
* * *
“What’s his name?” I ask Gunnar as we walk along the still-darkened Soho street. “The guy on the sixteenth floor. And what did you want from his room?”
“We know him as Xian Smith,” Gunnar says. “The tech community knows him as someone who brokers the manufacture of electronic components in China. But Max and I have some theories about his real motives.”
“What kind of theories?” I press.
Gunnar chews on his lip. “It’s better if you don’t know too much about it. But Max is a foremost expert in cybersecurity. And network security is meaningless if your hardware is corrupted. We’ve spent a lot of time investigating hardware hacks this year.”
“Fine. So what was that thing Scout put in her bra?”
“Surveillance hardware. We’re trying to figure out who Smith is working with. What he does all day. What his real name might be. All that fun stuff.”
“So you hacked him.”
“Yup.”
“Even though you think hackers are horrible people.”
“Some of them,” Gunnar counters, nudging my hip. “Don’t take his side just yet. He’s also responsible for murder in cold blood, as well as a factory fire in China.”
“Is he the one who’s posting murder messages on my cafe WiFi? He didn’t look familiar.” I pull out my keys, because we’ve reached the front door to my building.
“It’s not him,” Gunnar says with a sigh. “But Max thinks it’s related. That’s really all I can say. Except for this.” Gunnar stops walking as we reach the front door of the pie shop. His gaze makes a quick scan of the empty street, and then he puts his hands on my shoulders. “I will keep you out of it, Posy. It’s
my problem to solve. I kept you out of the loop because I thought it would be over soon. I wanted you to focus only on pretty pies and coffee drinks. That was a mistake, and I’m sorry. But I will keep all the assholes away from you.”
“Okay.” I look up into those pale green eyes and see intensity there.
“I’m sorry that any of this ever visited your shop. The murder posts began two weeks before I showed up, though. I didn’t walk this through your door, I promise.”
“Okay,” I croak. “Thank you.”
Then I’m stunned when he pulls me into a quick, tight hug. “You can put me to work in your kitchen.”
“What? I thought you were just walking me home.”
“Well, I’m up now. I don’t know crap about making pies, so pick something easy.”
“Can you peel apples?” I unlock the metal grate and push the button to raise it up.
“I can try.”
“Good enough. I’ll take the free labor. Fire up Lola, will you?”
“Yes, boss.” He gives me another cheesy wink.
“Hey, Gunnar?” I close the door behind us and check that it’s still locked.
“Yeah?” He’s already behind the counter, turning on the espresso machine.
“Today you should make another sign for my window—Barista Wanted. You’re going to catch this guy, right? And then disappear?”
“That’s the plan,” he says, checking the beans in the grinder.
“Then I need to hire somebody. Stat. Why’d you throw away my sign if you knew I’d still need it?”
He leans his forearms onto the bar and takes me in. “That was just a bit of swagger. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”
“Thank you,” I say. And then I hurry into the kitchen so he can’t read on my face how conflicted I am about all of this.
He follows me a few minutes later. “Okay. Where do you keep the apple peeler?”
“It’s on that shelf.” I point. “That thing with the handle.”
“Wait, really?” He reaches for my grandmother’s antique apple peeler. “This looks like some kind of torture device.”
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