by Tracy Wolff
And then he’s sliding his tongue along my own, pulling my lower lip between his teeth, biting down softly. Pleasure—pure and hot and completely unexpected—cascades through me and my fingers tighten on his shirt, my nails scratching against his chest in the process.
He groans again, mutters my name as his hands slide down to cup my ass and pull me against him. It still feels good—he still feels good—so I go with it, pressing myself as tightly into him as I can manage.
He’s even harder now than he was before, his cock long and thick and inviting. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m rubbing myself against him and relishing the pleasure that comes with the contact.
He groans again and I brace myself for what’s to come, for the storm that will dampen these first stirrings of pleasure and leave me bereft, alone, unable to connect with my body or his. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, a long time since I’ve been willing to open myself up like this to another person, especially when I know how it’s going to end. The fact that Ian has given me this much pleasure counts, though, and I’m ready for what’s next. Ready to make sure it’s good for him.
It’s not his fault, after all, that I can’t feel. These are my shortcomings, not his.
But it turns out that he’s in no rush to get to the finish line, no rush to lay claim to whatever parts of me he can touch. Instead, his mouth stays warm and sweet and tender on my own. His hands remain on my cheeks. And his body—even as his hips move restlessly against mine—continues to feel like a promise instead of an attack.
Deep inside me, those first sparks catch fire. It’s a new experience, an unfamiliar one no matter what the tabloids write about me, and I freeze for just a moment as I try to sort out what I’m feeling. Ian pulls back right away, and I grab on to him, my fingers tangling in his hair and my body wrapping itself around him of its own volition.
“You okay?” he asks, eyes dark, hair mussed, lips swollen with my kisses. He looks like a fantasy I didn’t even know I had and I nod frantically, afraid that he’ll slip away if I hesitate for even a moment too long.
He studies my face, those black, magic eyes of his looking for I don’t know what. If I did know, I would give it to him, would use every ounce of acting ability I had to reflect it back to him. That’s how badly I want whatever this is to continue.
It’s a strange state to be in, considering it’s been a long time since I’ve let myself want anyone or anything that wasn’t directly related to my career.
But I do want him. And maybe that’s what he’s looking for—the desire I’m not even trying to hide. Whatever it is, he must find it in my face because suddenly he’s kissing me again. And while the tenderness is still there, there’s an urgency, too, a desperation in the way he plunders me. In the way he uses his lips and teeth and tongue to make my head spin and ratchet up the heat inside of me another notch.
“Ian.” I gasp his name, my hands clutching at his hair, his shirt, whatever part of him I can reach. “Ian, please—”
He pulls his mouth from mine. “Tell me what you need, baby.” And then he’s trailing his lips across my cheek, down my neck, over the sensitive skin at the hollow of my throat.
“Ian.” It’s a moan, a plea, made more so by the way my fingers tangle in his hair and my body arches against his.
“I’ve got you, Veronica.” More hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw and the nape of my neck. “I’ve got you. Just tell me what you like, sweetheart, and I’ll give it to you.”
I freeze at his words, all the heat he’s managed to build in the last few minutes deserting me in a rush. Deep inside, I curse him for his words, for what he’s done, even though I know it’s not fair. He’s only being a considerate lover, after all, only asking because he wants to make it good for me. How is he supposed to know that in asking all he accomplished was to kill whatever desire was slowly building inside of me?
Or that I’m thirty years old and don’t have a clue what I like sexually?
Or that I’ve never even had an orgasm with a man?
There’s absolutely no way that I can blithely tell him what I want him to do to me, at least not without just making it up.
I can’t tell him that, though. Can’t even hint at it. It would be a disaster if Ian—the man who is writing what Vanity Fair and my agent both hope will be the definitive article on Veronica Romero—found out the truth. That the sexiest woman in Hollywood is actually a fraud.
I can just imagine the headlines now. The ridicule. The humiliation. The complete and total loss of the power and prestige that comes with my very carefully cultivated reputation.
This industry is all about survival of the fittest. Most people involved in it don’t like to admit that, though; they want to pretend success is all fairy dust and manifest destiny. But I learned the truth at an early age—hard not to with my mother’s career—and I decided a long time ago that if the world is going to judge me on my tits and my ass, then I am going to use them to protect myself and my secrets any way I have to.
Men like sexy women, no doubt about it. But, it turns out, most of them are also afraid of us. Once I came to understand that one truth, everything changed. I began to understand my sex appeal, and how to use it to my advantage. I’ve spent years honing it into a razor-sharp blade that most don’t feel slice into them until it’s far too late.
It’s my protection, my salvation, in this business that eats so many women up and spits them out without a second glance. I can’t survive without it. Can’t even think about facing the world without the armor it gives me.
Which means—now that I’ve gotten into this situation—that I have to do what I do best to get out of it. I have to do what Ian specifically asked me not to just a little while ago.
I have to pretend.
He’s looking at me now, his dark eyes questioning as he waits for my answer. For my definitive list of what I like and how I like it—any good diva has one, I’m sure. But since I don’t and since that’s very definitely not going to happen, I do the only thing I can do. I throw the question back to him.
“Why don’t you tell me what you like instead?” I suggest, leaning forward and pressing kisses to his neck and the little triangle of skin I can see at the top of his dress shirt. “And I’ll give it to you.” I deliberately repeat his words back to him.
“I’m easy,” he answers with a sexy grin that somehow makes him even more attractive. “I like everything.”
“Everything?” I arch a brow as I slide my hands up his chest and start slowly, deliberately, unbuttoning his shirt. I watch his face carefully as I do it, noticing the light flush that stains his cheekbones as I stroke my hands down his bare chest, the way his eyes darken as I flick my thumbnails back and forth across his nipples.
“Just about, yeah.” He’s not content to just let me touch him, however. Before I’m ready for it, his hands are on my shirt, tugging it over my head before I can even think to protest. Seconds later, my bra goes the same way and then his mouth is on my breast, his tongue circling my areola.
Normally this does nothing for me—my breasts aren’t very sensitive—but there’s something about the contrast between the wet, soft warmth of his tongue and the sharp scratchiness of his five o’clock shadow that rekindles the first sparks of desire within me. My knees nearly sag with relief and I throw myself into it, arching my back, pressing my breast more firmly against both his mouth and his scruff. Trying my best to concentrate on the pleasure. On just that and nothing else.
But then his hand is on my ass, sliding beneath my jeans and my panties, and all I can think about is what comes next. And how I’m going to fuck it all up.
No, I promise myself as I wiggle until he has no choice but to let me go. I started this to control him and I’m going to finish it the exact same way. “I want to touch you, too.”
“I didn’t realize it was an either-or situation,” he teases, but he doesn’t stop me when I reach for his belt and slowly, carefully unbuckle it.
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But when I start to unbutton his pants, to pull his zipper down, he stops me by threading his hands through mine. “I’m past ready, baby. Let me help you catch up.”
And then he’s dropping to his knees in front of me, his long, nimble fingers peeling my jeans down my legs as he goes.
“Wait,” I tell him, suddenly frantic. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he says, looking at me a little strangely. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
He leans forward, trails hot kisses over my navel, my abdomen, my mons.
Hooks his fingers in the straps of my bikini panties and wiggles them down my legs.
Presses his face against my sex and just breathes me in for several long seconds. “I don’t know what perfume you wear, but it’s been driving me crazy since I met you yesterday.”
I start to say Givenchy—like it even matters—but before I can unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth, he’s lifting one of my legs and resting it on his shoulder. Then he’s leaning forward and delivering one long, slow lick to my clit.
Pleasure crashes through me and I gasp, clutch at his hair for some kind of anchor. He laughs a little even as he wraps his hands around my ass and brings me even closer. “I like that sound. Let’s see if we can get you to make it again.” And then he’s circling my clit with his tongue, licking his way along my slit, delving deep inside my sex.
It’s arousing and terrifying and completely unexpected. Completely overwhelming. I struggle to assimilate all the emotions running through me, but it’s hard to think as heat unfurls inside me a little more with each swipe of his tongue.
It’s a slow build, from a flicker into a roaring flame, but it’s there. I don’t know how, don’t know why, and right now I’m not even sure I care. How can I when he’s carefully, carefully, carefully stoking the blaze.
There’s a part of me that can’t believe this is happening, that can’t believe that Ian Sharpe is on his knees in front of me, bringing me more pleasure than I ever imagined possible. But there’s another part of me—a bigger part—that doesn’t want to think about it right now. That wants only to enjoy this strange turn of events.
I try to focus on that part, desperate not to let the feelings inside of me slip away. Not this time. Not when I’m so close to the orgasm I can feel building inside of me.
Ian pushes forward, hitching my leg higher on his shoulder as—without warning—he slides two fingers deep inside of me.
I jolt at the unfamiliar sensation—it’s been so long since anyone or anything has been inside me—but he’s got my clit in his mouth and his fingers on my G-spot. Pleasure is tearing through me, sizzling through my veins and along my nerve endings with a speed that is making my knees tremble and sending me into sensory overload.
For a second, just a second, fear overwhelms the pleasure and I clutch at him. Hold tight.
I don’t know how to do this.
He must think I’m in danger of falling, because he tightens his hold.
Makes reassuring noises.
Eases me up and back, until my ass is resting on top of the kitchen table.
I gasp at the feel of the cool, slick wood against my skin, but he only laughs. Then he’s spreading my legs even wider, pressing his fingers even deeper. And his mouth—his wicked, wonderful mouth—stays exactly where it is.
I’m so close, the electric tension in me ratcheting up, up, up, with each long, lingering lick and I can’t help wondering if this is it. If it’s finally going to happen. If…
And then I lose it, the sensations disappearing as easily as they came.
I try to get them back, but the table feels cold against my skin. Cold and distracting and so, so familiar. Images keep flashing through my head, pictures and memories that are better left in the dark. I close my eyes, try to block them out, try to concentrate on what Ian is doing—on what I’m feeling—but it’s too late. It’s all there in my head, crowding in on me. Distracting me. Confusing me.
Desperate, devastated, determined not to let them in, I thread my hands through Ian’s hair and tug him closer. I lean back on my arms, arch my hips, even bring a hand up to toy with my nipples. I do everything—anything—I can to stay right here with him.
But seconds turn into minutes that drag by and I give up. I can’t do it this. I just can’t.
This time when I tug at Ian’s hair, it’s to pull him away instead of to press him closer.
He doesn’t fight me. Instead, he sits back on his haunches right away. Licks his lips. And stares up at me with dark, desire-filled eyes. With his shirt unbuttoned and his hair messed up and his mouth gleaming with the remnants of my need, he looks debauched, devastating.
But he’s still the same Ian when he asks, “What’s wrong?” while his fingers gently stroke my inner thigh. “Where’d you go?”
“I just…Do you have a condom?”
“Of course.” He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out his wallet and drops it on the table next to me. “I didn’t think we were there yet.”
“Well, we are.” I give him my most seductive smile, the one guaranteed to short-circuit a man’s brain in ten seconds flat—or so I’ve been told. Then I reach for him, tugging at his shoulders until he finally gets the hint and climbs slowly to his feet.
“Fuck me,” I tell him, as I unbutton his jeans and pull the zipper down. I make my voice breathless and broken, aroused and just a little erotic. “Please. I need—” I break off on a moan, let my body go loose against his.
I figure that’s all it will take and I wait for him to strip off his jeans, to reach for his wallet and take me up on what I’m offering. But Ian doesn’t move. Instead, he just watches me, like I’m some particularly interesting social experiment.
“Ian, please.” I sound desperate now, but I don’t give a shit. I am desperate. Desperate to get him inside of me. Desperate to put on a good show.
Desperate to get this over with.
I lean forward, grab on to his belt loops and tug him forward until he’s standing right between my thighs, his cock hard and ready and so, so close. If I shove his jeans down his ass, if I scoot forward just a little more, he’ll be inside me.
I start to do just that, but he stops me with a hand around my wrist. “Hey,” he murmurs, as his other hand continues to stroke my hip, my thigh, my sex. “It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. It will never be okay.
“It’s not yet,” I tell him, injecting a teasing note into my voice. “But it will be once you’re inside of me.”
His brows shoot up. “You’re seriously saying you want me inside of you? Right now?”
“Of course I do.” Once again I reach for his cock and once again he stops me. “What’s wrong?” I demand. This is not how this is supposed to go.
He narrows his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be asking you that question.”
“I already told you. I want you to—”
“Fuck you? Yeah, I got that much.” He strokes his thumb along my labia, and I moan. Then spread my legs wider to give him better access.
He takes what I’m offering, his thumb coming up to circle my clit.
I moan again, bite my lip. His hand twitches against me and his eyes darken to pure, pitch black. I’ve got him. Thank God, I’ve got him. With another moan for effect, I lean back on my elbows. Arch my back. Offer myself to him.
He takes the offer—of course he does—leaning over me and trailing soft, hot kisses up the center of my body from my navel to my collarbone. It feels surprisingly good—he feels surprisingly good—and I slide my hands around to cup his ass. He’s brought me a lot of pleasure tonight and I want this to be good for him. I want—
“So,” he says again, his voice deep and rumbly and sexy, so sexy. “Just to be clear. This is what you want?”
Something inside me breaks wide open at the question. The fact that he still makes sure to ask, after everything I’ve said an
d done, means more than I can explain. More than he’ll ever know. “Yes. Please.” I tangle my fingers in his hair, pull him down until his lips are scant centimeters from my own. “I need you to fuck me.” Before I lose my nerve. Before I fall apart. Before this whole charade is for nothing.
He searches my eyes for several long seconds. I do my best to show him only desire—only what he wants to see, and it must work because the next thing I know he’s leaning forward, closing the distance between us. Finally—finally—his body is covering mine, his lips pressed against my own. I open my mouth to him, but he doesn’t kiss me any more fully than he already is. Instead, he grabs my wrists in one hand and stretches them over my head while he flattens his other hand over my stomach, pinning me in place.
Then, with his mouth still resting against my own, he whispers, “Liar.”
Chapter 7
Veronica’s eyes fly open at the accusation and for long seconds she does nothing but stare at me, face pale and body trembling as I hold her in place.
“What are you doing?” she demands, her voice getting higher with each word that is ripped out of her. “Why aren’t you…”
“Fucking you?” I nip sharply at her mouth. “Because, baby, I don’t fuck women who don’t want me.”
“I do want you!”
“Correction, you did want me. Now you just want to fuck and get it over with so you can send me on my way. But that’s not how this works.”
Her voice is pure diva when she answers, “It works however I say it works.”
I laugh. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
She gasps in outrage, struggles against my hold. But I’m not ready to let go of her hands just yet. I do lift up on her stomach though, stroking a hand across her breast, where I pause just long enough to pinch her nipple between my thumb and forefinger.
She gasps, licks her lips. Arches her back invitingly. “Of course I do.”
“Oh yeah? Then why aren’t I inside you right now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” She raises a brow, somehow manages to look down her nose at me despite the fact that I’m the one on top. And is every inch the queen while doing it.