by Selena Kitt
She turned and saw him emerge from a little room off the front door. He was jacketless and seemed on edge. She took a step forward, biting her lip and feeling oddly nervous, but the tension drained away as he gathered her against him. It was like coming home. He held onto her hard, burying his face into her hair, against her neck, breathing in her scent.
“You okay?” She put her arms around his neck, the solid feel of his body against hers a sheer delight. “Who were those guys?”
“People I don’t plan to do business with, and they’re not happy about it.” Ric froze, pulling back to look down at her, his jaw set. “Did they see you?”
“Well, yeah. I was right by the door. But they didn’t really pay much attention to me.”
“You sure?”
“They were too busy talking.”
“Sorry.” Ric exhaled, a long breath. “I’m still in the paranoid phase of management.”
“You’re an arms manufacturer. Paranoia’s part of the job description, isn’t it?” She reveled in his embrace, his thumb working that tingly patch at the back of her neck.
“I’m a little pissed at the staff. I told them to send you up, but I thought they’d call me first, seeing as I booked the penthouse for the day.”
“Just for the day?” She looked up, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice as she glanced toward the room with the big bed, imagining one of her fantasies crumbling before her eyes.
“I have different plans for the nights.” Ric bent and brushed a kiss across her lips, making her heart stutter in her chest. “I love this place, but what we need is...” He left off and deepened the kiss, leaving her breathless and tingling. He touched his forehead to hers and breathed, “Total privacy. Somewhere I can get my mouth on you and run my hands all over you and make you scream...”
A little sigh escaped her throat as she pictured him kissing a path up her inner thigh, sliding his fingers inside her as he teased her with his tongue. The crotch of her jeans was suddenly on fire, the seam making them far too tight.
“And where would that be?”
“How do you feel about yachts?”
Annalesa stopped in front of a layered drawing hung up too high on an over-bright wall and wondered how any gallery owner worth their weight in gold leaf could expose one of van Gogh’s early pieces to such extreme sunlight.
It wasn’t uncommon for this to happen with private collections, though. Some people were happy to spend millions on the art, but very little on the curatorship of their prized possessions. Thijs Bleecker, who owned the gallery, followed them wherever they went, and the effort it took to keep her opinions to herself was killing her.
It was also killing her keeping her hands to herself, because Ric was beside her the whole time, and she could have eaten him up with a spoon.
Ric had ditched his silver-grey tie in the limo along with their luggage, and now strolled around the gallery with his hands in his pockets and his pale blue sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were tanned and enormous. She didn’t know if he was aware of it or not, but he was working the white-collar-alpha look to its fullest extent.
She felt like he was setting her up for a weekend of anticipation-torture. As much as she loved him for the amazing itinerary he’d arranged, she was dog-tired from the journey, and any moment now, her sisterly act was bound to crack. She imagined ditching Bleecker and drawing Ric into a dark room somewhere, anywhere, so she could lick every beautiful inch of him.
Bleecker stepped up between them, breaking into Annalesa’s personal little fantasy, and gestured to the canvas, smirking down at her.
“So, what of this? No, no, let me guess—you even know what his cat was eating while he painted this one, no?”
“No.” She stifled a sigh at the sarcasm, looking at the painting as she talked. “It’s one of the Hague paintings. van Gogh did it for his Uncle Cornelius. Of course, his Uncle didn’t like it—or any of the others from the same 1882 collection. Wasn’t up to his standards. And if I remember correctly, Vincent had to handle two sets of commissions that year, none of which were taken up, so I seriously doubt he had time or space for a cat.”
“Goed zo.” Bleecker chuckled, rubbing his chin.
Wow, a compliment at last! “Dank u wel.”
“Hé? Je heb me begrepen?” Bleecker’s brows shot up into his receding hairline.
“Ik spreek nog een beetje Nederlands,” she added hastily, in case he expected some sort of fluent conversation. “Just enough to be polite, order coffee—that sort of thing.”
She ignored Ric, who rolled his eyes at her failure—again—to sell herself.
“Is this for me to keep?” She peered up at Bleecker, mildly surprised, when he slipped his business card into her hand.
“Young lady, you had me the moment you pronounced van Gogh correctly.” He gave her a genuine smile. “Give me a call next time you’re in Amsterdam.”
Annalesa was bone-tired but still glowing when the limo pulled up at the Amstel docks and Ric carried their stuff over to an enormous boat.
“That gallery trip... it wasn’t just a treat for an art historian, was it?” she asked, fingering the business card in her pocket. “Is this your cunning way of building my little black book?”
“You know me. I like efficiency. And I can’t resist showing off how smart you are.” Ric kissed the top of her head before handing her bags back to her so he could unlock the door to the lower part of the yacht. “So how do you pronounce van Gogh?”
“Well, it’s not ‘van Go’,” she informed him, correcting his own pronunciation. “And it’s certainly not ‘van Goff’. When I tell you, you’ll understand why it gets anglicized. Say ‘cock’.”
Ric laughed, his eyebrows rising. “Okay... cock.”
Damn, she really liked the way he said that. She could imagine him following that up with the words, “suck it,” with her hair in his fist. That thought made her whole body flushed with heat. Ric looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling.
“Now, try coughing the word out,” she instructed, doing her best to ignore the further arch in his brow and the smirk twitching the corner of his mouth.
He made the attempt. “Gkocgk?”
“Close enough.” She giggled then yelped in surprise as Ric snatched her off the floor and carried her—bags and all—down the shallow set of broad steps into the living compartments.
The boat felt both roomy and cozy at the same time. All the wood was glossy beech, the soft furnishings a warm, dark red. Beneath the nose of the boat was a double bed and Ric lifted her over to it, laying her down on the deliciously soft mattress.
Just the comfort of it made her eyes want to close and she jerked them open, desperately needing to feel not-drowsy with Ric kneeling on the edge of the bed, peeling his shirt off. Holy Man O’War, he was like looking at a Greek god. Or a Norse one, perhaps. A long bulge distorted the clean lines of his dark grey trousers.
“You’re a bad girl, Annalesa.”
The soft drawl in his voice made her want to pull him on top of her, no matter how tired she was. She wriggled closer to him.
“Me? Bad? Why?”
“Because now I’m going to be thinking about my cock—and everything I want to do to you with it—until dinner.”
She held back a whimper of need as he unbuckled his belt and stripped down to hard-packed briefs. That sight perked her right up and she reached out to stroke his thigh. “Well... we could do more than think about it.”
“No. Not now.” He landed a light, nuzzling kiss on her lips and pulled back from the bed, reaching into a closet for a hoodie and jeans. He waggled his eyebrows and grinned at her as he shoved his arms through the sleeves. “Take a nap while you can, sleepyhead. I want you ready for later.”
Her disappointment at seeing his delicious body disappearing beneath clothes once again lasted only a few seconds. She was too grateful he was giving her time to rest without even a hint of guilt at no
t making the most of their every second together.
After Ric left her with another long, lingering kiss before heading above deck, she pulled off her jeans and t-shirt and dropped down on the bed. A nap sounded heavenly and she let herself be lulled by the rumble of the engine as it started up and the faint sounds of Ric in low discussion with someone on the upper deck.
She was fuzzy with happiness, alcohol and the sweetly sharp pairing of port and creamy blue cheese as she pushed the platter across the deck table to Ric.
It had been a luxurious and delicious meal, delivered to the boat’s kitchen on the upper deck before they’d headed out into the harbor.
The sunset was the same damask-orange shade as the last inch of Louis Roederer Rosé in Ric’s champagne glass and all the lights of the tight-packed streets of Amsterdam were reflected from afar on the canals. The gables on the slim, tall buildings had become silhouettes.
“I feel... spoiled rotten.” She sighed and rested a hand over his big, warm one.
“This is just our first day.” His hand moved to envelope hers, a warmth that served to heat her core far more quickly than the alcohol. “We have special dinner reservations tomorrow night—no, Ms. Impatient, I’m not telling you where, yet—and we’re cruising the yacht back into Amsterdam for three more gallery viewings.”
Three more? Annalesa shook an incredulous head at the effort he’d put into tailoring their time together to include all the things she loved.
“Just how many art dealers do you know?”
“Actually—just two more. The last trip is to...” Ric pulled a scrap of paper out of his wallet. “‘Het scheepvaartmuseum.’ Christ, the Dutch are as bad as the Germans about not separating their words.”
She took a long swig of port, considering. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she’d rather have her toenails pulled than tour the Scheepvaart.
She let her fingernails trail lightly over his knuckles, giving him a slow, suggestive smile.
“I will suck you senseless for three full hours if we can skip the Scheepvaart.”
She saw him straighten, his eyes growing darker.
“That’s a hell of an offer.” He canted his head at her, suddenly curious. “We don’t have to go. I thought... what’s the matter with it? I just remember the three hours we spent, you dragging me around the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich.”
“Where we saw lots of paintings of British ships blowing the Dutch to tiny bits. What paintings do you think they’ll have in the Dutch maritime museum?”
“Ah-ha.” Ric gave a knowing nod as he got to his feet and pulled her chair back. “You know, I like the idea of you ‘blowing’ me to tiny bits.”
“You would.”
“I think we should start right now.”
“Now?” She stood, wrapping her arms around his waist and sidling up against the bulge in his jeans.
Ric gave a soft groan that vibrated right through her. She had to give the man credit for the patience he’d developed over the years. He’d clearly been hiding his erection beneath the table for some time.
She released herself from their embrace and traced her fingers up his length, a sensitive bar of steel tenting his jeans, from nearly groin to hip.
“Now,” he growled against her ear, a sound that jolted through her.
They practically sprinted below decks.
She had his zipper and button undone before he’d even reclined. She helped him shed his jeans and briefs and tossed them into a corner, hungry to taste him again. They hadn’t seen each other for six weeks. How she’d held on all day, she’d never know.
Before he put his backside onto the mattress, she snatched a pillow and thrust it beneath his hips, raising him up a little more. He complied, holding himself up as she arranged him, but looked a little confused. The confusion gave way to moist-eyed disbelief as she cupped his balls, lifted them carefully and licked him behind, making his moan echo through the cabin.
He took a desperate, few gulps of air as she ran her tongue in and around the dips created by the hard tendons of his groin, and along sensitive, ridged line between his balls and his ass.
“Oh! Jesus, Leesa... that’s killing me.”
“Well, you’re not my slave,” she teased. “You only need ask—politely—what you’d like me to do next.”
Ric lifted his head and slammed it back on the pillow, thrusting his chin to the skies as he had the first time she’d sucked him.
“Suck me. Please.”
She did, going to work on him until his every breath was a gasp and he couldn’t keep his hips still. She slid her lips as far down on his cock as they would go, holding her breath until the warm dusting of golden brown hair tickled her nose, then swallowed hard around him, four times in a row, feeling him swell in her throat each time.
On the last swallow, his upper body went into total spasm and he cried out, his thighs and abs jerking as he fought to keep his hips still and began to flood her mouth with cum. Hot jets of it blasted past the back of her throat and she swallowed it all, easing the suction off little by little as his hips dropped back to the pillow and the strength in his legs gave way.
She enjoyed half an hour of his incoherent, joyful noises, curled up against his side, until he’d recovered his energy for round two and pounced on her to return the compliment.
His teasing was twenty times worse than hers.
Not only did he tie her wrists to the headboard so she couldn’t possibly interfere with his tormenting pace, but he made his finger-fucking and clit-licking so slow she was close to seeing black stars by the time he finally, finally let her come.
The next couple of days passed in a delirium of relaxed happiness as she gathered business cards at a Vermeer and Rembrandt showing, and ate her way through eight tiny courses with wine matches at Ciel Bleu—at the chef’s table, right next to the kitchen, where she could see it all being prepared.
She had no idea how Ric had managed to arrange that. The chef’s table deal was usually exclusively available for tables of four and up. Ric remained relaxed, happy, laughing at all her jokes, making her feel like the sexiest, funniest person on earth until they landed at Heathrow for Elsa’s fifty-all-over-again party.
Chapter 8
Annalesa stared around her at the Edwardian elegance of the Savoy Hotel, waiting behind Ric as he claimed their keycards at the reception desk. Corridors spilled out in every direction, and a raucous afternoon party was going on in one of the dining rooms. She dimly registered Ric confirming the last of the party details in the Lancaster Ballroom with the man behind the desk, and making another request to have the Sorcerer meeting room available at ten that night for an hour.
“C’mon.” Ric tugged her hand. “Your mum’s already here and I want to change before we see her.”
She followed him to the room, still in awe of her surroundings. There were more modern corridors boasting some Art Deco, but most of the décor seemed pure Titanic and she was more Jack than Rose, gobsmacked by such opulence.
“Can you pick your jaw up off the floor? You act like you’ve never been in a nice hotel before.” Ric chuckled when she stuck her tongue out at him. He opened the door to the ‘junior’ suite, a huge room that connected to another with a king-sized bed. “I know it’s a little extravagant, but we need separate beds... just for show.”
“I know.” She smiled as he headed straight to the bar. She felt in need of a little liquid courage herself, knowing they would have to go back to the public brother-sister act soon. “Won’t M-Elsa ask why we didn’t get an attached suite for her?”
“Melsa?” Ric poured out a couple of brandies. “That’s a whole new name.”
“I can’t stop thinking of her as ‘Mum’.” Annalesa rolled her eyes, knowing she was going to have to work on that tonight. She was supposed to pretend she wasn’t related to her mother—but also act as if she was still related to her ex-stepbrother. There was some sort of twisted logic to it, perhaps, in an alternate u
niverse somewhere. “She’s going to want to know why you didn’t get three rooms attached together.”
“No worries—I booked her into her favorite room and told her the adjoining suite wasn’t available. But I gotta warn you—she’s still going to be a little pissed at me. And... I need to leave party for a little while tonight for a meeting.”
“Do you have to?” Annalesa made a face, trying not to sound too demanding.
“Afraid so.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “There’s a production company that wants a bunch of Ryker replicas for the latest Mission Impossible movie.”
“Oh, MI-27?” She snorted.
He grinned. “The studio wants everything custom-made, which is fine, but expensive. The middlemen I’m meeting with today—middle-women, in this case—want to drive the price down.”
“To hell with that,” Annalesa protested, squaring her shoulders as if preparing for a fight. “We’re Ryker Arms, not K-Mart Arms—there’s no blue-light special.”
“That’s my girl.” Ric looked incredibly proud, smiling as he slid a hand behind her neck, massaging gently. She felt her knees instantly threaten to buckle and Ric caught her with another hand at the small of her back, pulling her in toward him. “I knew you’d have my back.”
“Always,” she murmured, seeing the slightest flicker of doubt in his eyes.
It made her heart ache. He’d really opened himself up, made himself vulnerable to her, but some part of him still expected her to hurt him. She wanted to deny it, but she knew only time would heal that wound. She couldn’t do anything but stand by him to show him that she wasn’t going anywhere else, ever again.
“I wanted to ask you a favor...” Ric hesitated, pulling back and searching her face with slightly anxious eyes. “The women I’m meeting with—they’ve got a reputation for being rather aggressive. Would it be okay if I called you in for back-up at some point?”
“Me?” She felt both flattered and surprised. And even a little moved. She had no doubt that Ric could handle himself in any and all situations that arose, business or otherwise. But for some reason, he wanted to know she was there for him.