by R.S. Grey
His hands squeeze my thighs, ensuring that I stay spread eagle on the edge of the couch. My panties are still slightly askew, just enough so that when he tips his head and glances down, I know exactly what he’s seeing. A low groan escapes his mouth and I feed on it, letting my legs fall open just a little bit more. His fingers bite into my thighs and I try not to smirk. Maybe he wasn’t submitting to me before, but he is now.
He loops his strong arms around my legs and tugs me until I’m lying horizontal on the couch, my legs bent up in the air. Before I can process the new position, his mouth hits my inner thigh, close enough to hint at his true destination. Dear god, I’m going to implode the moment his tongue strokes across me there. I try to squirm away, back to sitting up, but he forces my legs apart and pins me down. His finger tugs my panties to the side and I’m utterly exposed with nowhere to go. I’m forced to feel every one of his breaths as it hits the skin of my parted legs. Every instinct in me screams for release, but as soon as his lips descend, I pinch my eyes closed and embrace my lack of control.
I’ve been here before, but never with someone like James. There’s always been a lack of confidence, a grip that’s a little too gentle, a hand that’s a little too rough. When James sweeps his tongue across me, it’s with desire and intent, a hungry sort of lust that fills me with power. I lift my head and watch him between my thighs. His need is obvious in the way he stares, eyes wide and gleaming, like he’s a thief who’s just found the crown jewels. He dips low and his tongue licks across me slowly, just once before he pulls back and meets my gaze. Tension sizzles between us and he holds eye contact as he bends low again, this time dragging his tongue across me until he lands at the very top, swirling until my hands fist his hair.
I squeeze my eyes closed, let my head tip back, and release his name on an exhale. My voice sounds hoarse.
He picks up the pace, lapping and licking me quickly so there’s no time to resist the orgasm building inside of me. The first few waves of passion build and build, and just before they crest, he pulls back, blowing cool air on me until I’m squirming for release. Then he bends low again, kissing and sucking gently until my hips are grinding up to meet his mouth, desperate for him to continue. I’m sweaty and raw, a mess of emotions fully exposed to him. There’s no limit to how long he’ll drag out this torture. Maybe he really did miss me today, and maybe he really was jealous to find me at the bar with Martin, because right now, he’s punishing me for both.
I yank his hair and he growls, finally pinning his mouth on me and licking with enough speed and pressure to build my orgasm to a peak. My back arches off the couch and my head falls back. I see nothing but blackness behind my closed lids as I moan his name again and again.
The climax rushes through me with such force, such power, that I feel invigorated when it’s over. It’s like a jolt of caffeine to the system, a powerful surge of energy that makes me hungry for more. Without warning, I sit up and leap onto him. We fall back onto the floor of the living room and our nearly naked bodies collide for the first time. Soft curves meet hard muscle. My dark hair fans out around us. He reaches up and cups my breasts, and the feeling is so intoxicating that I give in completely to the kiss he presses against my lips. We’re impatient, hot. Weeks and weeks of anticipation built this moment.
His hands grip my ass and he pulls me down hard against him, rolling his hips in a maddening pace. I moan and fist my hands into his hair, hating the fact that our underwear separates us. The friction is teasing and suggestive, but I want to feel his smooth hardness against me, in me.
His hands dig into my flesh as his hips roll and grind, teasing me until I’m close to a second orgasm. Just like this, high school-style, over-the-clothes grinding—no. I deserve better. I deserve the real thing. I reach down and yank my panties aside, barely noticing the sound of lace gently tearing. He would have to stand to allow me to pull his boxer briefs all the way down, so I make do. I lift my hips just enough and tug until he’s exposed enough for me to pull his hard length out of the material. The sound he makes when I sit back down on him, flesh to flesh, is nothing short of a growl.
We are animals.
Hungry.
Impatient.
Wild.
“Brooke,” he groans as I roll back and forth across him.
Teasing.
Taunting.
So damn close to letting him slide into me.
I’m reminded of our talk so many weeks ago, and it hits me: we need a condom, NOW. I’m about to tell him that, but he’s quicker than me, reaching back for his pants with one hand. He hangs them upside down, shaking them out until his wallet falls to the floor with a heavy thunk.
I laugh.
He finds a thin packet, tears it open with his mouth, and then I reluctantly lift off him so he can slide it on with smooth confidence.
My body is shaking with desire and excitement. I know he’s going as fast as he possibly can, but it’s still not quick enough. My fingers dig into flesh. He groans and rolls the condom all the way down. We don’t wait, don’t take a breath. I angle him just right with my hand and then he pushes into me with one sumptuous thrust.
“JAMES.”
My second orgasm tears through me as I cry out. His mouth covers mine with passionate kisses, and then he picks me up and flips us over so I’m on bottom. The smooth rug cushions me from below as James hovers over me, cast in neon light. God, he’s sexy. The way he moves. The way he holds himself up on one arm and stares down at where we’re connected, where he drags out of me slowly before thrusting back in. I shudder.
There’s too much to focus on: the muscles jumping in his sharp jaw, his abs flexing and straining under the effort when he pulses in and out of me. I reach up and drag my palm across his chest and then I move lower, hooking my hands around his hips and making sure he pushes in as deep as he can possibly go. My eyes squeeze closed as I try to keep up with his unyielding rhythm. He starts moving so fast that pleasure brushes against the boundary of pain.
He tells me he’s going to come, and it’s such a sexy, bold declaration that I know I’ll soon follow. I’m panting. He’s groaning. We’re so in sync, I feel myself clench around him as his body starts to heave and shake. I look up and watch as his orgasm contorts his features into a mask of ecstasy.
When it’s over, he collapses on top of me and I stare up at the ceiling, relishing what it feels like to have his weight stealing my breath. It’s just enough to keep me in the present moment, to keep my brain from overthinking every move, every kiss.
“Brooke,” he whispers.
I hum.
“I promise I won’t miss dinner ever again.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I lie awake in James’ bed for hours trying to convince my body to give in to sleep. I should be exhausted after what we’ve done, but now that the hotel room is quiet and dark, I have nothing to focus on but the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It settled there a few hours ago for no good reason. I can’t pin it down to anything said or done. The night went off without a hitch: we had sex (twice) then showered, ordered room service, and eventually succumbed to sleep—or at least James did. I’m wide awake, fruitlessly willing this feeling to fade, and I remain that way until sometime in the early morning hours.
James apparently had to get up at some ungodly hour for the conference because when I jolt awake around 7:00 AM, he’s long gone, no trace of him in the suite. I do find some workout clothes in the bathroom, still sweaty, so I guess he found the time to work out before leaving for the day. Meanwhile, I enjoy a quiet breakfast of oatmeal and regret, staring out at the Vegas strip and trying hard not to think of how tightly my stomach is knotted.
I’m not very successful. Every spoonful of oatmeal comes with a healthy dose of reality. To be honest, I didn’t go into this trip with the intention of sleeping with James. I can practically hear Ellie in my head: What else did you think would happen?! You willingly went to Vegas with the man! Did you think you two
would be eating platonic dinners and sleeping in platonic rooms and giving each other platonic fist bumps?
Okay, so a small part of me figured we would be doing some hardcore fondling, but we went beyond that. We had earth-shattering sex—like, slow-jams-in-the-background, candles-burning-the-place-down sex. When I’m midway through my oatmeal, flowers arrive at the suite—a massive bouquet of white garden roses from James. The flowers are so beautiful and so fragrant, I put them in my bathroom and close the door. When that’s not enough, I head down to the hotel pool in hopes that a change of scenery will tug me out of my weird funk.
There are three pools at the hotel, each one bigger than the last. All of them are nearly abandoned even though the hot Vegas sun is blazing overhead. I guess techies don’t have time for aquatic activities, but I do.
I find a place at the biggest, most luxurious pool and toss my Kindle onto a lounge chair. A cocktail menu is already propped on the small table nearby, so I peruse it thoughtfully. Is it too early for a piña colada?
“I’ll order one if you do,” a voice says beside me.
I turn to find a tall brunette lounging two seats down, eyeing the drink menu I’ve been hogging for the last several minutes. “Oh, sorry.” I lean toward her and pass it over.
“It’s okay,” she says with a friendly smile. “Do you know what you want?”
I nod and she starts browsing the menu for herself.
Once the waiter comes by and I order, I turn just enough to inspect her out of the corner of my eye. She’s very pretty, but it’s in a way that’s easy to pick apart—she has false eyelashes and a fake tan. Her hair has a healthy dose of extensions and while I came down to the pool with nothing but my Kindle in tow, she has a Chanel pool bag, a Louis Vuitton Neverfull, a stack of magazines, a separate makeup bag, an iPad, and her phone.
Once the waiter strolls away, I move to turn back to the pool, but she glances over and smiles. Maybe she noticed me watching her, or maybe she’s just as bored as I am; either way, she strikes up a conversation.
“Here for the conference?”
“Not exactly.” I push my sunglasses up to rest on the top of my head. “You?”
She smiles. “My husband is in there giving a speech or something—who knows. It’s all pretty boring to me.”
I nod and turn away.
“So if you’re not here for the conference, what’s his name?”
“What?”
“Or her name. You must be here for someone.”
Her question is simple, but for some reason, I’m hesitant to respond, maybe because I don’t want to have to explain my situation with James to a perfect stranger.
“I’m here with a date, yeah.”
She smiles. “Dave travels here all the time for work and I always join him. I like it because I get to keep tabs on him and treat myself to a little rest and relaxation. I swear if I weren’t here, he’d get into all sorts of trouble. I’m sure you understand.”
I laugh awkwardly. “Oh, yeah, I guess.”
She quirks one of her perfectly shaped brows. Clearly she’s perplexed by my relaxed tone. “You don’t have to keep tabs on your man?”
“It’s a new thing,” I explain. “Not really a relationship.”
Her gaze turns thoughtful as she tilts her head, studying me. “Is he older?”
I nod.
“Rich?”
I bristle at her line of questioning and fire back, “Why does it matter?”
She laughs. “It doesn’t, I just think it’s funny that you’re sitting there judging me, and I’d bet on my life your situation isn’t all that different.”
“It is,” I insist.
“Oh yeah?” She scans down my bikini-clad body. “Rooms at this hotel start at $1,500 a night. That drink you just ordered? $26.75. You’re beautiful and young. Your boyfriend is older and currently working, while you’re…what? Waiting for him to finish up so you can be at his beck and call? I bet you’ve hardly seen him since you arrived.”
The knot in my stomach twists tighter.
She turns to the pool and settles back against her lounge chair. “Face it sweetheart, we’re not that different.”
I don’t bother waiting for my piña colada. I leave $30 on my chair (ridiculous) and walk away before Ms. Extensions can keep picking my life apart. How dare she assume I’m anything like her? She might be happy lounging around all day waiting for her husband, but this isn’t the sort of life I want. My goal for the next five years hasn’t changed.
…
James wraps up his day at the conference earlier than I expected, and I’m napping in my room when I hear the door to the suite open and close quietly. He walks in and I listen to his footsteps as they head in the direction of his room, and when he doesn’t find me there, they turn toward mine. I keep my eyes pinched shut, pretending to sleep. He opens the door a crack and stops in the doorway, watching me. I’m hyperaware of my breathing, of how bad I am at acting.
Still, he doesn’t call my bluff. He pulls off his jacket and tosses it onto the chair in the corner. He circles around the back of the bed, tugs back the covers, and lies down beside me. His cologne washes over me just as his arm wraps around my midsection. With a gentle tug, he pulls me back against him, and I try hard not to make a sound.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers against the back of my neck.
I wonder how he knew I was awake.
We sleep like that for an hour or two, wrapped around one another. I can feel him hard against me, his muscular thighs tight against mine. I know if I gave even the slightest sign that I was in the mood, we would have sex, but I can’t. I haven’t been able to shake this twisted feeling mounting inside me all day. I’m scared of what will happen if we have sex again, of how much worse it could get.
I push away from him and climb out of bed, anxious for a shower. I turn the water scalding hot and don’t step inside until steam is rising up and fogging the bathroom mirrors. I tip my head back and let the water run over my forehead and down my cheeks.
When James speaks, I nearly jump out of my skin.
“I’d like to take you to dinner.”
I reach up and try to hide every part of me worth concealing, but it only makes him chuckle under his breath. I guess he’s already seen me, but this feels more intimate. I was under the influence of lust and wine last night. Now, I feel vulnerable and raw. I turn over my shoulder and look back to find him leaning against the door, watching me through the fogged glass. Maybe he can see everything, or maybe he has to imagine what I look like in here, but either way, his dark eyes are heated, and I hurry to finish bathing before he can join me.
Apparently, he wants to take me somewhere fancy, so I pull out the other dress I packed for such an occasion. It’s black and more modest than the one from last night. The hem hits just above my knees, but the back is low-cut and exposes most of my spine. James takes full advantage of that when we stroll out of the hotel. His palm finds my lower back and he holds it there, leading me toward the waiting car. His touch feels so good that for a moment, I give in to my desire to lean into it. Then I remember the woman from the pool and step away.
“Vue is one of the best restaurants in the world. The chef won the James Beard award last year,” James tells me, bringing the back of my hand to his lips and kissing it gently.
I hum in appreciation as I take in the strip whipping by our window. He goes on about the menu and how good the food will be, and I make a point to act like I’m listening. A few minutes later, the car pulls up outside a restaurant that has cars lined up around the curb. A suited attendant runs forward to open doors and glamorous people spill out. It’s funny how much I want to stay put and direct the driver to the nearest McDonald’s, not because I’d rather stuff my face with a Big Mac, but because maybe then I wouldn’t feel so much pressure building in my chest.
When we walk through the restaurant to find our table, I’m aware of the women in the room eyeing James. They just can’t help the
mselves. Tonight, he’s wearing another bespoke suit. This one is navy blue, and he’s paired it with a white shirt, no tie, the top two buttons undone. The look it supposed to be more casual than what he wears for work, but it’s more tantalizing than anything I’ve seen him in so far. Instead of telling him that, I sip my water.
“Should we get wine?” he asks, perusing the menu.
YES.
Alcohol is really my only hope at the moment. Without it, I won’t survive the first course.
The waiter arrives at the side of our table with sparkling water and a snooty French accent. I can tell James is happy to show me off when I rattle off our orders in French. The waiter raises a brow, impressed, before dipping in a short bow and scurrying off toward the kitchen to put our order in with the chef.
“I knew you would like this place,” James says with a lazy smile, leaning back in his chair.
He looks like a king surveying his kingdom. I watch as he brings his wine glass to his mouth and takes a small sip. His leg moves beneath the table, sliding between mine so that the silky material of his pants brushes against my bare leg. I clear my throat and sit up straight, but it’s no use. We might be in a restaurant with hundreds of people around us, but James is calling the shots, and if he wants to stretch the entire two-hour meal into some form of tortuous foreplay, he will.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he notes as our appetizers arrive.
I smile softly. “Just thinking about a few things.”
“Do you want to share them with me?”
I focus on my plate and shake my head. “Not really.”
He nods in understanding. “Tell me about your day instead. Did you use the spa gift certificate I had sent up?”
“I didn’t find the time.”
It came along with the flowers, and when I got back to the room after the pool, I impulsively ripped it into a hundred tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet.
My answer amuses him. “Oh really? Was your day that busy?”
I know he doesn’t mean to make me feel small with his question, but I respond defensively nonetheless. “I worked out and took a nap, went down to the pool…”