He pulled my head back, holding it in place by that tight grip in my hair, and then he started to thrust into my mouth, roughly, almost violently.
I put my hands to his ass then, so tight and hard! Clawing my fingers, I dragged them down to the tops of his thighs. That only made him thrust harder.
I did it again.
Fingers hooked, nails digging deep, dragging down tender skin.
Just then I had one of those moments, a snapshot in time. It was as if I was looking down from somewhere in the room. Two naked figures, red claw marks down the ass and thighs of one as he thrust deep into her throat. His hands buried in her hair, pinning her back against the window, the valley beyond lit with moonlight and pinprick house lights.
His back, arched, straining, thrusting even harder. He was close. So close.
The cold against my head and back from the window was intense now, the ache in my jaw becoming a pounding pain, and then he thrust one more time and held himself deep, the head of his manhood pressed hard against the back of my throat so that I was gagging, unable to swallow, almost unable to even breathe.
His shaft pulsed, expanded, pulsed again and then his hot juices hit my throat and the pressure eased. I swallowed, swallowed again as his climax continued and he started to soften in my mouth, and I kept on swallowing, savoring the changing sensation, the easing of the urgency, the shift from brutal need to tender intimacy.
Finally, he pulled away, soft and spent.
§
I stood, took his face in my hands. My touch was soft, almost ethereal. Sometimes control comes from subtlety as well as brute force.
I turned his face towards mine, drew him in, kissed him tenderly on the lips.
Our bodies barely touched, his soft manhood pressed lightly against me.
I took his hand and placed it against me, cupping me as it had before.
He started to move, started to respond, and I eased my legs apart.
It was as if he’d been in a momentary daze after that big climax, for now he started to stir, started to resume control.
He pulled me closer to him, pulled his hand away, reached round to cup my ass, the tops of my thighs, and then suddenly I was in the air, scooped up in his embrace and he was carrying me.
Past the dining table, our main course still untouched. Turning so we could pass through a doorway, and then we were in a bedroom, surprisingly compact. When the rest of the suite is so large, I guess the bedroom only needs room for the bed. In the whirl of being carried through, I saw that there was a door to a bathroom, and another to what looked like a dressing room.
He placed me on the wide bed, sitting me on the edge, my feet on the floor.
He kneeled, undid the Manolo Blahniks and gently eased them from my feet. The carpet was a deep, cream pile, the bedding of the finest, sheer cotton.
I reached for his head, pulled him into another kiss, savoring the hardness of his muscular body against me.
He used his weight and strength to push me back onto the bed, and then his mouth was on my neck, working down, tracing my breast bone down.
His face in the swell of my cleavage, his naked body pressing against mine, I eased my legs apart so he could push against me. He was still soft, but the hard grind of his pubic bone against me was so intense!
His mouth found a nipple and there was that stab of teeth closing on me again. A hand cupped my free breast, fingers and thumb locating the nipple, squeezing and twisting, sending bolts of pure pleasure coursing through my body.
I pushed up against him willing him to be hard again, and then willing him not to be, as his mouth worked down, his tongue trailing across my ribs, my belly, swirling around my navel in ever widening loops until it hit the top of that narrow strip of short hair and followed it down.
The first pressure of his tongue against my clit was like an explosion. That hard, wet pressure against me, barely moving.
He started to rock his head from side to side, slowly, and that pressure transformed into a dragging sensation.
I clutched the bedding, taking fistfuls of sheet and pillow as my body pushed up against him.
His fingers... first one, and then two, three, sliding deep inside me, thrusting in and out, and now his tongue started to twist and turn, describing firm loops around my clit and over its fleshy hood. His lips pressed hard against me, his tongue circling and pressing, flicking fast against my hardness. And those fingers... It was as if there were two people down there, more. So many sensations at once!
I felt the pressure starting to grow, to build inside me. A heat in my belly. A tightness. My ass clenching, the muscles in my legs tightening...
My breath was ragged now, my heart racing, and as I pushed against him he sensed exactly that perfect moment. With a final thrust, he kept those fingers deep inside me, kept the fleshy part of his tongue pressed hard against me, not moving, just pressing, holding, sensing the growing tightness, and then my whole body bucked, tightened, lurched, and I was taken over by the most intense climax I’d ever had.
Over and over, my body lurched, my legs clamped hard around his head, an incredible, intense heat in my belly. And then, finally, each wave diminished, weakened, and my climax started to ebb.
17.
I don’t know what happened immediately after that.
Did I doze? Did I even black out briefly?
The intensity was something I’d never experienced before.
When I returned to my senses, he was there, in my arms, his hard body on top of mine, moving, pressing. Tender and gentle; he’d had me before, but now he was making love to me.
He was hard again, pushing against me, not quite the right angle. I shifted, pushed, felt that sudden pressure against me and then the release as he slid home.
That almost did it for me immediately again, that slow sliding sensation, gently pressing deeper, filling me. My God, but he was filling me!
His lips found mine, his touch tender.
Here was a lover who liked it rough and brutal, but who also understood the art of tenderness.
His tongue was hesitant, delicately stroking my lips, probing for an opening. My tongue met his, and it was one of the most incredible feelings. Such tenderness. Such intimacy.
Finally, he filled me. Totally filled me. He pressed hard, that pubic bone thing again, grinding against my clit. He reached up, took a grip on the headboard and pulled himself even harder, and I’d never felt anything like it before.
We barely moved.
We let every slight movement pass through our bodies, every slight shift changing the sensations where we touched, where we joined. Each breath drew us closer, drew him deeper. Each heartbeat transmitted itself through our joined bodies.
Each pulsing of his manhood deep inside me sent waves of pleasure through my belly.
And his eyes. Those dark, lose-yourself-in-me eyes. Locked on my own. So intense.
There was flustered Will. There was controlling Will and dangerous predator Will. But this Will was something else, a true Will, communicated through those eyes. A communication. A bonding.
I clamped my legs around him, holding him deep, telling him not to move with my look.
He stayed there, stayed there as I tightened again and then wave after wave of muscular contractions took over my entire body as I climaxed again.
I buried my face in the angle between his neck and shoulder. So God-damned intense!
And then he was pressing harder, throbbing deep inside me, and I felt his whole body tense, go hard and then a heat explode in my belly.
We lay in each other’s arms forever. Did we sleep? Did we even black out?
I don’t know.
But when he finally moved, my hips were locked in position, my muscles stiff and aching, as if my whole body was unwilling to let him go.
He moved to one side, hooked an arm across my belly, kissed me on the shoulder, the cheek, the mouth. Held me as if he would never let me go.
§
And by morning he had gone.
I woke, with sunlight slanting in through the curtains. It was a beautiful day, here in the mountains.
Here in the freaking mountains!
It was odd how a part of me automatically knew where I was, and the rest of me was still in a state of shock at the whole possibility.
I sat up, the sheet falling away, and then I looked and the rest of the bed was empty.
Had he gone? Had I dreamed it? Was this still the dream?
He must be showering, attending to business, whatever.
I leapt from the bed and went to the window. Sky of azure, mountains capped in white, a stunning Alpine valley tumbling away.
What time was it?
I didn’t have my clothes here. Not my regular clothes. Not my little clutch purse with my useless English money and my phone. I’d need to get it, let Ellie know I was going to be... would I be late today? Would I even be able to get back to work at all today?
§
He’d left a note.
Bastard.
That was my first thought.
He gets into my panties and all he leaves the next day is a God-damned note.
Then I thought to read it.
My dear Trudy P-E,
You must think me such an arse. Such a shit. I pursue you and then I leave you dangling, I fall for you and then I abandon you. Believe me when I say that if there had been any way that I could be there to see you wake up this morning then I would have been.
But alas, it was not to be.
I had the most beautiful evening, with the most beautiful woman in the world. I felt that I had at least made in-roads into redeeming myself in your eyes. I fell for you that first time I laid eyes on you, but last night was something else. I kept falling, Trudy P-E. I kept on falling.
But then, this morning, while you were still sleeping, so peaceful that I couldn’t bear to disturb you... This morning a message came through, and I had to abandon you, once again.
You remember I mentioned Sally Fielding? Ethan’s old flame at Cambridge. Well I knew that Sally was back on the scene, and I knew that she was in trouble, and then she, or someone close to her, tried to blackmail me. And then... then... well, this morning I woke to the news that Sally Fielding is dead. Killed. Who would do this?
And who would be the one to pick up the pieces, if not good old Willem Bentinck-Stanley, fixer and sorter for the good and noble?
I’m so sorry. I brought you here for selfish reasons. I should never have involved you in all this. I should have known better. Maninder is arranging for your safe return.
Please forgive me.
Yours utterly,
W B-S
Sally Fielding was Ethan’s old flame? And... she was dead? And Will was in the thick of it all – the fixer, unless there was more to it than that.
I’d had the most stunning evening of my life. I’d been bowled over, converted, wooed.
I’d been wowed. Oh, man, had I been wowed!
I found a robe. I left my Jill Sander dress, my Manolo Blahniks, my Tiffany diamonds, in his suite.
In the elevator, an elderly man smiled at me, no doubt laughing at my walk of shame.
In my room, I put on my clothes from the day before, even my old panties. I hadn’t come prepared, and Will’s preparations had only extended to the night before.
I found my phone and texted Ellie to say I’d be late, and then I waited, waited for Will’s driver to take me back to my life; waited for all the mad thoughts in my head to settle into some kind of shape that made sense; waited to stop feeling angry, to stop feeling used and manipulated.
Within minutes I was leaving, heading back to the airport and determined never to let myself be made such a fool of again.
It was over.
I’d had a beautiful evening, but that was it.
Done.
Over.
Part three: Cabal
18.
Will Bentinck-Stanley was a man of many different aspects. He could be brash and arrogant, but that that was always underpinned by the kind of charm that was guaranteed to make you go weak at the knees. He could be sensitive and solicitous, but at the same time manipulative. He could be witty and entertaining one minute, yet cold and distant the next. He could sweep you away with the most extravagantly romantic of gestures, and make love to you like you’ve never been made love to before.
Back then, I really should have known that there were yet more aspects of this man to be revealed, that he had a dark side, only briefly hinted at as yet. The clues had been there from the start.
But back then, well, for a time back then I’d been blind to it. My year had definitely taken a turn for the better since I’d met Will Bentinck-Stanley. Back then, I’d even thought I might be falling in love with him.
§
My year, well it didn’t exactly have the best of starts.
Barely into January, the bathroom of my Islington apartment flooded. A silly little thing: a fatigued weld where two old pipes joined beneath the bath, a slow leak that must have been seeping for months and finally went in a great gush in the middle of the night, and the first I knew was a knock on the door from a neighbor from the basement apartment whose ceiling was now leaking.
Thank God for 24 hour plumbers and household insurance!
Just one of those things. But then the norovirus struck. Winter vomiting sickness when your bathroom’s out of action and you have to use a bucket of water from the kitchen to flush is no fun, believe me.
If you’d asked me then how I’d feel about being pursued by two seriously hot guys, being blown away by one grand romantic gesture after another, I’d have bitten your hand off in my enthusiasm. Ask me then how I’d feel about being swept off my feet by a rich, handsome lover who thought nothing of flying me out to the hotel he owned in the Alps just for freaking dinner, and I’d have said, Yes, I could handle that. No, really I could. Just try me, go on.
But the reality?
Well, real life can get complicated.
Like when the two men pursuing you share with your brother some dark secret, a past that has left them with animosity and distrust where once they had been as close as brothers, so close the three of them had become known at college as the Cabal.
And when he flies you to Austria for that uber-romantic dinner date, the one where he has you pampered and spoilt and dressed in Jill Sander, Manolo Blahnik, Crème de la Mer and Tiffany... where he charms and woos you in a private dining room with a view down a snow-bound Alpine valley... well, I was never going to be wowed by that. I was way beyond wowed.
When an evening beyond all fantasy turns into a night beyond your wildest dreams. When you stand at that hotel window admiring the view and he comes to stand behind you, enfolds you in his strong embrace. His scent alone, spicy and citrus, was a scent you could lose yourself in. The whisper of his breath at your ear, the scrape of stubble against your jaw. His mouth on your neck, his hard body against yours, pressing, moving almost imperceptibly.
When he peels that Jill Sander dress from your body, turns you, and his mouth works down. That stab of pleasure that is almost pain when his teeth close around a hard nipple, his heat such a contrast to the cold of the window-glass against your back.
But when that – all that – is suddenly snatched away...
When that night beyond your wildest, most tender fantasy is replaced in the morning by an empty space in the bed and a note.
There was a girl.
Sally Fielding. A girl from his past. She had turned up out of nowhere, was blackmailing him, and now... now Sally Fielding was dead. Killed, the note said; not merely dead. Killed.
§
I felt like a fool.
I felt like he had been stringing me along, using me. Like he’d been proving that he could do exactly what he’d told his drunken friends he could do, back at my brother’s wedding. Him, standing with that little group, devouring me with hungry eyes, telling them that he could have me any ti
me he wanted. That was the first time I’d encountered him. He’d shown me around the family home, Yeadham Hall, nonchalantly ignoring the Rembrandts and van Goghs on the walls, trying to wow me from the start.
That was arrogant, boorish Will. Manipulative and selfish.
That was the first side of him I saw: the unkempt guy at the wedding who seemed to think everything revolved around him, because – as I later discovered – that was exactly what he was accustomed to, a world that centered on Willem Bentinck-Stanley. A world that gave him exactly what he wanted.
That he wanted me was at first irritating, then flattering, then overwhelming.
But now, as I walked out of that hotel, leaving behind the Jill Sander dress, the Manolo Blahnik shoes and the delicate Tiffany necklace... now I felt like a fool.
I had been manipulated and used. I had been easy, so easy for him.
And all the time there had been this thing with the girl from his past. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I had learned by then never to take anything at face value with this enigmatic, infuriating man.
A note.
He’d wooed me and won me and the bastard had left me to wake up to a god-damned note.
That was it for me. The end.
He’d had my body and he’d almost had my heart, but no more.
I was a successful, professional woman with a full and rich life back in London.
I didn’t need this kind of shit.
And yes, as is so infuriatingly my way, perhaps I protest too much.
19.
And so, falteringly, my life returned to normal.
I went back to my Covent Garden office and worked with my authors on tightening their prose, and fending off the relentless drip, drip, drip of questions from Ellie in the front office about where I had been that day I’d failed to show for work. My claims of a migraine didn’t convince her; she knew there was more to it than that, and she wanted to know what had happened. Would she have believed me, though, if I’d told her the truth?
A wealthy heir who may also be some kind of international spy whisked me off to Austria in his private jet, seduced me and made love to me, and then abandoned me.
Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set Page 40