Her hands leave my dick, and the absence is almost painful. She shifts beneath me, and I move higher on her body, dragging the weight of my cock along her stomach. I find her breasts in the dark, cushion them around either side of my cock, and squeeze them together, then slide my cock higher, hovering it over the place where I imagine her mouth to be, and wait.
She’s a fucking mind reader, and when she pulls it to her mouth, there is no hesitation. She closes her lips around the head, sucks hard, and slides it down into her throat, her wet muscles flexing around it, her tongue yielding, the sensation perfection.
“Jesus,” I swear, my hips pulling back, then thrusting forward, her hand keeping me where she wants it, the soft sound of her gag pushing me even closer to release. I can’t control myself around this woman, can barely keep my orgasm in check. How will I handle it when I’m between her legs, my hands on her hips, her thighs, her breasts? How will I be able to push inside of her and not immediately come apart?
I feel the swell of an impending orgasm and pull back, out of her mouth, and move down her body, my chest over hers, my mouth finding her lips. They are wet and messy and I kiss her like I wished I’d fucked her. This new position has my cock wet and heavy between her legs, her soft pubic hair brushing against the shaft of my dick, and I’m so close to being inside of her I almost come. I reach down, finding her, and I curl my fingers against the soft patch of hair between her legs. I memorize the feel of her pussy, the tight folds of her body, the hard bud of her clit, and I torture myself with every detail of her except the part I need the most. She widens her thighs, curves upward with her hips, and begs me, my name a pant on her lips, her nails raking along my back, her teeth nipping at my neck. “Please…” She groans the word and I yield, spreading her legs apart and pushing a finger inside.
One finger. One finger that gets to sample the sweetest fucking pussy in this world.
Hot, tight muscles bunch around the digit, her body slick and yielding, flexing around my finger as if sucking it inside of her.
I push another finger inside, and the fit is perfection, her body tightening beneath me, and her breath stalls on my skin.
“You like that?” The words come out harsher than I intend, my mind barely in control of itself, and the need to turn on the light, to see her face… it’s enormous and only second to every feral desire I have to position my cock at her entrance and go to fucking town on her pussy. I work my fingers, groan at the feeling, and when she responds, I barely hear her through the pounding in my head.
“I need more,” she whispers out the plea and one of her hands find my cock, her fingers wrapping around me, her grip starting to move, to squeeze and rotate and jerk. I pinch my eyes close, say the Latin alphabet backwards, and lose every single battle I attempt.
I kiss her because I need it, it grounds me, focuses me, and when I come back to life, my fingers find the velvet swell of her g-spot and I press on it, an action that has her hips rising off the bed, her hand dropping off my cock, her body jerking in pleasure.
“That spot—Marco—”
“I know,” I lower my mouth, bumping along her skin until my lips find her breast and I close my mouth onto the skin, my tongue flicking across the nipple, my fingers starting to work across the bundle of nerves, everything inside of her heating up around the action. “Don’t worry. I won’t stop.”
It takes less than a minute, and when she comes, it is with a series of soft sobs, over and over again, her body thrashing beneath me, her skin hot around me. I stretch it out as long as she can take it, and when she is done, I spread her legs, move in between them, and, in the moment before I push inside of her, realize the problem.
Chapter 20
AVERY
“Fuck.”
I hear his swear in the dark, and it doesn’t sound like his others, the worshipful sounds of a man barely in control. This swear sounds pissed, and I lift myself out of my orgasm-induced haze long enough to find his location in the dark. “What?”
“I don’t have a condom.” There is the unexpected brush of fingertips, hitting my stomach and dragging down to the wet patch of hair, and he gently rolls them over my clit before he slides, what feels like a thumb, inside of me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.”
I almost tell him to just do it. To grip my thighs, push that thick cock inside, and let me experience heaven. I almost tell him that it doesn’t matter, that I trust him, that it will be okay.
But then I remember. I remember every story I’ve read, the sort of life he leads. Drugs. Sex Parties. Ten years with Vince Horace, who was apparently the biggest slut in New York City before he settled down with Marco. I can’t have unprotected sex with him. I don’t know what I was thinking, scrambling up his staircase and yanking off my clothes, without a single thought of condoms.
“There’s not one in the house?”
“No.” One of his hands closes over mine and he brings it to his cock. “Jack me off.”
I don’t want to jack him off. I want him. My body needs him—on top of me, behind me, dominating me. I wrap my hand around his thick shaft and my good sense wars with my raw need. I pump my hand to his tip and back down, and he lets out a hard breath of approval. “Faster.”
His hand slides up my stomach and cups my breast, his second hand mirroring the action. I arch into his touch, immediately addicted to the tender way he caresses my skin, the rough pads of his fingers moving over my nipples, the almost reverent way he touches them. I squeeze his shaft as I move my hand up and down, his cock stiffening under the stimulation, hardening to a point that must be painful.
“Hold your hands still.” He releases my breasts, and I feel his hands atop mine, positioning one on top of the other, covering the majority of his dick. “Hold tight.” He squeezes them, then I feel him shift, the bed adjusting with additional weight, the brush of muscular thighs against mine. He thrusts with his hips and his cock slides through my hands. Forward and back. Forward and back. He fucks my grip and I jump slightly when his mouth lands on my shoulder, then my breast, a line of soft kisses moving across my chest. He finds my mouth, deepens the kiss, then pulls away, his hips moving faster, my grip tightening.
“I’m gonna come. Fuck, Avery. I want to see you.”
In that moment, his breath quickening, body shuddering, hips working … I wish I hadn’t turned off the light. I’d been so worried that he’d be turned off by my feminine curves … I’d feared he would chicken out, or come to his gay senses, or see my breasts, screech at the top of his lungs, and sprint away. I hadn’t wanted anything to disrupt the contact I’d so desperately needed. And now, one of his hands finding my waist, holding it for balance, his breath hard in the darkness, I only want to give him everything. Me, in the light. My body, condom or not. His orgasm, and mine, and anything else he ever wants.
In the darkness, with just sound and touch between us, he is so beautiful.
“Avery. Holy fuck.” I squeeze him tighter and he grips my waist, grunting as his release hits my stomach, a shot on my breasts, my cheek, my ear. It is long and plentiful, and I am laughing by the time he finishes, his come everywhere, covering my hands, my body, my hair. He groans, falling beside me on the bed, and I scoot higher, finding the lamp’s switch and flicking it on.
“Oh my God,” I manage the words through a laugh as I survey the damage, four or five long streaks of him splattered across my breasts. I turn to him, his eyes closed, his naked body sprawled across the bed and there is a moment when my heart stops, when my breath catches, and I wonder what in the hell made me turn off the light.
There are no words for a man like him, no explanation for how perfectly he is created, the lines of his body, the cut of his jaw, the thick line of his lashes, the rough pout of his lips. He should be too pretty, but he’s not. He’s rough on the edges, muscular where other men are soft, and … my eyes drift down to his cock, still thick and hard against his stomach. Adding that to the mix makes him impossible. Maybe it was a good thing
I turned off the lights. If I’d seen all of this, above me, looking down at me, hard against me … my mind would have come apart.
I reach out a finger and poke him, half to test if he is real, and the other half because I want someone else, other than me, to see the mess he has created. “Hey.”
His eyes open, his mouth curving, and he props himself up on one elbow, his eyes dropping to my bare breasts. “Hey.”
I fight the urge to cover up. “Did you see how much you came?” I gesture to my body. “You shot it all the way into my hair.”
His mouth curves and he inches closer, sliding a hand across my stomach and pulling me closer until I’m flush against the side of his body. I let myself fall and land on my back, looking up at him.
“I’m sorry.” He runs his hand up, smearing the white trace of him across my skin, and slides his hand over my closest breast, cupping it. His mouth drops and he gently sucks my nipple into his mouth, the gesture so unexpected that I gasp in surprise, my eyes closing slightly, the flick of his tongue across my tender flesh, the soft motions of his mouth … I whimper despite my best attempts to stay cool.
The sound catches his attention and he lifts his eyes, moving his mouth to my other breast, his hand sliding down the planes of my stomach and in between my legs. My thighs part without instruction, my pelvis tilting up to him, and I reach out, grabbing his neck, pulling his mouth to mine, and stiffening in the moment his fingers push back inside of me.
“Last time I missed this.” He speaks softly, pulling off my mouth and running his eyes over my body, my skin sticky from his juices, my hips moving uncontrollably to the tune of his fingers. “I missed the way your body looks naked.” He lets his eyes move over me, my nipples stiff and red from his mouth, my thighs beginning to tremble from his touch. His eyes find the tremor and he stares, his voice thickening. “Touch your clit. Rub it.”
I don’t hesitate. My forefingers find their way through the damp curls, my hand brushing his, my touch soft as I roll the pads of my fingers across my clit, short quick strokes that have my eyes closing, the pleasure—when combined with his touch, almost too much.
Almost.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
I believe him when he says it. He rasps out the words, his voice catching on the syllables, and I open my eyes, catching the heat in his eyes, his gaze sharpening when I gasp, his fingers quickening when I begin to pant. My body curves into his touch and I try to warn him and can’t, try to speak but only freeze, a low cry coming, over and over, over and over, as the orgasm explodes, a brilliant flash of pleasure that streaks through me, blinding my thought, my vision, my everything.
I come down from it, everything hazy and loose, his taste on my lips, my scent in the air, his hands unapologetically roaming my body, a junkie getting his fix, his mouth rough on my own, his need still evident in his cock, now rock hard and jutting forward.
I don’t think, I just move. Out from under him, my hand digging into his shoulders, pushing him down on the bed. My leg, swinging over his hips, my hand gripping his cock, positioning it where I need it, my body lowering onto him, the stiff bulge of his cock so wide, so large that I yelp. My body is unaccustomed to his size, and my teeth grit as I fully settle atop him. He groans out my name, and I reach forward, digging my nails into his chest, lifting my body slightly from his pelvis, and then do what I’ve dreamed about for the last few hours.
I ride the fuck out of that cock.
Chapter 21
MARCO
For ten years, I lived on Vince’s schedule. We ate when he was hungry. Traveled when he was bored. Showed up when he was booked and left as soon as it was appropriate to. Now, on his wide deck, overlooking the water, a beautiful woman next to me, I’m lost—half drunk on the freedom, half terrified by the risks.
She stretches on the chaise lounge, a bare foot escaping from the blanket, and despite itself, my cock gives a half-hearted attempt to move. I smile, reach for my glass, and hide the expression behind a gulp of whiskey.
I like that she isn’t a talker. She laughs too much, asks too many questions, but at times, like right now, she shuts up. Which is good, since right now, I need some space to think. I need to figure out what a life without Vince looks like, and how I can enjoy it without destroying his image.
“It’s beautiful here.”
I nod, looking out on the water, the white caps reflecting off the moon’s light. This high up, you can’t see the road between us and the water, the sound of cars diminished by the waves. “Yes, it is.”
“If I was you, I’d be out here every night.”
I don’t say anything. Vince and I had rarely stepped out on the balcony. Our visits to Spring Lake were mostly spent catching up on sleep and discussing business, away from the noises and distractions of the city. Still, there were a few memories—cigars on this deck, conversations about lost loves and childhood stories. Lots of whiskey and discussions over the brand, the industry, and our future.
“You ever been in love?” I rest my forearms on the railing and look down, watching the top of a car as it rounds the curve below us, its headlights sweeping over and illuminating the rocks.
She shook her head. “Not really. There was a guy once…” her voice trails off and she lifts her wine glass and takes a sip. I wait for her to continue. “He wasn’t a nice guy. It took me too long to figure it out.”
Wasn’t a nice guy. My stomach tightened at the words. “He hit you?”
“No.” She speaks quickly. “No. He just…” she shrugs. “He thought he was a gangster, or wanted to be one. And when I met him, I was lost, and didn’t really have a place to stay or a solid job.” She pulls her foot back underneath the blanket. “It was nice, at the beginning, to have someone take care of me. To not have to worry about anything.”
I think of my first month in Vince’s house, the way my life had, in a period of days, changed so drastically. Goodbye, studio apartment that I could barely afford. Hello, giant mansion and a personal butler dedicated to me. Goodbye, fast food and takeout. Hello, private chef and impromptu dinners in Spain. I’d traded taxis for a Rolls Royce, and Banana Republic for Brioni.
My student loans were paid off by one check from Vince. My monthly expenses, suddenly gone. My annual salary, tripled. I had settled nicely into the life of the uber-rich, and within a few months, I’d grown accustomed to the lifestyle, my appreciation waning into something much more dangerous—expectation.
She sets her glass down on the side table. “I overlooked a lot with him. Stuff he was doing, women he was fucking…” she yawns. “And I finally realized I didn’t love him enough to make up for all of it. I probably didn’t love him at all.” She turns her head and rests it on the back of the chair, looking at me. “What about you?”
I glance down, tilting my wrist to see the watch, and step away from the railing. “God, it’s late. I’m gonna head to bed.”
She gets up also, and I follow her up the stairs, wondering what etiquette dictates at this point. Are we supposed to sleep together? I haven’t slept next to a woman in over a decade. Vince and I slept together, a situation that took me weeks to get accustomed to. The first nights I spent stick straight in his bed, worried, with every toss or shift, that he was reaching for me, or trying to make a move. Finally, as our relationship grew closer, and my comfort level expanded, I started to relax and sleep through the night. After a few months, I didn’t think twice about getting into bed at night, or talking with him in the moments before I fell asleep.
Anyone can grow accustomed to anything. I didn’t believe that at one time, but I am proof that it can happen. Proof that a straight man can be kissed and not shudder. Proof that, after seeing so many things, a mind can become numb.
Our Manhattan bed had been custom made, large enough to hold four grown men. He and I had slept on separate sides, and could toss and turn without bumping limbs. And when we came to Spring Lake—a house without fear of morning interruptions—we’d slept sep
arately. Him in the master, me in one of the smaller suites.
Now, we reach the landing and she steps into the guest room, glancing back at me expectantly.
“Everything you need will be in the bathroom or the dresser drawers.” I step toward the master, glance back, and see her watching me. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” There is an amused lilt to her tone, one that irritates me, and I ignore it, stepping into the bedroom and flipping the latch on the back of the door, locking her out.
What did she expect? Us to spoon? My body curled around hers? More pillow talk?
I step toward Vince’s bed and pause, taking a moment to think of him before I pull back the covers.
Live well, Marco.
It’s probably just this room, the ghosts of memories and all his things, but I swear that somewhere in the dark, I hear him chuckle.
Chapter 22
AVERY
He shuts the door and I hear the subtle sound of a lock turning. I head back into the bedroom, the smell of sex still in the air, and eye the bed. Sheets rumpled. My jeans in a pile on the floor. Shirt tossed on the bed.
I came to New York to stop Andrei’s letter from reaching its destination. At what point had that mission gotten lost? With the shots? With the kiss?
I fall onto the bed and think about the way Marco had gripped me, his eyes dark, his mouth desperate. He had acted like a starved man, the heat in his stare enough to ignite my skin, flame my desire, and wipe my mind clean of everything but pleasure.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling. If I am Vince Horace’s daughter, this situation is beyond creepy. If I’m not Vince Horace’s daughter, then it’s confusing. Either way, I need to get out of this house and back to the city. I reach out and find my bag. Groping through it, I pull out my cell phone and set an alarm for five o’clock. That’ll give me an hour or two of sleep, and plenty of time to sneak out of here and find a taxi back to New York.
Hidden Seams Page 10