by BETH KERY
“Wow. As a piece of art, it says a lot about the commercialization of women, not to mention what people of the time period thought of them, doesn’t it?” Trey murmured. He’d stopped close behind her. He dipped his head, catching the scent of her hair—fresh and citrusy—and swayed closer for another inhale. “So what does it say that all your modern ones have no face at all?” he asked distractedly.
“For my part, it says that I don’t want the face to interfere with the study of the costume.” She turned and started slightly, her big eyes jumping to his face. She hadn’t realized he’d stood so close. Her lips parted. He zeroed in on them like a target. “I . . . I want the mannequin to represent anyone and no one.”
“You’re very smart,” he said, dipping his head, drawn by her scent.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “So are you.”
“Even though you thought I was too shallow to appreciate what you do for a living?”
Her mouth trembled. “Trey, I don’t think you’re shallow. That’s ridiculous.”
“Then explain to me again why you didn’t tell me what your real job is?”
“Because it’s boring,” she said in a burst of frustration. “And you’re the opposite of that. You’re dynamic, and worldly, and sophisticated. You regularly hang out with celebrities and talented artists. And I’m happy being down here in the dark, hunchbacked and squinting at some dusty, century-old photographs, or deciphering the scribbles in a book, or conserving some ancient pantaloons, for God’s sake. I’m—”
“Adorable,” he said, stepping forward and taking her into his arms. She halted, looking startled. “You’re adorable,” he repeated, his hard glance daring her to deny it. “And sexy as hell.” Unable to stand it any longer, he dipped his knees and dropped a kiss on her succulent, parted lips. He tilted his head and pierced her mouth with his tongue. She moaned softly, her tongue tangling with his. He opened his hands on her, feeling her slender waist and curving hips. A groan vibrated his throat. God, she felt good.
And her taste . . . every time, he was freshly amazed at it. It was like his brain wasn’t capable of storing completely how delicious she was. Memory paled in comparison to the real thing.
She pressed closer to him, her hands moving anxiously at his waist and back. Their kiss grew wild and deep. He could feel her breasts crushing against his ribs. He slipped his hands beneath the big, drab sweater she was wearing. If it were possible, her librarian look turned him on more than her chic, sophisticated outfits and stripper costumes did. All he could think about was what was underneath the dull, shapeless fabric, the warm, soft flesh and smooth naked skin. Her dress was relatively thin. He traced her svelte curves, feeling her heat. Blood rushed to his groin. He felt himself go heavy and hard in seconds. She must have felt it too, because she whimpered and circled her hips, stroking him with her body. He inhaled sharply and broke their kiss with effort.
“Jesus. You get me there so fast,” he breathed out against her parted lips.
“I could say the same of you,” she whispered, panting. She glided her hand down his chest and belly. His breathing halted when she cupped his cock and began moving her hand up and down the swollen shaft. He hissed and grabbed her wrist. He started to tell her to get ahold of herself, but then he saw the heat in her big, glistening eyes.
Little witch.
“Does that door have an inside lock?” he asked her tensely.
“It’s the only one that does.”
His eyebrows went up. “I really did pick the treasure room,” he muttered before he went to fasten the lock.
—
By the time he returned to her, her breathing had turned choppy with excitement. Some little voice inside her told her that she was crazy for fooling around at her job, but it felt mandatory. And in truth, almost the entire staff was gone for the day. The risk was minimal. No one really came down here on a regular basis except her small staff, and they all worked during regular museum hours.
But those were just surface rationalizations.
The only real logic for behaving so impulsively stalked toward her right now, his gaze trained on her. His new haircut made him look sleeker. Harder.
Hungrier.
“Where?” he asked her gruffly.
She swallowed back her mounting excitement and glanced around the room. She pointed toward the only likely candidate, a huge cataloguing table with dozens of small drawers beneath it and clutter from various old exhibitions collected on top of it. He glanced to where she indicated and took her hand wordlessly. When they got to the wood table, he pushed aside several informational signs, some cans of spray paint, some paint swatches and who knew what else. He shrugged out of his long dress coat and laid it on the table, then turned toward her. Before Eleanor realized what he intended, he hoisted her up onto the table and set her down on his spread coat. He hastily took off his suit jacket and tossed it next to her the on the table.
With no further ado, he spread her knees and slid her dress up her thighs until it bunched at her hips. He stepped between her legs and began unfastening the buttons of her dress.
“I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw you standing there in the hallway earlier. You look so sexy.”
“Are you crazy?”
His glanced bounced up to her face. “It’s better than any of your stripper costumes,” he told her bluntly.
“This?” she asked incredulously, staring down at herself as his hands moved between her breasts.
“Oh yeah. I didn’t realize I had a librarian fetish, but I guess I do. In a big way. Jesus, what is this?” he asked, pausing at her waist. He opened his hand along her satin-covered ribs. His eyes widened.
Embarrassment swept through her. She started to pull the opened edges of her dress closed. He grabbed one wrist, stopping her halfhearted attempts, and continued to unfasten the buttons of her dress.
“Are you wearing a slip?” he asked, sounding stunned. He finally seemed to have enough of her struggling and grabbed her wrists, spreading her arms wide. Eleanor shifted her hips in embarrassment on top of the table. “Do women still wear slips?” he asked.
“It gets chilly in the preservation rooms. They’re temperature controlled. I wear slips with my dresses to help keep me warm. So what?” she defended.
He glanced up at her face. “So what? I’ll tell you so what. It’s sexy as hell.” He reached behind her with one arm and lifted her off the table with ease. Eleanor squeaked in surprise. With his other hand, he whisked her dress down over her hips and butt and down her thighs. He plopped her ass back on the table and drew her dress down over her feet. He stared at her as he tossed aside the dress heedlessly, his mouth shaping into a snarl. Eleanor held her breath. He almost looked angry.
He put his hands on her thighs and slid the satin slip upward, exposing her underwear. Eleanor knew a moment of panic and sharp embarrassment. She had not dressed for a seduction. Just the opposite, in fact. She was wearing thick ivory thigh-high tights and a pair of utilitarian cotton panties. They weren’t granny underwear, but they definitely were the opposite of sexy. Trey’s warm hand slid across the bare skin at the top of her thigh-high. He stared at her crotch fixedly. Mixed mortification and sharp arousal tore through her.
He reached for her. Impulsively, she tried to stop him. Undeterred, he pushed past her resistance and shoved his hand between her clamped thighs. A surprised, shaky whimper puffed past her lips as he rubbed her pussy lasciviously.
“Jesus, Eleanor. You’re gonna get fucked so hard.”
She saw his swooping, slanting mouth. He kissed her hard, almost immediately penetrating her parted lips with his tongue. His exciting declaration echoed in her head. His attack on her senses wasn’t violent, but it was close to it. He placed one hand at her back, supporting her, and he leaned farther into her, feeding from her mouth furiously while rubbing her pussy through the
cotton panties. She drowned for a moment in the dark decadence of his kiss, clutching at his head and running her fingers greedily through his thick, newly shorn hair. The sensation excited her unbearably. He kept pushing back on her as he came over her, until her knees rose and her feet dangled in the air.
There was nothing, nothing so intoxicating in the world, as being ravished by Trey.
He ripped his mouth from hers, making her blink open her eyelids dazedly. His hand eased off her back, and she compensated for his support by planting her hands on the table behind her. He began to lower the straps of her slip, his expression rigid. His fingers scooped the fabric down over her bra to waist. Then his hands were at her back, and he was peeling her bra off her breasts. He tossed the bra aside, his gaze never leaving her.
“Look at you.” He reached to the top of her head, and she felt the pins holding up her hair slide next to her scalp. Her hair tumbled down her back. He sunk his fingers into it and spread it around her shoulders.
She didn’t have the wherewithal to puzzle out how or why he could be so excited. All she knew was that he was, because his arousal was palpable. His gaze moved slowly down over her. She felt like a feast that was about to be ravenously consumed. She couldn’t exhale. He lifted his hands. She whimpered in cutting anticipation.
He cradled and stroked her bare breasts, sliding his palms and fingers across her skin so tenderly. She moaned at the exquisite sensation . . .
And at the unchecked longing she read on his face.
NINETEEN
“You’re like warm silk here. You’re the softest woman,” he breathed out, his stare on her rapt. He whisked his thumbs over her nipples. Arousal stabbed at her core. Her nipples pulled tight. “And you get so hard here,” he added, tweaking and rubbing the crests. She clenched her teeth and moved her hips restlessly on the table, pushing her pelvis forward so that she could feel his cock.
He moved his hands just below her armpits and grasped her rib cage, holding her immobile. His head sunk. He sucked her breast into his mouth. His heat enveloped her, his lashing, rubbing tongue making her cry out. He cupped both of her breasts in his hands and massaged them firmly. Eleanor just stared down at him, panting, burning . . .
. . . Wanting.
His skin was dark compared to the paleness of her breasts. He closed his eyes while he fondled and sucked, his cheeks hollowing out slightly.
“Trey,” she moaned. He drew his mouth off one crest with a popping sound and moved over the other. All she could do was continue to prop herself up on the table and take everything he gave her. At one point, he slid his firm lips off a swollen nipple and straightened. He put his hands on her hips and slid her body toward him. “Lean back,” he directed. There wasn’t enough room on the table to recline completely. Besides, who wouldn’t want to watch him at that moment? So she went back onto her elbows, never taking her gaze off him. He was staring at her crotch again. Her thighs tensed when he matter-of-factly reached between her legs and began rubbing her pussy again. She gasped. His mouth slanted.
“You’re so warm, Eleanor,” he growled, glancing up at her face, triumph flashing in his eyes. “And you’re getting your panties nice and wet, aren’t you? Does that feel good?”
“Yes,” she moaned as she stared at him, spellbound while she twisted her hips slightly against the divine pressure of his rubbing fingers. He moved suddenly, wrapping his arms around her thighs and scooting a good portion of her ass off the table. She cried out in surprise, her back flattening against the table and her head bumping on the surface. He continued to support her lower body with one arm around her thigh.
“Let’s just get these off you,” he murmured, pulling down on her underwear with his free hand. He maneuvered them between their bodies and off her feet. Before she knew what to expect from him, he plunged a finger into her sheath. She cried out.
She saw his teeth flash. “Soaking. Wet,” he grated out as he moved his arm back and forth, penetrating her briskly. “Who would guess that you’re as hot as a volcano under all these baggy clothes?” She moaned, bucking her hips against the pressure of his hand. “Who, Eleanor?”
“You,” she gasped.
“Damn straight,” he muttered, and then he was bending her knees and pushing her thighs back, giving the table most of her weight again. “Spread them wide,” he ordered, and she opened her legs farther. He kept his hands at the back of her thighs and sunk his head. He swiped the tip of his tongue between her labia, and she made a wild, strangled sound. He rubbed her clit hard with the tip of his tongue. She shuddered.
His mouth conferred pure, distilled pleasure.
“Oh God,” she moaned. Her hands clutched helplessly at the lining of his coat. She lifted her head, desperate to see him. He ate her with a furious focus now. His firm lips pressed on her outer sex while his stiffened tongue lashed and polished her clit. He sucked gently and twisted his face back and forth, and she bit off a scream. His intensity, his raw hunger, overwhelmed her. She clutched at his head mindlessly, only vaguely aware that she was moaning nonstop. The soles of her feet burned. Her clit simmered beneath his abrading tongue.
He plunged a finger into her pussy while he rubbed her clit even harder. She went wild, clawing at his head, twisting her hips on the table. He growled into her flesh, holding her hip firmly with one spread hand, forcing her to take her pleasure head-on.
A moment later, she gasped and shuddered in orgasm. He didn’t stop. If anything, he was even more ruthless in his actions while she climaxed, plunging his finger deep and using his entire hand to vibrate her outer sex, his fingers delving into her buttocks. The whole time, he tongued her clit forcefully while wave after wave of orgasm coursed through her. He demanded she experience every ounce of pleasure she could, and she obeyed without thought. She’d never had an orgasm last so long.
He squeezed every last bit of pleasure out of her.
Finally, she sagged onto the table, dazed, limp and panting. Distantly, she was aware of him straightening and moving tensely where he stood between her splayed thighs. Then his hands were on her hips again, and he was adjusting her in that matter-of-fact way he had.
“You okay, Eleanor?” she heard him ask.
She lifted her head and blinked sluggishly, focusing on him. His face appeared strained and his blue eyes fierce as he looked down at her. She bit her lip to stifle a groan of reanimated arousal. His firm lips, his chin and his nose glistened from her juices.
“Yeah,” she managed hoarsely.
“Good, because now it’s my turn.”
She knew what that meant. He looked like a wolf that was about to feed. She felt his cock nudging at her entry. His hands pushed on her thighs, rolling her hips back on the table, sending her feet higher into the air. He guided his cock with his hand. He pierced her slowly, but firmly. She moaned shakily at the sensation of him stretching her. Filling her.
He pressed his balls against her wet outer sex and circled his hips slightly. A cry rippled past her lips. Oh God, it feels so good. She tightened around him reflexively. He growled.
“You have no idea how sexy you look right now.” His eyes flashed. “I’m going to fuck you until your ears ring.” He cupped her hips and waist with his large hands, withdrew slightly and sunk back into her firmly. “Is there any reason we should be cautious as far as making noise?”
“Huh?” she gasped, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his big, long cock pulsing in her flesh to decode language.
“Can anyone hear us down in this vault?” he bit out.
She shook her head, rolling her skull against the table. “Everyone who works down here is gone.”
“Good.”
He laced his arms beneath her knees, forcing her legs open in the air, his shoulders pressing against the back of her thighs, her feet falling behind him. He withdrew until only the head of his cock was still submerged, and then jetted back i
nto her, their pelvises smacking together.
“Jesus, you feel fucking fantastic,” he grated out.
And he was off.
He took her with that fluid, strong thrust of his hips, thighs and ass with which she was becoming achingly familiar. Eleanor shook on the table, rattled to the core. She couldn’t get in a full breath of air. He was ruthless, his facial muscles growing rigid, his body coiling tight, his cock pounding into her at a hard pace. She found herself grasping at his shirtsleeve-covered forearms, desperate for some kind of hold in the midst of the storm. He caught her wrists and held them immobile next to her thighs, never pausing once in his merciless possession.
His restraint of her arms steadied her, both inside and out. Had he known it would? All the while, he stared down at her, his gleaming eyes piercing her spirit just as surely as his cock did her flesh.
He became so forceful, the antique cataloging table began to heave against the wall. A can of some kind fell, rattling on the tile floor. He never paused. Not until the top of her head began to bump against something behind her. She hardly cared, she was so overwhelmed by the hard, constant pressure of his driving cock.
But apparently he minded.
He abruptly withdrew, making her cry out in surprised protest. Then he was lifting her down from the table and urging her to turn.
“Bend over,” he said behind her. She was highly disoriented. The deprivation of his cock had been cruel. All she could think about was getting him back inside her. When she was too slow to respond, he pushed gently but firmly on her shoulders. “Bend over and brace yourself,” he said. “Eleanor?”