Park Avenue Prince

by Louise Bay

  “You might be able to tell from my lack of … I’m not a big collector of things.”

  So his furniture wasn’t on order or about to be delivered. This was it?

  “But you bought this art,” I said. “And you asked me to be your consultant, which suggests you want to collect more.”

  “But buying art makes financial sense. Hopefully.”

  I sighed. Typical. “I thought you liked these,” I said, sweeping my arm in the direction of my secret collection.

  “You’re right. I do, but I presumed that they’d make money. I mean, I’ve heard of Degas. I’m guessing that’s a good sign. And you told me I wouldn’t lose money. I trust you.”

  He trusted me? Why? “It was a lot of money to drop on a gamble.”

  He didn’t reply, but I could tell he was thinking about what I’d said as if he were only just considering his purchase.

  “No need to be concerned. You made a good investment.” I didn’t want him to regret what he’d done, no matter the motivation. I wanted anyone who bought anything from my gallery to love and appreciate it. “And bonus,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster, “they’re actually beautiful pieces as well.”

  A veil lifted and thoughts of his investment passed. “Not as beautiful as you.”

  I rolled my eyes despite the fact that I wanted to believe he meant it. “But you don’t want to collect me.”

  “No,” he replied. “I want to fuck you, make you wild, make you scream down these walls that have you so tightly wound.”

  It was a more honest response than I’d expected. I had assumed we would continue our dance for a few more songs yet. He’d step forward, I’d step back. But he’d just upped the stakes—stopped the music. And I wasn’t quite ready.

  “What walls?” I said, glancing around the almost-bare apartment, not understanding his last comment.

  “You know Gordon, you know the west elevator opens on the twentieth floor.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you lived here. Maybe your relatives have a place in the building. You’re a Park Avenue princess.”

  It was Harper’s nickname for me, but coming from her it felt affectionate and silly. From him, the name was like a hair shirt that didn’t fit—a punishment made worse, uncomfortable and unnecessary. “I grew up in this building. My parents still live here.” I tipped back my whiskey and took the bottle from where he’d placed it on the windowsill and poured without offering him any.

  “Not too much, Princess, I need you lucid.”

  “For the fucking?” I asked, the alcohol making me brave. His analysis of me had meant to provoke and shock but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  His lips curled up into a small smile. It was one I’d not seen before—slightly shy mixed with a dash of wicked.

  He nodded. “Yeah, for the fucking.” He didn’t take his eyes from me as if he might miss something if he did.

  “Does being that direct usually work for you? You know, with women?” I wasn’t trying to provoke. I was genuinely interested. I couldn’t remember a man being so blunt about wanting me before. Generally, it was me who made the decision that I wanted someone. Had there ever been a time when a man had asked me on a date? Most of my boyfriends couldn’t afford dinner.

  I’d never considered it before but Sam’s aggressive pursuit of me brought my actions into sharp focus. I’d always given men all the power.

  “So, just so I’m clear,” I said, “what happens after the fucking?”

  Sam’s smile turned from wicked to amused. “After?”

  I eyed my glass, wanting the illusion of bravery that it gave me but holding back from taking another sip because I also wanted to be lucid.

  For the fucking.

  I wanted to find out what it was like to be pursued. To be under a man as big, as confident, as in control as Sam Shaw.

  “Nothing. I don’t do anything other than fuck.”

  Oh. So, it was just sex that was on offer. My only other one-night stand had been in college. I couldn’t remember if the sex had been good, and that probably meant it hadn’t been. Certainly not memorable, in any event. Something about Sam Shaw told me a night with him would never be forgotten.

  “I’m not so tightly wound, you know,” I said. “I live in Brooklyn.” He didn’t have me pegged.

  He let out an almighty guffaw.

  Heat whispered across my cheeks. I suppose it sounded silly, as if I were trying to make out that because I lived in Brooklyn, I wasn’t the Park Avenue princess he thought I was.

  “I’m not sure you ever grow out of where you grow up,” he replied, his voice soft as he stroked the small of my back as if in apology.

  I placed my hand on his chest, not knowing if I should push him away or pull him closer.

  Chapter Seven

  Sam

  “So, Grace Astor,” I said, taking her whiskey glass and placing it on the windowsill next to the bottle. I wanted to kiss her. Touch her. Fuck her.

  “So, Sam Shaw,” she replied, looking up at me from under her lashes. Her body had become more and more receptive to me as our conversation progressed. I could tell she was weighing up the pros and cons of sleeping with me.

  She was a Park Avenue princess—I’d met plenty since I’d made my money—but I liked her. Grace didn’t fit the stereotype. Most people cared far too much about things that didn’t matter and not enough about things that did. Grace jibing me about buying art when I knew nothing about it was an interesting position to take when it was her job to sell art. It drew me to her. Like the photographs she had next to the Degas—the juxtaposition didn’t make sense, but worked at the same time.

  I circled my arms around her waist and pulled her toward me. She didn’t resist, but she kept her hands cautiously on my forearms. She wanted me—she just didn’t know how to be okay with that.

  “I don’t want to get fucked on a mattress on the floor,” she said, her eyelids flickering.

  “We really don’t have to do this at all.”

  “I want to.” She looked away, nodding. “Just not there.”

  “You want to go to your place?” I asked. “Or a hotel?”

  She pulled the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth, then slowly released it. I couldn’t stop myself from rubbing my thumb along the reddened flesh.

  “Here’s okay. Just not on the mattress.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what her issue was. Was it the mattress, or the fact I’d had women there before? I hadn’t, but she couldn’t know my MO was to go back to a woman’s place. I didn’t mind. I just wanted to get her naked. Where wasn’t my concern.

  She slid her hands up my arms and rounded my shoulders, as though tracing her hands over my body so she could remember me in another time or place. I removed one hand from her waist, tucked her hair behind her ears then pressed my fingers around the back of her neck.

  Her entire body seemed to sag with my every touch as if I had some kind of power in just my fingertips. She was soft—her skin, her hair, the way she spoke when she was embarrassed. She felt good to hold, but I knew she’d feel better beneath me.

  I turned us around and walked her backward until she was pressed against the drywall next to the La Touche. There was as many unanswered questions surrounding the woman in the painting as I had for the woman in front of me. My hands circled her waist, my thumbs dipping below her waistband. I felt her desire in the quick twist of her hips and it fueled mine. I ducked my head, my lips finding hers.

  She locked her grip to the back of my neck, holding me in place—as if I’d go anywhere. I took her hands in mine and brought them over her head. I wanted to kiss her, to find our rhythm, our mixed breath, before things went any further.

  Her tongue was as soft as the rest of her, but not as confident as I’d expected. I liked it. I wanted to guide her.

  She tasted like cherries—sweetness with a hint of sour—her edges disappearing under my fingers and my tongue. I pulled back to look at her, wanting to
see her reaction splashed across her. Slowly, she opened heavy eyes, as if she were coming out of anesthesia. Her lips were red, her normally sleek blonde hair mussed.

  Perfect.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She twisted her arms, trying to get free.

  “Let me look at how beautiful you are.”

  She pulled the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth. I wanted to suck on it instead of her. I took over her lips, her tongue, her kiss.

  Her pulse under my palms matched the throb in my dick. Another twist of her hips and a small, almost imperceptible moan from the back of her throat woke me from the kiss, pushing me forward.

  “Leave your arms up,” I whispered against her mouth. She moaned again, and my dick strained against my zipper, reminding me to hurry the fuck up. Despite the alarm bells ringing across my body, I wanted to slow everything down, knew I had to savor every moment. Nothing came after the fucking, so I had to draw out the something for as long as possible.

  “Okay,” she whispered, her breath puffing against my skin, pulling me deeper into the moment. I slid my hands down her arms, my heartbeat increasing in pace with every touch.

  One hand on her waist, I hooked a finger over the opening of her blouse, and glanced at her. Her mouth parted, her eyes imploring me. With a little pull, the button popped open, revealing the swell of her breasts. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Perfect. I tipped my head back, trying to bring my cock under control, reminding my body I had all night to get my fill of her.

  The thought only made my impatient dick throb.

  I pulled her shirt apart, the buttons scattering across the floor as I yanked the lace of her bra down to free her breasts. I wanted her nipples in my mouth, between my teeth, hard against me. I plunged my tongue between her milky white tits, then groaned and sank to my knees in front of her.

  I was at the perfect height to take in the glory of her—disheveled, wanton—which I knew would be unusual for her.

  Her hips bucked away from the wall. I wasn’t the only one whose body was racing for the finish line.

  I lifted her tits in my hands until they spilled out of my palms. Like something in one of her drawings, they were sumptuous, made to be feasted on. I glanced up to check her hands were still above her head. My dick throbbed when I saw she hadn’t moved them. She knew how to do as she was told in the bedroom. Fuck. She deserved a reward.

  I took a nipple in my mouth and sucked, bit and flicked, her whimpers urging me on. Her movements became more jagged. I could stay like this for days, torturing my rock-hard cock … but I didn’t want to torture her. I wanted to make my mark. Licking up to the top of her breast, then biting and sucking, sinking my teeth into the generous flesh.

  “Jesus,” she screamed.

  He wasn’t going to save her. Not now. Not from me.

  I released her and, impatient now, alternated between tugging at her zipper and pulling my shirt off. I wanted her skin against mine, her wetness on my fingers, spread across her thighs.

  “Bring your arms down, Princess. I want you to lie back.” I guided her to the rug, peeling off her shirt and bra as she rested her hands on my shoulders, steadying herself as she sank to the ground.

  Fuck, I wished I had a bed for her. A nice couch or a dining room table. All the places I could be fucking her. I groaned, and as if my imagination increased her pleasure, she arched her back against the floor. “You’re impatient,” I said.

  She nodded. “Be careful though,” she said, her eyes pleading with me. Be careful? She wasn’t talking about the floor or the cut of my teeth. It was her psyche, her soul, her heart she was pleading for.

  I wanted to reassure her, to tell her I would be gentle, that I’d never hurt her, but I couldn’t make that promise. Didn’t even know how. My blood cooled. Growing up as I did had forced me to detach from others. To not care about holes in my soul that would never be filled. I’d taught myself to tune into people—to read them, but not to comfort or protect.

  Despite her pull, I forced myself away from Grace and rolled to my back. “We don’t have to do this. If it’s too much …”

  She crossed her arms over her face.

  “You don’t want me?” she asked.

  Maybe too much. I couldn’t ever remember wanting a woman as badly as I did Grace.

  “I want you.” I pushed the heel of my hand against my granite cock. “But I don’t want you to be … uncomfortable.”

  This had to be physical, and only physical, for both of us. But she tugged at something deeper in me.

  I glanced at her taut belly and I couldn’t resist dipping my fingers below her waistband. I wanted more. Her zipper undone, I peeled off her skirt. “Take your arms from your face. You’re too beautiful to hide.”

  Consequences would have to be dealt with later. Now I had to fuck her.

  I stripped naked, not taking my eyes off her, afraid she might disappear if I looked away for even a second. Hooking my thumbs under her panties by each hip bone, I dragged the delicate lace down her body, exposing her pussy to me. Mesmerizing. A small, neat blonde triangle of hair, just as I’d expected. Grace wasn’t a girl who would go entirely bare without a little encouragement. I leaned over her, knocking her legs apart so I could settle between her thighs.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, twisting away from me. She wasn’t enjoying this?

  I grabbed her and held her in place.

  “No, Sam. Please, no.” She fumbled at my shoulders, trying to pull me up her body.

  “I want to taste you,” I said. “But I’ll stop if you tell me why you don’t like oral sex.”

  She flung her hands across her face.

  I pushed her thighs wider. “Tell me.”

  “It’s embarrassing. Please.”

  Jesus. Was she Catholic or …

  I crawled up her body, hovering over her. “Take your hands from your face and talk to me.” If I could, I’d reach inside her brain and pull out each and every fascinating thought.

  Her ribcage lowered as she let out a long breath.

  “It’s just …”

  She looked me in the eye, then down at my collarbone.

  “I’m just overly … wet down there.”

  Huh? Was she a squirter? I could work with that. “And?”

  She gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not normally like this. Please, don’t go down there.”

  Jesus, she might as well have told me I had a monster cock and I was the best lover she’d ever had. She thought she was revealing some embarrassing secret, when really all she was doing was turning me on, revving me up.

  After that revelation, I wondered if there’d ever be a time when I wasn’t hard. “I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make you feel uncomfortable.” I nudged her nose with mine. “But just so you know, there’s nothing I would like to do more than lick your pussy, especially if it’s never been so drenched in wetness.” I placed a delicate kiss on her lips and pulled back so I could look at her. “I did that to you and there’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  She tried to fight the grin dancing at the edges of her lips. Who had given her reason to be embarrassed about what she had to offer? Someone who was less than her, and knew it. Someone who wanted to squash her.

  I hated him instantly.

  Her fingertips fluttered at my side and she might as well have been sucking my cock, the things her touch did to me. I needed a condom before I came all over that perfect belly of hers. Awkwardly, I reached for my pants, where I’d transferred a familiar square package earlier.

  I looked her straight in the eye. “I need you. And given you’ve told me you’re more than ready, I’m going to fuck you now.”

  She gave me a small nod and I moved to my side as I pushed the rubber over my straining dick, right down as far as it would go. In seconds, I would be buried in her—there was nothing on this planet I wanted more in that moment.

  I positioned myself and glanced up
to find her watching me, her eyes connected to mine as if she was trying to see inside me.

  Don’t bother, Princess.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  She nodded and rolled her lips together. If she was nervous, within seconds that feeling would fall away. I dipped to take another kiss, to reassure her, and found myself unable to pull away entirely. Instead I dropped my forehead to hers. We were so close our mouths brushed every time she exhaled.

  I traced the tip of my dick from her clit down to her entrance. Her body was tense but it soon wouldn’t be. I’d fuck all the anxiety away.

  “You want me?” I asked.

  She whimpered. “Please.”

  Her sounds vibrated across my lips. Such a simple word.

  I pushed into her in a slow, controlled slide, but I wasn’t stopping until I was balls deep. Jesus, she was so fucking tight. I gasped, letting go of my breath.

  I wanted to be fast, to find my climax in the next thirty seconds, but at the same time I liked how we were connected, every part of my body touching every part of hers. I groaned at the thought.

  She twisted beneath me.

  “You like that, Princess?” I whispered. “You like being pinned to the ground with my body, my dick right up inside you like that?”

  Of course she liked it; how could she not?

  She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me closer, her legs hugging my waist. She felt this connection like I did. I could tell, couldn’t I?

  I began to make small, isolated movements, keeping our bodies tight against each other while shifting my cock up and down, not too far out—I didn’t want to lose her warmth—just enough to. Be. Fucking. Perfect.

  Everything was just so intense, the pleasure so concentrated. I licked the underside of her top lip. Cherries. The taste went straight to my groin, threatening to push me over as she tipped her head back. “Fuck,” I groaned, my words spilling directly into her open mouth.

  Her fingernails bit into my shoulder. “Don’t stop.”

  “Not ever,” I replied. Our bodies were so tightly pressed against each other it was as if we shared every breath, as if we were merging into one. I reached beneath her butt cheek, wanting her closer still.