Storm Damages

by Magda Alexander

  “Hey!” I reel back.

  His eyes flash with blue fire “I never promised not to touch you.” He rolls a finger underneath my panties, rims its edge to the front, and I clench with need.

  Shifting down on the seat, he positions himself right where I need him to be. When he surges upward, I almost come from the stroke of his hard cock.

  Starved to give as good as I'm getting, I tangle my tongue with his, suckle and bite playfully down on it. The kiss turns incendiary and for endless moments we go at it with tongues, teeth, lips.

  “I knew you’d be scorching hot,” he says, rolling his hips beneath me.

  I throw back my head and moan, while I rub, rub, rub against him. He keeps up his maddening pace, and my panties soon grow soaked.

  “You’re wet,” he whispers in a gravelly voice against my kiss-swollen lips.

  Yes, I most certainly am. His spicy man scent curls around me, entrapping me, seducing me. Eager to learn the flavor of him, I claw at his tie, rip off the top buttons of his shirt, nip him right where his heartbeat pulses beneath his skin.

  His hand clutches my hip. "Bloody hell, Elizabeth. I need more. Lift.”

  I go up on my knees. My thong disappears, ripped by that strong hand of his. I come down to his steely length. He’s right there, pulsing red hot, separated from my pussy by only the silk of his slacks.

  “Ride me, darling love. Ride my cock.” His mouth clamps over mine, and oh, god, his fingers, they mercilessly tease my mons while I rock my clit against the hard length of him.

  "I want to taste your pussy. I bet it's pretty, all pink and soft."

  Whimpers escape me. Can’t help it. I could come from just the sound of his voice.

  "I'd lash you with my tongue. Suck you hard until you came." As I grind on the rock hard erection, he pushes one finger past my folds, buries it in my sheath. “Keep going, darling girl.”

  My hands clutch his biceps. I jerk against him, gulp for air. "Too good. Too damn good."

  Another finger enters the party, joining the one already there and the thumb tormenting my nub. He doubles, triples the pace and everything in me tightens as hot cream pours out of me. An intense pleasure streaks down my legs. A trembling I can’t control seizes me, and I throw back my head and scream into a mind-blowing climax that goes on and on and on. When the delirium stops, I collapse boneless against his chest.

  I swallow hard. Holy fuck. I haven’t climaxed like that since ... ever. I’m fighting to catch my breath when the car rolls to a stop.

  A far off voice—Samuel's?—announces, "We're here, Mr. Storm."

  In a daze, I stare out the window and spot the black pylon of the King Street Metro. Cold reality sets in. God. I allowed Gabriel Storm to finger fuck me in the back of his limo. What is wrong with me? If anyone finds out, I will lose my job. I roll off his lap and, back on the seat, straighten my dress as best I can.

  He’s thrown his head back against the seat, clenched his teeth. A hard-on the size of Texas tents his slacks.

  I have to leave. I have to go now. Grabbing my purse, I yank down on the door handle but nothing happens. The door is locked. "Tell Samuel to release the door." I gasp out.

  "Elizabeth." His heated gaze lands on mine, asking, pleading. Sexual frustration beats out of his every pore.

  I know what he wants but it’s not happening. “I can’t.”

  The light in his eyes dim, and he pushes a button on the arm rest. "Samuel, unlock the door."

  The lock pops. Without so much as a goodbye, I jerk on the handle and stumble out. Even though I’m sensitive as hell, somehow I gain my footing and make for the Metro entrance. I hear my name called, but I ignore it, ignore him. Gasping for breath, I run up the escalator, my body screaming every inch of the way. Thankfully, a subway train waits at the platform. I jump into it as the doors start to close. He steps off the escalator, and yells my name once more. But he’s too late. The doors have closed. The train pulls out and the platform recedes.

  As I lean my hot cheek against the cool subway glass, I catch one last glimpse of his tortured face. Oh God, what have I done?

  Chapter 4

  ______________

  MINUTES LATER I emerge from the Braddock Road subway station still agitated from my encounter with Gabriel Storm. Yes, I lied about where I live. My home is close to a Metro station. Not the King Street one, but the one a couple of miles down.

  When I step out in the street, a flash of light brightens the sky followed by a rumble of thunder. It will rain soon. No, not rain, pour going by the dark, menacing clouds rolling in. Better get out my umbrella. I reach for my duffel and that’s when I realize the colossal mistake I made. In my rush to escape Gabriel Storm, I forgot my gym bag with Storm Industries’ proposal inside. With the cone of secrecy surrounding the negotiations, no digital version exists. And Carrey expects my analysis first thing in the morning. My breath cuts short. I’m totally fucked.

  Before I get too carried away with the drama, my saner self rides to the rescue. I’ll need to phone Gabriel Storm and arrange for a drop off. It’s the only sensible thing to do. The feel of his hands molding my ass, finger fucking me flashes into my mind, and my body flushes with heat.

  He must be on his way to his hotel by now. What could I possibly say that would cause him to turn around and come back? Sorry I left you hard and aching, but I need my bag? Shame and embarrassment, along with a healthy dose of guilt, slam into me. I didn’t exactly practice good manners when I ran out on him. Yeah, Elizabeth, you think? I bolted out of that limo so fast I probably left skid marks on the seat.

  But I have to call him. I need that proposal back. I pull out his business card and pluck my cell from my purse to do just that, but as I fiddle with the numbers, big, fat raindrops splatter across the phone. I gotta get home. Now. Before the streets sheet with pouring rain. Calling him will just have to wait.

  Another flash of lightning and the skies open up. Not a soft drizzle, either, but a hard, pounding rain, the kind that blinds you in seconds. I look around for a taxi, but none wait in line. No help for it. I’ll need to make a run for it.

  But I can’t sprint in my high heels, so I’m forced to slow down to a walk. Having nothing to cover my head, I’m soon soaked to my skin, with my hair dripping down my back in a sodden mess.

  Two blocks from home, cars jam the intersection leading to my street. An accident blocks the road. Crushed fenders, broken taillights, mangled car parts strewn down the road. God knows how long it will take to clear up this chaos. I jump across great, big puddles of water and dart between cars whose wipers swish back and forth with mad energy.

  Miserable and bedraggled, I finally make it to my street. As I trip up the sidewalk, I curse the monsoon, Gabriel Storm, my stupidity for getting in the limo in the first place. None of this would be happening if I’d just said no. Well, some of it would, I have to confess. It would still be raining. But, damn it, at least I’d have my umbrella and running shoes.

  Peering through the deluge, I spot someone standing underneath the minuscule gabled entrance to my townhouse. Someone who looks like ... Please don’t let it be him. But it is. Gabriel Storm’s waiting for me, duffel in one hand, huge black umbrella in the other.

  A shot of adrenaline races up my spine as I stagger up the six feet of concrete between the sidewalk and my door.

  “Hello, Elizabeth. Nice to see you again.” He doesn’t in the least resemble the tormented person I left on the train platform, but the one I first met—the sophisticated, gorgeous, wickedly sexy businessman. He steps closer and extends the umbrella over me like the gentleman he is. He’s dry as a bone. I’m a soggy mess.

  Opposing emotions buffet me—relief he’s brought the bag, anger he’s shown up at my door. And awkwardness and humiliation. Let’s not forget about that. I’m not ready to face him. Not after what I’ve done. Add the hard driving rain stinging my skin, and the ruin of my Donna Karan, and my bitchy side comes out. “What are you doing here? How did yo
u find out where I live?”

  “What?” He yells.

  The hammering rain drumming the aluminum-covered gable drowns out all sound, so I repeat my words.

  He holds up the gym bag. “Your carry-all. It has your address on it.”

  I glare at the neon green tag, the very one I’d slapped on the duffel after picking up the wrong one at the gym. His logical explanation has me looking around for a nice big hole to crawl into. How many times must I embarrass myself in front of this man?

  Lightning strikes somewhere close by and I jump. Desperate to get inside before I get struck, I fish out my key, jiggle it into the lock. But before I push open the door, I glance over my shoulder. His limo’s nowhere in sight. “Where’s your car?” I shout.

  “Samuel couldn’t find a place to park. He’s circling the block.” He yells back.

  No surprise. Parking’s at a premium on my street.

  “He’ll be back in a minute,” he says.

  “No, he won’t. There’s an accident down the street.” A punch of lightning fires up the sky. Almost on top of it, thunder cracks. The storm’s right over us. I push open the door and scurry inside my nice, dry townhouse.

  Through the opening, he silently hands me the duffel. Its weight tells me the report lies within.

  “Thank you for bringing it.”

  He tilts his head, a silent question of sorts. He won’t ask. Not out loud. The invitation will have to come from me. I don’t want to ask him in, but I can’t leave him to the mercy of the thunder and the fury either. God knows how long it will be before Samuel pulls up.

  The left corner of his lips turns up. In silent acknowledgment of my dilemma? Maybe. Or maybe he’s enjoying my distress.

  Less than graciously, I widen the opening. “Come in.”

  I shut the door against the rain, the thunder, the storm. Well, maybe not the last. That I’ve invited into my house and stands squarely in my foyer.

  I drop my duffel bag and purse by the console table, rush into the powder room. Grabbing two hand towels, I pass one to him. “Here.” I don’t know why I do it, other than to be polite. He’s dry. I’m the one soaking wet.

  “Thank you. Where may I put my umbrella?”

  After I rub most of the wet from my hair, I take it from him and, squishing wet tracks across the rug head toward the kitchen. I’m momentarily confused about the cleanliness of the place. The living room’s spotless, the rug’s vacuumed, the Redskins cushions are gathered at one edge of the brown velvet sofa and the Nationals blanket’s neatly folded at the other end. Hard to imagine my roommate got a sudden urge to tidy up.

  But then I catch the sign on the mahogany glass-topped coffee table—“Thank you for your business, the Cleaning Fairies”— and everything becomes clear. We’d received one of those Group-on deals for a cleaning service and arranged for them to come this morning. Thank God, because busy as we’ve been for the last two weeks, neither Casey nor I have had much time to clean.

  After I shake the umbrella over the kitchen sink, I place it on the linoleum floor. Even though Gabriel Storm stands by the kitchen entrance and nowhere near me, in the meager glow from the window, the atmosphere feels too close, too intimate. I flip on the overhead and flood the kitchen with light. “We’ll just let it dry in here.”

  He nods, but other than that doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for his cell phone, but simply stands there staring at me. His gaze’s polite, but a banked-up hunger lurks in his eyes.

  Uncomfortable under his unrelenting focus, I turn and my shoes slide. He reaches out to keep me from splatting on the floor, but I manage to save myself by clutching the edge of the sink. Why do I keep doing these things in his presence? And why does he look like he just walked off the pages of GQ when my hair and dress are drenched disasters?

  I need to go upstairs and change, but first good manners require I act sociable. No need to put out the full welcome mat, though. He disrupts my peace, unsettles me. I want him gone. “Would you like something to drink while you wait for your ride?” I ask in a politely aloof voice.

  His smile disappears. For a couple of beats, he glances out the window where the storm rages on. But then his gaze returns to me. “Maybe I should leave.”

  What does that look mean? There’s vulnerability there, a pain of sorts. While I stand there processing what I think I’m seeing, he pulls out his cell, turns and walks into the living room.

  Maybe he has ulterior motives for bringing my duffel bag. But the fact remains, he’s done me a favor. And for that, I’m extremely grateful. I carefully make my way to him, touch his arm.“Wait. I didn’t mean you should leave right now. It’s still nasty out there.”

  He clicks off his phone, tucks it back into his jacket, pivots back to me. Once more I’m the recipient of that insistent stare, the one that makes me ache for things I should not want.

  Pinning on a bright smile, I head toward the kitchen. “Now, what would you like to drink?” I fling open the refrigerator to cover my trembling which I tell myself is due to the tempest outside and not the storm within. “We have beer, wine, water.”

  As I stare into the shelf space, he closes the distance to peer over my shoulder. The scent of earthy man and cologne slam into me, and my mind wanders into forbidden territory. Storm lifting me to the countertop, kissing me stupid, those big, masculine hands tilting me toward him so he can lick my—

  “I’ll take the Guinness dark lager.”

  Gah! I clutch the door for support, grab the beer, and then rummage in the cupboard for a mug. Anything to keep me busy, to keep me from reaching for what I want.

  “I don’t need a glass if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says. While he drains the brew in one long swallow, I lean back against the refrigerator and watch his Adam’s apple bob.

  Finished, he rests the empty on the counter. “Thanks. I enjoyed that.”

  Me too. “My roommate loves it.”

  “Roommate?”

  “Casey owns a restaurant in Georgetown that carries all these different brews.”

  “A restaurant owner. So your flatmate won’t be home for hours?” A slow, crooked smile travels across those sensual lips of his.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Way to go, Elizabeth. Not only have you invited him into your home, but you’ve practically told him he won’t have to worry about somebody dropping in.

  He rests one powerful forearm against the refrigerator and shifts closer, trapping me between him and the door.

  My breath grows short. Heat spikes between my legs.

  He curls a damp strand of my hair around one finger and whispers against my ear, “You’re wet.”

  Yeah, in more places than one.

  His eyes take on a wicked sparkle.

  I place my hands on his chest, unsure if I want to push him away or pull him in.

  His smile takes shape against my cheek. Damn it. He knows what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, how much I want to screw him.

  “Better go change.” His words tickle against my ear.

  Do I? Maybe I’d rather stay and fuck him stupid.

  A boom of thunder rattles the house, and I jump. The overhead light flickers off and on. A warning of sorts, courtesy of Mother Nature, to keep my eyes on the prize. My job, my career, my future. That’s what’s important, not this insane craving for him.

  I dive under his outstretched arm and scramble up the stairs to the haven of my room. When I arrive, I lock the door firmly behind me. Safe for now. But for how long?

  Chapter 5

  ______________

  MY THOUGHTS SCATTERED, I kick off my heels, slip off my Donna Karan and, hoping it can be saved, hang it in the bathroom to dry along with my clammy bra. When I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror, I cringe. Just like I suspected, my hair’s a frizzed out mess. I shower in record time and slather on the gardenia-scented lotion Casey gave me for my birthday, before blow drying and pinning my curly hair into a sleek knot.

  From my clothes wardro
be, I pick out my favorite slouch top, a spaghetti-strap cami, and a pair of skinny jeans. As opposed to my room which at times resembles a hurricane strike zone, my stand-alone wardrobe is a model of order. Blacks with blacks, blues with blues, dresses on one side, suits on the other, blouses and jeans in the lower rack. I have a perfectly good walk-in closet, but I don’t go in there. Too afraid of what happens in the dark.

  When I descend the stairs, I find him, jacketless, hands in pockets, staring at an etching of a nude, a study in charcoal and pencil Casey picked up at a friend’s art gallery opening. Next to it hangs Casey’s most treasured possession, a baseball bat signed by one of his idols. I dig my nails into my palm to keep from tugging the golden hairs peeking out from the top of Storm’s shirt.

  “That is quite good.” He points to the drawing before pivoting to me. His polite regard turns molten, as he slowly, languorously takes me in.

  My traitorous nipples perk up, just for him. Maybe I should have worn a bra rather than a cami under my blouse. “Would you like another lager?” I ask in a strained voice.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I head for the refrigerator, hoping its cold temperature will cool my flushed cheeks. After I hand him a fresh bottle, he sips his beer, while keeping his hot gaze on me.

  While I pour a glass of Chardonnay, I desperately search for something, anything to break the spell he so easily weaves over me. And I find one. An apology for the way I behaved. I turn around and face him. “I’m sorry for ... the way I left things.”

  “No need to apologize.” His gaze smolders when it lights on me, and I go up in flames.

  Whew, boy! I’m in big, big trouble. You see, I love men. And the only way to manage my fascination with the male species is to go cold turkey. For the last three years, I haven’t dated a guy, much less screwed him. No going out for drinks, lunch or even a walk in the park. Yeah, some guys tried it. The frozen avian method worked just fine. Until now. Until him. With every look, every touch, he’s dismantling every one of my defenses. And I can’t afford to succumb to him. Deep into my musing, my stomach rumbles, reminding me it needs to be fed.