The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club)

by Bec Linder

  My blood pounded in my ears. I looked out the window, giving myself the time and space to calm down a little. Carter seemed to have the same idea, because he was quiet on his side of the car, and for several minutes we rode in comfortable silence, just existing together.

  Finally he said, “We’re coming up on Rockefeller Center.”

  It was the second time he’d mentioned it, so he must have really wanted me to look at the Christmas lights. I was happy to indulge him. I slid over to his side of the car and leaned against him as I peered out the window. He slid one arm around my waist and held me close.

  “I thought we were waiting,” I said.

  “I’ll be good,” he said.

  I didn’t really believe him—I wouldn’t have been able to behave myself, in his position—but I wasn’t exactly opposed to any potential misbehavior.

  But, true to his word, he just held me as we passed Rockefeller Center. I watched the lights glide by, the very tip of the big tree, the excited tourists posing on the sidewalk. I didn’t see tourists much—they rarely came to Brooklyn, and I was only in Manhattan for work or to see Carter—but they all seemed so happy and excited that I felt my own heart lifting in response.

  Everyone always talked about how magical New York was at Christmastime, but I had never really understood it. It was cold, and it didn’t snow as much as I would have liked, and I had no family to celebrate with. I spent pretty much every Christmas alone on my couch, eating Chinese takeout. But now, here with Carter, I thought I finally understood what all the fuss was about.

  “It’s really beautiful,” I said, and Carter squeezed his arm around me and said, “I know.”

  Rockefeller Center receded into the distance, and I sat back, leaning my head against Carter’s shoulder. “How did your family celebrate Christmas, when you were a kid?”

  “Well,” he said. “Let’s see. Presents on Christmas morning, of course, and then we usually went to my grandparents’ place in the afternoon for more presents and dinner. We had a dog—a cocker spaniel—and my mother always put a pair of reindeer antlers on his head.”

  It sounded nice. Normal. Like a perfect, Rockwellian family.

  When I was a kid, there was never enough money for presents, and my father usually spent the whole day too drunk to stand up.

  “What about you?” Carter asked. “Or should I not ask?”

  I had told him that my dad was an alcoholic, and Carter wasn’t an idiot; he knew how to read between the lines. “My family never did much,” I said, and left it at that. He didn’t need to hear all about my dysfunctional childhood.

  We rode the rest of the way to his building in silence, my head pillowed on his shoulder, his hand resting on my hip. I was warm and content. My arousal had banked to a pleasant glow in my abdomen that I knew would flare to life again as soon as we were in his bedroom. Carter had that effect on me. A single look, a touch, and I was ready to go belly-up for him and beg for more.

  The car slowed and came to a stop. I heard the driver open his door and get out of the car. “We’re here,” Carter said. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” I asked. I wanted to see what he would say.

  “Whatever I want to do to you,” he said, and I was: I was so ready.

  “Let’s go inside,” I said.

  Chapter 2

  As soon as we were in the elevator, he crushed me against the paneled wall and kissed me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, enjoying the hard press of his body against mine. He was lean and firm with muscle, and cliché as it was, feeling the strength of his body made me feel safe.

  “I have been thinking about this,” he said, “every day, every hour since the last time I had you in my bed.”

  I swallowed. “Me too,” I said, and it was the truth.

  He reached down and grasped the hem of my dress, and peeled it over my head.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

  He tossed my dress into his apartment. It landed on the soft rug in the foyer. I looked at it, the silk crumpled in a sad heap, and then stepped out of the elevator.

  Carter followed, and the elevator doors closed behind him. “Do you remember your safeword?” he asked me.

  I nodded. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it tonight. I hadn’t enjoyed it much the one time I did, and I didn’t think Carter enjoyed it either. But he knew, I thought, that he had pushed me too far, and I didn’t think he was any more eager to repeat the experience than I was.

  “Go sit on the couch and wait for me,” he said. I bent to pick up my dress, not wanting it to get wrinkled, but he said, “Leave it,” and I did. I wasn’t willing to disobey a direct order.

  The apartment was dark, lit only by the usual orange glow of the city sky. I walked into the living room, moving carefully in my high heels, and came to a stop, trying to remember where the sofa was.

  Behind me, I heard Carter set down his keys, and then a lamp clicked on, bathing the room in warm yellow light. I took the last few steps toward the sofa and sat down, feeling my pulse beat rapidly in the hollow of my throat. I crossed my legs and then uncrossed them again, folding my hands together in my lap. How was one supposed to sit, wearing nothing but a bra and panties in a billionaire’s apartment?

  Carter moved around the room, placing his wallet and phone on the desk, draping his coat over a chair, turning on a few more lamps. He took his time and ignored me completely as he performed his getting-home ritual, and I sat and watched him, skin prickling, waiting for whatever would come next. His show of disinterest heightened the anticipation I was already feeling. I didn’t know when he would turn the laser focus of his gaze on me, but I knew from experience that it would be like staring into the sun.

  He moved behind me and placed his hands on my bare shoulders, stroking his fingers lightly against my collarbones. I shivered at the sensation. He trailed one hand down my bra strap and along the lacy edge of the cup, down to the small satin bow resting between my breasts. “Very nice,” he said.

  “It’s the only underwear I have that matches,” I said.

  “I wasn’t talking about your bra,” he said. “I’m more interested in what’s beneath it. Why don’t you take that off and let me have a look at you?”

  I didn’t know why I felt nervous. It wasn’t like he’d never seen me naked before. He had touched me everywhere, watched me come; there weren’t going to be any surprises. He wouldn’t watch me take off my bra and suddenly decide that my breasts were too lumpy for him to want anything to do with. But even still, my heart was in my mouth as I raised my hands behind my back and unclasped my bra.

  Part of it was that I couldn’t see his face. I was so used to reading his expressions—the quirk of his mouth, the way his eyelids lowered—that not being able to see him had me feeling a little off-kilter. I wanted to be able to see how he reacted.

  Maybe he was doing it on purpose. Maybe he wanted me to be uncomfortable.

  I slid my bra straps down my arms and tossed the lacy fabric onto the coffee table.

  My nipples, exposed to the cool air, promptly tightened into hard nubs.

  “Gorgeous,” Carter murmured, and slid his hands down over my breasts.

  I arched into his touch. His palms were callused at the base of his fingers, and the way they scratched at my skin made every nerve light up. I wanted him. I never knew my body could feel like this, that I could want someone so fully, every molecule of my being crying out to feel him pressed against me.

  He pinched at my nipples, not hard, but enough to make me squirm against the sofa. I had been ready for this since we got into his car. I didn’t want to wait any longer, but I knew that if I said anything, Carter would make me wait twice as long. He was like that.

  “What should I do with you tonight, Regan?” he asked me. His hands slid down to trace light patterns against the sensitive undersides of my breasts. “You obviously have something in mind. Women don’t wear matching underwear unless they’re planning to show it
to someone.”

  He was right about that, and I wondered how he knew. I was surprised that he had ever seen underwear that didn’t match. I would have thought that he mainly had sex with women who did everything in their power to keep him enthralled. I was certainly doing my best. He wasn’t going to see my panties with the elastic fraying along the leg holes.

  I was babbling again. At least it wasn’t out loud. “Do you mean your underwear don’t match?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Who says I’m wearing any?”

  I felt my eyes widen. So he was—did he mean he was naked, under those expensive wool trousers? That he’d sat there all through dinner...

  When I didn’t respond, he moved his hands back to my nipples and twisted hard. I yelped, and felt a sudden warmth spreading through my breasts, radiating outward from my nipples. It should have hurt, and it did hurt, in a way, but I didn’t mind the pain. It made me feel like I was fully awake at last. Like my whole life, up until this moment, had been a long dream, and I had finally opened my eyes.

  “That’s right,” Carter said, and I tipped my head back against the sofa, looking up at him, feeling my panties damp between my thighs. I didn’t know what to say, but I hoped he would see something in my eyes that would convey to him what I needed, and how badly.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Carter said, voice low, and moved one hand to caress my cheek, a brief touch to my cheekbone. “I think you’re ready.”

  I looked up at him, neck arched backward, throat bared.

  He moved his hands to my hair, and began pulling out the bobby pins that were holding together the messy French twist I’d spent half an hour constructing with the aid of a video tutorial. He placed each pin on the side table with a small click. When he had gotten most of them, he ran his hands through my hair, searching for any strays, combing out my hair with his fingers.

  Finished with that, he said, “I want you to get up and take off your underpants. Then I want you to walk into the bedroom and sit on the end of the bed.”

  “My shoes,” I said.

  His eyes looked very dark in the dim lamplight. “Leave them on.”

  I stood, and shimmied my panties down my hips. They landed on the rug, and I stepped out of them, lifting one foot at a time, careful not to overbalance. I had gotten much better at walking in heels, but wine and arousal were combining to make me unsteady on my feet.

  Carter watched me, hands curled around the back of the sofa. He was gripping so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

  I shook my hair back over my shoulder. I spent most of my life feeling small and powerless, insignificant, a tiny cog turning and turning in the big wheel of the city; but the way that Carter looked at me made me feel like my life, finally, meant something to someone other than me.

  It was an expansive feeling. It swelled inside me until I thought I might burst.

  Fully naked except for my shoes, I walked around the sofa, brushed past Carter, and headed for the bedroom.

  The bedroom was dark aside from the faint light coming in through the ceiling-to-floor windows along one wall. But the bed was covered in white linens, and it seemed to glow in the darkness, enough so that I was able to walk to it without fumbling. I found the end and sat, shoes planted on the floor, the sheets soft beneath me.

  From the doorway, Carter said, “You could have turned on the light.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t think he really wanted me to.

  He hit a switch on the wall, and a small lamp beside the bed turned on, casting a warm circle of light.

  I looked at Carter, my body aching, waiting for him to come to me.

  He crossed the room, feet soundless on the plush carpet. “Lie down,” he said.

  That sounded promising. I shifted backward a few inches and lay back on the bed. The comforter was so fluffy that it felt like lying in a cloud. I kept my head raised so that I could see him. I wanted to watch what he did next.

  Carter set his hands on my knees and drew them upward, along my inner thighs, but stopped just short of where I really wanted him to. “You know how to be good for me, don’t you?”

  My face went hot. “Yes,” I said.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  How could I say it? How could I not? “I need to stay still, and not say anything,” I said.

  “Very good,” he said, and sunk to his knees on the carpet.

  I held my breath. I was so wet, and I wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but I thought that maybe—I hoped—

  He moved his hands to my thighs again, stroking the crease of my hip and then gently spreading my legs apart, opening me to him.

  I let my head fall back against the mattress and closed my eyes. My hands drew into fists, and I tucked them beneath my hips. I would be good. I wouldn’t move at all.

  Carter hooked his hands behind my knees and pushed them outward and up, toward my shoulders, and I tried not to think about how exposed I was. He could see everything. I tried not to be embarrassed—he had already seen me naked, and clearly liked it well enough that he wanted to do it again—but my old habits of shyness and concealment were hard to shake. I hoped he wouldn’t say anything.

  And he didn’t. Maybe he could read my body language, or maybe he just didn’t like talking too much during sex. I felt his hair brushing against my inner thigh, and then the touch of his lips, soft, dry, in the crease of my right leg, where I had a small, hidden birthmark.

  I let out a quiet gasp and arched my back, desire filling me like a river overflowing its banks. Was he going to—

  “Hold your legs,” he said, moving his hands away from my knees, and I obeyed instantly, curling my hands around the back of my thighs, holding myself open.

  The next thing I felt was his fingers stroking at my wet slit.

  I bit my lip to keep from crying out. His touch was light, teasing, and he ran his thumb along my folds a few times before he moved his hand to hook around my leg and tug me closer to him, closer toward the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t move,” he said, and I froze, every muscle clenched with anticipation, until I felt his mouth against me, and the tension turned into a sudden liquid warmth as I practically melted into the bed. I was like Icarus, too close to the sun.

  I had never felt anything like it—never imagined anything like his tongue sliding against me, slick and languid one moment and fluttering the next. I gripped my thighs tightly, afraid I would let go without meaning to. The world narrowed to a single, molten point: Carter’s mouth between my legs, teaching me an entirely new vocabulary of pleasure.

  He went slowly at first, licking me in long strokes, making me tender and swollen. I squirmed against him, wanting more, but also already so overwhelmed that I wasn’t sure I would survive it. Had anyone ever died from pleasure? Maybe I would be the first.

  It wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

  As I grew hotter and more eager, opening to him, I noticed that my hips started rocking against him in small involuntary pulses. He took it as an invitation, and intensified his exploration, sucking and even using his teeth, gently, but enough to make me moan. I felt that familiar pressure building, and it grew more urgent the more he worked me over with his mouth, that feeling like the tickle right before a sneeze.

  “Carter,” I said, urgently, wanting him to stop so I could have a moment to catch my breath, but also not wanting him to stop at all, wanting him to keep going until I crested and fell, joyous, over the edge.

  He must have heard the frantic note in my voice, because he pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve had enough.”

  “No,” I said, hiking my knees higher, wishing I hadn’t said anything. I spread my legs hopefully, wanting him to go back to what he had been doing.

  He chuckled and said, “Turn over.”

  It took me longer than it should have. My legs, when I released them, were stiff and uncooperative, and I had to lie still for a moment before I could muster the strength to roll over. My legs da
ngled awkwardly onto the floor, and I crawled forward onto the bed, drawing my knees beneath me.

  Carter stood and sat beside me, placing one hand on my back and sliding it down over the curve of my ass. “I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

  I flushed. The skin of my face felt too tight. He was right—I had told him I would be good, that I wouldn’t say anything. And then I said his name, and ruined it. “I’m sorry,” I said. Was that the right thing to say? Did he want me to apologize?

  He shook his head, looking regretful. “That isn’t good enough, Regan. It’s better to ask permission than forgiveness. If you aren’t able to be good for me...”

  I sat up instantly, horrified. “I can be good!” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I was just so—but I can be good, I’ll do whatever you say, just please—”

  “Hush,” he said. “I’m not angry. It’s my fault; I haven’t trained you well enough.” He brushed my hair out of my face. “Do you want to show me that you can be good?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding frantically. I would have done just about anything to redeem myself. “I do, please, let me show you—”

  “Hush,” he said again. “Lie down across my lap.”

  I hesitated. I could only imagine one reason he would ask me to do that, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. The position alone would be humiliating, like I was a naughty child caught with one hand in the cookie jar. But he looked so calm and matter-of-fact about it that I was able to ignore my reservations. Carter had been good to me so far. He had listened to me when I used my safeword. If I didn’t like it, he would let met stop. What was the harm in giving it a try?

  Slowly, awkwardly, I went onto all fours and arranged myself over his lap.

  It was difficult to balance myself, with him sitting on the edge of the bed, and one of my elbows and knees threatening to slide off the mattress. But I did the best that I could, and he curled his left hand around my waist, helping to hold me in position. I turned my face to one side, resting against the bed, and gave myself over to it: the shame, the arousal, the feeling of his wool trousers against my bare belly, the feeling of his erection pressed against my abdomen. He wasn’t just punishing me; he wanted this. And that made me want it, too.