HOLDEN

by Ivy Carter

  “Tell me to fuck you with my finger,” he says.

  My voice goes hoarse. “Fuck me with—”

  Before I can even finish the command, he inserts a finger inside and pushes deep within my pussy while his thumb presses against my throbbing clitoris. “Deeper?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  He delves further inside, and I buck my hips to allow him better access. Goosebumps ripple across my flesh. His mouth clamps around one of my breasts, and his tongue flicks fast against my hard nipple. Desperation floods my veins like adrenaline—I want, need, him to consume me.

  The steady rhythm of his fingers in and out of my soaked pussy is enough to bring me to orgasm. I can’t. Not yet. I focus, willing myself to draw out this pleasure for as long as possible.

  Emotion clogs up at the back of my throat. “Don’t stop. Please…don’t…”

  “That’s right, baby. I love to hear you beg.”

  I push the back of my head against the pillow, and arch toward his sensuous mouth, his expert hand. My breath comes out in a steady pant as the climax continues to build. It’s been so long since a man has touched me—I don’t know how long I can hold it off.

  As if sensing my struggle, Holden abruptly withdraws his fingers from inside me, and shifts so that his body hovers over mine, erect cock solid against my inner thigh.

  “Tell me what you want now,” he commands, his voice a low growl of authority. “Do you want me to fuck you?’

  I nod, unable to speak.

  He locks his gaze on mine. “Say it.”

  “I want you to fuck me,” I whisper.

  He positions his cock at the entrance of my pussy and slides it along my slit, undulating his hips like waves. “Say it again. Louder.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Again.”

  I blow out a juddering breath, and gather my vocals. “Fuck me, Holden. Fuck me hard.”

  And then he’s plunging his cock inside my pussy. He doesn’t just fill me—in this moment, he possesses my entire body, and I know I will do anything, say anything, to please him.

  He begins to rock his hips, guiding himself in and out. With each rhythmic movement, my clit throbs with mounting intensity. I clutch his back and scrape my nails against his flesh. He calls out my name, commanding me to dig deeper, to hold on tighter.

  The intensity is my undoing.

  I hang on to his hips, squeezing hard as pleasure rolls like waves from somewhere deep in my core, and finally, blissfully, releases with a deafening scream. It isn’t until my voice goes hoarse that I realize the sound is from my own mouth.

  When at last the climax comes to a pulsating end, Holden slumps against me, his heavy breaths hot against my skin. Sweat glistens his brow. His eyes are glassed with desire. “I told you,” he says, a little breathless.

  My fingertips trail along his rib cage, grazing his taut skin. “Told me what?”

  “That you wouldn’t be able to forget me—or my proposal.”

  And that’s when I wake up.

  My eyes open in horror and a cool breezes flutters across my body. As my vision adjusts to my surroundings, I begin to reorient myself. Dear Lord. I am not in Holden’s strong arms, but in my own bed—alone.

  Jesus.

  The sex with Holden was just a dream, but is it possible my orgasm wasn’t?

  I bury my head in my pillow. Shit. Was I loud? Damn it. I hope I wasn’t loud.

  My gaze goes to the alarm clock, where the glowing red numbers tell me it’s 1:30 a.m. I groan, and pull the pillow over my head, trying to dislodge the lingering fantasy of Holden’s naked body on top of mine. But it’s all so visceral, so real—I can almost smell his cinnamon spiced cologne.

  Damn it.

  I want him. Now worse than ever.

  The realization hits me with the force of a tornado, and the butterflies in my gut awaken with a vengeance. My resolve snaps. Still half asleep, I grab my phone and call up my emails. There’s no way he’ll answer, but if I don’t send him a message now, I’ll chicken out.

  Taking a deep breath, I write: 10 questions. 10 hours. 10 sexual acts of your choosing. I accept.

  Then I sign it with my cell number, and chuck my phone to the other side of the bed.

  Fuck me. What have I done?

  Chapter 6

  My text chimes less than thirty seconds later.

  I peer over the stack of pillows on my bed at the glowing iPhone screen, and my heart leaps into my throat. Obviously, it isn’t Holden—how can it be? I just sent the email.

  I paw around in my sheets until I have the cell in my hand, pulse pounding as I read the short text.

  It’s Holden: You blew it.

  My pulse spikes. I scroll to his next message, hands trembling: You had until midnight. It’s well past that.

  Fuck. I check the alarm clock again, willing it to rewind two bloody hours. Another fantasy that doesn’t have a chance of panning out. I write: You didn’t specify which time zone.

  Crickets.

  A bead of sweat slips between my shoulder blades. I stare at the screen, desperately anticipating his response. It’s possible he won’t answer at all, if nothing more than to send a signal.

  I cradle the phone in my sweaty palms and wait. At least a minute goes by. I’ve almost given up, when my screen flashes and I flinch at the high-pitched chime. Another message: I need a reason to give you a chance.

  My hackles raise. A reason? Holden might be sexy as hell, but his arrogance has already begun to grate on my nerves. I consider blocking his number and forgetting that I emailed him at all. But my mind wanders back to that dream—so real, I can feel my thighs start to tingle, even now.

  I admit, I’m beyond curious.

  And maybe Lindsay is right. It’s not like I’m going to marry the guy. Ten sexual acts. What could possibly go wrong? I start to type a response and then delete it, shocked at the words I almost use. I refuse to sound desperate, even if I am. Instead, I text: I’ve had a chance to think it through. I pause, and then add: You were right—I can’t forget you.

  I hit send before I can retract the flirtatious message. Jesus. I am so far out of my comfort zone I might as well be on a different planet.

  His following response makes my insides quake.

  Prove it.

  Prove it? My stomach clenches with unease. How the hell does he expect me to do that?

  Moonlight streams through the window across from my bed, basking the room in a bluish romantic tinge. A streetlight on the corner of the street burns bright, paving a path for students staggering home after evening parties or sorority gatherings. I’m not into that level of interaction. The more people get to know me, the more likely I am to spill my deepest, darkest secrets—and doing so would alienate me from the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

  Damn it. I’ve come so far. Faced demons, found purpose, stopped running from the past. Mom says she’s proud of my strength, even though she doesn’t agree with my choice to come here. It should be enough.

  And yet despite all I have accomplished, there are gaps. Pieces of my past that are incomplete and affect my future. Can it be that Holden is the only one with the power to make me whole?

  God, I hope not.

  I text: How do I prove myself?

  His response is immediate: Come to my apartment right now, and do one act of my choosing for free.

  My breath hitches. I curl into the mattress, wrapping myself in blankets, a feeble attempt to calm the millions of goosebumps that stand erect on my cool skin. I read the message again, processing each word, looking for hidden meanings.

  There’s none. Holden’s command is crystal clear.

  I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, stand, and carry my phone to the window. Outside, the skyscrapers in New York City’s financial district twinkle under a jet-black sky. I imagine Holden in one of them, staring out across the city, waiting for my response, thinking of me…and my pulse thrums with fresh desire.

  I text: It�
��s 2:00 in the morning.

  A beat of silence stretches for an eternity and I worry I may have pissed him off. After begging for a second chance, perhaps my hesitation isn’t wise. I appear wishy-washy. Indecisive.

  I think back to my conversation with Lindsay, resisting the temptation to burst through her bedroom door with questions and a plea for advice. There’s no need. I already know what she’ll say.

  Resigning to the inevitable, I respond: Okay. Send me your address, I’ll be there a soon as I can.

  I can almost see his wolfish grin through the phone. He answers with the name of his building, followed by his suite number—the penthouse, of course—and one last important instruction: Dress in a short skirt, no panties or bra, and be here within the hour. Don’t be late.

  Chapter 7

  The Uber dumps me in front of Holden’s building. I step out of the car, and onto the smooth asphalt, staring up at the giant revolving door framed in gold. Glenwood Suites is etched into the glass. My gaze follows the length of the towering skyscraper, until the top apartments almost disappear into the sky.

  Holden is somewhere up there, waiting for me.

  I cross my arms over my chest, self-conscious and slightly chilled without a bra. My taut nipples are aching as I head into the luxurious lobby. Burgundy leather furniture sits on cream-colored carpet. Oversized vases filled with flowers create spots of color on antique side tables. A bank of overhead lights guides me to the elevator, where my nervous reflection shimmers in the tinted glass doors.

  With a trembling hand, I press the “up” button.

  The elevator whirs and then opens, revealing a spacious carriage surrounded in mirrors. I step inside, eyes cast downward, and wait for the doors to close behind. The elevator makes no additional stops as it climbs the seventy stories to the top floor.

  My stomach twists into knots.

  I grip the brass railing and close my eyes, holding my breath until a soft ping lets me know we’re there. The doors swoosh open without prompt. I hesitate a second too long, and strong hand lodges between the wall and the elevator door before it closes.

  Holden.

  “Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, Miss Faber?”

  He leans against the door frame, holding the elevator open, while I gawk at his physique. Loose fitting jeans hang low on his hips. He’s shirtless, revealing the eight pack of abdominal muscles I dreamed about. I fight the urge to pinch myself to make sure this isn’t just an extension of that vivid fantasy from before.

  “I’ve got two minutes to spare,” I say, with a slight stutter.

  He glances at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

  “Fine, but I’m on time.”

  He grins in a way that makes my knees buckle. Collecting my nerves, I follow him through the short hallway to his suite. Soft music filters through the slightly open door. I peer inside, unprepared for the elegance that greets me.

  At the far end of the expansive room, an elaborate chandelier hangs over a dining room table, back-dropped by several skyscrapers and tall buildings out the enormous window. The moon hangs high in the horizon, a glowing orb of magical beauty. Leather chairs surround the table. Behind it, pillows dot a bank of bench seating. The space is prime for entertaining, but by the looks of things, few people are invited.

  To my right, white leather sofas form a generous “L” shape in the middle of the open living room. A model airplane—seven feet long at least—perches atop a short column, giving it the illusion that it’s flying toward the endless city sky.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, voice betraying my clear awe. “Have you lived here long?”

  Holden crosses the foray to the kitchen, and flicks on some lights. White appliances. Light oak cabinets. Holden’s entire space is beautiful, but clinical, almost as though it’s barely been lived in.

  I get it.

  My grandmother’s house was like that. A constant tidier, she was always dusting, washing, perfecting her home to the point I was even nervous to leave footprints on her carpet.

  But while my grandma woke at five each morning to make her home presentable for guests, I have a feeling Holden hires out that particular service, along with a few others.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  I nod. “Wine if you have it.”

  He stops me before I can slip off my heels. “Leave them on. White or red?”

  My stilettos click across the hardwood floor as I make my way to the kitchen. “Merlot.”

  He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t challenge the request. I sink into one of the bar stools—dear God they’ve got plush seating—and watch as he roots through a small wine rack for a bottle of red. I recognize the label—Screaming Eagle—and as such, know all about its staggering price tag. Lindsay and I bought the cheapest bottle once, and it almost bankrupted us.

  Holden uncorks the wine and pours us each a glass.

  He swirls before taking a sip. “It’s good.”

  I take that as permission and echo his movements, swirling the liquid high on the glass and then swallowing a mouthful. It glides down my throat. “Decadent.”

  Decadent? Sudden heat crawls up the side of my face. I’ve almost forgotten that this isn’t a date. I’m terrible with small talk at the best of times, but here, in this fantasy suite with last year’s People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, my tongue works its way into a knot.

  “Good,” he says, curtly, and lifts his drink in mock toast.

  I expect him to sit beside me, but he flicks off the lights and heads to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa and then points to a spot across from him. I carry my glass and set it on the side table beside a Tiffany lamp.

  “Spread your legs.”

  I blink. “Pardon?”

  Irritation creases his face. “I’ve made no pretenses about this evening, Miss Faber.”

  I swallow the lump of unease lodged at the back of my throat. So much for small talk.

  “I want you to uncross your thighs, and spread them apart.”

  I lick my lips, and do as he commands.

  This is what he said I needed to do to prove myself, right?

  A breeze from the air conditioning blows between my legs, cool against my clit. My bald pussy clenches in response. Holden slumps down in his seat, and puts his hands behind his neck, like he’s settling in for a show. A smirk plays on his lips.

  “Very nice, Miss Faber,” he says. “I appreciate that you shaved for the occasion.”

  I smile thinly. “I anticipated that’s what you would expect.” Not that he left me much time. In my haste, I nicked my upper thigh, and wasted five minutes trying to get the blood to stop flowing.

  “Initiative,” he says, with a wink. “I like that.”

  His gaze moves to my breasts, where my tight nipples poke through the cotton of my T-shirt. I flinch under his scrutiny.

  “Take off your shirt,” he says. I hook my fingers under the edge and begin to pull upward. Holden wags a finger. “Slowly, Miss Faber. I want to savor the reveal.”

  With shaky fingers, I inch the shirt up over my stomach, my ribcage, and finally over my breasts. They spring free, perky and smooth. Through hooded eyelids, I see the outline of each nipple, tight, pink, and aching to be touched. I finish taking off my shirt and let it drop to the ground.

  “Nice,” Holden says, his voice low with approval. “Very nice. How do you feel?”

  “Cold,” I whisper. That’s only a fraction of the truth. I’m scared, and vulnerable. But if I’m being totally honest with myself, I feel utterly sexy too. My eyes lower to Holden’s groin, and I notice that his cock has hardened beneath his jeans. To know that I have that kind of power…

  “Now, I want you to touch yourself.”

  My mouth goes dry.

  He nudges his head toward my chest. “Nipples first. Pinch them between your fingers.”

  I do as he says, tentative at first, and then harder with his grunt of approval. It stings a little, so I ease off, roll
ing each nub between my fingertips. The flutter between my thighs grows with shocking intensity.

  “Good,” Holden murmurs. “Put one your hand on your thigh.”

  While still pinching one nipple, I rest the other palm on my cool skin, just above the knee. I glance down, but Holden instructs me to look at him. “I want your eyes on me while you touch yourself.”

  My chest expands so fast I worry it might pop. I focus on Holden’s face, aroused by the way he watches my fingers inch up under my skirt. His tongue runs across his lip, and he rests his hand on his groin. My eyes linger there, even as the tip of one finger feathers across my clit.

  A low moan of lust warbles from his throat.

  I’m so wet, there must be a puddle on the leather. My fingers slick along the slit of my pussy, dipping within in the folds before circling my erect clitoris. It takes me a few tries to get the pressure right, but soon every flick, every pinch, every swipe sends a shiver of pleasure up and down my spine.

  “Are you imagining my tongue licking your wet pussy?”

  I swallow hard. I am now. Fuck.

  Holden’s lips go slack. “When you come, I’m going to suck up all those juices, baby. I bet you taste so sweet.”

  I buck my hips, and close my eyes. It’s so much easier to pretend his lips are on mine when I can’t see him across the room, watching me finger myself.

  “I never said you could close your eyes, sweetness.”

  Sweetness.

  Lord help me, I’m enjoying this far too much. I succumb to his voice, the erotic suggestions that whisper in the musky air. My fingers move more quickly, with more urgency, after each command. I pretend Holden is fucking me, practically beg him to take me, until my hand rubs back and forth so fast across my swollen clitoris that my climax hits with shocking force.

  I lift my hips, gasping and panting as tidal waves of pressure ebb and flow through me. My entire body vibrates with pleasure. I bite down on my lip to stop from crying out, but it doesn’t stop me from gasping when the last surge pulses through me.