Oscar stood beside the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed and removed pins from Sylvie’s hair. She fidgeted in front of him. He was nervous, too, after so long apart.
“Why do you always wear your hair up?” When they were married, she used to wear it down most of the time. Not long after the divorce, he noticed she wore her hair up more often than not.
“It’s so thick and unruly and just easier this way.” Breathy nervousness filled her voice.
“I used to brush it for you.” He lifted out another pin.
One by one, Oscar removed the clips and pins, and set them on the bench at the foot of the bed. He combed his fingers through her thick hair until it spread out around her shoulders like spun black silk.
“Where’s your brush?”
“In there.” She pointed at the half-open door, which led the way into her dressing room. He retrieved the brush and came back, and Sylvie sat on the bench. He brushed her hair, smoothing each strand from her face with gentle strokes all the way down to the middle of her back.
She kept her eyes downcast, fingers curled in her lap.
“Do you want me to stop?” Oscar asked.
“No, please don’t,” she said softly.
He continued his ministrations until the tension eased from her body. By then, he burned with anticipation.
He swept the mass of hair over one shoulder and brushed the back of her neck with his lips, sucking until a whimper escaped her throat and she angled her neck, yielding greater access. One hand slid beneath the tunic and cupped her breast-filled satin bra. She let out another strangled whimper, and the sound of her pleasure prompted him to flick his thumb back and forth across the taut nipple.
They stood at the same time, and he led her to the bed. They lay down, facing each other for a while.
“Are you sure?” Oscar asked.
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ve missed you.” She bit her bottom lip, as if she immediately regretted the admission, but he didn’t let her take it back. Moving slowly, Oscar covered her body with his.
“I’ve missed you, too, my love.”
Her eyes fluttered closed as he whispered the old endearment, and he took that moment to give her another kiss, foregoing the easy coaxing from before and swooping his tongue into the sweet depths of her mouth. He could never get enough of her taste or the alluring scent of her skin.
They quickly undressed, and with each article of clothing Oscar removed, he became more anxious. Sylvie had changed and matured, but she was still a beautiful woman, with deep walnut skin and full breasts capped by mahogany nipples. Heat flared in his loins when she looped her arms around his neck. He trailed gentle kisses down her jaw to the sensitive line of her throat. Fiery hunger came alive in him—hunger that urged him to claim and possess all that he’d lost.
“Oscar,” Sylvie whispered.
The press of him between her legs was a welcome weight. She arched her back and ran a foot up and down Oscar’s hair-roughened leg. Sweeping a hand down his chest, she traveled over old, familiar territory. Hair covered his torso down to his pelvis. He was so masculine—not overtly muscular, but with a firm body and tight arms.
Oscar reacquainted himself with her, too, in a much more thorough fashion. He used his preferred method—moving his mouth down her body, dragging his tongue across her stomach and hips, and lodging a gentle nip between her legs. The intimate kiss inflicted a surge of heat at her groin and she squirmed, an involuntary gasp escaping her lips.
He went lower, incorporating his teeth. Against her calves, using delicate little nibbles. Against her ankles, sucking with intensity. The loving attack inflamed her skin wherever he touched.
When he came back up, Sylvie trailed her fingers over the silken length between his legs, tracing the throbbing flesh with exploratory fingers until he inhaled a sharp breath and muttered a guttural curse, thrusting against her hand.
“Sylvie,” he groaned. His dark eyes flashed with incendiary passion.
Cupping her breasts, he tongued one engorged nipple. He moved with impatience, worrying the breast and its tip and pressing his tongue against the taut flesh before transferring his attention to the other. She made a soft noise and wiggled beneath him, threading her fingers into his curly mane and arching into the moist sucking of his mouth. Her stomach tightened as she lifted her hips to his and rubbed her aching body against the hardness that prodded between her thighs.
Oscar slid a hand up the inside of her leg and fondled the center of her. Stroking the sensitive knot of nerves until she begged, pleaded for relief from the painful ache of arousal.
“Are you ready for me, my love?” he whispered into her neck, pushing her knees apart.
“Yes.” She barely got the word out. Her voice shook as it left her lips.
He lifted his head to look down at her, and with a simple forward motion, notched his body into hers. Sylvie’s mouth fell open. The sensation was indescribably good. She felt so full. She forgot to breathe. Forgot to think. Torso to torso, the hairs on his chest tickled the tips of her breasts.
Then his hips started thrusting slowly. He kept one hand between them and stroked her clit as he moved in and out. Pleasure mounted in her loins and Sylvie sank her nails into his flexing ass. She never wanted him to stop. Never ever wanted to lose this feeling.
She ran her hands up his back, smoothing her palms over warm skin. He lowered his head and kissed her again, tongues tangling, their rapid, shallow breaths mingling.
Oscar moved with greater speed. Each time she lifted up, he pressed down. He moaned her name, gripping her ass and lifting her from the bed to plunge deeper—all the way to the hilt. Broken breaths beat the side of her neck, and Sylvie held on tight, determined to keep up as he increased his speed.
With a harsh growl, Oscar gripped a handful of her hair and pounded faster. Each thrust sliced through her body, hard silk withdrawing and then gliding back in.
The orgasm hit like an atomic explosion and her eyes clamped shut. Buffeted by a storm of sensation, Sylvie cried out, clawing at his back. She rode the waves of a consuming climax that surged and ebbed throughout her body.
Thrusting several more times, Oscar exploded. His entire body tensed, his fingers tightening in her hair right as he let out a deep groan, and then collapsed.
With a heavy sigh, he rolled with her in his arms, kissing her face and smoothing her hair with gentler fingers. He moved to ease away, but Sylvie kept her arms around his neck and legs around his waist. She refused to let him pull out.
Oscar understood what she couldn’t say. She needed a little more time—wanted to stay this close a little bit longer.
He kept his arms around her and drizzled kisses on her brow and nose. And for a long time they stayed that way, wrapped in each other’s arms. Even after their breathing returned to normal.
Chapter 7
Running a few minutes late, Sylvie exited the elevator onto the floor where her office was located. The pristine waiting area contained some of her luxurious designs mixed with the contemporary line of a manufacturer whose pieces she admired.
“Good morning,” she said to Inez.
“Good morning, Miss—” Inez looked up from the computer, and her mouth fell open.
Sylvie stopped beside her assistant’s desk. “Is something the matter?” she asked.
Inez blinked, as if to clear her vision. “I—Your hair is different.”
“I thought I’d try something new.” Sylvie trailed her fingers through the strands, which hung in soft waves onto her shoulders and back. “What do you think?” A tiny knot appeared in her stomach.
She was running behind because she’d called her stylist and instructed him to give her a different look with her hair down. He’d parted it in the middle, flat-ironed it straight, and then added texture with a large-barrel curling iron.
Inez examined her. “I like it. A lot, actually. You look different. If I may say…softer.”
“Softer?”
“Yes
, ma’am.” Inez’s teeth sank into her red lips, her blue eyes containing hesitation, as if worried she’d said too much.
“Younger?” Sylvie suggested, with a raised brow.
Inez, close in age to Sylvie, smiled and nodded. She wore her own hair medium length and streaked with gray. “That, too.”
“Hm. Thank you.”
Sylvie marched into her office, but allowed herself a private, self-satisfied grin. Practically, she couldn’t imagine wearing her hair like this every day, but the style was a nice change.
She stood in front of the mirror on her wall, examining her face for a few seconds. As Inez pointed out, there was a softening of her features, but she couldn’t attribute the difference solely to a new hairstyle. In fact, if she had to assign credit, the change her assistant saw assuredly came from within and manifested on the outside.
Oscar had not only spent Wednesday night at the penthouse, he’d spent Thursday night there, too. This morning he’d left early so he could get back to his hotel room and get ready for a meeting with a potential boat buyer. He didn’t have to work, but with his vast knowledge, he occasionally brokered deals between wealthy clients.
They spoke while she rode to work, and from their conversation, she had the distinct impression that Oscar intended to see more of her. A lot more. Frankly, she wanted to spend more time with him, too.
With a busy morning planned, Sylvie finally sat down and went to work. She participated in a conference call about a new film project, agreed to an interview with an entertainment magazine to discuss the advantages of shooting movies in Georgia, and then settled into sketching furniture ideas.
Midmorning, Roselle came in with a fresh take on the spring clothing designs, which Sylvie loved.
“This is more like it,” she said.
Roselle beamed. “I’m so happy you’re pleased, Miss Johnson.”
Sylvie dropped the pad on the desk. “You do good work, but I need to you to care as much about your own appearance as you do these designs.”
Roselle’s face fell, and so did her gaze. “Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled.
“Roselle.” The young woman’s eyes flicked up. “You must learn to take criticism. If you can’t take criticism, you can’t grow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sylvie placed a fist on her hip. “First of all, you need a makeover. I don’t have to tell you that. I’m sure you know. The sooner the better, because I can’t have you accompanying me to events looking like this.” Today’s outfit was a shapeless skirt and large blouse that looked like a fashion travesty from 1980.
Roselle’s eyes widened. “You want me to—to attend industry events with you?”
“Well, yes. Unless you think I should take someone who’s less qualified.”
“No, please…I…” She stopped in an effort to control the flow of words. “I would be honored,” she managed in a whisper, one hand pressed to her chest.
“Well then, we must do something about your appearance. You’ve been eating, I assume?” Sylvie asked, as she hit the intercom on the phone.
“Yes, I have,” Roselle assured her.
“Inez, I need you to set a few appointments with our contacts at several boutiques. Roselle is going shopping.”
“High end or mid-range?”
Sylvie pursed her lips. “High end. Please make sure Neville understands he cannot hand over Roselle to just anyone, the way he did June two months ago. That young woman did not know how to dress for June’s size and shape, and I don’t want the same for Roselle. If we have another fiasco like that, I will take my business elsewhere.”
“Yes, Miss Johnson.”
“Also, call Regina at the salon and tell her I need a cut, style, color, and makeup tutorial for Roselle early next week.” She hung up.
Roselle clasped her hands. “Thank you, Miss Johnson. I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you is enough, but I’m not giving you anything. I’m merely subsidizing your wardrobe. You will pay me back twenty-five percent of the final bill. You must be willing to invest in yourself. I’m giving you a hand up, not a handout.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sylvie put on her glasses and tapped her computer awake. From the corner of her eye, she saw Roselle still standing in the room. “Was there something else?” she asked.
“Why are you doing this for me?” Roselle asked quietly.
Sylvie thought for a moment. It was not uncommon for her to reward deserving employees. She looked for ones who had potential. “I’m investing in you. I believe in you. Do you believe in yourself?”
Roselle grimaced and made an unintelligible sound.
“That’s a problem,” Sylvie said. “You’re a hard worker and very talented. The only thing separating you and anyone else from success is confidence. You lack confidence, and I’m going to help you get it. Society would like us to believe our outward appearance doesn’t matter, but that’s poppycock. The right clothes, hair, and makeup can do wonders for your confidence and the way people treat you. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. C’est la vie. So, from now on, you are going to dress the part of a confident fashion designer. Head up, back straight, shoulders back.”
Before her eyes, Roselle straightened and lifted her head. Even in the unattractive clothes, the change in posture made a difference in her appearance.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Roselle walked toward the door.
“Roselle.” The young woman paused, and Sylvie watched her over her glasses. “You can’t control what people say, but you can control how you react to their words. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel bad about yourself. Not even me. Do you understand?”
Roselle nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” With a grateful smile, she quietly left.
Sylvie went back to work. At a knock on the door, she looked up from the desk to see Oscar enter. The sight of him in a pair of dark denims with his face shaved and curls tamed by gel sent shivers shimmying up her inner thighs, forcing her to squeeze her legs together to squelch the sensation.
“Has everyone in my employ fallen under your spell? How in the world did you get in here?”
“Don’t blame Inez. I charmed my way in,” Oscar said, striding across the floor.
“What are you doing here?” She watched as he walked around the desk.
“I came to take you to lunch.” He dropped a kiss to her lips.
Sylvie blinked, taken aback.
Oscar had always been openly affectionate—with the children, with her. He gave the best hugs. He didn’t pull you into an embrace. He enveloped you, and rubbed your back. His hugs were an experience, like an all-over body massage.
She’d had to get used to such displays when they first started seeing each other, having grown up in a household where her parents seldom exhibited outward displays of affection. While she didn’t doubt their love, she’d never experienced kisses and hugs and frequent words of love from them. They’d been too busy teaching the proper way to sit or stand and building up her confidence by reminding her that as a black child, she was just as intelligent and valuable as anyone else—male or female.
She’d learned to appreciate Oscar, who touched and kissed her constantly, not only in a sexual way, but to express tenderness. Until that very moment, Sylvie had forgotten how much she’d missed those gestures, and by virtue of that thought alone, she looked forward to lunch with him.
She glanced at the digital clock on her wall. “Do you mind waiting a few minutes while I wrap up here?”
“Not at all.”
Oscar made his way to the sofa and sat down. He picked up a copy of Atlanta magazine, which featured one of her designs on the cover, crossed his legs, and started flipping through the pages.
He hadn’t said a word about her hair, but she tried not to think about the omission too much. She continued working, every now and again glancing up to examine his profile. He appeared engrossed in the article.
It was strange to have him sitting in her office, the two
of them calm and friendly instead of getting ready to rip each other’s throats out. A peculiar sensation settled in her stomach. Almost as if…
She shook her head.
No.
Not going there. Not going to envision a life and events that could never be. Plenty of acrimony existed between her and Oscar, and truthfully, she didn’t know if she could trust him. Toe-curling sex and a temporary truce meant nothing.
She hazarded another quick glance at his strong profile before returning her attention to the document before her.
What if it was all an act to get back into her good graces? To fool her into a sense of security, to only yank it all away again?
Stop.
Sighing, Sylvie set aside the document. She could hardly concentrate, and it was lunchtime. She might as well go to lunch with Oscar.
She rose from the chair, and he tossed the magazine to the coffee table and stood. “You ready?” he asked.
“Yes. Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
A little smile flitted across his lips and then manifested in his eyes. That smile was going to be the death of her for sure. Already her heart was racing.
“What are you up to, Oscar Brooks?” Sylvie tucked her purse under an arm and walked over to him.
“Wait and see.”
He still hadn’t commented on her hairstyle. Had he not noticed? She brushed hair off her shoulder and made sure to run her fingers through the thick tresses. Still nothing.
She clenched her teeth in irritation. Granted, she hadn’t known he’d show up today, but he could at least comment on her hairdo.
“Are you ready?” she asked, in a snippy tone.
Oscar slipped an arm around her waist and leaned in to whisper, “Glad you wore your hair down today. You look very sexy, my love.”
Sylvie swallowed back the surge of elation that filled her chest. She lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’m trying something new,” she said.
Oscar brushed aside her hair with his nose and kissed her cheek and neck. Pinpricks of desire attacked her skin in the same spots where his moist mouth landed. Two nights with the man and she was nothing but raw nerves.
Passion Rekindled Page 4