by Laura Carter
“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to see my place?” I asked. Forward as hell, not like me in the slightest, yet somehow exactly right.
He told the driver the change of plan then the cab fell silent. Still. Charged. I could feel his gaze burning into me, feel it on my skin, heating me, drenching my knickers. I cast him a glance through my lashes, wondering if he could see right through me to just how much I wanted him. Wondering if he felt anything close to my own need.
He lifted a palm to my cheek, his irises darkening, his lids heavy. My lips parted with longing. His mouth met mine, his tongue teasing me, swirling with my own. His taste was sweet and salty all at once. Delicious. With his free arm, he hooked my waist, pulling me to him, my leg crossing his. A move that told me he wanted this every bit as much as I did. I moaned into his mouth and dug my fingers into his hair, pulling the roots as our kiss intensified.
We broke apart when the driver stopped outside my block. Thankfully, Rachel was out for the night, because we were both panting and flushed.
“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked when we were inside my modest two-bed overlooking Tower Bridge.
“Sure, it’s down the hall, second on the left.”
When he left me alone in the open lounge, I realised I’d been holding my breath. I hung up my coat and straightened my black shirt-dress. I set my iPhone on the dock and put Missy Higgins on shuffle, then took out a bottle of Malbec and two glasses. My hands were trembling with anticipation.
I paused, mid-corking, when he came back into the room, his blue shirt now rolled up to the elbows and hanging loose from his jeans. I remember thinking, Clark Layton does casual well… very well. My heart was pounding, my stomach fluttering. “Would you like wine?” I asked, my voice shaky.
He didn’t respond, but I felt him moving, stalking the distance between us. I didn’t dare look at him. I didn’t want him to see on my face that, even though it had only been three days, I’d never felt like this about anyone in my life.
He walked around the kitchen island and took the wine bottle and corkscrew from my hands. He turned my chin so I faced him and lifted my gaze to his. “The only thing I want right now is you, Dayna Cross.”
I didn’t just want him, I needed him. I needed him to be inside me, to fill me, completely. I needed him to sate the ache between my legs.
His hands slid to my hips. He tightened his grip and pulled me against his rock-solid crotch. He ran his fingers through my long hair then leant me back. His mouth pressed to my lobe, my neck, my sternum. The feel of his soft lips against my flesh brought goosebumps to my skin. The kind that tingled every nerve ending in my body. I let my head fall back with a relieved breath.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his breath warm against my throat. Of course any man would say that at this juncture, but from Clark it felt sincere.
Slowly, painfully slowly, he drew the zip of my dress to the waist and cupped my breast, his thumb rolling down the lace of my bra so he could tease my hardening tip. I groaned under his touch. I’d craved this for three days, my body on edge, lust driving me crazy. We’d connected instantly. He was like me in so many ways, yet a stronger, more masculine version. And really fucking hot. His smile, his scent, his voice, his touch, his taste. He was unlike anyone I’d ever known.
He growled in response to my groan and lifted me with ease to the edge of the marble worktop. When his hands reached my belt, he paused. “Is this what you want?”
It must have been obvious, but he still held back. He still asked. In that moment, I fell a little deeper.
I held his face in my palms. “More than you know,” I whispered. I kissed him, deeply, passionately, with the strength of everything I already felt for him.
He unfastened the belt and freed me of my dress, pushing it gently down my arms, drinking me in as he moved. I’d always felt self-conscious in the past when I got to this stage; I’d always turned off the light or reached for sheets so I’d be hidden. Not now. Now, I felt more confident and womanly than ever.
He ran his hands hungrily down the sides of my body then yanked my hips forwards and pushed his erection between my legs, giving me welcome knowledge of how much he appreciated what he saw.
I hooked my legs around his waist, my stilettos crossing at the small of his back, and pulled him harder to me. God, it felt good to be pressed so tightly to him. He ground against me, a low, rumbling sound escaping his chest and falling into my mouth as he kissed me again, more harshly.
I needed more. I needed to feel him, flesh on flesh. I frantically unbuttoned his shirt as our tongues ravished each other. He unhooked my legs and stepped back, leaving me on the bench. I watched as he removed his shirt, my slick cleft clenching with insatiable desire as I absorbed every perfect inch of what stood before me. He was lean, but his muscles were trained. His veins were prominent against his biceps and in his forearms, his pecs deliciously toned. I followed the short trail of hair down his navel, my focus resting on the bulge in his jeans. I bit my lip in an attempt to quell what was fast becoming uncontrollable excitement.
His hands moved to the buckle of his belt. “Let me,” I said, in a voice so low and husky it didn’t sound like me.
He stepped forwards, and resting his hands on my knees, he pushed my thighs further apart. I took off his belt and undid his jeans. I put my hand inside and cupped him over his tight boxers. He was big and as hard as steel. Gripping him made me want to spread my legs further still, undeniably wanton. My insides were screaming out for him, climbing with just the thought of what would come.
“God, I want to fuck you until you’re screaming my name and biting my skin. I want to fuck you all night, Dayna, so if you give yourself to me, don’t ask me to stop.”
“I won’t.”
In one smooth move he unhooked my bra and pulled it from my arms. “Your body is fucking amazing.” He grabbed my breasts and took one in his mouth, sucking the end until I moaned. My back arched, pressing me up to his mouth, begging for more.
“Clark.” His name rolled off my tongue drenched in lust.
He circled his hips against my lace thong as he used one hand to support my back and pressed my chest with the other, forcing me back against the worktop. My breaths came faster as he drew my thong down my legs then lifted my feet, planting my heels down on the bench, fully exposing me to him. Even in my heady stupor, I was thankful I’d been waxed a few days earlier.
I watched through my legs as he knelt. I squirmed when his hands stroked the insides of my thighs. Hoping.
He blew out gently, trailing cool breath down the centre of my folds. I held my arms out, trying to grip something, anything that could anchor me. He turned his finger around my wet entrance, the touch driving me wild. When he pushed two fingers inside me my walls instantly clasped around him, craving more.
“You’re drenched.” His words were husky and so full of promise that I leaned forwards to see him as he put his fingers into his mouth and tasted me. Erotic. As. Hell. “You have no idea how much I want you when you’re looking at me like that.”
He thrust his fingers back into me and bowed his head. His tongue circled my clit, making my mind cloud with my frenzied breaths. He licked and worked me until my hips were gyrating out of rhythm and I felt myself reach the precipice.
“Miss, your snack.”
I jump as the flight attendant holding out a small tray of pastries startles me back to the here and now. “Hmm, excuse me?”
“Your snack.”
“Right. Yes. Thank you.”
Oh my God, this is going to be the birthday from hell.
I’M GOING TO kill him. Actually. Not just a half-baked attempt. I’m going to kick his arse for this. It’s one thing that Teddy and I joke around and prank each other, but this… This is not funny. I want Dayna back, I know that now, and after the dinner the other night, when she made it clear she wouldn’t be my rebound, I know it’s going to be a long road. Pissing her off by gatecrashing her bi
rthday is going nowhere towards where I want to be.
He waited until we were through security, the knobhead. Then he casually dropped it in to conversation, and even then, only when I asked who else was coming. I should have left then. Turned around and walked out of the airport. But the screwed-up thing is there was a small, tiny part of me that thought this might be a good idea. Idiot.
I flag a flight attendant and order a Bloody Mary, then I sit back in my seat. It really is tough shit now. I’m in this whether I like it or not. And, hey, if I feel like it’s all going pear-shaped, I’ll just ski and drink. I’ll be polite and avoid her, and hopefully I won’t do any irreparable damage to my cause.
I flick through the selection of programmes on my TV and select a Bear Grylls series, trying to keep my eyes forward and ignore my body’s reaction to sitting just feet away from the only woman in the world who really gets my blood pumping. I’m just about to hit play when I hear a sound. A whimper, or hum, maybe a groan. I recognise it immediately. There’s a good chance I imagined it. But I turn my head and look over at Dayna across the empty seat between us. She’s licking her lips, a sight that makes my cock half stiff. I lean back so I can see her screen and catch a glimpse of the movie she’s viewing. She’s watching a couple get down to business. I didn’t imagine that sound at all.
The flight attendant leans over me to offer her a snack, and I snap my head forwards, hoping neither woman noticed the colour in my heated cheeks. I take out the duty-free mag to hide my semi-on. Sitting so close to my greatest temptation, knowing what she’s doing… it’s too much. I jump up and head for the toilet.
I don’t even need to take a leak, but I do need to get a handle on my fucking testosterone. I brace my palms on the sink and stare at my reflection. So maybe I use this weekend to convince her I’m not Satan’s protégé, which arguably, I am. It’s a mountainous task. Somehow I just don’t think, Hey, Dayna, sorry I crashed your thirtieth and sorry I broke your heart. Can we be together now? is going to cut it.
What am I doing here? This is insane. That face, that body, the sound of her fucking erotic moan. My breathing thickens. I move my hand to my hardening dick and close my eyes to see the plump flesh of her red lips. The smooth skin of her breasts. Her small, tight nipples. I rub my crotch, remembering moving into her, remembering the feel of my cock moving through her wet cunt.
There’s an exaggerated, impatient cough outside the door. Shit. Now I kind of do need a piss, but there’s not a hope in hell of going unless I’m keen to redecorate the place. I think of anything. Everything. My sister. Fuck, that’s wrong. My brother. Better. My mother. That’s sick. Harold Layton.
Yep, that’ll kill a hard-on.
I flush, give it twenty seconds, then head out.
“Sorry, cleaning my teeth,” I tell the suited man who stands outside the door, with his arms folded across his chest.
WHAT I’VE LEARNED in the last two hours is that Dayna Cross and me in a confined space equals a disaster. Correction: a painful disaster. My cock feels like it’s been grated with heavy sandpaper from being fucking rock-solid against my fly.
We wait by the conveyor in Geneva Airport’s baggage reclaim. Spencer is talking to me about the latest documentary he’s making for the BBC, but all I can think about is getting out of these goddamned jeans.
I shoot Teddy daggers across the belt — we’ll be having words — and jump to action when I see my ski bag coming out. When the others have their luggage we head into arrivals. We’re greeted by a sign saying Layton, which is held by Hans, a six-feet-five-inches, hairy man who’s been the family’s chalet and ski manager for as long as I can remember.
“Guten tag, Clark, Spencer.”
“Hello, Hans.”
“Are you ready, sir?”
I nod, and we follow him out to three four-wheel drives. “How’s the ski, Hans?” I ask once I’m seated in one of the cars with Spencer, and Tim and Matty, who seem like decent guys.
“Gut, sir. A lot of snowfall last night. Are you heading straight out?”
“Too right we are,” Spencer chirps from the backseat. He’s wedged between Tim and Matty, who are much broader and squeezing him into the middle seat. I banter with them at Spencer’s expense as we head out towards the mountains.
God, this feels nice. Laughing with my brother. Guy time. No work. No women. Easy.
We pull up at the chalet. The two other drivers start taking our kit bags inside as Hans gives me the keys and tells me a few things about the chalet, mostly bigging up his management skills. I don’t need to know it, but I shake his hand and drop him a twenty regardless.
My iPhone bleeps from the back pocket of my jeans to tell me I have an email. “All set,” I tell the others as I retrieve the phone.
I see the subject heading on my screen and stop still — Round One: Results. I’m typing in my passcode when, from the corner of my eye, I see Dayna fumbling eagerly in her bag for her phone.
So she did bid.
We both stand at the bottom of the path as the others head up to the house.
My email takes a second to load, which makes me ratty and gives me another chance to glance at Dayna. Her eyes flick up to me. My guess is she’s loading too.
I scan the email. Instructions. Five bidders have been marked. The top three go through to the second round, where they’ll be given a chance to improve their bids or put forward an alternative bid. I click the spreadsheet attachment to the email and wait for it to open.
Dayna meets my eye again. She’s nervous. She should be. Everyone knows she’s done well to get SP back on its feet, but it’s also highly unlikely she has enough money to win a dogfight with the companies that have been invited to bid against her.
It loads.
The bidders are anonymous, not that I don’t know who they are, but I don’t know the order in which they’re ranked.
Bidder 5 – Incomplete. Rejected.
Bidder 4 – Rejected.
Bidder 3 – Proceed to round 2.
Layton Oil – Proceed to round 2.
Bidder 1 – Proceed to round 2.
So I’m in. In with a chance of proving my father wrong. But my thoughts about that are drowned out by the question I’m desperate to know the answer to. Is she in? I watch her shaking fingers as she scrolls through the information I just read, and I wait for her reaction. It comes. The faintest twinkling in those damn gorgeous browns.
She straightens her back, slips her phone back into her bag and heads up the path to the chalet. I can’t stop myself from smiling. She got through, I’m almost certain. And that swagger in her walk tells me she doesn’t want me to know it. She’s stubborn as hell but Christ, is she hot.
I stride up close to her and state the obvious. “You bid.”
“You know I bid. I told you I would,” she says without turning.
“And you’re through to the next round.”
“If I told you it would surely defeat the object of anonymous bidding, no?”
I snort. She turns to face me, and I brace myself for a tongue-lashing.
“Thank you,” she says unexpectedly. “For this place. It’s… it’s really nice.”
I don’t know why I look at the chalet, perhaps because staring at Dayna is just too intense. But she’s right, it is nice. It’s more than nice; it’s a place I love. The three-storey wooden structure towers above us. Snow caps the roof and the railings of each balcony. All ten bedrooms overlook the snow-covered mountains and the best route out of here — on skis, burning through the white plains, glorious sun beaming down on your cheeks, the reflection from the glittering snow blinding your eyes.
“You’re welcome. And Dayna, just so you know, Teddy didn’t tell me y—”
She turns her back on me. I guess that conversation is over.
She steps into the house and turns her head around the open space — lounge, diner and kitchen separated by wooden posts that match the beams in the ceiling. The log fire is roaring, and before it
are sheepskin rugs spaced around the slate-tiled floor. Her lips part slightly as she tips her head back and follows the spiral staircase, the skin of her neck pulled taut yet still pale and delicate.
“Clark, I have put the equipment in the cloakroom. Where should we take the bags?”
I direct Hans to the nicest room, on the top floor with a king bed, and tell him to put Dayna’s things in there. I put Tim, Amy and Matty in rooms on the second floor with Spencer. Rachel, Teddy and Yvette take other rooms on the third floor with Dayna.
“I’ll take the bedroom down here,” I tell him. It’s out of the way of the others, the easiest to stagger into if I have one too many, and it’s got the biggest en-suite.
Dayna rolls her eyes. “I suppose we should thank you for sparing us from the noise.”
That’s what she thinks of me. Player. There are so many things I’d like to retort to her shitty remark, but I tense my jaw and quite literally bite my tongue. She follows Hans to the top floor.
I knew this would be an uphill battle but I’m starting to think I’m climbing fucking Everest.
I lug my gear to my room and unpack what I need to, then drop back onto the king bed to take a proper look at the email about the Persian Gulf well.
Layton Oil is ranked second, but who is first? I know Dayna got through this round. I know it. And I can only guess Persian Fuels would have made the cut. Caspar Kahn is the most connected man in Middle Eastern oil; he wouldn’t have missed out on a top three placement.
Second-round bids have to be submitted by midnight Arabia Standard Time on Friday, a week today. But I don’t know who I’m trying to outbid, and the options are very different. If Dayna is top, I can only imagine she maxed out her budget to hit that rank. She’s making a year-on-year increase in profit, but that still doesn’t give SP the fortunes of Persian Fuels or Layton Oil. If it’s Caspar, well, I might already be fighting a losing battle. He has money. He has power over there. And he certainly has a wicked competitive streak. He’s declared he wants something. He’ll stop at nothing to get it.