His Sword

by Holly Hart

  “Really – who?”

  “What – what do you want to know?”

  “Not what,” he whispers, dragging his tongue across his lower lip. “Who?”

  I can’t take my eyes off his mouth: his lips; his perfect jawline. Charlie Thorne is the kind of man every girl dreams about, but precious few get to meet. Fewer still get to touch, or taste.

  It’s hard to breathe, hard to think when he’s this close to me. When his fingers are gently stroking my upper thigh, higher and higher with every touch, I press my legs together, and heat builds between them.

  “No one,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

  Charlie scrapes his fingernails higher. It’s a delicate, whispering touch. Electricity sparks inside of me.

  “You’re definitely not “no one”,” he says. “You’re a mystery. I can tell you that much for free.”

  “What else can you tell me?” I ask. The limousine hits a bump in the road, and we both jolt upward. I end up leaning even further into Charlie’s heat.

  I'm not an idiot. I know I’m treading on dangerous ground. Charlie’s pumping me for information even as we speak. He’s torturing me. It’s a delicious, delicate, pleasurable kind of torture – but torture nonetheless.

  “I can tell you that you’re a ghost, Penny,” Charlie says.

  He drags his fingernails higher, until he’s pulling the silk of my dress up with them. I feel it, creeping inch by inch. He’s getting higher. The cool air of the limousine kisses my skin.

  “No one’s ever heard of you, that’s for sure.”

  A warning signal goes off in my mind. But it’s faint, so faint – overpowered by the blaring of my desire.

  “You’ve been digging into me?” I ask, panting.

  Charlie brings his hand to rest at the crease where my leg meets my hip. Then – slowly – he slides his fingers down low.

  “Please, Penny. Not me. You think I’ve got that kind of time on my hands?”

  “Then who?” I whisper. Charlie’s fingers graze the lace fabric of my underwear. My whole body flinches; I arch my back as a tidal wave of pleasure courses through me.

  “Harper,” he says. He strokes my pussy from bottom to top. I close my eyes, and in that moment I don’t care that he’s looking into my past, I don’t care what he might find. All I want is what’s between his legs – and what’s between mine.

  The limousine slows. We are outside Charlie’s apartment building.

  “Don’t talk to me about Harper,” I beg. “Don’t talk to me at all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie

  The elevator dings as it reaches the penthouse floor. It breaks the spell, and Penny reluctantly drags her lips away from mine. She’s on tiptoes, and slowly lowers back, with a look of petulant dismay on her face.

  I take her hand. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Penny nods. Her face is already slightly flushed from tonight’s alcohol. I remind myself that she’s only nineteen, and that she’s probably not very often up until now. Except that doesn’t seem to be the case.

  It’s obvious just by looking at Penny that she’s lived an interesting life. She might have seemed nervous in some of the situations she’s been in since we married – but never overawed. God, I’m desperate to know everything about this girl.

  “Please.”

  We walk hand-in-hand to my private bar. I kneel down and go for a fridge stocked with French champagne.

  Penny claps her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, Charlie!” she exclaims with mock surprise.

  I glance up at her. “What?”

  “The way you’re proposing. I never knew that you were such a romantic…”

  Penny winks at me. I shake my head. “You’re a minx, you know that?” I growl.

  “I try,” Penny says, turning away from me.

  I feel a surge of blood at my crotch as I see Penny’s ass sashaying away from me. I want it so bad. I want to pull her onto me; I want to grind my cock against her. I want to push her legs apart and plunge into her: hear her whisper my name; know I’m the only man in the world she’s thinking about.

  Penny puts down her clutch purse, kicks off the Italian heels, and settles on the dark-gray suede couch that looks out over Central Park. The park itself is dark, and studded with streetlamps. They remind me of a diamond necklace gleaming in the sunlight.

  “What are you looking at?” Penny asks. She dips her head to the side and chews on her lip.

  I pull myself to my feet, tear the foil from the neck of the champagne bottle, and pop it open. I pour two glasses and carry them over.

  “You,” I growl unashamedly. “You’re Goddamn gorgeous – you know that?”

  Penny’s cheeks redden still more. It’s not the alcohol’s fault this time. She grabs a champagne flute from out of my hands, and takes a long sip – just to be sure.

  “I’m not,” she replies. “Don’t lie to me, Charlie. I’m a lot of things, but I know beautiful isn’t one of them.”

  I lean forward and kiss her. She tastes like bubbles and Chardonnay grapes. I force myself to drag my lips away from hers, but it’s hard, because it’s the last thing I want to do.

  “They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I say. I drag my finger down Penny’s cheek. Her eyelashes flutter closed, and she opens up the side of her neck.

  I kiss that too.

  “I don’t know who they are, but they’re wrong,” I say.

  Penny’s eyes flicker open. The deep blue orbs have an uncertain hue to them now – like the oceans seen from space: clouds swirling above them.

  “What do you mean?” She asks. I know what she’s truly thinking. She’s wondering if I just insulted her, when nothing could be further from the truth.

  “I’m saying: I don’t know who ever told you that you weren’t the most beautiful woman who’s ever walked this earth, but they were wrong; dead wrong.”

  Penny blushes. Damn, I should put that on a coffee cup and make her drink from it. See those perfect pink lips on the rim, just like they’ll look on the tip of my cock.

  “Stop it,” she says. But she says it in that voice all women use when the last thing they want you to do is stop.

  This time I skip the formalities. I’ve already grazed her pussy with my fingers – even if a tiny scrap of fabric stood in the way. It won’t, not this time. I’m burning up with desire. I’m desperate to drag my finger across Penny’s slit then taste her. I can’t stop imagining toying with Penny until she begs for more, until I’m so horny just from touching her that I can’t hold myself back a second longer.

  I drag my hand up her leg and pull her underwear aside with rough, careless excitement. I cup her chin with my free hand and drag her gaze back to me. The champagne flute in her fingers quivers; the pale amber liquid rippling like there’s an earthquake. Penny’s going to do a whole lot more than just quiver when I’m done with her.

  “Do you really want me to stop, Penny?”

  I pull her underwear down.

  I drag her lace thong down her perfect, milky white thighs – slowly, inch by filthy inch. Penny’s eyes track it. I’m not even sure she’s breathing: her chest certainly isn’t moving. She’s paralyzed, tantalized by what’s about to happen to her.

  Shit, I wonder where she got these panties. Did Ella buy them, too? I squeeze my eyes shut and push the thought of my secretary to the bottom of my mind.

  Penny shakes her head. “No,” she whispers with eyes closed.

  “‘No’ what?”

  “No, I don’t want you to stop.”

  God, the way she says those words, I can’t describe it. She’s so innocent, so cute, and yet so inviting. She’s almost virginal, though I know that there’s no way a woman as hot as my wife could possibly be untouched.

  There’s no way a girl this hot could have made it this far in life without the touch of a man. Still, I can’t help but choke back regret that I wasn’t her first.

  “But I’ll be your best,” I
whisper.

  Penny’s eyes spring open. “Did –?” she murmurs, a little veil of confusion on her face. “Did you say something?”

  I smile a hungry smile. I can’t help myself. “Just lie back…” I growl.

  I drag myself down Penny’s body, until I’m kneeling on the floor between her legs. She watches me the whole way, barely capable of breathing.

  If I could take a picture of the look in her eyes and frame it, I would. She’s excited, yet uncertain; like a wild animal that’s found a meal in an open clearing.

  She knows she wants it – wants me – and yet she’s not ready to trust. She’s not ready to give herself to me: not completely.

  Not yet.

  I can deal with that. It’s my job to break down her barriers. In my experience the fastest way to a woman’s heart isn’t through her stomach; it’s through a toe-curling, sheet-tugging, back-arching, blackout-inducing orgasm.

  It just so happens that they’re a family specialty.

  “Take off your dress,” I order.

  Penny’s eyelashes flutter. She flinches, and looks at me with nervousness in her eyes.

  “Don’t make me ask you again,” I growl.

  I lace my tone with an unspoken threat, but leave the punishment up in the air. I don’t need to tell Penny what it is. It’s the anticipation that kills. In truth, all I’ll do is undress her with my teeth, but Penny doesn’t need to know that.

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  Her hands slide down her body – inching down the black silk. My cock throbs as I realize what she’s doing – reveling in the feeling of the sparks erupting on her skin. Her tiny fingers clutch the hem of her cocktail dress and start to pull it up.

  “Go slow,” I say.

  I can’t help myself. If Penny was a stripper – not that a fifteen-million-dollar girl like her would ever fall into that line of work – she’d make enough in an hour to never have to work again. I want to see that silk creep up her skin. I want to see her pale goose bumps exposed an inch at a time.

  I want to watch Penny torturing me just like I’m torturing her.

  “Okay,” Penny says again.

  Her eyelashes flutter shut, and her head tips back. Her long, rich, red hair greets the gray suede couch like a wildfire flinging itself at a rock cliff.

  “Okay,” she whispers – this time to herself – talking herself into doing as I ask.

  Penny pulls her dress up millimeter by millimeter. I hold my breath. It climbs up her perfect, thick thighs. She slows before the fabric passes her pussy, and then pushes past that too. She murmurs as the cool air kisses her lips. I think about turning down the penthouse’s AC system, but a wicked grin creeps onto my face.

  There’s no way I’m changing a damn thing.

  “Stop,” I growl.

  Penny does as I say: instantly. She freezes, eyes still shut, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Good girl,” I say. “Stay like that. Don’t move a muscle.”

  “Yes,” Penny whispers.

  I bite my lip. I try to stop myself saying it, but the words spill out of my mouth regardless. “Yes what?”

  Penny’s forehead wrinkles slightly as she tries to decipher what I want, and then the muscles relax. “Yes, boss.” She groans.

  I reward her anyway. I lean forward, placing my palms on her outer thighs, and blow a thin stream of air onto her glistening slit. Penny’s back arches, her hair ripples against the couch like a burning waterfall, and she lets out a sound that’s half way between a murmur and a hiss.

  I stop blowing. Penny freezes once more. And then I kiss her, right down between her legs, in her most private spot.

  “Open up for me,” I say.

  For some reason, Penny’s thighs are still pressed together – not like a vise, but close enough it’s hard for me to get my head in between them. It’s almost as if she’s still nervous – though I don’t know why.

  It’s obvious how turned on she is. Her skin is flushed red and burning hot to the touch, and goose bumps sprout like mountains on every inch of skin.

  Penny does as I ask. It’s slow, and halting, but her legs open up like a rising drawbridge.

  A thin layer of red fur coats Penny’s pubic mound. I prefer my girls were naked, but there’s something kind of sexy about this – almost innocent. I haven’t seen a girl natural like this in as long as I can remember.

  “Go slow,” Penny whispers.

  I don’t reply. I wouldn’t tell a postman how to deliver my post, and I sure as hell don’t need Penny’s tips on how to pleasure her. There are three things in life I’m good at – making money, being a dad, and making women come harder than Niagara Falls.

  I extend my tongue and lick Penny’s pussy from bottom to top.

  If I thought she was moaning before, this is another level. I’m kind of surprised. It’s like she’s never had a man go down on her before, but I’m not complaining. My cock stiffens. There’s something about a woman’s moans that are hard for a man like me to resist.

  I layer Penny’s slit with kisses and blows and licks. I keep going until she’s dripping wet, until out of nowhere her fingernails move to my head and dig into my scalp. I keep going until she grips my head in between her thighs, until she presses my face into her pussy so tight I can barely move. I’m locked in a prison – but what a prison.

  “You still want me to go slow?” I say in a throaty whisper.

  “Please… No…” Penny whimpers.

  God, the sound of that high-pitched crack in her voice does things to me I cannot explain: filthy things; naughty things. It drives me on, pushes me past my limits. My cock’s straining fit to burst against my tuxedo pants, and my self-control is strained to the limit.

  Why fight it? Why fight fate?

  I take Penny’s clit between my lips, and apply a light, gentle pressure – flicking it softly with my tongue. She makes a sound I can’t describe – except I can: it’s pure, unadulterated desire. She rakes her fingernails across my scalp; she clenches her thighs against my head, she grinds herself into me.

  “Omigod, omigod,” Penny whimpers. “Don’t stop!”

  I don’t.

  I scrape my fingernails down the outside of Penny’s legs. I press my lips against her pussy and I go hell for leather. I keep licking and sucking and kissing like I’ve never done before. Penny’s scent, the tangy, musky taste of her pussy, it all drives me on.

  She tastes right. She smells right.

  I don’t know the science behind it, and I don’t care to. I know deep down that Penny’s the right girl for me. Call it pheromones: call it instinct; call it whatever you like: something’s pulling me toward this girl. It’s tying me to her. It’s not letting me let go.

  Penny’s back arches one last time. Every single muscle in her body tenses, radiating the orgasm that’s crashing through her. I feel the vibrations through my head, through the fingers she’s intertwined through my hair.

  I’m right there, with her. I wish I could sense what she’s going through right now. I need it. I need to feel it. I need to feel her tight pussy around my cock, her heat. I need to push myself into her and let myself go.

  I pull myself free of the cage Penny’s created with her legs, and climb up her body, kissing as I go.

  I barely touch the lost, hungry, animal kiss on her mouth, grazing her lower lip between my teeth before I let go.

  “How was that?” I whisper as I nibble her ear.

  Still, I don’t let up my assault on Penny’s senses. I know better than that. In my experience, a woman’s orgasm is a delicate thing. Unlike a man’s – basically guaranteed – a woman’s is like a balloon with a tiny hole. You need to keep building, keep pumping, keep kissing, keep overpowering her senses, or else all of your hard work will drain away.

  Okay. I’ve strained the metaphor a bit far…

  But you get what I mean.

  I walk my fingers down Penny’s stomach, scrape my fingernails on her mouth, and run them through her pubic
fur. I drag my index finger up her pussy, and then inserted, massaging the ribbed spot of skin I know so well.

  Penny opens her eyes. The blue orbs look more like an ocean than they ever have.

  But something’s wrong.

  There’s a storm in her eyes: she’s roiling and uncertain.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, concern – for now at least – overpowering my desire.

  It’s like Penny can’t speak. She glances down, and I follow the direction her eyes are pointing in. Her pussy: I reluctantly remove my finger from inside her. I don’t understand what’s just happened. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.

  “Did I do something –?” I ask, straining my brain for any evidence of what it might be.

  Penny shakes her head. It’s like her tongue is encased in a concrete block.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Don’t worry – you can tell me anything.”

  “Charlie,” Penny whispers, closing her eyes. She squeezes them shut, as if she’s building a wall around her. “I lied to you.”

  I freeze. Was I right? Is there more to Penny than meets the eye?

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not what you think. I – I’m a –”

  Chapter Twelve

  Penny

  Virgin.

  You ever wake up cringing with embarrassment over something you did a decade ago? I do: All the time. So you can imagine how much worse it is this morning, when the shame’s only ten hours in my rear-view mirror.

  I wake up.

  My eyelashes flutter open.

  And I’m immediately attacked by a deep, blushing sense of embarrassment. My cheeks burn hotter than the surface of the sun. I pull the sheet covering my body up to hide my face.

  It does little to help.

  I replay last night’s events in my mind. I was a little tipsy – I remember that – but in truth the champagne was only enough to add a little spice to the proceedings, I wasn’t drunk. It would take a heck of a lot more than that!