by Thea Devine
“I—”
“What are you getting, MJ? Not desperate again, I hope. Those guys can scent desperation like a tiger on the hunt.”
She hated doing that, but it was as much for her as for MJ. If they weren’t careful, they would both sink into the must-have-a-man muck and then the never-ending dissection of why the bastard walked out on them.
“I just want to try him on,” MJ said, undeterred. “I think you said that’s okay under the Code.”
“Is he possible?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old?”
“Late forties, I’m thinking. Nice, fit, tall, well mannered. Married.”
“They always are,” Brooke muttered. “So what did you think I was going to say?”
MJ was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. Experiment. See if he makes an offer.”
“My guess?” Brooke said. “One dinner, one all-night session. He’ll promise to call but he won’t. And he’ll shift his business somewhere else.”
As would Hugh Steffen, under the same circumstances. He would book another hotel if he ever got involved with her, and she would have lost her hotel all those lovely dollars and massive premium charges for platinum services rendered. But she should keep her mind on MJ’s problem, not the potential services that could be rendered to Hugh the God Steffen—by her.
It wasn’t a big problem. MJ could have her date, and MJ could have her week of anguish and angst if she must.
“I will adhere faithfully to the Code,” MJ promised.
“I’m sure you will,” Brooke replied. She wouldn’t.
“He could be the one,” MJ said.
“He could,” Brooke agreed. He couldn’t. It just wouldn’t happen that easily. At least as she envisioned it. They were novices still.
But MJ, as always, must learn the hard way.
I should listen to myself.
But this is different.
“Let me know what happens,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Sure. I love a good soap opera as much as the next girl.” I’m about to live one—and I don’t care about the rules…
Oh, dear heaven, what was she thinking?
MJ was furious with Brooke after she hung up the phone. Brooke had explicitly said that they had permission to try someone on. And MJ had already decided she was going to take full advantage of any man who walked into her life and wanted to treat her right.
She was playing by the rules. Her gentleman had made arrangements to come pick her up. Then he’d asked her to name the restaurant, and she had chosen Le Bernardin.
She’d obsessed for two days over the dress, until she happened on a restrained little black silk Stephen Burrows dress with a sexy oval split at the bodice that had just come into the resale shop. She’d wear the simplest jewelry: a pearl choker—weren’t pearls always correct?—with a flash of gleam at the ears. The shoes, strappy silver Christian Louboutin sandals, and a bag to match with a glittering buckle to mirror the earrings.
And then the makeup—how did you look like a lady who wanted to be fucked? She settled on smoky eyes with a more nude, not-so-obvious lip gloss. Sleek hair. No paint anywhere else, toes or fingers. She thought the look was dead-on—smoldering but not trashy, sensual but not flashy—beautiful, elegant, and sexy—everything she felt, while she waited for the urbane and sophisticated Mr. Dallan Baines to come for her.
But two things hit her as she opened the door of her apartment to admit him. The first was that this was a man she was dealing with, not some randy, grabby college frat boy. And the second was, this was grown-up stuff. She was dealing with a man of experience and charm who knew how to control his libido and how to play with a woman.
And if he wanted sex…?
Up to you…
The thought scared her. What if he really left it up to her whether they tumbled into bed or not? Except he would make it a long, slow, sensual dance of two consenting partners with parameters fully defined—she was certain of it.
Her body felt creamy suddenly, and she went breathless with longing. She yearned for sex with someone who knew what he was doing and how to do it.
“So,” he murmured, taking her chiffon shawl and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Charming place.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say. When in doubt, be polite and silent.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
He had a car waiting.
Oh, God, this was so out of the realm of her experience, her knees went weak as he helped her in and settled her into the luscious tactile leather seats. He guided her from the car and into the restaurant. They were seated immediately at a very nice table.
This was so far beyond her expectations, she felt like swooning. But it was so much better to act as if this were nothing unusual and let him adore her over dinner.
“You are very beautiful,” he said as he gazed at her over the menu.
She gave him a faint, shy smile. “So are you.”
That made him smile, and he consulted the menu for a long moment. “May I order for both of us?”
“I wish you would,” she murmured, afraid of ordering something too expensive. She was pleased to see a look of satisfaction flash in his dark eyes. That was a clue that he liked being in charge and liked that she had immediately deferred to him.
He ordered dishes that she could manage without complication, as if he knew this was all new to her and he was enjoying her moments of delighted discovery.
All the while he made light small talk about business—he worked for a Wall Street law firm quartered uptown—about her life, her interests, things of interest in the news, the newest hit on Broadway.
They ate companionably, leisurely. He fed her some snapper, some foie gras, some wine. He ordered champagne, Krug Clos du Mesnil, and poured for her, toasting the beginning of what he hoped would be a mutually satisfying relationship.
He dipped his fingers in the champagne and brushed her lips with them. She shyly licked them, her excitement mounting. Then she sucked them hard, and that sensual, knowing look flashed in his dark eyes again. He wanted her. She knew that, although with a man like this, she didn’t know where the lines were drawn.
This was the moment, as dangerous and fraught as any first date, but with many more levels to the bargain. This was the moment for her, as well—her body was open and creamy for him, and if he touched her, she thought she would just clot and pour into his hands.
He smiled gently. “Let’s get the important things out of the way before we go any further. Yes, I’m married, and my family lives up in northern Westchester.”
“I see,” she murmured. What did she see? Nothing was different, really.
“MJ? Is that a problem?”
“Not at the moment.” She sipped her obscenely expensive Krug.
“And beyond?” he pressed her.
“Why?” she dared to ask, her hands shaking slightly. This was way outside her experience, this was a scene she might have imagined, or might have swooned over in a lush 1950s movie, but it was never something that was ever going to happen to her.
“I want to sleep with you—”
Oh, God, little darts attacked her vitals as he said that—
“—and I know these things always start out with good intentions that nobody gets hurt, but they always wind up raw. Especially with someone you’ve met in a business context. It destroys the business relationship and it kills the personal one. Even if you go into it understanding no one is getting divorced, and this will never lead to anything more permanent, it will happen.”
“So why do it?” MJ asked curiously.
“Because I want to sleep with you. And you want to sleep with me.” And the unsaid: Because I can…“And because there’s something about you that’s irresistible.”
This was more familiar territory—the come-on she knew, the one calculated to reel her into his arms, into his bed.
She
tilted her head and gave him a considering look. “That’s a wonderful line, Dallan. I don’t believe it for a moment.”
He grinned at her, his eyes lighting with that pure smug male certainty. “That is what we must explore, then.” He summoned the waiter and the dessert menu over her protests. “You must have something sweet and luscious, MJ. Mousse for the lady.” The waiter bowed and withdrew.
“Mousse is for controlling hair,” MJ said tartly.
“Let’s talk about it,” he said practically. “What if we did, what if we slept together—what would be your expectations?”
Oh, Lord, there were no Mistress Club rules for this. Brooke had better make some guidelines; MJ felt like she was drowning in an ocean of don’t knows.
“What would be yours?” she asked, desperately throwing the question back to him.
He gave her the compliment of seeming to give it some thought, but she was almost certain he’d worked every detail out well before this evening, perhaps even before he’d decided which of all the women he met or worked with he would propose to take to bed—tonight.
“I shouldn’t see you at work. I’d give you enough notice so that wouldn’t happen.”
“That sounds fine.” And it would also minimize him seeing her after the affair crashed and burned. Fine with her.
“I consider a relationship like this happily ever now. I expect that you will not be looking for a happily ever after from me, because there won’t be one.”
Anger flared at his presumption and his callousness. “And I don’t want one. I’m too young to tie myself down to any man this much older than me. I’m looking to experience everything I can, with as many men as I can. If it seems as if you’re growing too attached, I won’t hesitate to walk out the door.”
She was almost certain he didn’t quite like the as many men as I can or the this much older than me, but all he said was, “Then we understand each other.”
She was trembling so hard she could barely think. But she had to feign a sangfroid she didn’t feel. “Is there anything else?”
“I want all your free time and your naked body—exclusively.”
Did she really want that? Limited to one man with no reciprocity? This minute, she wanted that desperately. The thought of being the exclusive lover of this gorgeous, elegant man made her insides melt. It had been so long…And at least he had clarified what he wanted beforehand to avoid misunderstandings.
Or was it just verbal foreplay? Her body was responding as if it were.
But he was dictating all the terms, and that was bad Mistress Code form. How would Brooke want her to respond to that?
“We’ll negotiate that after I try you on,” she whispered.
He raised an eyebrow. “Try me on?”
She was shivering now with her daring. “Dear Dallan, if we don’t fit…”
“I assure you, we will fit.”
She liked the tone of pique in his voice and plunged on. “But I won’t know until I have you naked and tight between my legs, Dallan. That’s the only way I can know.”
“So you want my naked penis, do you?”
“To try on,” she emphasized. “That’s one of my requirements—the fit of a prospective lover is very important to me.”
“And what happens if a penis doesn’t fit your expectations?” he asked silkily but with a slight edge.
She shrugged. How on earth could she be so laissez-faire with this tiger of a man who looked like he wanted to devour her.
“What else?” he growled tensely.
She thought a moment, trying to dredge up the Mistress Code and failing miserably, because the thought of his naked penis reaming her sent every other consideration out of her head. “I expect that you’ll have arranged someplace luxuriously comfortable where we can be together, if you meet my expectations.”
“That’s already been arranged. And my penis will meet your every expectation.”
“I hope so.” Again that little edge to his tone. This sex talk was ramping him up as much as it was her, and she didn’t know where she’d found the nerve to say these things to him.
Something in his eyes. Something in her? Maybe the thing he’d seen in her that she knew nothing about, but he did?
Things that made her feel reckless and hot and mindless of what she said to him, as long as she kept his interest piqued and his desire stoked?
She felt…powerful. She slanted a considering look at him, playing for a moment to pull herself together, and decided to pitch in and damn the consequences.
“I think we should go now, because any further discussion is useless until I feel you between my legs.”
“Oh, this discussion has been very useful, MJ. You’ve shown me many hidden facets I never expected.”
He signaled for the check. “I can’t wait. Come. My apartment isn’t far away.”
Chapter Four
Of course he had an apartment—that’s already been arranged—close by where he worked and played in the city.
MJ didn’t care. She was shaking with her audacity at taking on this man and obliquely questioning his sex, his penis, his vigor.
But she would be on his turf. She’d already gotten the dinner, and if things worked out, perhaps there would be more.
“Do kisses count?” he murmured in her ear as he steered her to a high-rise, high-end apartment building in the east sixties.
“Not as much as other things,” she replied daringly.
“Do you kiss penises?”
“I kiss them, suck them, play with them…blow them…” Words were easy, so easy that they were on the elevator before she grasped fully and for real that she and Dallan Baines were going to have sex, and that she was going to play bitch because she’d started this game and she couldn’t let him win that easily.
He had been erect practically since they left her apartment, and he had removed his jacket before the elevator stopped, had his key at the ready and his arm firmly around her waist as the doors opened to a plush, subtly lit hallway.
He propelled her toward a door at the end of the hallway, inserted the key with all the care and sensuality he’d use to insert himself into her moments from now, and then he flung open the door to a little jewel box of an apartment overlooking Midtown.
She barely had time to register the details of the designer-furnished living room, the galley kitchen, the vestibule that connected those rooms to the entrance to the bedroom, before he nudged her in.
The room was washed with backlights, the bed was king-sized, covered in Ralph Lauren suede and piled with pillows.
She had made the rules, and she would accept the consequences.
He unzipped his fly and eased out his jutting penis; its shadow sprung out against the wall and it was as if there were two penises seducing her.
“So tell me, MJ—tell me this penis won’t fit. Tell me you won’t feel me spreading and penetrating you. We may well find that you don’t fit me. So maybe you should beg me for it.”
“Not until I try you on,” MJ said firmly. Inside, she was shaking with anticipation, fear, lust, excitement. She had never tormented a lover before, she had never had a lover this sophisticated or this erotically verbal.
“You should be on your knees in gratitude to have a penis this hard at your disposal.”
“We don’t know that yet, Dallan.”
“I know that,” he said, easing onto an overstuffed chair and positioning himself so his shaft was limned in the low light.
Her body was already butter soft with need. He was so all there, a thick, long, rigid pole of pure male power beckoning to her to climb onto him and embed him deep inside her.
She slowly stripped off her dress, letting it slide down her naked body into a fluid black puddle at her feet.
His eyes blazed with undisguised lust. She sat on the bed, leaned back on her elbows, and spread her legs so her waxed slit was in full view.
“So Dallan…I’m here,” she murmured. “I’m naked, I’m ready for you, b
ut,” she added coyly, “your penis isn’t here.”
He made a growling noise. She saw him spurt, and then jack himself out of the chair and onto the bed, still fully clothed.
“What a bitch,” he growled in her ear as he mounted her fast and furiously, ramming his hot, throbbing head between her legs hard and deep. “What a tease…I like that, I like this game. But I’m going to win…am I deep enough yet?”
“Deeper,” she breathed, lifting her body agilely against his so he could thrust harder into her.
“Tell me how it feels, tell me if it fits…”
“I can’t tell.” She was panting. “Hold still.”
“I can’t. Yes or no…now…”
She bucked as he drove into her. “Be…still…”
“Tell me…” He poled harder. “Does it fit?”
She made a pure animal sound as he jammed himself into her even tighter.
She drew a sibilant breath. “It’s perfect,” she breathed, arching up to take him even deeper. “Fit, feel, heft, hardness…perfect.”
“I knew it.” He drew back and she braced herself for one last blasting drive. But instead, he pulled away from her spread legs, sat back on his haunches, and looked at her creamy pale body, her hard pebbled nipples, his juices seeping between her legs, the pearl collar around her neck, her tousled red hair and her sex-flushed skin. She was perfection except for that cock-sapping challenge he hadn’t expected. “But because you doubted that, you’ll have to beg me for it, MJ—or you can just leave.”
She stared up at him, at his thrusting shaft still wet with the essence of her, at his hard, adamant expression and simmering eyes, and she felt as disoriented as if she had fallen down the rabbit hole. “What?!”
“You have to beg for it now, MJ. I don’t give it away to any cock tease I happen to be interested in.”
“Are you interested in me?” she breathed.
“I look at that creamy skin of yours and that body and your succulent mouth, and I ache to stuff myself between your legs and live there. I want to be your teacher and your master. I never thought you’d question my prowess. I thought you wanted us to fuck as much as I do. But apparently only if my penis fits.”