Penthouse Player

by Tara Leigh

  His hand moved further north, slow and steady. My breath hitched. There were only a couple of inches between the hem of my dress and what I knew would be sure bliss. I bit my lower lip, wondering how far he would go in the crowded ballroom. Another inch, and I closed my eyes. Everything in that room—people talking, laughing, glasses clinking, the stacking of plates—it all faded as if Tristan had pressed the mute button. All I could hear was the swoosh of blood through my veins, and the quickening of my own breath. Beneath the lace of my bra, my nipples hardened, pushing against the fabric of my dress. Tristan could probably see them. I was fully covered, and yet I’d never felt so exposed.

  If this was how Tristan made me feel just by touching my leg, what would it be like if he made love to me? My eyes flew open, and I winced slightly. No. This was wrong, all wrong. Making love was for people who were actually in love with each other. And one thing I didn’t do, the one thing I’d never done—was make love.

  “I have to go.”

  Tristan

  There was no way I could stand up right now. Beneath my trousers I was rock hard, the head of my shaft doing its damnedest to poke through the zipper and having painfully little success. But letting Reina walk away from me . . . Just, no.

  Her skin was as smooth as fresh ice, but warm against my palm. I imagined what it would be like to slide between her thighs, trace the rapidly beating pulse at her neck with my tongue, hear her sweet sigh of surrender when I made her mine.

  Reina’s lips parted as her eyes closed, her entire face softening. I knew this was how she would look lying beneath me. But then her lids flew open and for a moment, the split–second before Reina gained control of her expression, she looked . . . scared.

  Then she said she had had to go. My hand tightened on her knee as I thought disgusting thoughts—that time I drank curdled milk on a dare, getting hit against the boards so hard during a playoff game that I dislocated my shoulder and begged the coach to jam it back in its socket so I could finish the game, any minute I’d ever spent in the dentist’s chair. My erection didn’t disappear, but at least I could stand. “Yeah, with me.” And then I led her through the ballroom and to the bank of elevators, positioning her in front of me as we faced the mirrors.

  My breath fanned the hair by her ear and I watched goose bumps march across her pale skin. Jesus Christ. If she’d been anyone else, I would have headed straight for the reception desk and checked into a room for the night, but I needed this girl in my bed. Now.

  On our descent to the lobby I gave a light tug on the zipper at the back of her dress as I whispered into her ear. “I can’t fucking wait until this is just a puddle on my floor.” Reina trembled against me, and I felt a jolt of satisfaction as if I’d reached the summit of Everest.

  I’d taken a cab tonight, but I spotted my father’s driver before a vacant taxi. He jumped to open the door. “Home, sir?”

  I nodded, afraid my voice would crack like a twelve-year-old boy playing spin the bottle for the first time.

  “You have a driver?” Reina’s voice sounded breathless and husky, her inky black eyelashes spread out like fans on the crest of her cheekbones.

  “Only occasionally.” And then I tilted her face upward and did what I’d been dying to do since the moment I saw her smile. She tasted sweet, like citrus and honey, and her lips were as soft as I knew they would be. I was lost.

  Reina

  Tristan’s hand at my waist was as hot as a poker, burning me during the long walk out of the ballroom. I kept my eyes straight ahead, not wanting to risk meeting the angry stare of the man who’d actually brought me to tonight’s fundraiser. Not that it would have mattered. I don’t think an armed robber could have forced us to separate.

  As Tristan and I waited for the elevator, desire and alcohol swirling in my veins, I studied our image in the mirror. Tristan’s tanned skin set off eyes as deep and blue as a Colorado sky. I was blonde and pale, only half a head shorter than him, although my petite bone structure was dwarfed by his breadth. We could have been mistaken for Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively, less the trailing paparazzi, of course.

  In the car, his kiss took me by surprise. Not the kiss itself, but the flood of lust that washed over me. His tongue slid over mine, long fingers threading into my hair and curving around my scalp. My hands tucked beneath his jacket, spreading out against the crisp cotton of his shirt. In that moment, nothing else mattered but Tristan’s kiss, Tristan’s touch. Tristan.

  I didn’t realize we had stopped until all of a sudden the door opened, and Tristan pulled away. “We’re here,” he whispered.

  It was only once I stepped out of the car, his hand still holding mine, that I realized I didn’t know where here was. Did he live alone? Was he single? Divorced? A thought occurred to me and I stopped short of walking through the front door of his building. Just because his tie was the slightest bit askew didn’t mean he was unattached. Married men often kept pied-à-terre apartments in the City, maybe they hired cars for the night too.

  “Are you married?” I asked. I didn’t have a lot of rules, but avoiding entanglements with married men was definitely at the top of my list. I would not follow in my mother’s footsteps. I’d seen where they led and I wouldn’t wish her fate, or mine, on my worst enemy.

  Someday I wanted the fairy tale, but not the one where Prince Charming swept me away from all of my problems. I wanted a real life, with a satisfying career and a real man who respected me enough to know I didn’t need rescuing. Eventually kids and dogs and a white picket fence to surround an authentic, chaotic life based on love, not lies.

  I’d never get there if I allowed myself to get distracted, or be lured by foolish choices and worthless promises. No married men. No unsafe sex. No falling in love until I was as sure I could possibly be that I wouldn’t be disappointed. I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  “Me?” Tristan looked incredulous, not guilty. “No, of course not.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No. Was the guy from tonight your boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Good. That’s settled. Is there anything else we should discuss? You know—allergies, whether you like long walks on the beach, or prefer tea over coffee?”

  “No. Yes. No. How about you?”

  “No. Yes. Neither.”

  I thought I could just let Tristan pull me inside, let myself believe that he wanted me more than I wanted him, that he’d overpowered me somehow. But instead he sighed, a lock of dark hair falling forward over his eye. He pushed it aside. “I don’t do this, you know.”

  “This?”

  “One-night stands. I don’t pick up girls while they’re on a date with another guy, ply them with drinks, and take them home.”

  “Me neither.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  As he stared at me, both of us in evening dress on a New York City sidewalk, I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  He took a step back, loosening his grip on my hand but not dropping it entirely, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Does that mean you’re looking for a husband?”

  I laughed, and it felt good. A break in the tension between us. “No, definitely not.”

  Tristan blinked. “So you don’t do one-night stands. And you’re not looking for a boyfriend, or a husband. What do you want, Reina?”

  I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. How could one sentence strike with the force of a lightning bolt? “How about you make me an offer?”

  A glimmer returned to his gaze, the same one I’d seen in the ballroom. He stepped back toward me, one hand curling around my neck as the other came to rest against my jaw. His thumb swept across my lips, smearing my gloss. I didn’t care.

  “I’ve already told you what I want to do to your dress. And when you’re naked, wearing nothing but those fuck-me shoes of yours, I’m going to lean you up against my wall and kiss you,
everywhere, until you’re screaming my name. And then I’m going to take you to my bed, and fuck you all night long.”

  My eyes widened. I was far from innocent, but no man had ever been so explicit about what he wanted to do with me. I lost my virginity at sixteen, slept with another guy off and on during my senior year of high school, and dated two guys throughout my four years of college. But not one of them ever made me feel the way I did right now. Like I would rather die than not spend tonight with the man whose clean-cut looks and dirty mouth hit me like an electric cattle prod.

  I inclined my head toward the front door of his lobby. “I accept.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  @BettencourtBets: We have a celebrity in our midst! Guess who made the cover of Money?

  Tristan

  I was deliberately honest with Reina. And deliberately vulgar. It was my way of giving her one last chance. Lately, every girl I met hinted at her desire for an engagement ring as soon as possible. Yet this one had laughed at the suggestion.

  Reina’s eyebrows were nearly as pale as the hair on her head, and she looked so young beneath the streetlights. But her eyes were old, wary. They stared at me now, twin pools of a shallow lake, dense with undergrowth. And it was the look in them that made me want to shock her, push her away. Instead, her lips parted, her flush unmistakable beneath her nearly translucent skin. Before she said a word, I knew she wanted me every bit as much as I wanted her.

  And so I left my doubts outside as I led Reina through the lobby of my building and into the elevator. Neither one of us made small talk as the car ascended. The zipper at her back beckoned, her lips even more—but if I kissed her, if I exposed even one more inch of her flawless skin, we would never make it inside my apartment.

  The brief walk from the elevator to my door seemed interminable, even though it was only thirty feet. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, concentrating on not dropping all of them as I searched for just one. The alarm sounded as I opened the door and I quickly put my palm on the reader.

  “Very James Bond of you.”

  I ignored Reina’s remark. “Turn around.” Her zipper slid downward with a satisfying squeal. I pushed the thin straps off her shoulders as the material slid down her body into a remarkably small lump on my floor. A smudge, really. Reina wore a black lace bra and panty set. It was thin and flimsy, and had about the same effect as Pavlov’s bell.

  I’d purchased the penthouse fully furnished, and only while looking around for a suitable surface to back Reina up against did I realize that there were too many mirrors and paintings hanging on my walls. My door, however, was perfect.

  I unclasped Reina’s bra, and slid her panties down her legs. I’m sure I could have ripped them with little effort, but I enjoyed the feel of her skin beneath my palms. When I stood back up, I swept the curtain of hair that fell halfway down her back over her shoulder and kissed the nape of her neck. Her perfume was light and feminine, as intoxicating as a drug.

  She gave a soft moan and I spun her around, pushing her back against the door. As good as Reina smelled, she tasted even better. I lingered at the delicate hollow between her collarbone and then nuzzled my way up her neck to find her lips once more, my palms testing the weight of her breasts. They were full, heavier then I would have expected on her slim frame. Beneath my hands her nipples hardened into pebbles, and I bent to taste them too.

  Reina

  Holy crap. Was this how it felt to be with someone older, more experienced? If so, I could’ve slapped myself for not trying it before. This was nothing like the horizontal fumbling I’d endured before tonight.

  I wanted to scream, to beg, to unleash a torrent of appreciative compliments as Tristan leisurely explored my body. He took his time. And he was very, very thorough. Instead I bit my lip, so hard I tasted blood. Every word I was capable of uttering would have been a brick on the scale of my inexperience. Tristan already thought I looked young, had hesitated on the sidewalk outside. I would be crazy to give him a reason to stop.

  I struggled to keep some sense of awareness, realizing that I was naked while the only article of clothing Tristan had removed was his jacket. Trying to keep up, I reached for the buttons of his shirt only to have my hands caught, lifted above my head, and held there—firmly—by Tristan. I didn’t protest. Could I have managed to undo even one of his buttons . . . probably not. I was drowning in sensation, every inch of my skin felt alive. He’d given me several chances to walk away, and I knew even now, if I were to change my mind, Tristan would let me get dressed and send me on my way. But short of that, he was very clearly in control. And I was loving it.

  His lips closed around my nipple, his tongue swirling around the needy peak. But nothing prepared me for the sharp bite of his teeth. I nearly jumped out of my skin. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but it had the same effect as a flaming arrow shot directly into my core. All thought of holding back was erased. I yelled, arching away from the door to grind my body against his. I wanted more. So much more. Now.

  There was a mewling sound as he pulled away from my breast, and I realized that I was the one making it. But he only moved to its twin and repeated his tongue/biting trick. I was panting now, my legs trembling. Tristan released my hands and dropped to his knees, his tongue blazing a trail of fire down the concave slope of my abdomen. I knew where he was going and I was both euphoric and terrified. Only one of my boyfriends had ever attempted to go down on me and it had felt okay, but not great, although he’d only done it for a minute or two before insisting that we change positions.

  My fingers threaded through Tristan’s hair, pulling slightly. “Wait,” I whispered. “I don’t think—”

  Tristan chuckled, the sound roaring through my veins. “Don’t think.” His tongue gave an experimental lick and I hissed. “Just feel.”

  “Oh my God,” I mumbled. At twenty-three, nearly twenty-four, I had considered myself experienced and world-weary. Until tonight. Beneath Tristan’s confident touch, I was a newborn colt, all trembling legs and unsure steps. And I’d actually never had an orgasm with a man before. I had gotten close, very close, but something always made me hold back. I was an expert at faking it, though. Seriously, I could outdo Meg Ryan on her best day. And none of the guys I’d been with had even known the difference.

  But Tristan wasn’t like any of the guys I’d ever been with before. Not by a long shot. He was honest but raunchy, gentle yet rough. And he needed to file a patent on his tongue. It had found that most sensitive part of me and wasn’t letting go. The pleasure built and built, until there was so much of it I couldn’t keep it all inside. A soft cry was ripped from my throat, and a vortex opened somewhere south of my navel, drawing the rest of me into it. I held onto Tristan for dear life as I broke apart, only coming back to earth when I felt him plant a tender kiss on my hipbone before sweeping me into his arms.

  I had the vague sense of an attractive apartment with high ceilings, neutral walls, and monochromatic, angular looking furniture. A bachelor pad . . . for a very wealthy bachelor. The door to his bedroom was open and it was dominated by a large platform bed. All the furniture, including the bed, was white. The sheets were a soft, dove gray. One entire wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows and another, opposite the bed, was dominated by an enormous television suspended at eye level. An oversized piece of art hanging above the headboard caught my eye. Even in the dim light it looked strikingly familiar. Too familiar.

  Tristan deposited me gently on the bed, the high thread count cotton feeling like silk against my naked back. But instead of relaxing against the thick mattress, reaching out for Tristan to join me, I scrambled backward, my hands slipping on the smooth sheets. Horror solidified into a cancerous lump in the pit of my stomach. There could only be one reason for the hanging on his wall.

  Tristan

  In my arms Reina had been soft and pliant, almost drowsy from the aftereffects of her orgasm. I, on the other hand, was as hard as I’d ever been. Having tasted her sweet center, I was d
esperate to be enveloped by her softness. But not until she cried out at least once more.

  I wanted to hold her in my arms as she trembled, feel her body contract around mine. I needed to be inside of Reina more than I had ever needed anything in my whole life.

  Except that she’d tensed up the moment I lowered her into my bed, darting back against the headboard like an abused puppy that had just peed at its master’s feet. She stared at me, the bits of gold that sparkled within the emerald of her eyes now dark, all traces of desire erased from her expression. “Why is there a logo hanging above your bed?”

  I nearly groaned. The Bettencourt lineage could be traced back centuries to Northern France. When my great-grandfather started a small moneylending operation in Paris, he’d stamped all of his correspondence with the family crest. Fast forward a hundred years and that same crest was now the internationally recognized symbol of the Bettencourt hedge fund empire.

  Of course, it had been too much to hope that I could have met a woman who was unfamiliar with the Bettencourt name at a fundraiser filled with half of Wall Street. “It’s not a logo, it’s a family crest.” The crest had been my Realtor’s way of personalizing the apartment for me. I cursed her now.

  “What’s your full name?”

  If I thought it would make a difference, I’d have turned over my entire family tree, but her wary stance told me she was just waiting for confirmation before fleeing. I stared dolefully at Reina, her gorgeous body still naked in my bed, knowing there were precious few seconds where that would remain true. I just didn’t understand why. As much as I hated it, my identity usually had the opposite effect on women. When your name represents money, generations of it, it attracts women rather than repels them. Which was why I left out that part of my equation whenever possible. I’d had more than my share of faux friends just looking for a handout, or an introduction that might lead to an internship or a job offer. Women were the worst, though, they wanted much more. And I’d almost fallen for it. Once.