by BETH KERY
Marianne led her to stunning quarters decorated almost exclusively in whites, grays, and cool blues that matched the jaw-dropping view of the sky and the ocean outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The housekeeper gave her a tour of the enormous suite.
“That’s Mr. Latimer’s bathroom over there, and the guest facilities are right in here,” Marianne was saying. Harper yanked her gaze off the spectacular view and followed the house manager into a luxurious bathroom. So, Jacob bathed separately from his “guests” here at Sea Cliff.
“Yes, it looks as if Charles has set your bags in here already,” Marianne said pleasantly, pointing at an open door that led to what appeared to be an attached dressing room and closet with mirrors. Harper saw her suitcase and carryall near the door.
“It looks as if I’m all set, then,” she said warmly to Marianne.
Marianne left with an insistence that Harper call on one of the house phones if she should need anything. Harper sighed when the older woman closed the double doors behind her. She glanced uneasily at the guest facilities, acknowledging to herself that the existence of that bathroom was the reason for her sudden disquietude. For some reason, that room—a stupid room—underlined Jacob’s typical aloofness with women . . . his determination to keep his personal life ultimately separate from his sexual one.
“Only in the bedroom shall we meet,” Harper mumbled under her breath sarcastically as she headed toward her assigned bathroom.
Most of her irritation melted away a few minutes later as she stood in the luxurious steam shower. Was she really going to get pissy over the way Jacob had arranged his home? He wasn’t the only person in existence who wanted privacy in the bathroom. She herself preferred it.
She heard the bathroom door clicking shut and jumped in surprise. Jacob walked around the shower enclosure. He was naked.
Gloriously so.
He opened the shower door and stepped in. Her gaze dropped over him as steam curled around his long, muscular body. Her heart began to race in excitement.
So much for craving privacy in the bathroom.
“You weren’t getting started without me, were you?” he asked, a lazy smile tilting his mouth. He stepped beneath the shower spray, taking her into his arms. She stifled a groan of pleasure at the sensation of his wet naked body pressing against her own.
“I only washed my hair so far,” she replied, looking up at him.
“I wasn’t talking about hygiene,” he murmured, before his mouth covered hers. His kiss was even more sultry and hot than the shower enclosure.
“Jacob, if I don’t get out now and dry my hair, I won’t make it for dinner,” she said a breathless moment later. Despite her words, she dipped her knees slightly, running her wet body up and down against his. He was so hard. It felt divine, his ribs pressing against her breasts, the column of his stiffening cock sliding across her belly.
He stopped her abruptly by cupping one of her ass cheeks in a large hand.
“So you’ll go to the opera with wet hair,” he replied, his smoldering gaze on her mouth and his squeezing hand on her ass making focusing difficult. She managed a sarcastic look up at him.
“Okay, no wet hair,” he granted. “We’ll just have to make good use of our time, then.” He put both hands on her ass and guided her over to the shower bench seat. He urged her to sit. She watched him, taking in the wonders of his powerful back, bulging biceps, and glistening ass as he turned his back to her. When he returned, he held one of the shower attachments, a Waterpik massager. There was something about the way he grasped the golden handle of the instrument so . . . purposefully that made her eyes go wide.
“I’ve been thinking about it ever since I washed you last night,” he rasped, coming down on his knees in front of her. Harper graphically recalled his intimate, tender washing of her sex after multiple orgasms had left her limp and exhausted. She watched as he used his thumb to flip on the spray. Water jetted on the seat next to her, the pressure good and strong . . .
“I thought it’d be too selfish to bring you off again last night, as wrung out as you were.” Water droplets clung to his long lashes. He opened his hand on her thigh, spreading her knees. “But you’re not tired now, are you?”
She merely shook her head, made mute by his heavy-lidded stare and the sound of the Waterpik shooting onto the seat beside her. He lifted the massager. Warm water shot onto her thigh, massaging the muscle. He moved it up, just inches away from her sex.
“Do you like a shower massager?” he asked languidly. He stared fixedly between her thighs.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His gaze darted up to her face. “I’m asking if you ever masturbate with one.”
Her mouth fell open. She’d heard of women doing it, of course. But she’d never had the proper equipment in her house to do it herself.
“No,” she mouthed, because he’d aimed the showerhead on her mons. Water ran in rivulets over her outer sex. His head was bowed. His attention on her appeared to be absolute. The vibrations reached her clit. She whimpered softly.
“You’ve got the prettiest pussy in existence,” he muttered, moving aside the Waterpik. He ducked his head over her lap and ran his tongue between her labia, laving her clit hard. She made a choked sound and grabbed at his head, her fingers sinking into his wet hair. His tongue was firm. Deft.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
He lifted his head and lowered the shower massager onto her outer sex. She groaned, her eyes springing wide. The pressure was hard, a little too intense, in fact. It eased a mere second after she’d thought it. He’d been watching the expression on her face, and let up on the pressure valve on the nozzle. Now it was ideal. She fell back mindlessly on the narrow seat, the shower wall bracing her back.
“I didn’t think I’d like it with you,” he said evenly, studying her reaction as he moved the showerhead subtly, stimulating her. His thumb slipped between her sex lips for a moment, giving her clit a good rub. She gasped. “I don’t want anything washing away your taste. But there was something about washing you last night . . . I knew I wouldn’t rest until I saw you coming from it.”
He placed the nozzle directly on her labia, pressing tight. Water jetted onto her clit, but he applied force with the nozzle, as well. He circled subtly.
“Ah, Jesus, Jacob.” Her free hand dropped to the edge of the marble seat, where she clutched tight. Her fingers on his head formed a claw in his hair. He moved the gold handle subtly. Her body jerked in pleasure. She vibrated in mounting bliss.
“That’s right.”
The thick arousal in his tone made her eyelids open a moment later. His gaze was still glued between her thighs. His hand was between his legs, and one of his arms was moving. Her sex clenched. Her arousal spiked. He was pumping his cock as he watched himself bringing her off with the Waterpik. She moaned in anguished arousal, and suddenly his stare was on her face.
“Touch your beautiful breasts,” he demanded.
Her hands slid along her ribs and cupped her breasts from below. His arm moved faster between his thighs and his gaze narrowed. “Squeeze them, Harper. Show me your pretty nipples. That’s right,” he said through a snarl when she presented her nipples to him between her pinching fingertips.
It felt so good, her hands gliding sensuously against her wet skin. The Waterpik gushed between her thighs, making her tense in cresting pleasure. But the thing that sent her over the edge was Jacob’s fixed, feral stare on her breasts as he jerked at his cock, faster and faster.
She bit off a scream as orgasm flooded her, hot and delicious. The moment she began to shudder in release, he pulled away the Waterpik. He shoved one thigh wider and ducked his head, running his tongue between her labia, pressing and pulsing forcefully. She let out an uncontrollable shriek of pure pleasure and hugged his head to her, climaxing furiously against his mouth.
His d
eep, harsh moan brought her back to herself. She blinked open her eyes, panting. She stared between her thighs. Her mouth fell open in dazed wonder. He continued to eat her hungrily, laving her clit with a stiffened, red tongue. Then he covered her with his mouth and created a sinful suction. His focused hunger amazed her. He seemed intent on claiming what the showerhead had taken from him: her juices . . .
. . . Her complete surrender.
His hand continued to move between his thighs as he jacked his cock strenuously.
She slumped in the shower seat, drowning in sensation and pleasure as he continued to eat her. His mouth was demanding one second, a sweet decadence the next. Arousal simmered in her again. It rose to a low boil. Mindlessly, she began to cup and stroke her breasts again, amplifying her already peaking bliss.
He buried his head deeper between her thighs, his mouth creating a precise suction. He twisted his head slightly, growling. She cried out, the sensation sending her over the edge yet again.
He continued to nurse her with his mouth through the first waves of orgasm. Then his mouth was abruptly gone, and he was coming to his feet in front of her. She looked up at him desperately. He grabbed her hand and shoved it between her thighs. Instinctively, she began to rub herself. She shuddered in reanimated pleasure. Through the slits of heavy eyelids, she saw rapid, terse movement. She forced open her eyes.
He fisted his cock, pumping himself furiously. She whimpered, waning pleasure and arousal mixing in her at the vision of him. His big body was wound as tight as a spring, every muscle taut and delineated. A ripple of tension went through his rigid face. He growled between clenched teeth. Then he was coming, thick jets of semen erupting from his cock and spilling onto the shower floor. He continued to climax, jerking his cock forcefully.
Watching him, she was reminded all too vividly of that other time in the shower . . . the first time she’d seen the power and beauty of him as he lost himself to pleasure, and how aroused it’d made her. She leaned forward rapidly, pushing her lips against the flaring crown of his cock. His girth spread her mouth wide, and she heard his harsh groan. His semen spilled onto her tongue, his salty, musky flavor striking her as clean, somehow. Delectable. She dipped her head back slightly, running her rigid lips over the defined base of the swollen cockhead, loving the sensation. He grunted in pleasure and clutched at the back of her head. He tensed and growled gutturally as he gave more of himself, and she took it greedily.
She looked up at him a moment later, water and the last drops of his semen rimming her lips. He sagged slightly, panting, his gaze on her blazing. Entreating her. She sunk him several inches into her mouth, using her tongue to clean him completely.
The sound of his harsh panting twined with the beat of the water on the shower floor. He reached and grasped her arms, pulling her up. They scooted beneath the warm spray of the main showerhead. He kissed her forcefully beneath the shooting water.
“What do you think you’re doing to me, Harper McFadden?” he said against her mouth a moment later.
“Making you late for the opera?”
His solemn expression broke into a grin, white teeth flashing. She inhaled sharply at the sight.
“You’re the one who’s going to have to go out with wet hair,” he said, stroking her slick hip and ass in a gesture that struck her both as lazy and utterly possessive at once.
• • •
He left her to her privacy to get dressed for the evening, something she wholly appreciated because she doubted her frantic scurrying could remotely be considered elegant or sexy by Jacob. She managed a quick blow-dry to get most of the wetness out of her hair, and then rushed to do her makeup. Unfortunately, there was nothing that would diminish the vibrant color of her sex-flushed cheeks.
By the time she’d donned her heels and the dress she’d brought for the evening—a purple, flowing, chiffon number that tied around her neck and left her shoulders and much of her back bare—her long hair was already beginning its typical unruly curl and wave. Fortunately, she’d brought some smoothing infusion. She used it and then whisked her hair up into a twist at the back of her head. A favorite pair of chandelier gold earrings—a Christmas gift from her parents—were her only jewelry, a vintage beaded cocktail purse her only accessory.
She examined herself critically in the dressing room’s full-length mirror before she walked out to meet Jacob.
Damn it.
The color in her cheeks had hardly faded. She looked like she’d just finished a vigorous workout . . . or had phenomenal sex, she admitted to herself wryly as she stepped out of the bathroom.
He was already there, leaning over a dark walnut cabinet and shuffling through the contents of a drawer. She stopped in her tracks, just soaking in the image of him for a moment while he was distracted. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, but his bangs had begun to dry, revealing strands of dark gold. He was shaved and his goatee had been neatly trimmed, giving him a crisp, clean appearance. He wore black tweed pants and a jacket, along with an ivory shirt that came to a slight V in the front. The ensemble looked effortlessly chic and sexy on his long, lean frame.
He glanced up distractedly—even though she was sure she hadn’t made a sound—and did a double take. She smiled.
“That color is amazing on you. You look gorgeous,” he said, slamming the drawer shut and stalking toward her, whatever he was searching for apparently forgotten.
“Thank you. So do you.”
He slid his hands into his pant pockets and paused, his gaze sliding down the length of her and up again to her face. She wondered if she’d ever stop going warm under his steady, somber . . . outrageously sexy checkouts.
“I know,” she muttered, embarrassed. “My cheeks. They’re still bright red.”
His smile unfurled slowly. He reached with his hand, the back of his fingers brushing across her warm cheeks. “I like them. They make your eyes even brighter.”
“I look like I had a heyday with my blush.”
“No.” His fingers moved on her cheek. “No one could ever replicate that color with makeup. That’s the real thing.”
“That’s a really hot shower,” she breathed, enthralled by his expression as he touched her.
“That’s excellent sex,” he corrected before he leaned down and brushed his mouth against hers. Her heart gave a jump in her rib cage.
“If anyone could replicate the way you look right now, they’d own the world.”
She opened her mouth, stunned by his compliment, and then he was kissing her, slow and deep and toe-curling.
“We’re going to be late,” he said quietly a moment later.
“Then stop kissing me.”
“Stop making me,” he replied dryly, grabbing her hand.
twenty-three
She was sure they’d be late, both for dinner and the opera, but Jacob’s driver worked some kind of miracle in weekend traffic, getting them to Jardinière in record time. It was a favorite restaurant of Harper’s, but even so, she’d never gotten so much attention—either from the staff or curious patrons—than she did while accompanying Jacob that night. She had the distinct impression most people didn’t know specifically who he was. It was his air of absolute, quiet confidence and epic good looks that had them tittering. Perhaps aware of the intrusive stares, the maître d’ seated them at a secluded table to enjoy their pre-opera meal.
“You enjoy the opera, then?” Jacob asked her after they’d been served their wine and salads.
“In San Francisco I do,” she said wryly, pulling her gaze off the vision of his strong hands cutting an heirloom tomato with a silver knife and fork. It made her think of him holding that gold Waterpik. . . what he’d done to her in that shower. Her already flushed cheeks heated.
“Why only in San Francisco?” he asked, puzzled.
“They put up the English translation above the stage,”
she said, smiling. “I never learned Italian. I went to the opera when I was in Paris once, and had no idea what was going on. I was bored out of my mind.”
He grinned and took a swift bite. Something about his silence pricked her interest.
“You do, don’t you?” she asked slowly. His brows went up in a query. “Speak Italian?”
“Only a little,” he said with what struck her as modesty. “It doesn’t take me much to pick up languages. I’ve seen a few Italian women over the years, and it somehow sunk in a little.”
She laughed and his eyebrows arched in a query. “There you have it, then. I forgot you were good at math. I suck at it. They say people who are gifted in math often are also good at picking up languages. Plus . . . I’ve never had a ‘few’ Italian lovers,” she added playfully. She blinked when she saw his rigid expression. Had he been offended by her comment about his previous lovers?
He blinked and set down his fork. “What do you mean, you forgot I was good at math?”
She leaned back at his intensity, bewildered. “I just meant . . . you’re a computer programmer, right? Apparently, a particularly talented one, a savant by most accounts—” She broke off when his stare continued to bore into her. “Aren’t you good at math?” she asked weakly.
He took a draw on his wine.
“Yes,” he said, picked up his fork again. “Where have you learned things like that? About me, I mean,” he asked, his tone milder now. Still, she sensed his ruffled mood beneath his calm demeanor.
“Isn’t what I just said public knowledge? I know you like to keep a low profile, but it’s inevitable that some details about your history are going to be known.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question though, does it?”
For a few seconds, they just stared at each other from across the table. Finally, she shrugged and gave a bark of laughter, cast at sea by the turn of his mood. “I didn’t know that much about you before I was invited to the cocktail party, although I have heard of Lattice, of course, and I’ve heard your name in passing. Ruth Dannen, our society and entertainment editor, filled me in on some of the details about you.”