Under His Touch

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “They’d probably thank their lucky stars to have the opportunity to lay eyes on you, but I think I shall reserve that privilege. You can borrow a shirt.” He swung out of bed and headed to the closet.

  “Alec?” She sounded tentative and he glanced back at her, waifish in the big bed and tangle of black sheets.

  “What, darling?”

  “Can I get my phone out of purgatory? I should send Kiki a note.”

  “Of course.” Funny how he’d quite forgot that bit of the game in their recent interlude. Vanilla sex, pillow talk and...not romance. But something very near it that had his heart feeling rather raw. “Can’t have her thinking I’ve sold you to a third-world bordello.”

  She hopped out of bed and down the hall, calling back, “They wouldn’t have me—I’m too old.”

  “You don’t look it,” he muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  Ears like a cat. He chose one of his white dress shirts and held it out to her as she walked back in, beaded purse in one hand, already scrolling through her messages. Tossing them both on the bedside table—on the side she’d slept on, he noted—she took the shirt and gave him a dubious look. “This is all I get?”

  “It’s plenty big enough, and the terrace should be warm.”

  She tilted her head thoughtfully and shrugged into it, buttoning it up and looking at herself in the full-length mirror. The forked tails of the shirt parted over her slim thighs, the final button just above her crotch. She rolled up the cuffs and fixed the collar, then met his eyes in the mirror. “Is this a sex thing?”

  Moving closer behind her, he ran his hands over her bare bum, then over the silky hair of her mound and into her wet folds, her clit swelling at the brush of his fingers. “You look charming.”

  Dropping her head back on his shoulder, she parted her thighs invitingly. “Definitely a sex thing.”

  He pressed a kiss to the side of her throat, stroked her a bit more, delighted by the way she practically purred in response, and let her go. “I’m definitely about the brunch thing. Let me get the menu.”

  She mock-scowled at him. “You’re a tease, Alec Knight.”

  “Darling, you have no idea.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alec went to get their food, saying the delivery took too long, which gave her time to be nosy. Within reason. No opening of drawers or cabinets unless legitimately looking for something—like, hello toothbrush in the wrapper, one of five he apparently kept on hand for impromptu sleepovers like this—but anything in the open or not behind a closed door was fair game.

  She wandered around, wearing only his shirt, which, though freshly starched and laundered, managed to smell like him anyway. The place had to be professionally decorated, not surprising for a man of his status—more money than time. It gave the condo a slightly formal air, however, more like a hotel room than something really his. The art was interesting. Not the stolid landscapes she’d expected of a stereotypical Brit, either, but eclectic paintings and sinuous sculptures.

  Though the colors and subjects varied, they had a consistent enough aesthetic that she’d bet he’d selected every one. They were...tactile. Somehow profoundly reflective of the Alec she’d gotten to know over the past, what, seventeen hours. So interesting to meet the passionately sensual man underneath the cool reserve, as starched as his shirts and as easily removed.

  She found a few framed photographs—arms around some men in a pub, him grinning broadly on a rafting trip of some sort, a pair of kids dressed in far-too-big grown-up outfits mugging for the camera, three women in fancy dress, raising glasses with the ocean behind them—but none she thought were the ex-wife. Not that she’d really expected him to have one, but probably a good sign that he didn’t. Not pining for the ex, then, but something got between him and Amber sometimes. Something that both saddened and angered him.

  He possessed a broodier nature than she’d suspected, than he ever showed at work. She studied an oil of a demon that flickered in and out of black flames, the pale form of a woman barely visible through the veil of her hair, clinging to him or struggling to escape. He sometimes sank into dark thoughts, him and his obsession with Faust.

  Alec found her there, handing her a shopping bag and looking at the painting, too. “I’ve always liked that one. Interesting. I see different things in it over the years.”

  “You have another in your office, by the same artist, I think.”

  He gave her a considering look. “Interesting that you recognize the style, as the subject matter is quite different.”

  “The eyes are the same.” The one at the office was a woman, depicted as a saint in the old style, with a snake skeleton under her feet. But she and the demon shared the same haunted gaze, rimmed in smoke, staring straight out at the viewer. Heaven and hell, flipped sides of the coin, much like Alec’s public and private faces. “Is she trying to get closer to him or get away?”

  “I never can decide. It seems to depend on my mood.” He smiled and shrugged, tucking that dark thing away, covering it with the sunny. “I brought you some things. You can avail yourself while I plate up the food. Mimosa?”

  “Yum. Yes, please.”

  In the bag she found—God bless him—a boar’s bristle hairbrush and a high-end skin-care kit, complete with cleanser and oil-free cream. She took them back to the master and happily desnarled her hair, then tied it back and washed off last night’s makeup. Waking up in the previous night’s smoky eyes might feel deliciously soiled for a while, but the shine dimmed at the prospect of sunny brunch on the terrace.

  “You look fresh-faced.” Alec rose when she walked out. With a brush of a kiss, he led her to the table and held her chair.

  “Thank you. I feel like a human being again. But that’s probably the most expensive hairbrush you could have bought.”

  “Is it?” He smiled easily, thoroughly composed now, no glimmer of a darker mood as he clinked his mimosa to hers. “I’ve some idea of how women are about their hair. I imagine it takes some work to take care of yours.”

  “An odd thing for you to think of.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I dunno. Most guys don’t?”

  “Well, yours is very long, but also quite silky—very fine and tangles easily. Between the two, I imagine you have to be careful.”

  “Were you a hairdresser in another life, Alec?”

  “No, but I do have three sisters.”

  “Aha. And where are you in the lineup?”

  “I am the older brother—fortunate as my parents could escape the invidious accusation that they must have been trying for a boy. The family, especially my baby sister, jokes that they were trying for a better girl.”

  “They sound like a fun group.”

  “They are.” He ate his French toast methodically, spearing berries on his fork first, adding a neat wedge of toast, dipped just slightly in syrup.

  “Do you miss them?

  “I do, yes.”

  “But you left London anyway.”

  “They don’t live in London. I grew up on the coast, near Brighton. They all still live in that area.”

  “Why not go back there instead of all the way to New York?”

  “It’s not exactly the financial center of the universe.”

  “And you didn’t want to stay in London.”

  He gave her a long look. “Too many memories. How are your eggs Benedict?”

  “Amazing.” With crab and avocado, a bit of bite to the hollandaise and a puff pastry instead of an English muffin, it might have been the best she’d ever tasted. “Should I not be asking you questions?”

  “Sorry.” He winced, chagrined, and covered her hand on the table with his. “I haven’t been in the habit of talking about my personal life much. Ask. If I don’t care to answ
er, I’ll say so.”

  “All right then.” Might as well go for the gold. “I won’t phrase this as a question, but I’m thinking your ex-wife had long hair and that’s the real reason you know what to buy.”

  “Maybe I’m partial to long hair on a woman and so have had a number of lovers as such.”

  “Vast numbers, no doubt,” she said, pointing her fork at him.

  “Hardly. I believe you overestimate my stamina. And free time.”

  “How many?”

  His mouth quirked. “A gentleman doesn’t keep count.”

  “I think not knowing the exact number falls into the ‘vast’ category.”

  “Are you seriously wanting to have this conversation?” He seemed less offended than intrigued.

  “Yes. I think it’s very interesting to learn people’s histories. I’m fascinated by you. That’s no secret.” She sipped her mimosa and fluttered her lashes ostentatiously. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  He folded his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Counting you makes an even dozen.”

  Mimosas burned like hell going back up your nose. Taking a minute to recover, while Alec watched, highly amused, she waved her own napkin at him, until she could speak. “I cry bullshit!”

  He shook his head, slow and even, eyes steady. “For full-on sex, twelve.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Golden brown glittered as he narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m selective.”

  “Even if you didn’t start until, like, eighteen—that’s only one every two-plus years.”

  “I had my first lover at twenty, thank you. Then I was married for nearly nine of those, and dated my wife exclusively for three before that.”

  “How many since you divorced?”

  Raising an eyebrow, he leaned elbows on the table and assumed the patient expression of the interrogated. “Three, counting you.”

  “You know, you don’t need to keep specifying that I count.”

  “Just making sure you know, darling.”

  “Are you annoyed with me?”

  “Not a bit of it. I find I’m...rather helplessly fascinated.”

  “Okay, so you have this place with all the gear for bondage, the mirror over the bed, the bathroom set up for water games of all kinds, probably lots more. Subs are hitting on you in the bar, and yet I’m only the third woman you’ve banged in New York.”

  “Second, in point of fact. The other was in London. Both were vanilla encounters. All of the gear was here when I bought the place from a friend. He’d equipped it and suggested I’d enjoy...exploiting the facilities.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “I’ve not, no. And no, I don’t care to discuss why not. Particularly as I believe you’re trying to distract me. I’m anticipating the revelation of your own score. Counting me, naturally.”

  Well, shit. “I really hesitate to say now.”

  “I wondered if you wouldn’t be digging yourself into a hole. Of course, you’re committed. And I shall know if you’re prevaricating.”

  At least he’d set the standard for counting full intercourse only. “Would your number go up if you counted sexual interludes that weren’t full-on sex?”

  “You’re stalling. Fidgeting, too.”

  She made herself fold her napkin and set it aside. Then met his oh-so-amused gaze. “You make twenty-three.” She clapped her hands over her cheeks, to cover the embarrassed flush. “Oh God, I’m such a ho.”

  To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. The totally sunny Alec, eyes sparkling, the sun catching red-gold glints in his brown hair. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap?” he invited, patting his knee.

  More than happy to, she brought her mimosa and sat, immeasurably pleased when he kissed her, hand settling familiarly on her bare thigh, petting her with affection. “You started earlier, I imagine.”

  “Sixteen,” she admitted. “And, jeez, I felt like I held out! I didn’t want to screw up my first time.”

  “So, you’ve been methodical—a new lover each quarter, more or less.”

  “The long-term relationship thing has not really panned out for me, it’s true. But, I should qualify that just over half of those were in college.”

  “Perfectly understandable.”

  “Not for Saint Alexander, who did, what, two years of university before busting his cherry?”

  He tugged her hair, then draped it over her shoulder, smoothing it. “Three—I went to university early. My advantage in academics seemed to be inversely proportional to my success with women. I promise I slept with the first who would have me.”

  “I find that so hard to believe.”

  “Yes, well, you’re biased.” On pretext of stroking her hair, his hand moved over her breast, cupping it through the shirt before dropping down to her thigh again, stroking seductively. “I may have learned one or two things since, as well.”

  “I’ll say.”

  He moved her hair over her shoulder, exposing her neck, and nuzzled under her ear, hand caressing up her hip under the shirt. Flush now with rising arousal, she angled her head back.

  “Now the answer to your other question—how many if I don’t count full sex?” Following the curve of her hip bone from her waist, fingers brushing down her belly, he took her earlobe in his teeth. Nipped a little. “Part your thighs for me.”

  “The neighbors...”

  “Can’t see past the tablecloth. Do as I say.”

  The sun hot on her skin, knowing he’d find her as wet as after hours of teasing, she obeyed, shuddering when his fingers slipped into her folds. Methodically, very lightly, he stroked her. “It depends on how you parse ‘sexual interlude,’” he said in a reflective tone, as if his hand wasn’t working between her thighs, making her squirm. “Not to be Clintonesque about it. Many situations for me are sexually fraught while appearing to be nothing to anyone else. Watching you walk down the hall, for example. Or when you run barefoot onto the sidewalk and stop to pull on your heels, your hair falling over your face and your skirt riding up your lovely thighs. Very sexual.”

  “Alec,” she moaned. She couldn’t stay still and dug her fingers into his shoulder.

  “Or this moment, with you all hot and slippery under my hand, would hardly rate your parental guidance from the film censors, seen from afar. Really, it’s only a bit of petting. Particularly if I stop before you come.” He took his hand away and traced down the open vee of the shirt instead, popping open a button. “Keep your thighs open. I never said you could close them.”

  A tremor went through her, brain getting more rattled. Would he undress her out here, after all? He opened the shirt just enough for her bare breast to show, though her position would block the sight from any onlookers, and returned to stroking the outside of her thigh.

  “I’d call this equally as sexual. What say you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  “It excites you when I give you orders such as that. Even benign ones.” His eyes gleamed, both with that teasing glint and the sensual challenge.

  Not something she minded admitting. “It does.”

  “So then, yes, if you parse it thus, the numbers may be vast indeed. I’ve been in many, many sexual interludes, from mild to wildly debauched.” He lifted his hand under the shirt, to thumb her nipple, watching intently. “Many women enjoy being prepared for submissive sex by another man. Or simply dominated by one. It’s not necessary to have full-on sex to have a scene with someone. In this way, darling, if either of us is the ‘ho,’ it would be me. You would likely be shocked—possibly horrified—by some of what I’ve seen and done.”

  “You said there’s nothing wrong with exploring those things, with someone else who also enjoys them.” She gasped when he pinched her nipple betwee
n thumb and forefinger, rolling her hips.

  “Be still. I do believe that. But there are degrees.”

  “Of what?” She tried to keep her thoughts on track, but they arrowed back to what he was doing to her.

  “I considered that, with you.” He still focused on her breast. “Considered offering to give you a taste in a non-physical style. Act out some scenes and let you feel what you liked of being under someone else’s control. It would have been a degree lighter. Less deeply involved.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  His gaze rose to meet hers, and that intensity had returned. The hand supporting her back wound her hair into a rope, tugging so she tipped her chin up, unable to watch as he trailed his fingers back down her center, dipping into her folds again. Excruciatingly arousing. The conversation alone would have done it. With his relentless teasing...

  “Because I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I’d already discovered that I couldn’t resist you. One taste wouldn’t be enough. I wanted all of you. To possess and ravish you in every way possible. No, don’t come, yet.”

  Taking a deep breath, she blew it out slowly, mastering the burn. Staving it off. She’d tried practicing this on her own, but it had been a hell of a lot easier that way. “I’m glad,” she said, managing to sound somewhat human. “I want you to have me every way.”

  “A good thing, as I intend to. How many for you, if you don’t count full sex?” He sounded politely interested, but the way his clever fingers worked her belied that. “Pay attention and answer my question.”

  “Not that many,” she gasped. “Like five. Once I made the move to have it all, that’s what I like.”

  “Being penetrated.” He slid a finger inside her, curling it, driving her to the brink.

  “Oh yes.” She clutched at him. “Alec!”

  “Don’t you dare come.”

  “Then stop touching me like that!” Even as the desperate words came out, she tried to grab them back, but he hushed her.

  “Did you just tell me what to do?” His tone had gone icy. “Oh dear. This shan’t do at all.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir.”