by Jianne Carlo
Do Genevieve and Amy know each other?
Lithe fingers dusted his bare chest; Eli's gaze dropped, and he choked on his own tongue. She'd granted him his earlier wish; his shirt lay wide open, the ends trailing his hips, and cute little fingers worked the brass belt buckle, slipped his pants button undone, and drew down the zipper.
Shit. I'm too primed. Think of something else, Gallagher. Math, commission grosses—
“Lift up,” she ordered.
She'd drawn his pants and boxers to midgroin; Eli bit the insides of his cheeks to stifle his groan and complied. A saucy, bad-girl grin danced across her lips. Stephanie slid off the couch, wriggling so the bathrobe slipped and bared her shoulders. Then she knelt between his spread knees.
Thirteen percent of nine mil—
His pulse skipped whole galaxies. His skin scorched with each touch of her hand as she tugged off his pants.
“What a graphic this would make,” she whispered, staring at his dick as if it were the center of her universe.
Please, honey, please.
One hand cupped his balls; the other flitted over his cock's head, and her movements paused when a finger dipped into the leaking slit. Fuck if his balls didn't swell and ache and haul up tight on his pubes. Eli muttered, “Steph, honey, I'm not going to last long if you continue.”
Her head tilted; she arched a brow and said, her voice a throaty, sultry promise, “You said next time, and I believe this is the time after the next time. You owe me, Eli Gallagher.”
“You get five minutes.” He conceded.
What a vision. Steph on her knees between his legs, her lithe fingers exploring his dick. Damned if he'd shoot his wad again.
Her bottom lip jutted out, and she cocked her head to one side. “Not fair.”
“Love and war and all that. Bed,” he growled. “We're doing this in bed.”
“'Kay.” She flashed him a wicked, audacious smile, bounded to her feet, untied the cloth belt holding the terry robe in place, and let it plop to the floor. Shooting him a grin that promised sinful ecstasy over one bare shoulder, she skip-swayed to the bedroom.
Eli's lungs stopped working; his brain dizzy from oxygen deficiency. He sucked in air, stumbled to his feet as her tight ass gyrated side to side, his eyes sideswiping from butt cheek to butt cheek. His knees hit the table's edge. He cussed, listed, and then staggered after her.
Where the hell was she?
Gaze sweeping the luxurious bedroom as he sprinted through the double-doored entrance, he screeched to a halt in front of a massive four-poster bed with a peaked canopy of frothy, transparent fabric that fluttered over the carved burnished wood. She must have had to hop to climb onto the extra-high mattress.
The misty material couldn't hide the heightened color that made her skin glow. Mesmerized, Eli drank her in, memorizing the way the evening sun dusted gold and hints of iridescence across her collarbone, burnishing the streaks in her mahogany waves. The impudent imp from twenty seconds earlier hadn't entirely vanished, but she sat on the bed, chin resting on knees, ankles crossed, her arms wrapped around her shins.
“Eli,” she said, her voice low and husky. “I want to touch you all over, kiss you all over, lick you all over.”
Crap, I won't last five minutes.
Her eyes widened. She licked her lips. “Really?”
“Oh shit. I said that aloud?”
Stephanie lips curved into a predatory, cavewoman, “mine” smile. She arched and stretched like a sinuous cat, moving onto to her hands and knees, her rump high. Patting the bed, she ordered, “Come here, Eli.”
He forgot to breathe. Precum spurted, and he knew if he took a step, he'd explode.
Forget five minutes, three at most.
“You come here,” he croaked, pointing at the sheepskin rug in front of the bed. “On your knees.”
She didn't hesitate. Stephanie slithered off the bed, glided to him, and dropped to her knees, her hands framing his cock.
“I've daydreamed about this.” Her breath scalded his groin, seared his balls. “I never got to see it the night of the Christmas party, and last night was just a tease.”
Both hands encircled his dick, her thumbs spreading his precum under the ridge, one short nail grazing his slit. His balls ached and throbbed, and a heady delirium coated his brain.
“Suck it, honey, please.”
She licked him the way a kid would lick an ice-cream cone, turning and ducking to sip from different angles. His thigh muscles twitched; he swallowed convulsively. Her palm weighed a testicle, kneading in a barely there caress. Eli moaned and growled and cupped the back of her head and immediately set both hands on her shoulders.
Don't scare her. Don't force her. Please fucking suck my dick.
Burying her nose in his pubic hair, she sniffed. “You smell wonderful. It's making me so excited, Eli.”
I'm going to die of desire.
Stephanie slurped the burning flesh of his groin; a pearl of moisture trickled down, the slow dripping agonizing torture. Eli's eyes crossed, his fingers dug into her shoulders, his quadriceps trembled, and his knees began to cave.
Her moist, hot mouth closed over his dick's head, and she suckled, her tongue licking a circle on the underside. Both hands rolled down the length of him, and her lips followed.
Too close, too fucking close.
“Bed,” he rasped, hauling her up the length of him, molding her breasts to his chest, groaning when the pebbled tips grazed his flesh. Frenetic desire drove him; he swept her feet off the floor, stalked the three feet to the medieval-style bed, and tumbled the both of them onto the mattress. On their sides, facing each other, they drowned in each other's eyes for long seconds.
She reached over the two inches separating him, and her fingertips feathered his jaw. “I'm not going to get my way, am I?”
Unable to stop the deep chuckle-groan rumbling up his gullet, he croaked, “Maybe after the first few hundred times.”
“Don't torture me this time, Eli.”
For a second, he caught a glimpse of the fear she'd buried, the vulnerability she tried to conceal.
“I need to feel you inside of me, to have your arms around me.”
To make you feel safe. I know, honey. I know. You just can't ask me outright yet.
“Soon,” he said. “Promise. I need to love you a little first.”
“'Kay,” she whispered. “I trust you.”
A cascade of tenderness welled up his throat, and he couldn't get a word past the balloon clogging his vocal cords. He brushed their lips together, savoring the silken satin of her flesh, inhaling the hint of Samsara she'd touched to her temples earlier. He tugged her closer, and a few stray locks of her wavy hair danced across his collarbone. He sipped the line of her jaw.
“God, you feel so good.” His lips found hers, and he groaned into the minted sweetness of her mouth. “You taste like paradise.” Slipping his tongue over the seam, Eli licked his way inside. She parted for him, her tongue curling to touch down on his upper lip, and she made tiny mmm sounds that went straight to his burning groin. While he devoured her mouth, his hands couldn't stop stroking her soft, soft skin, fingers trailing from knee to waist, pausing to squeeze her tight rump, lingering on the sweet divide, and circling the twin dimples where butt and back merged.
“Eli?” The question came out on a gasp as he moved to her breast to lave one raspberry to attention. “Now.”
He shook his head and paid attention to the other bud.
Stephanie whimpered and wrapped her fingers in his hair, urging him closer. She rolled onto her back, tugging him with her. Her hands slid down his back, nails raking twin paths down his vertebrae. He nipped the underside of her breast.
Her hot hands cupped, then kneaded his buttocks. Her legs fell open, and he settled between her thighs, his erection riding her slick mound. Her low cry fueled the rising firestorm of desire blazing through him. She arched and positioned her core at the head of his shaft, purring like a k
itten, muttering, “Yes yes yes,” as he slowly pushed inside her creamy, clenching pussy.
Paradise. Sheer paradise. He eased in a centimeter at a time, savoring the way her muscles clamped and quivered and sucked at his dick, shuttering his gaze to let his other senses absorb the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her moans and whimpers. Finally, when he tipped her womb, when he was buried deep inside of her, he held still, rose higher on his forearms, and opened his eyes. Their gazes bolted; the poignancy of their lovemaking tangled with the lust firing Eli's groin.
“Come with me, Steph,” he ordered. “Now.”
“Now.” She breathed the word as he lifted and angled her pelvis to hit that spot that drove her nuts.
Eli drove into her, the cadence of his thrusts even, unhurried, his eyes never leaving hers. Plunge, retreat, thrust, withdraw, slow, steady. Beads of perspiration collected in one corner of her mouth; her tongue snaked out to lick the wetness. He increased the pace, pumping faster in and out. When her eyes went out of focus, Eli let his body take over, stroking harder, plunging deeper, pounding her pussy. Her breath hitched; her pussy gripped his dick, clutching and fisting the head.
“Eli, Eli.” Her hands skittered across his vertebrae, her nails bit into his skin as the climax ripped through her, and he combusted, his cock shooting hot streams into her convulsing pussy. Still hard, he fucked her into another climax, this time able to relish every nuance, every expression crossing her face.
I really am a goner.
The tenderness he'd felt earlier washed over him, and the organ encased by his rib cage burned.
Shit. What a time to finally understand the true meaning of the word “heartache.” My heart aches for you, Stephanie Grant.
Her eyes slotted open, and her lips curled into the sweetest, dreamiest smile, her whiskey irises a mere halo rimming dark, dilated pupils. He had himself one happy, satisfied woman.
Eli couldn't stop the cocky grin swamping his mouth. Still inside her quivering warmth, he rolled them over, arranged her legs so she straddled him, and snugged her head under his chin, her cheek to his chest.
Stifling a “me Tarzan” whoop, he pulled the covers up over her shoulders, and fingered a lock of her hair. He said, unable to keep a note of triumph out of his tone, “I'm batting three hundred.”
“I don't know anything about baseball,” she said, peeping up at him and lifting on one elbow. “What does that mean?”
Chapter Eight
“What does batting three hundred mean?” Stephanie addressed the question to Shane Smith, who'd claimed the seat next to her.
Lisa Mason, a former ballerina and not a known sports enthusiast, replied, “It means you've lost two out of three games.”
Stephanie hadn't realized that Lisa had been monitoring her murmured conversation with Shane.
Their planned six-o'clock meeting had been postponed to eight the following morning because neither Bill nor Jacques had been able to get to San Francisco in time. Instead Iggie organized a late dinner and arranged for Bill and Jacques to stay overnight at the hotel.
She and Eli had arrived in the private dining room to find eleven guests and Iggie and Lisa sipping champagne and snacking on exquisite canapés. No one had mentioned the stolen DVDs, the voodoo dolls, or the acid in her purse. Stephanie didn't know who knew what, so she hadn't raised any of the incidents.
“Actually, technically, it means you've hit three out of ten pitches,” Shane said. “It's a baseball term. And if you're hitting three hundred consistently, then you're a star.”
“I'm batting three hundred,” Eli'd said when Iggie's call had interrupted their cuddling.
What on earth had he meant? Was it good or bad?
Since Eli was engaged in a heated discussion with Iggie and Bill Harris at the other end of the table, Stephanie couldn't gauge the meaning of his earlier comment from the scowl he wore at the moment.
Are you really interested in me, Eli? Oh gawd, I'm a horrible, jealous slut, and I can't stand Amy Cartwright. Have you really not been with anyone since the day we met?
He was handsomer than sin, drove a Porsche, wore designer suits, and all in all stood for every value she disdained. It didn't matter. Not a whit. From the minute she'd shaken his hand last September, she'd been a goner. No rationalization, no amount of logic had made one iota of a difference. He strolled into a meeting, and her gray matter got all confused. A hint of his distinctive aftershave hit her nostrils, and she drenched her underwear. He made an obnoxious comment, and she tried to rationalize it. No matter what he did, what he said, she drooled.
And now she knew the status symbols were all a facade he wore for success. Eli Gallagher rocked her universe, made her dreams skyrocket.
Blood pooled in her nether regions, and she crossed her legs under the table, hoping her pussy would stop tingling and contracting. Every time her vaginal walls clenched, her thoughts scattered. And she couldn't afford a nonfunctioning brain if Lisa decided on an interrogation.
I had his cock in my mouth. I've tasted his essence. And I think I'm addicted.
Her mind jumped hurdles.
Are we in a relationship now? Will your toothbrush reside in my bathroom? Or does it work the other way around?
She shot Eli another look and couldn't prevent the dreamy sigh that had her bones melting. Eli in full passion was irresistible. He spoke with his hands, gesticulating and drawing his point to the rapt audience of Bill Harris and Ignatius Mason. And he had an amazingly talented tongue. An image of him drawing on her breast staggered the breath in her lungs.
“Since when have you taken an interest in sports?”
Lisa's terse tone jolted Stephanie out of a burgeoning fantasy of Eli's teeth sawing her nipple. The knife she toyed with fell from her fingers. “Bill thinks Valentine should root for the Yankees in the sequel.” An out-and-out lie, but the flimsy excuse sprang out of her mouth.
Why do you make me so damned nervous, Lisa Mason?
Stephanie clamped her lips together.
“We haven't inked the contract for the sequel, so I wouldn't strain my brain on the topic,” Lisa stated. “To date, the animation division hasn't earned the company a single dime. Any thoughts of a sequel will rest on Valentine Voodoo's revenue.”
Christine Dunlop hadn't denied the rumors that the division might be sold when Stephanie had broached the subject two weeks ago. Before she even graduated from the Ringling College of Art and Design, Stephanie'd signed with Todd Technologies for two reasons: their animation division was brand-new, and they were headquartered in Bradenton, a mere forty-minute drive from her parents' home.
“If I were you, I'd make sure my résumé was current,” Lisa said, her gaze raking the cleavage revealed by Stephanie's low-cut black dress, a garment Christine had insisted she buy for this trip.
Stephanie fought the urge to slap a napkin over her exposed skin, and she gripped her cutlery with both hands as the waiter served the last course of their meal.
What on earth am I supposed to say in answer to that?
Sending a mental thank-you to God when Jacques Dardin captured Lisa's attention with a remark about French versus Californian Shiraz and the two began a heated discussion, leaving Stephanie out of their conversational orbit, she stared at her wine-stained napkin.
Is the animation division going to be tanked?
Swallowing around the charcoal-sized lump in her throat, Stephanie cut Eli a dart out of the corner of one eye to find him engrossed in a conversation with Genevieve Drummond, who sat on his right. A waiter deposited a rectangular plate in front of her. The heavy aroma of cocoa and raspberries filled her nostrils, and a wave of nausea crashed up her gullet.
Will you even tell me if you know, Eli?
All at once the tower of chocolate decadence she'd ordered for dessert morphed from mouthwatering to bilious. Stephanie forked a minuscule tangle of icing, soufflé, and cake, and then shoved it into her mouth. She chewed against a rising bitterness and darted a
surreptitious look at Eli again. Their gazes met and locked, and his gray eyes swept from her to Lisa and back again. He frowned.
“Hey, Steph, Iggie's decided to handle the interview on Sunday.” Eli raised his voice to be heard over Bill and Iggie's low conversation.
Relief crashed through her tensed and knotted muscles, her shoulders sagged, and she let out a long sigh. “That's great news. You're so much better at that stuff than I am.” She directed her answer to Iggie. “Thank you.”
“I know how much you hate the attention,” Iggie said. “I couldn't figure out what had gotten into Christine when she decided you needed to do this trip.”
Stephanie blinked and sat back.
What did he mean? Chris had had babysitting issues; that's why I'm on this trip.
“Anyone want a brandy or a liqueur?” Iggie placed his crumpled napkin on the snowy tablecloth. When no one answered, he shoved his chair back and levered to his feet. “I've arranged for breakfast to be served in the boardroom during the meeting tomorrow morning. It's been a long, tiring day, ladies and gentlemen. I'm heading up to my bed, but please, feel free to stay on and enjoy yourselves—on Todd Technologies, of course. Stephanie, I need five minutes of your time.”
She couldn't prevent her automatic glance at Lisa.
Oh boy.
Lisa's icy expression and rigid stance spoke volumes. Iggie's wife's jealousy was a topic every employee of Todd Technologies avoided. Mere mention could result in termination. Not one of Iggie's personal assistants lasted longer than six months. The CEO favored leggy twentysomething blonde starlets. Lisa had fired his last assistant the day after the Christmas party.
Flashing his wife a grim stare, Iggie added, “I'll be up in a few minutes. Order me a Hennessy, will you?”
A clear, abrupt dismissal and his tone snaked an icy finger across Stephanie's nape. Everyone else in the room noticed the glacier riding his words too.