by Nicola Marsh
The modern wave wasn’t taking over the catwalks yet, but give it time. And he intended on cresting that wave with contemporary designs the fashion world had never seen.
Opening a branch of Fourde Fashion in Melbourne couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. It gave him time to prove he could launch a successful solo show and lend kudos to his upcoming venture.
The one driving force behind everything he did these days.
He picked up a photo of Sapphire and Ruby, with their arms slung across each other’s shoulders outside the gigantic laughing mouth of Luna Park, and rubbed the dust off the glass with his thumb. It must have been taken a few years after he’d left. Ruby looked in her late teens, Sapphire early twenties, but the age difference was more pronounced by the worldly expression on Sapphire’s face.
She didn’t look like a young, carefree woman having a fun day hanging out with her sister at a St Kilda amusement park. The slight crease between her brows, the rigid posture, the half-smile screamed too much responsibility.
He should know. His siblings had worn the same expression since the time they’d graduated from high school and gone straight into the fashion business, taking night courses to stock up on their theoretical knowledge while working alongside their folks during the day. Before they’d all moved to Paris, leaving him behind.
He’d thought it pretty cool at the time, being trusted enough to live with a dotty aunt who didn’t care what time he got home from school or who he brought with him. At least that was what he’d told himself in order to handle the seething emotions he’d hidden deep down.
Though what had he expected? Considering his folks’ focus on Fourde Fashion, it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that they’d left him behind.
His family were virtual strangers. Living in the same house, barely conversing. Jerome had sat him down when he’d turned twelve and told him the cold, hard facts. With two teenagers, their folks hadn’t banked on having a third child—a ‘mistake’. They had goals to achieve and glass ceilings to shatter.
Jerome’s advice had been simple: if he didn’t expect anything he wouldn’t be let down.
He’d remembered that when they’d left him behind, but it hadn’t made the pain any easier.
They’d cited a logical reason, of course: wanting him to finish his education at the prestigious private school so he had a ‘good grounding in order to enter the family business’ when he joined them.
No choice. An order. One that he’d been determined to ignore until he’d got lousy grades for his final exams and realised he’d rather be doing something creative than bumming off his folks.
When he’d joined them in Paris and the PR magazine job had fallen through he’d been determined to prove his worth. He’d been given free rein to demonstrate what he could do and ended up costing the company and losing his parents’ respect because of it.
In not following protocol, being cocky and over-confident, he’d let his family down. And it seemed as if nothing since had been able to convince them of his seriousness when it came to work.
The long hours he put in, the extra duties he assumed, the collaborations he worked on—all had garnered the barest of recognition from his folks. Sure, they’d given him an end-of-year-bonus like the rest of their workers but the acknowledgement he secretly craved, where they’d recognise his creativity as being ahead of its time, had never come.
Until he’d realised something. He could never be who he truly wanted to be while under the Fourde Fashion brand.
For that was all his parents cared about: living up to their name, producing the same kinds of clothes with a different twist according to season and year. They wanted to deliver on the promise of sameness, while he longed to be different.
It made good business sense, and their long-standing reputation in the fashion industry was testament to it but he was tired of being part of a crowd.
He wanted to stand out—wanted his designs to stand out.
But first he had to ensure Fourde Fashion in Melbourne produced the best show Fashion Week had ever seen.
His swansong for Fourde’s and a launching pad for him.
Doubts plagued him—had he read the fashion scene correctly or was the timing all wrong again—but he’d never know unless he tried.
He’d mentioned leaving the company to his folks and they’d hardly blinked. No begging him to stay. No heaping praise on him as a valued worker. They’d given him the customary brush-off with ‘we’ll discuss this later’ and assigned him to head up the Melbourne office.
If they thought the token CEO role would make him stay with the company, they were mistaken.
He appreciated the opportunity, but that was all it was. An opportunity for bigger and better things. Done his way.
And then he’d put his other plans into action.
‘Don’t know about you but I’m starving.’ Sapphire padded silently into the room, barefoot, hair down, clad in worn denim and a teal tee, and he took extra care replacing the photo on the table, so he wouldn’t give away the slight tremor of his hands. Hands that wanted to be all over her.
She frowned when she noticed he’d been checking out old photos. ‘I’m ordering take-out. You’re welcome to stay.’
He should go.
He should grab his stuff, head for the office, and bury himself in work all night in an effort to forget how sweet and tousled and available she looked right at this very minute.
He should remind himself how important this showing was, and how getting involved with Sapphire Seaborn on any level other than business was a monumentally daft idea.
‘Sounds good,’ he said, silently cursing his weakness when it came to this intriguing woman.
‘Fancy anything in particular?’ She rifled through a stack of restaurant flyers next to the phone, glancing up when he didn’t answer.
She had Indian in one hand, Thai in the other, and all he could think was how he’d like to devour her.
His hungry gaze started at her feet, the high arches and long toes, moved up legs encased in denim that could have been poured on, skirted around the area that had driven his decision to stick around, lingered on her small, firm breasts before eventually meeting her eyes.
He’d expected censure and condemnation for his blatant perving. He hadn’t expected an answering heat that had him hard in a second.
If she gave him a sign—any sign—that she wanted this as much as he did he’d vault the sofa and take her up against the wall.
He willed her to say something, to be brave enough to articulate what was zapping between them.
For the decision had to come from her. He knew what he wanted—hot, wild sex—but would she view it the same way?
Sapphire was so intense, so focussed, would she read too much into a quickie to take the edge off?
He’d never mixed business with pleasure before, had turned down numerous models, campaign managers and even rival CEOs. It never did to complicate matters. But this time with Sapphire he’d compartmentalise.
But would she be able to do the same?
His fingers curled into his palms and he clenched his hands into fists, holding himself perfectly still. He couldn’t afford movement, for when he did move it would be in a beeline straight for her.
Their gazes locked for an eternity—his taunting her to accept his unspoken dare, hers surprisingly bold.
He waited, unaware he’d been holding his breath until she broke the deadlock and his lungs emptied in a rush.
‘I fancy Thai.’
Not quite the I fancy you he’d been hoping to hear and not half as satisfying he’d hazard a guess.
As she studied the menu with intense fascination he came to a lightning quick decision—the kind of impulse he’d been famous for in his wilder partying years, the kind of decision that had made Paris sit up and take notice of his first dramatic show. Not in a good way.
But this was different. He was a decade older, a decade wiser. And going after Sa
pphire because he wanted her was a purely primal drive he needed to slake before it became an obsession and screwed with his concentration completely.
Ignoring this attraction was growing old fast. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t spend the next thirty days working alongside her without going insane and taking enough cold showers to contribute to Melbourne’s water shortage.
There was only so much curtailing a guy could take.
‘Sapphire?’
She took an eternity to glance up, and when she did she was worrying her bottom lip with her top teeth. ‘Yeah?’
‘I think I should go.’
Schmuck that he was, he gave her one last out. If she agreed, he’d bolt—make that hobble—out of here. It was his final concession to the reformed him. One last attempt to do the right thing before he went frigging insane with wanting her and took whatever he could get.
He’d leave if she asked and make sure all their future meetings took place within office hours in an office environment. There was only so much temptation a guy could take.
He had no idea how long they stood there, the silence taut and expectant.
He could hear a clock ticking somewhere behind him, the dripping of a faulty tap, and eventually the soft, wistful sigh of a woman as confused as him.
‘Why?’
One word. That was all she uttered. It was enough.
He stalked towards her, even now expecting her to backtrack, to make some flimsy excuse and turf him out on his ass.
Instead she stood ramrod straight, head tilted, unwavering stare defiant.
Lord, he wanted her. Wanted her with the kind of consuming lust that could make a man forget his name.
This thing between them went beyond a teenage fantasy, went beyond the basic craving for sensational sex. He saw something in her that called to him on some base level that defied logic. He couldn’t label it—didn’t want to. What he did want was her. Naked. Hot. Wet.
He stopped a foot in front of her, close enough to hear her sharp intake of breath, too damn far away when he wanted her body plastered against his.
‘If I stay, it won’t be for food.’
‘Food can be overrated.’ Her lips curved into a smug smile, sexy as hell. The kind of smile to give a guy depraved thoughts. ‘So why are you staying?’
‘You need me to spell it out?’
‘I’d rather you show me—’
He claimed her mouth in a brutal kiss. No thought for sweet seduction or taking it slow. No thought beyond the incessant pounding in his head urging him to be inside her now.
She matched him, grabbing his shirt lapels, yanking him closer so that their bodies melded in a fusion of heat.
And it still wasn’t enough.
He changed the pressure, his mouth sliding over hers in slow, tantalising sweeps, and she moaned, straining towards him.
With a tenuous hold on his self-control he grabbed her butt and hoisted her onto the breakfast bar—his turn to groan when his hard-on settled between her open legs. Her heat penetrated the clothing barriers between them and he wanted in.
She closed her eyes and arched into him, her abandonment so at odds with her usual reserve. He would come way too soon.
When her hips involuntarily moved, rubbing against him, he bit back an expletive. One that described what they were about to do.
If they had protection.
‘Do you have condoms?’
Her eyes snapped open, incredibly blue amid the pink blush stealing into her cheeks. ‘No. Don’t you?’
He shook his head and cursed again. Cursed his stupidity in starting something he couldn’t finish. Cursed his new lifestyle choices. Cursed the same impulses of the past that had got him here—frustrated as hell.
‘You think Ruby would have any stocked in the bathroom?’
Sapphire frowned. ‘Nope. She cleaned all her stuff out.’
For the first time in a long time he was at a loss for words. This was awkward. Rampaging lust was fine in the heat of the moment, but now…
‘Though I guess we could double check?’
Her tone held a hint of devilry. He liked it. It meant she hadn’t retreated or gone brusque on him. It also meant she might be up for other stuff if latex couldn’t be found.
She snagged his hand and tugged him into the bathroom—surprisingly large compared with the rest of the apartment.
It had a glass-enclosed shower, a marble tub big enough for two and a floor-to-ceiling mirror with distinct possibilities.
She released his hand long enough to rummage through three drawers and a cabinet under the sink. He would have laughed at her frantic search if he weren’t practically crippled from wanting her so badly.
When she straightened the disappointment in her eyes vindicated what he was about to do.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Her mouth down-turned. ‘Yeah, it does. I don’t do unprotected sex.’
‘Neither do I.’ He reached out and touched her collarbone, then let his fingertip trail downward, around one breast, then the other, in slow concentric circles, until she sagged against the vanity. ‘But there’s loads we can do without the grand finale.’
Her eyes lit up as she registered the meaning behind his words and before he could say anything she’d whipped off her tee-shirt, giving him an eyeful of demi-cup black satin and pushed-up cleavage.
‘Well, I guess that answers my next question—whether you’d be up for it or not.’
In response she reached for his zipper, tugged it down and slid her hand inside.
He gritted his teeth as she stroked him through the cotton of his boxers, until she reached the tip and he damn near exploded.
‘Turn around.’
Her hand stilled at his command and her eyes widened, but he didn’t see fear. He saw excitement and heat and yearning. Major turn on.
He missed her touch when she eased her hand out of his pants and swivelled towards the mirror but this would be worth the wait.
He wanted to watch her come.
He wanted to watch her watch him.
With surprisingly steady hands he popped the snap on her jeans, unzipped her and slid the denim down to mid-thigh-level.
Man, she was wearing a thong. Black satin. Same as the bra. He liked black. Some would say it matched his soul, but he didn’t agree.
Right about now his soul was red. Fire-engine red. Crimson. The colour of passion and sin and debauchery. Maybe he’d buy her red lingerie for next time.
Her gaze was riveted to his hands as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic riding low on her hips and tugged, revealing her to him.
That expletive spilled from his lips again as he pressed against her—a gentle pressure that had her head falling back to rest on his shoulder.
But she didn’t stop staring at his hand as he slid a finger between her slick folds, circling her, her wet heat driving him slowly but surely insane.
‘Do you trust me?’
‘I’m watching you pleasure me. What do you think?’
He grinned. Even now she was feisty. He liked it.
‘Okay, then.’
He made quick work of tugging down his pants and boxers, biting back another curse when his hard-on made contact with her butt.
‘Spread your legs a fraction,’ he said, and slid between them when she did. The exquisite contact of his shaft with her moist heat almost undid him.
Amazingly, she didn’t stop him or ask questions. She trusted him not to enter her and that knowledge, after all he’d been through over the last year, turned him on more than anything she could have said or done.
‘Watch.’
He pushed forward, his erection fully between her legs, and she gasped as she saw him appear just beneath his hand.
‘Keep watching.’
And she did, as he slid in and out between her legs, mimicking what he’d give anything to be doing deep inside her now.
As his finger picked up the tempo she started moving, her hips pushing back
against him, urging him to go faster.
So he did. The torturous friction was building. Peaking. Crescendoing.
She arched a second before she screamed, riding his hand as he’d have liked to be riding her.
He eased away, shocked by the intensity of her orgasm, and even more suprised when she dropped to her knees.
‘What are you doing—?’
‘If you have to ask, you’re not as good at all this as I thought.’
He would have laughed if she hadn’t taken him into her mouth. All the way.
It was his turn to watch, but he didn’t know where to look. At his fantasy come to life or in the mirror, where what she was doing was reflected back to him in eye-popping erotic detail.
He settled for watching her—the golden sheen of her hair beneath the bathroom lights, her lips surrounding him.
Then she started using her tongue and he lost it. He’d been close when she came, and all it took was three sweeps of her tongue around the tip.
His orgasm ripped through him with the force of an explosion and he swore loudly.
As residual shudders of pleasure rippled through him he held out his hands to help her stand.
She ignored them, pulling up her jeans as she ducked down to the sink.
Uh-oh.
He made himself decent, waiting for her to finish and look at him. The tap eased to a drip, she used a handtowel, still didn’t glance up.
‘Look at me.’
After a few moments her reluctant gaze met his.
‘Don’t go having second thoughts now.’ He snagged her hands, grateful she didn’t pull away this time. ‘What we just did blew my mind.’
Relief eased her drawn-together brows. ‘You’re inventive. I’ll say that for you.’
He laughed, and thankfully she joined in. He liked that she hadn’t clammed up on him or gone distant. He would have hated that.
‘But for the record—next time I’m bringing a box.’
‘To stand on?’
‘Of condoms.’ Buoyed by her sense of humour, he pulled her close, enveloping her in his arms with his chin resting on her head. ‘Guess I should be grateful you didn’t say there won’t be a next time.’
She nuzzled his neck in response, and if it wasn’t the damndest thing he was ready to go again. ‘There’ll be a next time. Count on it.’