by Kim Jones
“I prefer a more…hands on approach”
“Was that a sexual innuendo?”
He laughs. “Not if I have to explain it.”
His hand clasps mine and he leads me to a seat on one of the velvet couches and passes me a bottle of water from the wet bar. This VIP suite is the shit. They even have chicken wings.
“I do a lot of business with people like Jim Canton. People who put their heart and souls into their projects,” he explains, taking a seat on the couch opposite me and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “A lot of them risked everything to bring their ideas to life. Invested everything they had. I admire that. I respect it. So I make it personal. I don’t want them to feel like they’re selling out to a suit. I want them to feel good about the decision to sell. And know that I’m going to treat their product like it was my own.”
Wow.
Who knew he could get sexier?
“That room in my house? The one with the code on the door that you think is some kind of sex dungeon? It’s where I keep all my files. The original copies of the blueprints on patents. All my clients’ personal information. Prototypes. It’s all there. Where I never have to doubt if it’s secure. I don’t even trust that kind of information in the hands of the people who work for me.”
“That’s…I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What part? How I make every investment personal or the locked room being a file room rather than a sex room?”
“Well, I’m disappointed the file room isn’t a sex room.” He laughs. It’s such a great laugh. “But the other? You making it so personal? That’s pretty awe-inspiring.”
He sobers. “It’s good business. And it’s why I’m successful. Like you said, I’m not creative enough to come up with my own ideas.” His left eye closes on a wink. My vagina quivers. “But I know business. I like investing in things that are often overlooked. It makes it even more satisfying when it becomes a global phenomenon.”
“Global phenomenon? Really?”
He shrugs. It’s just a lift of his shoulder, but the humble move says so much more about him. “I know something good when I see it.”
His eyes sweep over my body. Like I’m something good.
I straighten, try to perk my tits up a little. Arch my neck. Pout my lips. I’m not very subtle.
He catches on quick and smirks at me. Then his eyes darken. And his lips part. And I feel like dessert.
“You want to get out of here?”
“Yes. Please. Yes. I do.” Idiot….
I feel like I’m in a haze as we walk through the club. The mist is just a blur of lights and music, Cam promising to get the sisters home, Ross opening the door of the car and the hard wall of muscle sliding onto the seat next to me.
My drunken fog has nothing to do with alcohol. I’m stoned on Jake Swagger. High on sexual tension. Boneless and horny and jacked up on endorphins.
Lips are on my lips. Tongue dancing with my tongue. Thick, deft fingers flipping open the button on my pants. One masculine hand sliding beneath my panties. A feral growl in my ear. A harsh whisper confirming my desire, “Your pussy is fucking soaked.”
I moan. He silences me with his mouth. But the closer he takes me to the edge, the louder I get. The harder it is to breathe. And soon, I’m breaking away from his mouth and panting as the build becomes too much. Too intense. I cry out and his free hand clamps over my mouth.
Motherfucker.
It’s the hottest thing ever.
“I love how hard you come.”
Okay…maybe that’s the hottest thing ever. Maybe it’s just all of it—his finger doing wicked things to my clit. His words that are rough and low and barely above a whisper. And that hand, clamped over my mouth. Muffling my cries of pleasure as my back arches off the seat. Hips buck. Legs wide. One thrown over him, the other spread lifelessly across the car.
Yeah.
It’s all pretty damn sexy.
But wait.
He hasn’t done the typical That Guy move which would be the sexiest move by far. And as I come down from my orgasmic high, I find myself staring at him expectantly. Waiting. anticipating the part that comes next. The part he’s not doing.
He zips my pants. Kisses my shoulder. Squeezes his cock through his pants and groans. His eyes lift to mine and he blinks a few times before tilting his head to study me. “Are you having a seizure?”
“What? No. Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’re staring at me like you’re crazy. And you haven’t blinked.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for something….” I try to sound sultry. Bat my lashes. It just confuses him more. He analyzes every feature in my face. Looking for a hint. He thinks he has it figured out and smirks. But before he even opens his mouth, I know he hasn’t figured out a damn thing.
“Don’t worry, baby. You’ll get that something and a whole lot more. But I’m not fucking you in the back of this car. It’s going to take a lot longer than ten minutes to do what I plan to do.”
Blah.
Blah.
Blah.
“That’s not what I’m waiting for,” I deadpan.
His eyebrows shoot to his hairline and he laughs. “Don’t hold back, gorgeous. Tell me how you really feel.”
“It’s not about how I feel. It’s about what I want.” I button my pants, cross my legs and stare out the window so I don’t have to look at him. “You sure do suck at being That Guy sometimes.”
He slides one big digit across my jaw—the same big digit that he should be sucking on while his eyes roll back in his head and he groans deep in his chest because the taste of my essence triggers some overwhelming, primal desire to claim me.
He pinches my chin and turns my head to face him. Of course he’s entertained by my pouty attitude and has that stupid smirk on his face.
“What?”
“What…what?”
“What do you want, Penelope?”
“It doesn’t matter now, Jake. You’ve already ruined it.”
He leans in. Kisses my top lip. My bottom lip. Still holding my chin between his fingers that are now so close to his mouth….
“Tell me. What That Guy move have I fucked up this time?”
“I know you think this is funny, but if you’re ever going to learn, you need to know.”
I pull away and put a little distance between us. His amusement only grows. He’s barely able to contain his smile as he tries to look serious, holds his hands up and leans back into his seat. “Please. Enlighten me.”
I waste no time. “In every romance novel, the hero, aka That Guy, always follows up a good backseat fingering with a move that sets the heroine’s panties on fire. It ignites those feelings all over again, so that even as she comes down from her first orgasm, she’s already anticipating the next one.”
He’s no longer fighting his smile. “So what did I do wrong?”
“You pulled your hand out of my pants and wiped your fingers on your pants like they were damp due to condensation from your water glass, rather than the sweet, sinful, innocently sexy kryptonite honey flowing from my vagina.”
He shakes his head at me. “The shit you say.”
“The shit you don’t do,” I fire back.
“Uh-huh. And what exactly was I supposed to do, Penelope? You know, with all that sweet honey of yours?”
“Um, duh. Lick your fingers. Growl. Say something possessive and profane.”
“Lick my fingers?”
“Yeah. To get my taste. Because you can’t help yourself.”
His voice does that growl thing. “Why settle for just a taste?”
He shifts. Grabs me under my knee. Spins me to face him. Pulls me forward. Lifts my hips and forces me to my back. I land with an oomph. Then he unzips my pants. Jerks them to my knees. Leans in and licks the length of my slit. Over my satin panties. And somehow, that’s better than being completely bare.
“W-what are you doing?” I glance at the blacked out glass sep
arating us from Ross. Out the window at the passing buildings, wondering how close we are to his apartment. And finally, between my legs at him. He’s hovering over me. A day’s hair on his chin tickling me through the thin material of my underwear.
“I’m giving you something you want.”
I shake my head. Swallow hard. Find my breath. And hope like hell I can be heard over the thundering in my chest. “Y-you said there wasn’t enough time. Remember? Like, two seconds ago. Not enough time. That’s what you said.”
“There’s enough time for this.”
“But I just wanted you to lick your fingers.”
“Sorry, baby.” He drags his nose across my panties and inhales. I almost die. “Like you said…” He takes this big fucking dramatic pause and winks and I’m scared that whatever he’s about to say might finish me off for good. “…I just can’t help myself.”
And…I’m dead.
Chapter Sixteen
I’m a coming machine.
Give me the pressure of a deadline, the possibility of getting caught and Jake Swagger’s tongue and I can make it rain in this bitch.
Seriously.
Liquid kryptonite just…everywhere.
I thought I wouldn’t be able to move considering the intense tongue fucking I just endured, but like I said….
I’m a machine.
And the promise of Jake’s cock inside me puts an extra pep in my step as we exit the car, make our way through the lobby, up the elevator—me in the corner, humming like a crazy person while he watches—through the front door of his apartment and to his office.
I don’t know why we’re in his office. He just said, “office.” And I listened. Because the idea of him fucking me on his desk, picking up where he left off this morning, has me abandoning this little voice in the back of my mind that says a repeat of last night isn’t what I truly want, and has me stripping off my clothes to save time. But the walk is short so I’m still dressed from the waist down when I make it to his desk and turn to face him. And he’s….
Have mercy, he’s naked.
Not a stitch of clothing.
He’s even managed to remove his shoes and socks.
Seeing this…vision.
This…Adonis.
This…yeah, I’ve got nothing else.
Because this man is the finest motherfucker I’ve ever seen in my life and there is nothing worthy of comparison to a naked Jake Swagger. I’ve never seen him completely naked. Witnessing him bare chested was hard enough. Add some masculine feet, the calves of an athlete, a couple muscular thighs and that thing I refuse to look at that hangs between those muscular thighs, to the picture and I suddenly feel like maybe I should’ve left my clothes on.
I thought I looked good tonight.
Compared to him? I look homely as hell.
It doesn’t help my nerves any that for him to have gotten this naked in the thirteen steps it took us to arrive at his desk, he had to have pulled off some real magical shit.
“Abracadabra.” I give my imaginary wand a twirl.
He advances on me slowly. “Why are you nervous?”
I’ve watched him pull his cock from his pants. Seen it fisted in his hand. But I’ve never seen it like this. Just…swinging between his legs like a pendulum.
I close my eyes to block out the sight.
But it’s too late.
I saw it.
Swaying.
Helicoptering.
Oscillating like the blades on a Kim Jones box fan.
And I can still see it.
Behind my eyes.
Forever.
Likely the only thing I’ll ever see again.
“Penelope?”
I keep my eyes closed. “Hmm?”
“You said ‘abracadabra.’ Because you’re nervous. Why are you nervous?”
“B-because you’re naked. Got that way really quick, too. Magician moves.”
“Ahh….” I crack open one eye just in time to see him nod in understanding, three feet from me. “Magician.” Two feet. “Explains the wand.” He’s in front of me. “Touch me.”
Okay.
I’m so relieved for my fidgeting hands to have some direction, I slap them against his chest a little too hard. He stifles a groan. My palms tingle. His blood rushes to darken the handprints on his pecs. All my blood rushes to my cheeks.
“As charming as it is to see this shy and nervous version of you, I prefer the you that screams and thrashes and doesn’t give a damn about anything other than how fucking good it feels.”
My finger traces the outline of handprints. I open my mouth. Close it. Take a breath. Force myself to look him in the eye, and reveal a small truth to him. “It’s only ever felt that good with you.”
I feel his chest rumble beneath my touch, but hear no sound. He traps my wrists in his big hands and presses his forehead to mine. “That mouth of yours, Penelope Hart, will be my demise.”
The kiss that comes next is a warning as much as it is a promise. A warning that he’s about to ravage me. And a promise that I’ll love every second of it.
Though his movements are rushed and greedy, they’re precise and rewarding. He strips my pants down my legs in one, fluid motion. But when he kneels to remove my heels so he can free my pants from around my ankles, he takes a second longer to caress the arch of my foot with his thumb.
He cups my ass with his palms, lifts me to sit on the edge of his desk, steps between my legs and pulls me roughly against him. But his touch is soft when he drags a single finger down the center of my chest before flattening his hand on my stomach and urging me to my back.
His grip on my hips is rough. Fingers kneading then releasing. Eyes wild and hungry. Bottom lip trapped between his teeth. But when he slides the length of his shaft up and down my slit, he does it with a sense of tenderness. As if the need to feel me against him is greater than the desire to just bury himself inside me. It’s confusing. And that voice in the back of my mind—the one telling me this isn’t what I truly want—is back.
He fists his cock and teases me with the head. His eyes travel over my naked torso, worshipping every inch of my skin before meeting my hooded gaze. “I need a condom. But fuck, you feel so good like this.”
The intensity in which he looks at me, as if he’s trying to read my thoughts on the matter, takes me out of the moment and makes me question if beneath all his hotness, he’s actually an idiot.
He’s super rich.
I’m super poor.
Why would he take a chance on getting me pregnant? The only reasonable explanation is that he’s fallen in love and wants to trap me for the rest of my life.
I’m good with that.
But it’s another thought that has me forgetting that I’m naked, spread eagle on his desk with the head of his unprotected penis pressed against the opening of my vagina.
Why would he risk catching a disease from someone he barely knows?
Did you know, people can have a STD even if there are no visual signs of one? And that an unseen STD can still be transmitted without a current breakout? Not that I have any STDs, but he doesn’t know that. Which makes him really stupid.
Does it make me stupid to sleep with him without protection? Considering he could have an STD and I could be on the receiving end of it?
Hell no.
Why?
Because he’s rich. And if he gives me something that won’t wash off in the shower, then I’m going to sue the shit out of him. He’s smart, aside from this rare moment of stupidity, so he’ll settle out of court. And guess what.
I’ll be rich.
As.
Fuck.
A few million dollars makes having herpes totally worth it. Plus, there’s all this advanced medicine these days. It’s a win-win for me. For him? Not so much.
I mean, he didn’t even ask me if I had a clean bill of health or confirm that he had one like all the heroes do. Which, by the way, blows my fucking mind. Like who does that? Just gets rand
omly checked for diseases, though they swear they’ve never fucked bareback in their life.
Romance novels, am I right?
“I’m almost positive that whatever crazy shit you’re thinking this time, actually has the power to turn me off.” His gaze might be stoic, but I can see the plea deep in his eyes that begs me to not say what I’m thinking.
“You’re probably right. And just in case, we should use protection. I’m not on the pill.” I add that last part because I don’t want him to think he needs to use protection for any other reason than an unplanned pregnancy. Which is also why I don’t tell him I’m on the shot.
He holds up a condom between his fingers. “Yeah. I decided that the moment you said, ‘Rich as fuck.’”
My eyes widen. “It’s not what you think. I swear.”
I shut up when he places a finger over his lips and shakes his head. He flicks the condom and it lands next to my head. When I look over at it, I see it’s just the empty wrapper. My eyes drift to his cock that is now sheathed in latex.
A—How did he manage to fit that thirty-three-gallon lawn and leaf bag covering his penis in that little bitty foil wrapper?
B—Just where in the hell did he get that condom?
C—When did he put it on without me knowing?
I look up at him and he smiles. “Abracadabra.”
“Smooth, Swagger. Real smooth.”
“I know.”
“Well, if you’re finished now, maybe we can move on to the next act in your magic show.”
Without warning, he thrust inside me. Shit he’s deep. I’m taken back to last night. Us on the couch. That fear of paralysis. Cock overload. Coke Can. Narrow channel. Yeah, I’m done.
“Breathe, sweet girl.” Jake’s body over mine keeps me from jumping off the desk. His words remind me that I probably do need to breathe. And his sweet kisses on the side of my neck liquefy me.
I adjust to him quickly. The initial punch to the cervix that nearly rendered me unconscious has softened to a dull ache. Not a painful ache. A desperate ache. When I hear that voice in my head again, a little louder this time, I drown it out with begging. “Oh, please. Fuck me, please.”