by Selena Kitt
"There," he said. "Wouldn't want you being uncomfortable."
"For what?" I managed to say. If I'd been smart or had more blood in my brain, I would have said, Too late.
But I wasn't uncomfortable, except in the excited, breathless way everyone is uncomfortable as they take a new lover, someone whose habits they don't know, whose likes and dislikes are not yet second nature to their lips and tongue and hands. This discomfort didn't seem to afflict Malcolm, of course. He gazed down at me, his warm, beautiful eyes still riveted to my face, then reached into his pocket and withdrew something limp and red. A long length of red satin ribbon.
"I used to be into bondage," he said, his voice strangely detached. "Once upon a time. Let's see if I still have the touch." And he reached for me.
I shot to my feet like a bolt of lightning. Behind me, the chair clattered as it rolled away, shoved across the floor by the strength of my momentum.
For a long, tense moment, we stared at each other, the sounds of traffic outside unnaturally loud, as if the tension between us actually made the air thicker.
He didn't look hurt, merely surprised. But curious.
So I said, "I don't trust you." Which was the truth. Beneath the heavy arousal zipped the zest of fear, deep and primal, that I had not felt for years.
His eyes softened, and suddenly he was reachable again, no longer distant. Human. "You are right," he said. "I understand." He opened his hand, and the ribbon fluttered to the ground as he stepped forward, bringing the distance between us to nothing.
I could have backed up then. But I didn't.
He bent down, his face drawing closer and closer to mine. Dizziness overwhelmed me, made the world spin and tilt as he came closer. His scent filled my head, and I thrilled at his nearness, every inch of my body awake and alive to his proximity. Then his full, sensuous lips met mine, and I melted, like wax before a flame.
Malcolm Ward could kiss.
He wasn't demanding, not at first. At first he seemed content to gently massage my lips with his, sweet and soft, teasing me down from the height of fear. Slowly the echoes of the past receded, replaced with first a slow smoldering, and then fast burning embers as he continued his slow play of mouth on mouth, lips on lips. His nose brushed against mine, our breath mingling between us. There was nothing outside of our kiss, even as it brought me to the brink of frustration.
Gimme some tongue, damn, I thought.
As though he read my mind Malcolm paused and smiled against my mouth before flickering his tongue over my lips. I opened for him readily, aching from my tongue to my curling toes.
He invaded me gently but inexorably, stroking his tongue over mine in a slow, strong caress that had me reeling, my body listing toward his. I felt the heat coming from him, but we had yet to touch anywhere but our lips, and I longed for more. A moan escaped my chest, and then his hands alighted on my face.
My cheeks burned where his flesh met mine, white hot points of contact that shook me down to my bones, and I reached up, gripping his arms lest I fall. I was swaying, unsteady, and he was a steel pillar, holding me up, keeping me from collapsing completely. Our bodies met, my breasts brushing against his chest, his thighs meeting mine, the bulge of his cock bridging the gap between us, nudging my belly and sending streamers of fire out over my limbs. I wanted to reach down and touch it, take it in my hands, and with any other man I would have.
Malcolm was different. I didn't know how, I just knew he was. I twisted my hips instead, letting my stomach rub over his erection and feeling the contact ripple through him as he shuddered, ever so slightly, like a great wind gusting against an ancient tree, or a skyscraper bowing to a hurricane. The pressure of his hands on my face increased as I circled my hips against him, feeling the delicious bulge grow harder and larger as his arousal caught and fanned into flame, but then, abruptly, he broke away, first planting a kiss to my earlobe, then dragging his open mouth down my throat, over my chest, until he was kneeling before me, his face buried in my stomach.
He inhaled deeply, and I got the sense that he was reveling in my smell. It made me wish that I'd spent more time primping this morning, but that wish was soon forgotten as his hands skated down my body from my face, traveling over my throat, grazing the outside swell of my breasts, smoothing over my stomach until they met my hips. Slipping his hands around me, he splayed them over my generous ass again, and a flood of moisture between my legs responded to his possessive touch.
My breath came in short, hot bursts as he let his hands wander down the backs of my thighs. Inching forward on the wood floor, he nudged my feet apart with his knees, until he knelt between my legs as his hands found the hem of my skirt and began to lift it up.
I braced myself on his shoulders, my knees suddenly weak and watery. He was face to pussy with me, and I knew he was going to do it again. He'd said as much. That he had respected my wishes and let me stay unbound excited me, and made me almost wish I'd let him tie me up.
Almost.
His hands spread over my thighs, lifting my heavy skirt away, and I reached down and grabbed the hem, lifting it up with one hand while I held onto him with the other. I couldn't get enough air. My body quivered and quaked as he stared at my pussy, still clothed in my panties. Leaving his fingertips on the inside of my thigh, he moved his hand up and up, until he met the edge of the elastic leg bands. I wished I'd worn something sexier. Then one long finger moved to the damp crotch of my panties and rubbed.
I whimpered and faltered, my knees giving way, but he steadied me with his other hand. His eyes rose to mine, and we stared at each other as, slowly, deliberately, he moved the cotton aside, exposing my aching pussy to the cool air.
I could barely keep my eyes open. Desire washed over me, threatening to knock me off my feet, and when he stroked his finger over my slit I groaned. My thighs were still close enough together that there was little room, and my crowded flesh was hypersensitive. My hips rocked toward him and he finally looked away. I let my eyes slide closed as he moved his head forward and gave my pussy a long, luxurious lick.
Oh. Oh, he felt so good.
Slowly, achingly, he circled my clit with his tongue, keeping it firm and direct in the obscuring folds, and I quivered and cried out. I needed a finger inside me, something in me, but he only teased the little nub at the apex of my pussy lips, his tongue pointing hard, then flattening softer, circling, circling. He stroked his fingers over my labia, letting the slickness of our mingling juices tease me softly as his tongue hardened its approach. At the base of my spine, in the backs of my thighs, my climax began to mount.
"God, don't stop," I begged him, and I felt him smile against me. His fingertip ghosted over my entrance, and I had the distinct impression he was laughing at me, telling me he had just what I wanted, but that he wouldn't give it to me yet.
My orgasm built slowly. My legs ached as I struggled to stay up, my hand digging into his shoulder, my toes curling for purchase inside my boots. The fingers holding my skirt up and out of his way were damp with sweat, and I was nearly on my tiptoes, feeling my release just out of reach.
A frustrated sob escaped me, and then Malcolm flicked his tongue against my clit, driving it into his teeth, and my quaking, aching legs nearly gave out as a warm, delicious orgasm spread out from my pussy across my entire body.
My skin dissolved into shivers, my knees buckled, and I cried out as I came around his tongue, my inner passage twisting and squeezing nothingness in a sweet release. I collapsed as wave after wave lapped gently over me, and he dragged it out with his mouth, until I knew I could take no more and begged him to stop.
When he did, he drew away from me and I collapsed gracelessly to the floor, my legs askew, my brow sweaty, my mouth gaping open as I tried to catch my breath. My bare, slick pussy pressed into the wood floor. Malcolm stared at me, almost tenderly, and licked his fingers and lips clean.
"Your taste is delectable," he said. "I could lick you all day."
I had to give an
exhausted laugh at that. "Please don't," I said. "Give me a little time to recover first."
He smiled at that as he lowered himself to the ground, reaching out and pulling me into his lap. I let him, because I was feeling pretty boneless, though the reminder that he was a man who wanted to fuck me rather than just a pussy-eating machine came crashing into me when I felt the rock-hard swell of his cock against my ass. I tried not to let it impinge on my afterglow, but already it was making me think of other things I wanted to do with him—and to him. We could have a jolly good time in that bed across the room...
His hand stroked my hair and I leaned against his shoulder, fantasizing for a moment that we were intimate lovers rather than almost total strangers. It felt nice to be held. I couldn't remember the last time I'd let someone hold me.
Then a low growling sound scraped across my ears, and I frowned.
"Did... did your stomach just rumble?" I asked, pulling back and frowning at him. I mean, some growling is sexy, but that was kind of... not.
To his credit, he looked faintly embarrassed. "Yes," he admitted. "I'm afraid I've been forgetting to eat."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Seriously?" I said. It was barely lunchtime. "How long have you been forgetting to eat?"
He shrugged. "Since those hors d'ouvres at the auction?" he said, and the way he said it made me think that he was only guessing.
I gave him a scowl. "Really? I mean... really?"
He tilted his head. "What's so shocking about that?" he asked me. "I've been working on my art since then."
"Artists eat, too," I told him.
"What about starving artists?"
"That's a bug, not a feature of being an artist." I blew a sweaty strand of hair out of my face. "Okay, you need to eat something. Before we do anything else, you have to eat."
"I just did."
I gave him a hard look, but his face was entirely innocent. He was fucking with me, right? He had to be. "Man cannot live by pussy alone," I said, hauling myself gracelessly out of his lap and standing up. Reaching under my skirt I readjusted my panties, getting my own slick juices all over my fingers as I did so. I took my hand out and held it up, glancing around for a tissue or something, but then Malcolm stood up as well, reached out, and took my wrist in his hand, drawing my fingers to his mouth.
With a slow, sensuous suck he cleaned my fingers for me.
I stared into his dark cherry wood eyes, my cheeks burning, before I found the strength to pull away. The second growl from his stomach might have helped me make that decision.
"Food first," I said. "Art and sex later."
He reached down and adjusted his cock in his pants, but I'm pretty sure his hunger was cutting through his arousal, because it was already shrinking from its previously large size. "Very well," he said. "If you insist."
Chapter Five
I waited on the sidewalk for Malcolm to come downstairs, trying to collect myself. The icy wind and gray sky were going a long way towards helping me get centered and alert. Mostly I was reeling from our sexual encounter and trying to maintain my customary ironic distance. It was rather difficult, however, since my legs still shook with the aftermath of his ministrations.
What was going on with me? I wondered. I'd been really into guys before, but this didn't feel quite the same. The way I fell into his embrace, welcoming the pleasure he gave me... it truly did feel as though we'd known each other before. Bound by the red thread of fate? Was that what he'd said the other day? We'd known each other in another life?
The idea freaked me right the fuck out, and by the time he exited the door of his mansion, impeccably dressed, I was well on my way toward my much loved ironic distance.
But when he reached me, he pulled my hand into the crook of his arm and began to lead me down the sidewalk, just like a Victorian gentleman, and my distance was halved. At least.
"So where do you want to go to lunch?" I asked him. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but I could see him smile from the corner of my field of vision.
"I'm not sure," he said. "I am a very easy date. I have only negative preferences."
"Negative preferences?"
"Meaning I only know what I do not want."
Oh. One of those people. "Okay. Well, we're in New York, there's really nothing in the world we can't find here."
He nodded. "What would you prefer?"
I pursed my lips and took a fearless inventory of my wants and desires. "What about... Vietnamese? This is the perfect day for pho."
He nodded and I almost smiled, but then he said, "It is, but I'm not in the mood for broth."
"Hmm. How about Lebanese?"
"I enjoy Lebanese, but it is more of a summer food. I always think of summer when I am eating food laced with lemon."
Great. "Chinese? Greek? Italian?"
"Maybe."
"That's not helpful. You're the one who hasn't eaten for two days, you tell me what you think your stomach can handle."
He appeared to think about this for quite a while, and I glanced around as we exited his neighborhood and set out toward the nearest subway station. For the first time, I wondered why he hadn't just called a car, but I thought it would be rude to ask. I didn't care about private cars or limos or anything like that, but I thought it was a little weird that a billionaire with all that money and prestige at his fingertips would instead choose to walk to the subway station.
Then again, a billionaire forgetting to eat and living in a house crowded with the most useless nick-knacks imaginable was not what I had imagined either. My Batman was in the middle of his soul-searching phase, it seemed. Or, since he was in his late thirties, perhaps he had simply never exited said phase. It happened to the best of them.
"I know a little Indian place," he said at last. "They make the most wonderful lamb shahi korma. I could eat it all day."
"Like pussy?" The words were past my lips before I could stop myself and I clapped my hand over my mouth, mortified.
But he just laughed. "Only yours, Sadie. Only yours."
My pussy was on par with lamb shahi korma. That was good to know. I guess.
We walked the rest of the way to the subway in companionable silence, and when I used my metrocard for both of us he didn't object. Somehow, I liked that. He was walking around with the riffraff, just as if he were people himself. When we boarded the train heading downtown, I flopped into my seat and let out a sigh of relief.
"Tired?" he asked as he settled down beside me. His knee brushed against mine, sending little shivers of heat through me, but I didn't move away. I let my leg stay there, touching his. A bit of illicit contact, right out in the open. I forged into the breach of his conversation starter with a shrug.
"I don't know," I said. "It's nice to go out to lunch, I think. I haven't gone out to a lunch that wasn't a business lunch or a hotdog on the street corner in... Jesus, I don't know how long. It's been a long time. I don't have a lot of a social life now."
He raised his eyebrows. "Now?" he asked. "I read that you and Felicia have been friends for a very long time. Is being her personal assistant really so difficult?"
I waved a hand. "Oh man, you don't even know the half of it. She's gotta do all this dumb shit to keep up appearances in society or whatever and I have to organize it all. She's huge into charity, so I'm always running around trying to get charity events up and running without letting all the rich folks know exactly what they're giving to."
He laughed at that. "Oh?" he said.
I gave him a sly smile. "Felicia fancies herself a revolutionary. She likes to give her money to anarchist groups and such. When she married Anton, he set up an allowance for her 'pet projects,' as he liked to call them, and whatever she raises for charity for a more acceptable organization she dumps an equal amount into something else. Or a large number of something elses. She's a bit scattered in her ideology, but she does good work. I can't really fault her for it. It's just exhausting running around trying to make everything all hoity-toity for t
he rich folks when you grew up poor in Jersey."
"Oh, you did?"
His voice was merely curious, not judgmental, but I immediately went on guard. I'd been saying too much, distracted by his knee against mine. I didn't like talking about my childhood. All that shit was over and done with, as I liked to say, and I'd spent years convincing Felicia of the same thing. She'd been hung up on her parents and fixing their lives, and it had been holding her back. Marrying Anton, though he was a rich man like her father, had been the best thing to happen to her, frankly. Me, I'd already moved on. That was in the past, and they say that place is a whole other country, and I'd probably get dysentery there.
"Yeah," I said, making it clear that I didn't want to talk about it. To his credit, Malcolm took the hint and backed off. "So what about you?" I said, trying to change the subject.
"What about me?" he asked.
Yeah, that would probably be a good thing to specify... "Don't you have a personal assistant?" I asked him. "Hopping around from place to place, booking appearances and accepting invitations to charity functions and whatnot?"
Malcolm shook his head. "I have a secretary at my office," he said, "but I rarely go in any more. He holds down the fort while I'm away."
The way he said it left me with the impression that he didn't work much at all. Which might explain his behavior. Perhaps he was bored and looking to spice up his life with a little eccentricity and a little sex in front of a camera? For some reason, the idea annoyed me. I'm not sure why it did. After a bad breakup I'd once seriously contemplated feigning amnesia so I wouldn't have to go through the inevitable postmortem period with all our mutual friends. Surely that was worse? "So he knows all your business stuff?"
Malcolm nodded. "He does. He's very dedicated to his job, and we go out for dinner twice a week where he tells me everything that's been going on. Most of the meetings can be handled by people under me, and I compensate them for the risks they take. Really, the life of a CEO can get repetitive, and most problems are the same problem in different clothing. Most of the time the heads of other companies just want me to go play golf so they can convince me to do some business deal or other." A rueful smile crossed his lips, and I realized I had turned completely toward him as he spoke. I was leaning forward, hanging on his words. I had to force myself to move back as I made a curious noise, trying to not make my interest in him so screamingly obvious. I'm not sure why. After all, his interest in me was apparent, and if I weren't so attracted to him it might have been rather creepy.