by BETH KERY
Since absolutely nothing she owned was probably appropriate, she ended up picking her favorite pair of jeans, boots, a tank top and a sage-green tunic that did good things for her complexion. If she couldn’t be sophisticated, she might as well be comfortable. She took time styling and straightening her long hair—which was rare for her to do—and applied some mascara and lip gloss. She studied herself in the mirror when she was done, shrugged, and left the bathroom.
It would have to do.
Despite the fact that he’d told her she wouldn’t need anything, she did pack a duffel bag with underwear, a few changes of clothing, jogging apparel, some toiletries, and her passport. She set her bag and her purse by the door and walked into the kitchen, where Davie and Caden sat at the kitchen table. Davie was always an early riser, even on a Sunday, but Caden was not. Francesca recalled that he was burning the midnight oil this weekend to get a project done for work.
“I’m glad I caught you guys,” she said, pouring herself another cup of coffee, even though she knew she shouldn’t drink it; nervousness about Ian being there in a few minutes was starting to make her stomach roil. “I’m going away for a few days,” she said, turning to face her friends.
“Going to Ann Arbor?” Caden asked before he sliced his fork into a syrup-drenched waffle. Her parents lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
“No,” she said, avoiding Davie’s curious stare.
“Where, then?” Davie asked.
“Um . . . Paris.”
Caden stopped chewing and blinked at her. She started when she heard a brisk knock at the front door. She set down her coffee cup on the counter with a loud thud, causing coffee to splash up on her wrist.
“I’ll explain when I get back,” she assured Davie as she used a towel to dry her forearm. She began to edge out of the kitchen.
Davie stood. “Are you going with Noble?”
“Yes,” Francesca said, wondering why she felt so guilty at the admission.
“Then call me as soon as you can,” Davie insisted.
“All right. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she assured.
The last image she saw as she left the kitchen was Davie’s worried expression. Damn. If Davie looked concerned, it was usually with good reason.
Was this one of the stupidest choices she’d ever made in her life?
She flung open the front door and all of her thoughts about Davie and wisdom versus foolishness vanished. He stood on the front steps, wearing a pair of dark blue pants, a white button-down shirt open at the collar, and a casual hooded jacket. Well, even if he did look good enough to eat, at least he wasn’t wearing one of his immaculate suits, given how she’d dressed.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his blue eyes running over the length of her.
She nodded and reached for her duffel bag and purse. “I . . . I didn’t know what to wear,” she said, shutting the door behind her.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said as he took her bag. He glanced back at her as she followed him down the steps. Her heart leapt when he gave her one of his rare smiles. “You’re perfect.”
Her cheeks turned hot at his compliment, and she was glad he turned away. He introduced her to his driver, Jacob Suarez, a middle-aged Hispanic man with a nice smile. Jacob immediately took and stowed Francesca’s bag while Ian opened the car door for her.
She slid onto one of the sofalike seats, absorbing the luxurious surroundings of the elegant limo. The impressions that struck her the most were the cushy, buttery softness of the seat and the smell—leather mixing with Ian’s spicy, clean male scent. The screen on the built-in television monitor was off, but Ian’s laptop was opened on the table between the two leather seats. Classical music resounded sedately from the surround sound stereo. Bach—the Bradenberg concertos, she recognized after a few seconds. It seemed a perfect choice for Ian—the man and the music were both mathematically precise and intensely soulful. A chilled, newly opened bottle of her preferred brand of club soda sat on the table near his computer.
Ian removed his jacket and slid into the seat across from her.
“Did you sleep much?” he asked her once he was settled and the car began to move smoothly down the street.
“A little,” she lied.
He nodded, his gaze skimming over her face. “You look pretty. I like your hair that way. You don’t usually straighten it, do you?”
Her cheeks warmed again, this time in embarrassment. “It takes a lot of time.”
“You have a lot of hair,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. Perhaps he noticed her blush. “Don’t worry, I’m not complaining. I’m fond of every strand of it. Would you mind very much if I worked?” he asked her with abrupt reluctance. “The more I can get done here and on the plane, the better I can totally focus on you when we get there.”
“Of course,” she assured, set a little off balance by his rapid change of topic.
She didn’t mind him working. She liked being able to watch him while his singularly intense focus was elsewhere. He wore glasses? She watched him don a pair of sleek, stylish lenses. His fingers flew over a keyboard fast enough to make the most proficient administrative assistant envious. Strange . . . to think that those large, masculine hands could move with so much fleet precision.
He would use those hands to make love to her sometime very soon. She couldn’t believe it. Her first lover was going to be Ian Noble.
A heavy, warm sensation settled in her lower belly and sex. She took a swig of her icy club soda and forced herself to stare out the window. A swarm of questions buzzed in her head. By the time they’d passed the Skyway and headed several miles into Indiana, she couldn’t contain one any longer.
“Ian, where are we going?”
He blinked and glanced up, giving her the impression of rising out of a deep trance of concentration. He glanced out the window.
“To a small airport where I keep my plane. We’re nearly there,” he said, hitting a few buttons on his computer and lowering the monitor.
“You own a plane?”
“Yes. I have to travel quite a bit, sometimes on the spur of the moment. A plane is an absolute necessity.”
Of course, she thought. He would never be satisfied waiting for anything.
“I want to show you something tonight in Paris,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said, his shapely, firm lips forming a small smile.
“I don’t really like surprises,” she said, unable to look away from his mouth.
“You’ll like this one.”
She looked up into his eyes and saw the sparkle of amusement there, along with something else . . . white-hot heat. She had a feeling his stark declaration about her desires was dead-on.
As usual.
A few minutes later, she stared out the window, her mouth hanging open. “Ian, what are we doing?” she exclaimed as Jacob drove them up a ramp.
“Driving onto the plane.”
They rose into the sleek jet that sat on the tarmac of a small airport. She felt like Jonah going into the belly of the whale. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
She stared at him, stunned, when he chuckled, the low, rough sound causing the skin at the back of her neck and along her arms to prickle in awareness. He reached for her hand across the table and drew her onto the seat next to him. He placed his hand on her jaw, lifted it, and swept down to cover her mouth with his, sandwiching her lower lip between his own, nibbling at her. He dipped his tongue into her mouth and moaned, his coaxing kiss transforming into a voracious one.
He lifted his head when he heard Jacob’s door slam. The car had come to a full halt. She stared up at him, half-slain by his unexpected kiss.
He leaned up and grabbed his briefcase at the same moment Jacob rapped once and then opened th
e door. Francesca followed him out of the car, feeling dazed, excited, and extremely aroused.
The jet was unlike anything she’d ever seen. They took an elevator up to a second level and entered a luxurious compartment with a wet bar, a full entertainment center and shelving unit, a built-in leather couch, and four luxurious, wide chair recliners. Expensive drapery covered the windows. She would never have guessed in a million years she was on a plane.
She followed Ian into the compartment, her hand in his.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked politely.
“No, thank you.”
He chose a pair of recliners that faced each other, a table between them.
“Sit there,” he said, nodding at the chair to the left. “There’s a bedroom, but I’d prefer if you rested here. The chair fully reclines, and there’s a blanket and pillows in that drawer there,” he said, pointing at the gleaming mahogany entertainment center.
“There’s a bedroom?” she asked, experiencing a ridiculous wave of embarrassment at just saying the word.
He sat in his own chair, immediately pulling his computer and some files out of his briefcase. “Yes,” he murmured, glancing up at her. “But I would prefer if you slept where I can see you. You are free to use the bedroom, however, if you prefer. It’s in there,” he said, pointing to a mahogany door. “And so is the bathroom, if you should need it.”
She turned away so that he wouldn’t notice her breathless reaction to his words. She returned a moment later carrying the soft blanket and pillow she’d retrieved from the drawer. He said nothing, but she noticed his small smile while he started up his computer.
She sat and studied the electronic control panel on the arm of the lounger, figuring out how to recline it. She started to do so.
“Oh, and Francesca?” Ian asked, not looking up from his computer screen.
“Yes?” she asked, lifting her finger from the control button.
“Take off your clothes, please.”
For several seconds, she just stared. Her heartbeat began to throb in her ears. Perhaps he’d noticed her frozen state, because he glanced up, his expression calm. Expectant.
“You can put the blanket on while you sleep,” he said.
“Then why do you want me to take off my clothes, if I’m going to be covered up anyway?” she blurted out, confused.
“I’d like to know you’re available to me.”
Liquid heat surged through her sex. God help her. She must be as much of a sexual deviant as Ian was, to respond so wholly to a few uttered words.
Slowly, she rose on trembling legs and began to strip.
* * *
He hit the Send button on his computer, zooming off a detailed memo to his senior staff. For the fiftieth time in the past five minutes, he glanced over at the outline of the shapely feminine form curled beneath the blanket. The tiny, even rise and fall of the cover told him she still rested soundly. He could have guessed within seconds the precise moment Francesca had finally succumbed to sleep about five hours ago. He was that aware of her. If he was having trouble concentrating—if he suffered—he could blame no one but himself. He’d been the one to insist she take off her clothes. He’d been the one to sit and stare, hypnotized, as she’d removed item after item, while his mouth went bone-dry and his heartbeat began to throb along the shaft of his cock.
Every time he recalled her lowered gaze and pink cheeks, her long, glorious hair swishing next to her narrow waist, her bare, thrusting breasts and luscious, fat nipples, legs that could make a man weep they were so long, shapely, and supple—and worst of all—the soft-looking, red-tinted, golden hair at the juncture of her thighs, the amount of it sparse enough so that he could clearly see her plump labia and slit, the blood began to pound fiercely again in his cock. Since he was thinking of the vision constantly, he’d pretty much sustained an erection for the past five hours.
It would be hell not to touch her until tonight, but he’d promised himself to make this experience as special for her as he could. An even worse torture would be to touch and not take her. He whipped off his glasses and stood.
It would be a delicious torture. And he was used to suffering.
He lowered onto the seat next to her. She lay on her side, facing him, her face still and lovely in repose. Her lips were a shade deeper in color than their usual lush pink hue. His cock leapt against the restraining fabric of his boxer briefs. Was she, by chance, aroused as she slept?
He grabbed the blanket at her shoulder and gently, slowly lowered it all the way to her knees, teasing himself as her splendor was fully revealed inch by tantalizing inch. He smiled to himself when he saw that her nipples were, indeed, puckered and tight. What sorts of erotic journeys did an innocent like Francesca take in her sleep? His gaze flickered and stuck on the trim, strawberry-blonde thatch of hair between her white thighs. Was that moisture gleaming in the slit? Surely it was his imagination . . . wishful thinking after hours of tortuous arousal.
He spread his hand over the smooth expanse of her flat belly. She said that she’d been overweight as a child, but he could see no evidence of it. Losing the weight so young must have saved her from stretch marks. Her skin looked flawless. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her face tightening momentarily, before she sighed and sunk back into slumber. His hand lowered across her satiny, warm skin. He reached, sliding his finger into that silky hair, burrowing it between those sex lips that had been haunting him night after night.
He grunted in satisfaction. It hadn’t been his imagination. Her juices coated his finger. He moved, finding her clit, teasing it with his fingertip, calling her to him from the realms of her dreams. He spread his hand for a moment over her outer sex, arousal stabbing at his cock. Things were warm, wet, and divine in the crevice.
His gaze was on her face when she opened her eyes. For a second, they just stared at each other as he stimulated her clit with his finger. He watched as fresh color rushed into her cheeks and full lips.
“Is this what you wanted me available for?” she muttered, her voice low and thick with sleep.
“Perhaps. I can’t stop thinking about your pussy. I’m looking forward to spending as much time as possible buried in it.” He flicked her clit with extra pressure, and watched, fascinated, as she gasped and bit her fleshy lower lip. Christ. He was going to kill himself feasting on her. She was a never-ending orgy of delight all encapsulated in one gorgeous, fascinating woman.
“Roll onto your back,” he said, his finger still plucking and stroking between her creamy labia, his gaze intent on her face as he tightly examined her subtle reactions to his manipulations, gauging her . . . learning her. His hand moved with her as she lay on her back. “Now spread your legs. I want to look at you,” he instructed gruffly.
She widened her slender thighs. His gaze fixed between her legs, he reached for the control panel, lowering the footrest of her recliner. He knelt before her, his body between her spread knees. He removed his hand and stared at her sex, utterly spellbound.
“I usually ask women to shave for me,” he said. “It increases the sensitivity. Makes a woman totally available to me.”
“Is that what you’d like me to do?” she asked. His gaze zoomed up to her face. Her dark, velvety eyes shone with arousal.
“I don’t want you to change a thing. You have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. I may be demanding, but even I know better than to mess with perfection.”
Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. He reached and used his fingers to widen her sex lips, exposing glistening dark pink folds and the tiny slick opening to her vagina. His cock lurched viciously, knowing precisely where it wanted to be at that moment. He longed to push his tongue into that hole, as well, to have her juices sliding down his throat. He craved it.
But if he tasted her, he’d take her, there and now. That was a
certainty.
He reluctantly rose and sat again next to her on the wide seat of the lounger. He leaned down and kissed her parted lips lightly as he resumed stroking her clit.
“Does this feel good?” he asked, his gaze running over her flushed face.
“Yes,” she whispered, the fervency of her response convincing him as much as her pink-stained lips, cheeks, and heaving breasts. He flicked at her clit, giving it a rapid, gentle, back-and-forth lashing with the ridge of his forefinger. She gasped, and he smiled. She was so wet that he could hear himself moving in her creamy flesh.
“You’re so responsive. I can’t wait to see what heights of pleasure I can evoke out of your beautiful body.”
He rubbed her clit hard, pulsing her.
“Oh . . . Ian,” she moaned, twisting her hips, lifting her pelvis against his hand to increase the pressure.
“It’s all right, lovely,” he whispered next to her mouth, plucking at her lips as she panted. “I grant you what I deny myself for now. Come against my hand.”
He watched, raging in an inferno of arousal, as the tension in her sleek, soft body broke, and she cried out in pleasure. He smelled it—the unique perfume that rose off her skin when she climaxed. Unable to stop himself, he seized her mouth with his own, silencing her whimpers almost angrily, slaking his thirst on her sweetness.
When her shudders of orgasm finally quieted, he tore his mouth from hers and buried his head in the crook of her shoulder and neck, panting nearly as much as she was. After a moment, he acknowledged that he wouldn’t be able to quiet his raging erection while inhaling her intoxicating scent.
He straightened and rose, walking back over to his lounger.
“We’ll be arriving in Paris soon,” he murmured, tapping his keyboard and noticing that the finger he’d used to make her come still gleamed with her abundant juices. He closed his eyes briefly to shut out the arousing image. It lingered, seemingly burned into the back of his shut eyelids. “Why don’t you go into the bedroom, wash up, and change.”
“Change?” she asked.