Compromising Her Position

by Samanthe Beck

  Something trickled down her breast. She pried an eye open, and immediately choked on a scream. A dark figure loomed over her chair, backlit by the sun. Nightmares of a trespasser with weapons and nefarious intent flew through her mind. She crossed her arms to cover herself, but before she could scramble to her feet and run, the shadow tossed something onto her lap. “I found these on my pillow. Much as I appreciate the welcome, I hope the rest of the guests have to settle for a mint.”

  Her racing heart stuttered to a stop at the sound of the voice, and then resumed at a slightly less rampant pace. Rafe. In her lap sat the panties she’d left on his bed.

  She raised her eyes again. He braced a hand on either side of her hips, planted a knee on the cushion, and leaned over her. He wore a single-minded expression and blue board shorts that rode low, leaving plenty of bronze skin and rippling muscle on display. Cool water dripped from his body onto her overheated flesh. She shivered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You know why I’m here.” He closed the distance between them.

  She slapped a hand to his chest and felt his heart beating strong and fast under her palm. “I thought you were arriving tomorrow.”

  “Surprise.” Then he flexed his arms and slowly lowered himself until his mouth hovered tantalizingly close to hers. Every nerve ending in her body migrated to her lips and prickled with anticipation.

  “I am surprised,” she managed.

  “In another second you’re going to be downright speechless.”

  She already was. Speechless. Ready. Eager. She closed her eyes, tipped her face toward his, and held her breath…

  He shifted, and claimed a target nowhere near her mouth. Her eyes flew open. Her toes curled. Then he tugged her bikini aside, and went after the target again. Her breath rushed out in an uncontrolled burst.

  “Wait!”

  He speared his tongue into her heat once more, like a starving man about to be dragged away from a meal, and then forced himself to raise his head. “No,” he ground out. “No more waiting.” Control slipped away like sand through his fist at the sight of her spread out before him. He reared up onto his knees, dug into the pocket of his trunks, and retrieved the trio of condoms he’d shoved there upon finding her underwear on his bed. He threw two onto the side table, tore the foil on the last, and stared into huge brown eyes.

  “I spent the last twenty-four hours running my ass ragged.” The thick growl coming out of his throat barely sounded like his own voice. “Aggravating my staff”—he tugged his trunks off—“rescheduling meetings”—he rolled the condom on—“commandeering a goddamn G-6 aircraft. Why?” He hooked his hands behind her knees and pulled her toward him. “Because I couldn’t wait another fucking second.”

  He knew he sounded angry. Even he could hear the impatience in his voice. She definitely could, considering she lay there, breathing rapidly and looking at him like he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had, but the uncertainty didn’t give rise to much caution. “If it’s no, tell me no. Otherwise, shut that beautiful mouth and open these gorgeous legs, because we both know ‘wait’ is not an option.”

  Her eyes searched his, and for one agonizing moment he thought she might refuse him. Then those long, slender legs slowly opened.

  Triumph brought no calm, just a new level of urgency. “Hold on to something.”

  He grasped her hips, lifted, and somehow made himself wait while she scrambled to wrap a hand around the armrest. A second later he drove into her. No polish. No sophistication. She’d stripped those attributes from him the second he’d seen her lying on the chaise, uncovered and unguarded. Her sharp inhale could have meant anything…shock, pain, gratitude? The question formed on his lips, but came out as a groan when she arched up to meet his thrust, digging her heels into his calves for leverage. Her body clamped around him, her inner muscles quivered in reaction.

  More, was all he could think, and he drew back to go again.

  She made a small sound of distress at the slight withdrawal. “Don’t stop.”

  “Nothing short of the apocalypse could stop me now.” He reinforced his grip on her hips and unleashed a series of rapid thrusts—more instinct than technique.

  Her head lolled on the cushion. Her breasts bounced from the collision of their bodies. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her face and chest. This. This he’d missed their first time. The opportunity to see her eyes glaze, her cheeks flush, and her mouth drop open. The chance to watch her stomach tighten and her hips flex as she strained to meet every thrust. He wanted to frame her face in his hands, lean in and kiss her parted lips. He wanted to caress her breasts. Feel the scrape of her tight nipple on his tongue. But all he could do was grip her ass tighter, and adjust the angle to allow her a quick, greedy grind at the base of his cock every time he sank deep.

  His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Sweat burned his eyes. Pressure built at the small of his back and sank into his balls. Warning signs from his nervous system. He slowed, and gave her longer, deeper strokes because he was determined to get her there first. She drove a fist into the cushion for additional leverage, and lifted her hips as high as she could, attempting to maximize the duration and intensity of every precious grind. He gritted his teeth and let her do her best.

  Long lashes lowered as she concentrated on the internal chase. Some twisted part of his ego raged against being blocked out, used like a convenient tool to get the job done. A nameless, faceless tool. Just like you’re using her, the cool, detached voice in his head fired back, but it wasn’t true. Not this time. It had to be her, and there was nothing convenient about it. By the time this week was over, she would be out of his system, damn it. They’d both walk away—or crawl away—fucked out, wrung out, and utterly satisfied. No more thoughts of her hijacking his head and distracting him from his priorities.

  But at this moment? At this moment he craved the same admission from her. He was what she needed. Him, specifically. Not simply some readily available clit-pleaser she could use to make up for months of lackluster sex with a worthless prick like Barrington. Or worse, a substitute. Behind those closed eyes was she picturing Barrington? She’d mistaken him for Paul the first time, but damn if he’d play the stand-in twice.

  Fuck no. Maybe he had lost his mind, but he was going to hear her say his name. He tightened his hold on her hips and pulled nearly all the way out, clenching his jaw against her body’s frantic attempts to hold on to him.

  Her groan came first, and then her eyes flew open and darted around, seeking a justification for the interruption. Finally they settled on him. Two dark mirrors.

  “I warned you the next time you spread your legs for me, I wouldn’t be a gentleman. Did you expect a gentleman, Chelsea?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Did she expect…? Chelsea struggled to focus on his words, but the orgasm he dangled just out of her reach prevented her from making any sense of them. Her thoughts whirled. Her body screamed for relief. She couldn’t participate in a conversation. Not now. She managed a head shake, but apparently he considered that an unsatisfactory response, because he eased out another inch. Instinct had her tightening already strained muscles in a useless attempt to keep him in place.

  He said something, but she couldn’t hear well over the pathetic moans coming from somewhere nearby. She held her breath to quiet the chaos in her head, and realized the pathetic moaner had been her.

  “Did you expect a gentleman?” he repeated. Turquoise eyes stared down at her, through her, as if he could lure the proper response out of her with the power of his gaze alone.

  Trouble was, she honestly didn’t know what he wanted to hear, and she was in no condition for this game. “I don’t kn— No!” The word came quickly as he pulled out a bit more.

  He stopped, thank God, and she nearly burst into tears.

  “No, what?”

  “No, I don’t want a gentleman?” Please be the right answer. She prayed the response got him moving again before she lost her min
d.

  “Make no mistake, you’re not getting a gentleman. Do you remember what else I told you?”

  “I can’t think about this now. I need—”

  “I need you to answer the question. Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Before she could guess what his version of a memory refresh might entail, he pinched the base of the condom and pulled out completely. Her cry of frustration died in her throat because the next instant he flipped her over onto her elbows and knees.

  A wide hand splayed over the base of her spine. Though she couldn’t see his face anymore, she imagined his hot stare roaming over her. Trembles started somewhere in her knees, and migrated all the way up to her arms. Could he see her shaking? Feel her entire body shuddering with need?

  “I told you we’d play by my rules, and I’d be very exacting.” Something big and blunt took a slow journey down the cleft of her ass. “Is the conversation coming back to you now?”

  No. “Yes…” She lowered her chest to the cushion and raised her hips, biting her lip to keep from begging when he lined himself up flush against her threshold.

  “Are you ready to continue?” He teased her opening, and she became a slave to instinct, rocking backward with as much force as she could manage, and absolutely no grace. Luckily, his reflexes were as good as they’d been last time around, in the closet, and he steadied her with a hand under her abdomen.

  “Much as I appreciate the demanding woman you keep hidden beneath that polite demeanor, Miss Wayne, I’m afraid she’s not in charge. I am.”

  He was toying with her, but his voice lacked genuine amusement, and something about the hard quality warned her his frustration might well be self-directed, but heat stormed into her cheeks anyway. An impulse to shove him away and haul her desperate, horny, and highly compromised ass into a cold shower shot through her, and she went so far as to raise herself up onto her arms, but then he moved—just enough to remind every raw, tingling nerve ending what he could do to her—and all thoughts of stalking off evaporated. She wasn’t going anywhere. The mortifying truth was she’d say whatever he wanted, do whatever he demanded, as long as he put her out of this misery.

  The hand at her stomach smoothed down and caressed her thigh, gently massaging the taut muscles. “I know what you need, and I’ll satisfy you until you’re hoarse with gratitude.”

  Both the words and touch reassured her. He’d put an end to this torture. Soon…

  “All you have to do is say the magic words.”

  Oh, God. So much for soon. Resigned to her fate, she stopped fighting the slope of the chaise and rested her forehead on her crossed wrists. The position offered more comfort than remaining braced on her arms, but conveyed an element of surrender she found impossible to ignore.

  “Magic words,” he prompted.

  Heat swept into her cheeks again, but she told herself it was just blood rushing to her head. “Please.”

  “Please, what?” The question came out a harsh, almost angry whisper.

  “I don’t know…please tell me what to say, and I’ll say it. I promise. Just tell me…” Desperation put a quiver in her voice, and she broke off. He must have heard, though, because he showed a measure of mercy, and gave her another inch. Fingertips trailed up her thigh and brushed her sex. She cried out.

  “Yes, you do know. Think back to the night in my suite. I told you I wouldn’t give you any relief until you parted those sinful lips and said…”

  The lightbulb went off. You’ll be on your knees, begging…The words rushed to her lips and she stammered because she couldn’t get them out fast enough. “P-please fuck me, Mr. St. Sebastia—”

  He was inside her, fully, before she finished the sentence. Bigger, harder, deeper than he’d been before. His fingers swept down her center and massaged her where their bodies joined. Noises embarrassingly close to whimpers snuck past her lips as he moved his fingers in devastating circles over the part of her stretched to capacity.

  “Again,” he ordered, circling his fingers, and then, finally, his hips. The slow slide of his body into hers unlocked her tongue, and this time neither pride nor uncertainty held her back. She angled her knees to get her hips as high as possible, and said, “Please, please fuck me, Mr. St. Sebastian.”

  He fulfilled her request without restraint, surging into her over and over. “Keep saying it.”

  She gripped the cushion for an anchor and absorbed every thrust, but no matter how hard or fast he moved, the pressure at her center kept building. Between the rapid percussion of their bodies slapping together, she repeated, “Please…please…please…”

  He braced an arm against the top of the chaise, and rewarded every plea by strumming his fingers between her legs, timing the rhythm to match the speed of her begging. Eventually her lips couldn’t move as fast as she needed, and all she could produce were inarticulate cries.

  “Please what, Chelsea?”

  His clipped words told her the strain affected him too. For some reason, he needed this from her, and, God help her, she needed it, too. She drew in a shaky breath and prepared for more personal growth and self-discovery. “Please, Rafe.”

  The reward was instant and staggering. He trapped the throbbing bundle of nerves where the ache centered between his thumb and forefinger, and squeezed. Air backed up in her lungs. Light flashed behind her eyes. For one impossibly long heartbeat she knelt there, enduring the sweet agony. Then the pressure splintered into shards of pleasure and tore through her in a devastating cascade.

  “I lost count, Miss Wayne. Was that three or four?” Rafe’s voice rumbled in her ear, low and unmistakably smug. She pried her eyes open and watched in the mirror above the bed as he traced tally marks across her stomach with his index finger. With the chore completed, he tipped his head, met her gaze in the mirror, and gave her a slow smile. Heat seeped into every cell of her over-stimulated, utterly exhausted body. She closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow. When had he moved them from the pool to his bed? Her sluggish brain couldn’t pinpoint the moment. Somewhere between her second and third orgasm.

  She didn’t need to open her eyes to know he watched her. What did he see? A series of images replayed in her mind. Had she really knelt on a lounge chair and begged him to fuck her? Yes, she sure had. And that had just been the beginning. Now she lay here, four orgasms later—she hadn’t lost count—slightly amazed and strangely proud of herself. A part of her had worried she didn’t really have it in her to indulge in sex solely for the thrill of it, and not be racked with guilt or shame. Three cheers for personal growth and self-discovery. Laurie had been absolutely right. Focus on fun, attraction and bone-dissolving sex. What more could a girl want? She turned onto her side and hugged a pillow.

  To her surprise, Rafe turned with her, wrapped his arm around her waist, and hauled her closer. “I’m not done with y—”

  A phone rang.

  His long exhale tickled her temple. “Fuck. That’s Luc.” He eased away. “I’d better take it. Don’t go anywhere.”

  A totally inappropriate cloud of disappointment formed on her emotional horizon. “Take your time.” She mustered up a smile and started to get up, thinking she’d go into the other room, but when he rose from the bed and strode to the dresser to answer his phone, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. Wide, withstand-anything shoulders tapered down to narrow hips and chiseled glutes that still bore tiny crescent-shaped indents from her fingernails.

  His side of the phone conversation faded to a hum as she stared at the evidence of how completely she’d lost control. Her newfound pride refused to give ground to the sudden flare of embarrassment. This afternoon’s exploits made one fact painfully clear. Up until now, her approval-seeking ways had followed her into the bedroom. She’d always concentrated on her partner, not herself, and put her pleasure second. Maybe the absence of a relationship liberated her, or gave her permission to be selfish, but Rafe factored in, too. He obliterated her catering instincts. He didn’t want them, didn’t need the
m, and seemed to consider anything less than unconditional surrender from her an insult.

  Each little red mark she’d put on him suddenly seemed like a signature of her new self. Before the urge to kiss every last one of them became too much to resist, she got up and headed to the closet while some happy but very sore muscles reminded her they hadn’t been used so thoroughly in…this lifetime. Biting back a smile, she shrugged into one of the thin, waffled cotton robes the resort provided its guests, and tiptoed past Rafe.

  A quick hand snagged the back of her robe and pulled her to him. “I told you not to go anywhere.”

  She sent him a pointed look, and then the phone, while heat crawled up her chest.

  “I’m on hold. My father’s assistant said he’ll be with me shortly, which is Luc’s way of announcing he’s pissed about something.”

  “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “Don’t wander off. Dinner should arrive soon.”

  At her raised eyebrows, he leaned in and kissed her chin, and explained, “I ordered for us earlier this afternoon while you were”—his lips roamed her jaw—“I’ll call it napping.”

  Not exactly an invitation, but considering he’d placed the order while she’d languished in an orgasm-induced coma, why bother playing games? She was available for dinner, obviously. His mouth found a ticklish spot below her earlobe and she shivered. “I’ll go back to my villa, have a bath, and dress for dinner.”

  “Do that here,” he murmured. “Your things are already in the room.”

  She drew back to look at him. “They are?”

  “I went over to your villa and brought back the essentials.”

  Dinner was one thing, but a sleepover? What did her new rulebook say about such a thing? Disconcerting as it was to realize he’d taken the decision out of her hands, she still had a hard time moving away from him, especially when wide palms slid down to cup her backside while he traced her upper lip with his tongue. “Who said I was staying over?”