A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  “I will fall and split my skull if you don’t stop that immediately!”

  He caressed the inside of my thighs, cupped my sex, acute sensation lingering everywhere his skilled fingers had been. My hands curled into tight fists in an attempt to hold onto the feeling as long as possible. He rubbed me in an achingly lazy rhythm with the nail of his thumb running along the seam of my sex, over the pantyhose. When my legs failed, he placed me on solid ground and nudged my body forward. My sweaty palms landed on a wall of first editions and my head dropped, my heavy breathing matching his. Trapped between his tall, muscular body and the bookcase, I felt the heat emanating from him all around me. The weight of him, from the top of my spine to my heels, was deliriously arousing.

  The sensation of being completely overpowered, dominated, was so exhilarating that it shocked me. Where had this part of me been hiding the last ten years? Never once, in all my time with Aleksander, did I ever feel this overwhelming desire to be taken. I always thought my taste conventional when it came to sex, almost staid, and this new discovery shamed me. There had to be some perfectly good Freudian explanation for this…or maybe it was Jungian. Regardless, this was not who I thought I was.

  I pushed back against the erection tenting the front of his gabardine slacks and heard him exhale harshly. It turned me on, knowing I had as profound an effect on him as he had on me. He bit the side of my neck, driving me to distraction. Caught unaware, my stockings were at my ankles before I realized what had happened. It jolted me right out of the pheromone induced daze.

  “Are you mad? Someone could walk in!” I struggled to turn around but he held me in place.

  “Then we better be quick.”

  “Quick? You don’t know what the word means!”

  A burst of laughter was muffled on the side of my throat. Then he shut me up with his expert touch, petting me over my underwear, cultivating my desire for him. It didn’t take much; I was slick the moment he touched me. Truthfully, it started as soon as he walked into the room––my body so attuned to him. Slipping his fingers inside, he nudged me with his erection from behind until he had me worked up in a frenzy of need…needing him.

  Yes. Yes. Soft. Ready. Willing. Those were the only words my body ever spoke to his. Never a ‘no’. Never even a ‘maybe’.

  “You’re wet. Tell me how much you want me,” he whispered in that raspy voice that drove me wild.

  “You know I do.”

  I heard his trousers unzip, the tear of foil. He pulled my underwear to the side and pushed himself inside of me. A slow delicious friction into the welcoming softness. My short fingernails dug into the leather spines of the books and left tiny crescent marks. He pulled out and buried himself again and again. One large hand gripped my hip while the other wrapped around and stroked my clit. Imprisoned between two points of pleasure, I gave up all resistance.

  “Tell me.”

  “I want you, only you, desperately,” I said, my voice reedy and breathless. He thrust and held himself perfectly still inside of me…the bloody tease. “Oh Christ, Sebastian please, please. I’m begging you!”

  Something occurred to me in the sensual fog I was drifting in. He needed me wild and mindless for him. It drove him, and he wouldn’t stop until he had me at his mercy. When he started moving, I began climbing again, rapture within reach.

  Then we both heard it. Voices. Just outside the door. My whole body turned to stone. “Stop, we have to stop,” I whispered.

  “Shhh.” He thrust quick and deep, slamming into me at just the right angle, and placed his palm over my mouth in time to stop a primal cry from exploding out of me. Mindless and at his mercy. The voices faded. His fingers found me again, circling the tender, swollen nub, plucking gently. The tight coil unspooled. My muscles collapsed around him so firmly it triggered his release. He muffled a grunt into my shoulder and rolled his hips, milking his pleasure.

  “Holy shit––” he said, gasping. I couldn’t have said it any better myself. I felt his forehead fall onto my back and listened to him fight for air. He kissed my neck and squeezed me tight before stepping back. I was incapable of anything that resembled movement, my body a loosely assembled pile of limbs. He straightened my clothing before restoring his own.

  I turned around, expecting to find him as shattered as I was, and discovered his Highness the picture of relaxed elegance instead. Not a hair out of place; a sated smile on his handsome face; his graphite grey suit wrinkle free.

  How the hell was that even possible? I was certain I looked as thoroughly worked over as one of the girls in the red light district.

  “Geneva––tomorrow afternoon. I don’t care what you tell her. Tell her you’re visiting a sick friend, for all I give a shit. You don’t need to bring anything. Meet me at the café in town if that makes you more comfortable.” When I failed to respond, rendered stupid from an epic orgasm, he arched a brow and gifted me with one of his Adonis-in-the-flesh-and-you-are-powerless-to-resist-me smiles. “Good girl.” Then he placed a peck on my lips, patted me on my behind, and left me standing there contemplating whether this man had robbed me permanently of my ability to reason.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The piazza was deserted. An old tomcat with one eye stared at me suspiciously from his lofty spot on a low wall. He knew what I was up to. As instructed, I waited patiently for him at the café. Worrying the nail bed of my thumb with my index finger, I finally clasped my hands in my lap in an effort to stop them from fidgeting. I had already torn three perfectly clean paper napkins to bits. The guilt of lying to Mrs. Arnaud about visiting a sick friend made my stomach churn. All of a sudden, that second latte had been a bad idea.

  The black Mercedes SUV was parked across the street, a literal and metaphorical shadow following me everywhere. As I paid the bill for the café au lait, Sebastian’s Bentley GT pulled up. I looked around like an inept spy before I stepped inside. With a relaxed smile on his handsome face, he leaned in and kissed me. I felt shy, out of my comfort zone. I tried pulling away but he held my chin and deepened the kiss. “You look nice.”

  I looked down at my clothes: my ivory silk blouse, my best jeans, and my black heels. I looked far from nice, although unlike him, I didn’t have any choice. My eyes did a slow and slightly annoyed perusal of his Majesty. Freshly shaved and dressed in beige linen pants and a white shirt, he looked nice, he always did. An alligator belt and Italian driving moccasins put an exclamation mark on his terribly expensive and extremely understated attire.

  “What’s that look for?” he asked, mild amusement on his face. I was sulking. I couldn’t help it. It also wasn’t his fault that being near such sophistication made me feel a little homelier, a little less of everything good.

  “Why do we have to leave the estate? You look splendid by the way.” The small, juvenile whine in my voice couldn’t be missed. I turned to stare out the window while the car sped down the country road. He grabbed my hand and rubbed my knuckles.

  “Splendid, huh?” His lips twitched, his warm eyes smiling. Then he kissed each knuckle and bit my thumb. I pursed my lips and gripped my knees together. This man had a direct line to my libido. “I just want us to spend some time together without having to sneak around. I have something special planed for tonight.” There was something wicked in his voice, alluring.

  “I need to ask you something,” I said matter-of-factly, and looked over.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked, even though the guardedness had already crept into his expression.

  “Paisley…she’s your sister-in-law.”

  He had the grace to look a little guilty. When he continued to stare ahead, I thought he was going to dissemble.

  “Paisley and I dated in high school,” he said and exhaled deeply. “When she got tired of waiting for an engagement ring from me, she seduced my stepbrother and married him instead.”

  Exactly like a soap opera. He looked over to gauge my reaction. I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  “Maybe my
ego was a little bruised at first. But it’s not like I was in love with her. I got over it quickly…she never did,” he claimed. “She was unfaithful to him from the start. Although, from what I hear, so was he. By the time I moved to Geneva, Marcus was doing extremely well as a currency trader––” I shifted in my seat to face him and he placed his hand on my knee, his thumb lazily stroking back and forth. Again, that vital link. “So when he called asking for a job, I hired him. Right about that time, Paisley decided she wanted to stay Mrs. Redman more than she wanted to stay in Texas.”

  He paused for a while, unsure how to continue it seemed. When he began to speak again, his voice grew quieter. “After my wife died…I…I was in a very bad place, for a long time. It wouldn’t be fair if I blamed Paisley entirely for taking advantage of the situation––but that’s when it started.” His eyes darted back and forth from me to the road.

  “Are you attracted to her?”

  “No.”

  “Then why her?” Another deep exhale told me he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the question…well, neither was I.

  “She likes it rough, Vera. Very rough. What you saw in the library––that was nothing. Let’s just say I was happy to slake my anger out on her.” He searched my eyes for disapproval and found none. Who was I to judge him?

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  I noticed the almost imperceptible way his muscles relaxed at my words, the way his breathing changed. “Honesty cuts both ways,” he replied. I shrank away from his searching gaze.

  * * *

  We pulled up to an elegant, turn of the century building across the street from Lake Geneva. The Cologny district was the most exclusive in the city. I wasn’t even inside yet and I already felt as out of place as an atheist at a Christian summer camp. It was quiet, no Vespa’s speeding by, no honking of horns or traffic congesting the streets. We parked in an underground lot and took the elevator up to the penthouse. As the elevator doors shut, Sebastian pulled me into the shelter of his warm body and pressed me closer, until the stiffness was gone from my spine. I sighed as he cradled my face in his large hands and kissed me slowly. He was such a tactile man––I loved that about him. When he touched me, everything felt right.

  We entered the apartment with a set of codes on a panel. The carved, maple door opened and as I stepped inside, dim lights automatically turned on to reveal the beauty and elegance within. A mixture of contemporary and antique furniture struck the right balance. All clean lines and rich, luxurious materials. Inviting, comfortable instead of formal. Biedermeier pieces in pale wood, oversized down couches in a palette of soft neutrals; light and dark grey, beige, white, light blue. A beautiful orange cashmere throw added a splash of color. But the view stole the show; an entire wall of windows overlooked the city and the shoreline of the lake.

  I could feel him watching me closely, measuring my reaction. No one had ever expended so much energy trying to gauge my thoughts. My eyes came across a large squeegee painting hanging at the end of a hallway and my breath caught.

  “Is that a Gerhart Richter painting?”

  “Yes, do you like his work?”

  “Very much. I mean…I’ve only seen it online.” I knew the Tate in London had one…and so did Sebastian apparently.

  “What do you think?” There was a sweet, uncertainty in his eyes. Slay me now. I wanted to launch myself at him and kiss that look away. A nervous laugh escaped my throat instead.

  “It’s breathtaking.”

  “It’s mine. I bought it and had it renovated long before I inherited the estate, or the bank…this is really home for me.”

  “You don’t feel at home at the estate?” I was surprised by his confession. He played lord of the manor quite naturally.

  “It’s my father’s house.” With his hands buried in his pant pockets, he shrugged. “That’s how I’ll always think of it.” His expression had turned a little too sober. I reached up and petted his chest until his gaze returned to me with a smile.

  “You want to talk about it?” I asked gently.

  “Not tonight…come.” Grabbing my hand, he pulled me through a bedroom and into a walk-in closet where women’s clothing hung neatly spaced apart. It felt like I had been dropped a from fifty story building, my stomach bottomless. “These are for you. I’m pretty sure I got the size right,” he casually explained. Oh… my eyes widened. “The first dress is for dinner. Then we’ll come back here and change for a party we’re going to.”

  Speechless, I picked up the hanger and inspected the first dress, running my fingers over the soft, light wool. Roland Mouret. It was constructed and lean, a deep burgundy color; perfect for my pale skin and dark hair. The other was a floor length, black gown of silk jersey. It had a halter top and a knife pleated skirt with a slit that split the side. A small tag with gold lettering was visible. Gucci. I could feel him watching me.

  “Did you pick these out?” Our eyes met and he replied with a quick nod. “I love them. Thank you, Sebastian.” His earnest, shy smile made something inside of me come loose. My stomach fluttered.

  “I’ll leave you to get dressed.”

  I watched his steps as he walked out, and couldn’t detect any extra stiffness. I had come to know the way he carried himself so intimately that I could tell when the pain started to break through the oxycodone, even when he tried his best to hide it.

  “Sebastian––” He turned and looked at me, sweet expectancy on his face. I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated him, how much everything he did meant to me… how much he meant to me. “Nothing…I’ll be ready soon.” His smile faded and guilt made my gaze swing away. I had never thought of myself as a coward. But apparently I was.

  Inside the closet, I found two shoeboxes. The first one was a pair of platform black, kidskin Christian Louboutin’s with a peep toe. I inspected them like they were priceless artifacts, a weeks worth of salary I reminded myself. The second contained a pair of Sergio Rossi black high heeled sandals that had thin straps crisscrossing all the way up to the knee. They were incredibly sexy and tasteful. There was also a tiny pink shopping bag from Agent Provocateur that contained a couple of pairs of silk thigh high stockings––although, I was a bit disappointed to discover that there wasn’t any sexy lingerie. I was certain that my practical cotton bra and panties weren’t exactly making him lose his mind.

  The bathroom attached to the bedroom was as beautifully decorated as the rest of the apartment. It had a sparkling mother of pearl mosaic floor, an infinity pattern that ran all the way around the white marble wainscoting, and a sculpted ivory tub. I sat at the vanity to do my makeup. The usual––since I’m hopeless with anything other than kohl eyeliner, mascara, and blush.

  I stared into the Queen Anne mirror, and wondered how many times she’d sat here doing the same thing. His beautiful, dead wife…whom he was still in love with. The bathroom had a feminine quality to it. Did he have it decorated for her? My spirits sank just thinking about it. The more he disclosed about her, the more I wanted to know. His confession about having been in a dark place after her death elicited a range of emotions that ran the gamut from empathy to jealousy. A novelty for me. Who was this woman, and why did she so thoroughly own his heart?

  Once done with the makeup, I undressed and placed my neatly folded clothes in the closet. I took my time rolling on the stockings, enjoying the feel of them on my skin. The silk was gossamer thin, with a line that ran up the back. They had a wide band of lace at the top and some type of adhesive rubber that made them stay in place. Slipping on the platform Louboutin’s, I walked into the closet to fetch the dress. The image in the tall mirror startled me. I didn’t recognize the person standing there. My legs looked shapely in the sexy stockings, my lips plump from kissing, and my eyes were full of sparkle.

  A vague memory of my engagement dinner crossed my mind. I was laughing at something Aleksander had said when I caught my reflection in a mirror. The same lively anticipation stared back. The situation was entirely d
ifferent back then, there was promise in the future. All I had with Sebastian was the present. I couldn’t delude myself into thinking there was any future for us––that door was firmly shut. I could play pretend for a evening, but I was not Cinderella. There would be no marriage to any prince in this story, and probably no happy ending.

  The Roland Mouret dress fit as if it were made for me. It was sleeveless and fell just above my knee with an interesting pattern of folds all over, like origami. I decided to leave my hair down––I rarely did, it was too long––and parted it to the side, letting it fall over my shoulder.

  I was securing one side with a pretty black comb when Sebastian walked in and came to an abrupt halt. He was so shockingly handsome that an uncontrollable smile spread across my face. Effortlessly elegant, he wore a pale grey gabardine suit with a crisp white shirt. His face was unnaturally still as we stared at each other.

  “You look––” he whispered. Reaching me in two long strides, he pinned me against the full-length mirror before I could blink. “You look too good to stay home, or you’d be underneath me right now,” he mumbled between kisses that trailed down my neck. Two strokes of my bottom and his hands stilled, his eyebrow raised in question. “What’s this?”

  “My underwear.” He pulled his lips between his teeth, fighting a smile.

  “I’m aware of that––what I meant was, why are you wearing them?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Take them off.” I stared back, blinking. Was he serious? “Now.”

  A shiver raced through me, quickly followed by blast of heat. Not accustomed to wearing such high heels, I had to grip his arm for balance while I stumbled out of my trusty underwear.

  “The bra.”

  “Sebastian––”

  “Turn around,” he ordered, removing my bra with the dexterity of someone who was practiced at it. The memory of his hot palm remained on my skin as he zipped me back up. It was mortifying how quickly he could reduce me to a puddle of need. “Come.” Another order.