Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  I swallow the twisted knot of yearning lodged in the back of my throat, wanting TJ to pull me inside, to kiss me again and again and again until I barely know my own name. I want him to deliver on his promise—to exploit every single nerve and pleasure center in my body. And to know what I want without having to say it out loud. Because the thrill of this moment, the anxiety and anticipation of standing on the sidewalk outside of his apartment building, two virtual strangers in evening dress, bound only by our mutual sexual attraction, has rendered speech impossible.

  There’s a glint of understanding in TJ’s gaze, a satisfied clench to his jaw. He dips his head, his voice a low growl at my ear. “Would you like to hear what I want?”

  I nod breathlessly. Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.

  His thumb sweeps across my lips, smearing my gloss. “I’ve already told you what I’ll do to your dress. And when you’re naked, wearing nothing but those fuck-me shoes of yours, I’m going to lean you up against my wall and kiss you, everywhere, until you don’t even know your own name. And then I’m going to take you to my bed, and fuck you all night long.”

  My eyes widen and I wonder when, exactly, the silver spoon TJ was so obviously born with fell from his mouth. Because the barrage of deliciously filthy words tripping off his tongue cannot leave room for much else.

  No man has ever been so explicit about what he wanted to do with me. I lost my virginity at sixteen, slept with another guy off and on during my senior year of high school, and dated two guys throughout my four years of college. None of them ever made me feel the way I do right now. Needy and wanton and a little bit reckless. Dry kindling just waiting for a dropped match.

  “Does that sound like something you want, too?”

  I draw a shaky breath deep into my lungs. “Yes.”

  Chapter 3

  @BettencourtBets: We have a celebrity in our midst! Guess who made the cover of Money?

  Tristan

  This girl ticks all of my boxes. A long tumble of hair the color and consistency of spun gold, pouty pink lips that taste every bit as good as they look, a slim but curvy body made to be worshipped, and best of all, a quick wit with a naughty edge.

  Reina may look young, but her eyes are not. There’s a wariness to them, like they’ve seen more than they should. But too much what . . . Truth? Sadness? Disappointment?

  They stare at me now, twin pools of a shallow lake, disillusionment scattered across the surface like ash. And it’s the look in them that makes me want to shock her, push her away. I am deliberately honest with Reina. And deliberately vulgar. It’s my way of giving her one last chance.

  Her skin is as smooth as fresh ice, but warm against my palm. I imagine what it would be like to slide between her thighs, trace the rapidly beating pulse at her neck with my tongue, hear her sweet sigh of surrender when I make her mine.

  Reina St. James has my blood thrumming in a way that, until now, only happened in the office, watching a risky investment turn seven-, eight-, sometimes nine-figure profits.

  Except that I have no idea what’s behind Reina’s perfect facade. I don’t know her, haven’t done any digging into her background, not a shred of analysis concerning her potential motivations. And I’ve learned never to take anyone at face value. I don’t have the luxury of trusting people, even casual flings. Not anymore.

  From the day I launched the Polaris Fund, I put my playboy past behind. I have the Bettencourt reputation to uphold, a legacy of my own to build. Every step I take is weighed down by the expectations of others. Every decision I make is publicly picked apart and criticized.

  I will not give my enemies the satisfaction of watching me buckle beneath the strain. Not when so many others are counting on my success. My father, my clients, my colleagues, every employee who depends on my dedication to pay their bills and support their family. I will not fail them.

  But I’m a red-blooded American male, not a monk. Among my contacts, there are several women as gun-shy as I am when it comes to anything more serious than the occasional tumble to let off steam. Women I forget about the second the condom is off and my clothes back on.

  There’s nothing forgettable about Reina St James. An angelic beauty with a body made for sin and a face that could tempt the devil himself.

  And I’m tempted. So very tempted.

  Despite of the splinter of unease that I’ll regret it.

  Most women hint at their desire for an engagement ring as soon as possible. Yet this one had balked at the suggestion, making it crystal clear that her new job was her top priority.

  I know the feeling.

  Discarding the last of my scruples in the chill of the night air, I lead Reina through the lobby of my building and into the elevator. Neither one of us makes small talk as the car ascends. The zipper at her back beckons, her lips even more—but if I kiss her, if I expose even one more inch of her flawless skin, we will never make it inside my apartment.

  The brief walk from the elevator to my door seems interminable, even though it is only thirty feet. I twist the lock, stifling the sound of the alarm by slamming my palm on the reader set into the wall.

  “Very James Bond of you.”

  I purchased the penthouse fully furnished, and only while looking around for a suitable surface to back Reina up against do I realize that there are too many mirrors and paintings hanging on my walls. My door, however, is perfect.

  “Turn around,” I demand, ignoring Reina’s remark. Her zipper slides downward with a satisfying squeal, the thin straps of her dress falling off her shoulders and sending the material floating down her body until it’s just a remarkably small lump on my floor. A smudge, really.

  Reina’s black lace bra and panty set is flimsy and practically transparent, highlighting her narrow waist and the flare of her hips. Gathering the curtain of hair falling halfway down her back into my fist, I drop a kiss on the nape of her neck, my tongue swirling over her dewy soft skin as I breathe in the scent of her light, feminine perfume. As good as Reina smells, she tastes even better.

  With Reina’s back to my front, I release her hair to run my palms down her arms until my fingers are laced with hers, pressed against the door. I can feel her heat through my clothes, the tense set of her light, lithe muscles vibrating with anticipation as she makes a little sound in the back of her throat—half sigh, half whimper.

  For several long beats I simply stand behind her, the sound of Reina’s rapid, shallow breaths filling my ears, my body absorbing her energy, her arousal. And then I nibble at the slope of her shoulders, the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, the knotted ladder of her spine. I’m treated to an eager little shiver every time my stubble-roughened jaw drags over her skin.

  Finally, I unclasp Reina’s bra and slide her panties down her legs. I’m sure I could have ripped them with little effort, but I’m keeping a tight rein on my impulses.

  That control snaps when she gives another one of those whimper-sighs. I spin Reina around, pushing her back against the door. I am on her mouth in an instant, the damp warmth of her breath hitting my lips for a split second before sealing over hers. I’m not gentle this time, like I was before. This kiss is hard and possessive, urgent and deep. Like I want to devour her. Leave an impression that will stay with her, an imprint Reina will feel every time she runs her tongue over her lips, every time she smiles or frowns or takes a sip of water. What she’ll feel, what she’ll taste . . . is me.

  My hands continue their exploration, my palms testing the weight of her breasts. They are full, heavier than I would expect on her slim frame. Her nipples harden into tight little furls, and I tear myself away from her mouth to taste them too.

  Eventually, I find myself sliding to my knees, pressing hot, hard kisses to the curve of Reina’s waist and the angled ridge of her hipbones, lapping at the shallow dimple of her belly button.

  “TJ,” Reina groans, thrusting her fingers through my hair and tugging at the roots. I feel a twinge of guilt that she doesn’t even k
now my name. I’ll tell her . . . later. For now, I gather her wrists in my hands and hold them behind her back as I move lower and then lower still. Until my chin is at the apex of her thighs and my tongue is sliding inside her wet, quivering slit.

  Fuck. Just as the taste of her explodes on my tongue—earthy and musky and intoxicating—I open my eyes and glance up. Up at Reina’s perfect fucking face. Her mouth is open in a pink pout, her lips trembling. A furrow sits above her nose, her eyelashes fluttering, neck perched at an angle that exposes the thrumming pulse tucked behind the hinge of her jaw.

  I throw one of her knees over my shoulders, supporting her weight with my own. My tongue laves and sucks on her swollen berry of a clit and with each second that passes, it grows juicier, firmer, until she finally lets out a deep, guttural wail. Her legs tremble violently on either side of my face before clamping, vice-like, around my neck, her spine arching like a bow. The last, dying notes of her cry still hang in the air as I get to my feet and lift her into my arms, pressing a kiss to her mouth so she can taste herself on my tongue.

  I need to get this girl into my bed and get out of my clothes. Now.

  Reina

  I am a loose-limbed doll as TJ gather’s my body into his arms. Holy crap. Is this how it feels to be with someone older, more experienced? If so, I could slap myself for not trying it before. This is nothing like the horizontal fumbling I’ve endured before tonight.

  Only one of my boyfriends ever attempted to go down on me and it felt okay, but not great, although he only did it for a minute or two before insisting that we change positions. I’ve actually never had an orgasm with a man before. I’ve gotten close, very close, but something has always made me hold back. I am an expert at faking it, though. Seriously, I can outdo Meg Ryan on her best day.

  But TJ is no boy, certainly nothing like any of my former boyfriends. With him, there was no need to fake a damn thing.

  I wanted to scream, to beg, to unleash a torrent of appreciative compliments as TJ took control of my body. Every inch of it. Instead I bit my lip, so hard I tasted blood. Every word I was capable of uttering would have been a brick on the scale of my inexperience. After his hesitation on the sidewalk outside, after my hesitation, I wasn’t about to give him any reason to stop.

  Until tonight, I considered myself experienced. Maybe even a little world-weary. But beneath TJ’s consummate touch, I am a newborn colt, all trembling legs and unsure steps. I’m not scared though. Not uncertain like I was earlier. I want this, I want him.

  I’m completely naked now. And although TJ’s shirt is smooth beneath my cheek, I’m impatient for it to be shucked off and tossed aside. I want to see him, touch him, everywhere.

  For the first time in . . . forever—my endless lists, overdue bills, and astronomical school loans are not at the forefront of my mind. Tonight, at least, my world is small and simple. Completely contained. It’s a make-believe world, I know, but it’s such a relief to simply pretend.

  Pretend that there is only me and him and this.

  As TJ carries me further into his apartment, I have the vague sense of an attractive space with high ceilings, neutral walls, and monochromatic, angular-looking furniture. A bachelor pad . . . for a very wealthy bachelor.

  His bedroom is dominated by a large platform bed. All the furniture, including the bed, is white. The sheets are a soft, dove gray. One entire wall is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows and another, opposite the bed, holds an enormous television suspended at eye level. An oversized piece of art I only have a second to glance at hangs above the headboard.

  TJ deposits me gently in the center of the plush mattress, the high thread count duvet a velvety caress against my naked back. Holding me captive with a sizzling stare, I watch as he yanks at the black silk tied into a bow at his neck, leaving it loose around his collar as he undoes the first few buttons of his snowy white shirt. His shiny gold cufflinks are next, and they drop to the thick rug at his feet with barely a sound.

  There’s something almost excruciatingly seductive about witnessing a man take off his tuxedo, but I stop paying attention to his clothes when TJ reaches behind his head to grab for his collar. The hem of his shirt drags over an abdomen ridged with muscle and a broad chest sporting a dusting of dark, wiry hair before being discarded somewhere in the vicinity of his cuff links.

  He crawls over me with his pants still on, the belt buckle cold against my stomach. My sharp, surprised hiss merits a raspy chuckle from TJ and he wraps his arms around me, rolling us until our positions are reversed.

  Now I am on top, my thighs on either side of his as I sit up. “You forgot this,” I tease, pulling at the leather.

  “Nah. I figured you might want to do the honors.”

  “Oh you did, did you?” It comes loose and I roll my eyes at TJ’s cocky expression, my gaze snagging for just the briefest second on the art hanging on the wall.

  Even in the dim light it looks strikingly familiar. I look closer, a strange flutter moving through me when I recognize it. “Why is there a logo hanging above your bed?”

  TJ sets his hands at my waist, his thumbs sweeping over the sensitive skin below my hipbones. I shiver. “Gift from my realtor,” he says, flipping our positions once again and bracing himself with his forearms on either side of my head.

  I reply with a breathless laugh. “That’s an odd gift.”

  TJ lowers himself over me, the steady thud of his heart beating against my chest. His mouth is at my neck, his teeth nipping at my skin. “Well, it’s not a logo. It’s a family crest.”

  Family crest.

  That flutter solidifies into a horrified lump in the pit of my stomach. I gasp, but it coincides with the swirl of TJ’s tongue just behind my ear and the shocked sound ends in a moan, my pelvis instinctively bucking upward and pressing against the solid bulge between his thighs.

  “Fuck, you feel good,” TJ mutters, just before his mouth seals over mine.

  No. The word explodes inside my mind, my palms landing on his shoulders and pushing against his weight. My head spins as TJ deepens our kiss, gathering my wrists in one hand and sliding his other between us, his thick fingers holding me open and penetrating me. Slow and hard and deep.

  My mind is in panic mode but my body is on fire. I writhe beneath him, whimpering as TJ stokes the flames even higher, taking full advantage of my sensitivity to coax another orgasm out of me. He is everywhere at once. Pinning me down. Kissing and caressing. Grinding against me. Swallowing my cries as I shake and tremble in his arms.

  TJ is doing exactly what he promised, and giving me exactly what I wanted.

  Except that it’s all wrong.

  Me. Him. Us.

  This is all wrong.

  My eyes sting as I lose control, my body melting under his touch, succumbing to his will.

  He is the wolf and I am the prey.

  When I finally still, TJ rests his forehead against mine, staring into my eyes as a slow, satisfied grin tugs at his lips. “That’s two, little thief. And the night’s barely getting started.”

  I blink at him, the question I don’t want to ask lurking between the lobes of my brain like a cancer, metastasizing by the second.

  When TJ extends an arm toward his nightstand, the drawer sliding open, presumably for a condom, I know I have to say something. But I don’t want to. I don’t want our night to end yet. What it would be like to wake up in this bed, beside this man? What would it be like to feel him inside of me?

  There is the tear of plastic as he kneels between my legs, the metallic slide of his zipper, and know I cannot wait any longer. “What’s your name, TJ? Your full name?”

  He pauses, something that might be guilt but is probably just impatience flitting across his expression. “Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt,” he says, before adding, “the fourth, if you want to get technical.”

  There’s a loud ringing in my ears, and for a few moments I am stunned into stillness. Locked in silence as TJ—Tristan—kicks off his pants, sl
ides the condom over his swollen length, the breadth of his shoulders blocking out the glittering lights of Manhattan’s skyline streaming through the wall of windows.

  He grabs my knees, pushing them open until I’m like a split peach before him. There’s an animalistic glint to TJ’s eyes as he drinks in the sight of me, his pupils blown, lids hooded, the curve of his lips now almost a snarl. His hands glide down my thighs, his thumbs lining up with my hip bones as his fingers move lower, cupping my ass.

  My heart pounds as I feel his thickness notch just at my entrance. One thrust . . .

  “Wait,” I finally squeak.

  TJ’s eyes meet mine, the head of his cock breaching me as I hold my breath. For a second, I think he won’t stop. That I’ve let things go too far.

  He lowers himself over me, the tip sinking in a little further. I squeeze my eyes closed and whimper. “I need you to stop.”

  I feel warm hands come up to cup my face. “Hey,” he says, his voice strained but soft. “Look at me.”

  I do. “Please. I can’t— I don’t—” I wriggle beneath him. “This can’t— This can’t happen.”

  TJ’s confusion is obvious. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  He grits his teeth. “Jesus. Just— Stop moving for a second.” A few heartbeats later, he groans as he lifts his body into a plank, his cock easing out of me.

  I immediately roll to the edge of the mattress. “I’m really sorry,” I repeat, my heels clicking on the floor as I bolt toward the small pile of clothes strewn across his entryway, not bothering with my underwear as I pull on my dress. TJ comes out of his bedroom, his shirt back on but untucked over his pants, hair completely askew.

  And my zipper . . . won’t zip. He watches me struggle with it for a few seconds before stalking my way, making a sound that starts like a growl and ends in a groan. “Let me.”