by Lavinia Kent
“I know, but…” She let her voice trail off, not quite sure what the end of the sentence was.
Clay did not rush to fill the silence. He moved to stand beside her and stared out with her, sipping his own wine and continuing to hold hers. “I love the city. I could stare out at it for hours. No matter how many times I look at it, it’s never the same.”
“I feel that way about the ocean. I don’t know if it’s because I grew up so near the water, but I always feel a little lost when I can’t see it or hear it.”
“I think I can understand that.”
Silence again.
She turned to him slightly, reached out and took her wine, unsure if she was agreeing to anything by taking it. “I can see what you mean about the city. I would never have thought it was like the ocean, but standing here I do understand. From up here it all seems so far away and yet it surrounds us.”
“Exactly.” He drank more of his wine.
More quiet.
He really was not going to push anything. She’d told him she wanted to have sex with him and then tried to leave—and while he’d done his best to prevent her leaving, now he seemed content to simply stand here. In truth, she did know he would never have stopped her from leaving if she’d really wanted to go. It had been her own hesitation that had kept her here.
Was she still hesitating?
This might be exactly what she needed and not because Veronica said so, or because of what anybody else said. No, it might be a very good idea because she knew she would regret it if she didn’t take this chance. She’d felt that way when she’d come, it was only the talk of the past that had waylaid her.
She’d come here with one thought in mind and perhaps it was time that she get over her fears and take action.
“Can anybody see in here?” she asked. “Is it like living in a fishbowl with all these windows, or are you so far away that it doesn’t matter?”
He turned to look down at her. “I’m not completely sure. Probably some of both. If somebody really wanted to see they could find a way, use a telescope, but why would they? I mean, it’s not like I’m the heir to the English throne.”
She stepped back from the window.
He watched her. Did he see the edge of fear on her face or only the edge of excitement? How could she be so scared of exposure and yet feel so titillated? No matter how much she might want to deny it, she couldn’t. The idea of being seen excited her. It had been true at the museum and it was true now. She didn’t want to actually have somebody watch, but the idea that it could happen…
But then there was the fear, fear of gossip, fear of never being seen for what she was, but always through another’s lens, both literal and figurative.
Fear. She was so tired of fear, tired of doubting herself.
Not giving herself time to think, she set the wine down and, not bothering with the buttons, grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it up over her head.
His eyes widened instantly, both with surprise and—judging by those darkening pupils—desire.
She shivered, feeling the chill in the air.
He didn’t move. He simply stared at her as she stood in her thin lace bra, the black silk stark against the pallor of her skin.
And she didn’t know what to do. It had seemed so perfect a moment ago and now she felt almost silly.
Then he moved closer, the heat of his body warming her suddenly chilled flesh.
“You give me the most wicked ideas, Jordan. I thought I’d had every fantasy possible about you but now I can’t think of anything I want more than to strip you naked and take you pressed against that window. Fuck, I’m about to burst just thinking of it. I want you. Tell me now if that’s not what you want.”
She’d half stripped in his living room and he was wondering if she was going to say no?
* * *
—
He certainly hadn’t seen it coming when she’d pulled off her shirt. And now he was having trouble even thinking. There’d always been something about black lace lingerie that sucker punched him and on Jordan it was…He couldn’t even think of the words to describe how perfect she looked. God, he wanted his mouth on her, his lips on her, wanted to taste the salt of her skin, to smell her musk, to…And she wanted to do things to him, too, that was unmistakable.
He reached out a single finger and lightly touched one bra strap, moving it an inch and then pushing it back. “Jordan, if we do this, do it now, can you promise not to run, to stay until morning?”
Her eyes widened. She swallowed. Hesitation danced across her face.
He tried again. “I’m tired of being told this is a mistake. If it is what you want, you need to be sure. I’m tired of games.”
“And here I thought you liked games.” Her voice was low, husky.
“Don’t deflect. You know what I mean. Will you promise to stay, to talk after?”
“I plan on us both being too tired to talk.”
He ran his finger over the smooth skin of her shoulder again, keeping his eyes on her face. It would be so easy to go along with her, to let things flow. What did it really matter if she didn’t promise? If she ran again, he would simply run after her. He had no intention of letting her get away. Still…“Jordan, promise.”
Her lower lip pressed out. His niece had given him that look when she’d been a toddler.
He stepped back, let his arm drop to his side. Then he bent over, picked up her shirt and made as if to hand it to her.
“Fine, I promise,” she said. “But you need to promise me something, too.”
“Anything—at least almost.”
“This has to stay a secret. I’m not ready to have people gossiping about me again.”
“You’re the one who keeps courting an audience.” He glanced out the wide window. “And do you really think anyone would care?”
She dropped her chin, and spoke quietly, remembering Lydia’s cruel words. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to hear about the age difference. I don’t want to be called a cougar—or worse, a cradle-snatcher. And I know it’s contradictory. I’ve never in my life thought of being watched and now…”
Had she experimented at all in her life? He didn’t want to think about her marriage, but she looked so innocent as she contemplated her own desires.
An idea came to him.
She wanted to be watched; well, he’d watch her and enjoy every second of it. “Why don’t you take your jeans off now?”
Her face lifted, startled. “What?”
“You heard me. Take off your pants. I want to see you.” He added a sharp edge of command.
She trembled. Her eyes held his, questioned. Then slowly her hands skimmed down her belly and undid the thin leather belt.
Keeping his gaze on her, he stepped back, picked up his wine and moved to sit, letting his thighs spread wide.
She swallowed visibly, stepped out of her heels and then unfastened the button at her waistband and slowly pushed the pants down over her hips until they fell in a puddle at her feet. Her hands jerked slightly as if she wanted to cover herself, but then she pulled her shoulders back and stood there proud and beautiful. Fuck, she was beautiful.
The panties matched the bra, sheer black lace that revealed as much as it hid.
Had she worn them for him?
He shifted in his chair, letting his eyes roam over her. “Put the shoes back on.”
For a moment he thought she’d resist, but then she slipped her feet back in, black lace and stilettos. She could be a fifties pinup come to life, although that might require a garter and stockings. Perhaps he should buy her a pair.
Her legs were endless, the thighs lean and hard, and yet softly curved. He lingered on the lacy panties, imagining pulling them down with his teeth, but that would have to wait for another day. He had other plans for this
night.
He forced his gaze higher, to the slight curve of her stomach with an indented navel and skin so smooth and velvety that it seemed almost airbrushed. He swallowed hard. His hands itched with the desire to reach out and touch, but he stayed in his seat, his eyes the only thing moving.
Her thighs quivered as she stood there, drawing his eyes back down. Excitement? Nerves? Or both?
“Take a step back. More against the window,” he said.
Her brows drew in for a moment, but she complied.
“Slip off a bra strap.”
Another flash of eyes, but then with slow, slow fingers she slipped one strap down, letting it hang loose. A single finger trailed across her collarbone, dipping low for a moment and then beginning to play with the other strap. He let his gaze follow, imagining his own fingers on her.
He lifted his eyes up to meet hers. Yes. She’d caught on to their game, caught on to it too well. He’d enjoyed his moments of command, but equally enjoyed the surprise of seeing where she would lead. He eased forward in his chair. Her eyes followed his move. There was no mistaking how excited he was. Her gaze lingered for a moment, then came back to his.
The other strap fell.
She brought her arms slightly forward, pressing on the sides of her breasts, her cleavage rising to miraculous heights.
She drew in a deep breath, the pale flesh rising farther, pulling against the black lace.
His mouth went dry, waiting.
The breath eased out.
Then in again.
All he could do was stare—and wait. It was worse than waiting for presents on Christmas morning—and better, so much better.
Anticipation.
Breathe out. Breathe in.
The lace slipped slightly, but did not fall.
One of her hands skated up over her flat stomach to cup her left breast. The thumb playing over the lace-covered nipple, causing it to peak even further.
A quick glance to her face. She was letting him see her pleasure, see what her own touch did to her.
Her fingers came about the nipple, squeezing, drawing it out.
“Ahhh.” A soft sigh left her. “I’ve always loved the feeling of cloth scraping over my nipples. Skin to skin can be wonderful, but that added friction of cloth…God.” Her tongue swept out, licking her lips, leaving them glistening.
One of his hands slipped down, pressing hard against his erection.
Her other hand came up, went to the other nipple.
Fuck, he was so hard.
Her fingers pinched both nipples.
It was his turn to lick his lips. He wanted to taste her, to nip her, to drive her crazy—as crazy as she was driving him. He wasn’t sure when he’d lost all control, but in this instant, she was clearly in command.
“Do you want to see?” she whispered. “Oh, you do. Hmm, I’m not quite sure that I’m ready. This feels so good.” One of her hands came up to her mouth. She licked the fingers, wetting them, then slipped them inside the cup of her bra. It slid down slightly.
He saw the first bit of deep rosy pink.
“That’s good. So good,” she gasped. Then the cup was down and he could see her fingers squeezing hard at the tip, pulling it. Each movement made her gasp slightly. Her eyes were almost glazed with her passion.
“Take off your bra.”
She made no movement but her continued squeeze and pull, her breast lifting and falling as she began to pant.
“Please.” There was no denying the plea in his voice. “I need to see you.”
Her fingers shook as they moved to the front closure. A shrug of her shoulders and she was completely bare from the waist up.
He squirmed in his chair. Pressed harder, trying to contain his need to come.
“Do you like?” She cupped a hand under each breast, lifting them out to him.
He’d seen her breasts before, but never had the chance to enjoy them like this. “Yes.” The word was torn from him.
“Me too.” She went back to tugging at the rigid nipples, her body pressing back against the glass.
And then one hand began to play down her belly, trailing and dancing. She licked her fingers several times and he could see the glistening pattern they left behind.
He began to stroke himself through his pants. He was dying.
Long fingers started to play at the edge of her panties, slipping under the lace and then back out.
“I think I’m very wet—soaking, in fact. And I blame you.”
“Is it my fault if you’re a naughty girl?”
“I never have been before.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
For a moment, only the briefest moment, she became still, her face clouded. “Believe what you like.” Her body turned slightly, her gaze leaving his to stare off across the room—but her fingers began their movement again and all he could do was stare.
Chapter 13
How was it possible to feel so strong and so weak at the same time? Jordan was glad she was here. More than glad. This was what she needed, what her life needed, at least for this moment.
And it felt good. There was no denying that.
Her eyes drifted closed. It was so much easier when she wasn’t looking at Clay. If she let her thoughts drift, she could be anywhere, be anybody. All she needed to do was think about the sensations her body was experiencing, the cold air against her breast, her nipples hard and tight and needy, begging for…
No, that would turn her thoughts back to Clay. And in this moment, she needed only herself, her mind, her hands, the joy of her own body.
Then she opened her eyes and made the mistake of meeting his gaze and suddenly it was all about him, his need, his desire—and the power and pleasure it gave her.
This is why she had come.
If she’d wanted to be by herself she would have stayed home. No, it was this circle of pleasure and want that had pulled her here.
His eyes were focused on her, totally and completely. Every time she quivered, every time her finger twitched, she could see the reaction in his face. He was enrapt.
And so was she. All she wanted, all she needed, was there in his gaze.
She stepped back, the glass cold against her back. She’d once read about how strong safety glass was. It could be broken by a small projectile, but could withstand enormous amounts of pressure.
That was even more like her than she wanted to examine. She could withstand the great pressures of life, but…
Fuck, that was way too deep a thought for this moment. She didn’t want to think, only to feel.
Focusing on Clay’s eyes, she let herself be swept away, let herself sink into the sensations coursing through her body and the want shining in his eyes.
Easing her feet farther apart, she concentrated on the hand, on the finger, that dipped low, that circled her clit, inching nearer and nearer to where it needed to be. She could feel herself swelling, engorging, crying out for satisfaction. Closer. Closer.
The barest brush.
Her body shuddered.
His breath caught, held.
Another brush. Another tremor.
And still he did not breathe.
Her nipples ached and she lifted the other hand to tug and squeeze, pulling hard, almost to the point of pain. That caused him to breathe, a single great gulp of air.
She tugged again. Harder.
Another gulp.
Her eyes dropped to where he was stroking himself through his pants.
It was her turn to gulp.
Her fingers moved faster, centering on her clit.
Her breath grew faster, panting.
Tug. Stroke. Pinch.
It was building.
Building.
Her head fell back against the gla
ss.
Wait. Wait. She tried to slow her fingers, tried to put it off, but her body wanted what it wanted. No, not wanted, demanded.
Faster. Harder. Spring coiled tight.
There. There. Almost—and…
* * *
—
Fuck. It was all Clay could do not to come as he watched Jordan’s body tense, convulse, and then melt against the glass. And the expression on her face…Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He watched her face flush, her eyes grow glazed, her lips part, those small cries. Fuck. He pressed down hard at the base of his dick.
He intended to be buried to the hilt in her when he came.
Her head lifted and she stared across at him. He could see reality slowly come to her.
He tensed. He half expected her to run despite her promises. She’d let him watch her at her most vulnerable and that could not be an easy thing for her. He had a feeling that it was rare that she let the walls drop.
She licked her lips. He could see her searching for words. Was she going to make some excuse or some casual joke?
“Well, that was unexpected,” she murmured at last, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“Really, I rather thought it was what you were after.” So it was him making the casual joke.
“Well, yes, but I’ve never been one for putting on a show. I’ve always been more direct and straightforward with sex. I think they say vanilla. I’m slightly shocked to realize how much I like being watched.” She stared at him and then turned to look out over the cityscape. “Although, I admit that a good part of it is fantasy, the idea of it. I don’t think I’d care to know for sure that strangers were watching me.” Her voice grew more quiet as she spoke.
And there was the vulnerable side of her again. She was letting him in, letting him see pieces of herself that she’d rarely shared, that he wasn’t even sure she’d known existed.
He wanted to ask her questions, but he sensed that it would all lead back to her dead husband and that was not where he wanted to go, certainly not now. Now there was a thought to get his unruly dick under control. “I’ve never been one to invite strangers in myself. There are some activities where I care to know my partner.”