by Tawna Fenske
“No, it’s not that. It’s been fully restored, even the paint. The engineer I hired to install it in this room said it can hold up to three hundred pounds.”
She stares at me like I’ve just admitted I use kittens as kindling in my fireplace. “And you don’t ride it?”
“Nope.”
“Never? Like, ever?”
“Once. I was eight.”
And it didn’t go well. My grandmother grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out of the stirrups before I could sling a leg over the saddle.
“You’re the oldest son of one of the most prominent families in America,” she hissed, fingers digging into my arm. “You have responsibilities. Stop acting like a child.”
I swallow hard, fighting with everything I’ve got to keep a straight face. Not to let one iota of emotion flicker through my expression.
“My father kept it in his office,” I tell her. “He had this weird superstition that touching it was the key to closing business deals.”
“I see,” she says slowly. “So it’s a symbol of capitalism and commerce. That’s why you’ve got it hiding in here, in this dark little corner of your office?”
I shrug. I’ve never given it much consideration. “I suppose so, though I’m not sure where else it would go.”
She laughs and strokes her palm down the zebra’s neck. Those hands, my God, what I wouldn’t do to have them stroking me. “Man, if I had my own zebra, I’d put that thing right in the center of the living room,” she says. “Fun and whimsy in the front window.”
I stare at the zebra, thrown off by this take on it. “I can’t say I ever thought of it like that.” Truth be told, it was always just my father’s zebra. His good luck charm, the supposed key to his financial success.
Lily folds her arms over her chest. “It belongs to you,” she says slowly. “And you’re saying you don’t ride it.”
“What? No, of course not.”
She glides around it, hips swaying as she surveys the piece from all angles. “Not even when you’re home alone and you’ve had a bad day and you just want something to make you smile?”
“I—” Good Lord, I don’t even know how to respond to that. “I can say with absolute certainty it has never crossed my mind to ride Xavier. Not since I was a child, anyway.”
A slow, delicious smile spreads over Lily’s face. “Xavier? You named the zebra Xavier?”
“I didn’t name the zebra, the artist did.” Or did he? I’m actually not sure anymore. It’s possible that’s another piece of my childhood I lost. It’s been so long, so damn long since I remembered any of this.
Lily’s watching me like this is the most fascinating science experiment she’s ever witnessed. Considering her profession, she’s witnessed a lot.
“Ride it.”
I blink. “What?”
“Ride it.” She pats the black and white striped rump. “You need to ride this zebra. I can sense it.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Please.” She folds her arms over her chest, making her breasts swell temptingly over the tops of the buttons. I wonder if she knows it and decide quickly that she does. Lily doesn’t do anything without a lot of forethought.
“For me,” she says. “Ride the zebra.”
“Why on earth—”
“Because it’s a crime against art to have something this cool in your own family—in your own house—and not use it to its fullest potential.”
I stare at her, not sure which of us has gone crazy here. “That’s ridiculous.”
But the tiny, unexpected flame burning in the center of my chest doesn’t feel ridiculous. I can’t identify what it is, exactly—Curiosity? Longing? Good old-fashioned lust?
But Lily’s suggestion doesn’t sound nearly as nuts as it ought to.
She must see something in my eyes. Some inner struggle, or the spot where my weakness lurks huddled in the back of my subconscious.
Eyes flickering with mischief, she reaches up between her breasts. “Please, James.” She unhooks a button.
Half the blood leaves my brain. Creamy mounds of flesh spill over the top of her neckline and I have to swallow hard to make my throat work. “I don’t even know if it’ll hold me.”
“You just said the engineer told you it could hold three hundred pounds.” She undoes another button and laughs. “Engineer? Only a rich person hires an engineer to install a vintage zebra he never uses.”
I struggle to remember what we’re talking about. Family obligations or heirlooms or the fact that I kept this fucking zebra because my father used to rub its ass for luck before he closed a deal.
No. This has nothing to do with my father. Not a goddamn thing, and that alone sends a rush of blood through my veins.
Lily fingers another button and it all goes rushing south again.
“You’re going to give me a stroke,” I rasp.
She laughs, still fingering the button. “There’s time later for stroking,” she says. “Ride the zebra, James.”
Her thumb and forefinger twiddle the button, not unhooking it, not unhanding it. Just playing. My mouth waters, and my pants are getting tighter by the second.
I take a step toward her, but Lily skitters back. “Nope.” She laughs and drops her hand from her cleavage. “Only for looking. Not touching.” Her smile broadens as she flicks a wrist toward the zebra. “Much like Xavier has been up ‘til now.”
“Trust me, babe,” I growl. “The way I want to touch you is nothing like how you want me to touch Xavier.”
“And I’m grateful for that.” She takes another step back and flicks open another button. The gray and white striped fabric parts, revealing the luscious edges of her breasts cupped in lace the color of a warm crème brûlée.
My mouth falls open. Literally, my whole fucking jaw unhinges. I force my teeth together with an audible clack. “Come here.”
She just laughs and moves to the other side of the zebra. “Giddyup, Iceman.” She pats Xavier’s butt, making her breasts quiver.
“I need to touch you.” Need, that hardly covers it. It’s a physical ache so strong I feel my brain leaking out my ears.
She smiles like she can hear my thoughts. “This?” She strokes one finger along the edge of the lace. “This is what you want to touch?”
“Christ, yes.”
“Then ride the zebra, James.” She flings one hand to the side to cup the saddle horn, parting the fabric wider to reveal firm globes straining against creamy lace. “It’s really your only option here.”
I stare at her, incredulous. How have I reached this point? That I’m actually considering this insanity? “You seriously want me to climb on the goddamn zebra.”
“Badly,” she breathes, eyes flickering with a heady mix of mischief and desire. “You have no idea how much I want it.”
“I think I do.” My voice is so gruff I barely recognize it.
She flicks open one more button and her breasts spill free. They’re still cupped in lace and some sort of satiny lining keeps her nipples under wraps. But I can see the gumdrop shapes through the shimmery fabric, an invitation for my hands, my mouth, my—
“Come on, Bracelyn,” she says. “Mount it for me.”
I swear to God, she could ask me to staple my testicles to the desk and cover them in hot maple syrup, and I would run to the fucking fridge and grab the Mrs. Butterworth. “This is some seriously weird foreplay.”
“I don’t demand much.” She flicks open another button, bringing both breasts fully into view. “Just sixty seconds.”
“I’ll need a lot longer than that.”
She licks her lips and pats the zebra’s striped rump. “I don’t doubt it,” she says. “One minute on Xavier. That’s it.”
“And?”
“And then I’ll give you the ride of your life.”
“Holy Christ.”
I reach up to loosen my tie, then remember I left it back in the office. My throat isn’t working right, so I undo the top
two buttons on my shirt.
“Good idea.” She flicks open another button on her dress, then another and another until she’s bared to the navel. She pushes the fabric aside, pausing to cup the weight of her left breast and skim her thumb over the nipple. I watch her body shudder as she continues down, palming her smooth belly. A fingertip dips into her belly button.
She pauses there, holding my eyes. “What are you waiting for?”
“To wake up,” I tell her honestly. “This has to be a dream. One of those weird ones where I’ll wake up with my head stuck in the footboard and the sheets wrapped around my ankles.”
“I had a feeling you’d be wild in bed.” She grins and flicks open two more buttons, revealing the top of a lacy thong that matches the bra. “Ready to do it?”
I start to lunge for her again, but she smacks the zebra hard on the ass. “You know what I want.”
And with that, she tugs open the last of the buttons. I swear to God, I stagger. That’s how fucking stunning she is, all creamy lace and silky flesh and a smile that promises so much more than a sixty-second ride on an antique carnival toy.
“Holy God in heaven,” I croak.
She grins. “Thank you.” She rolls her shoulders, letting the dress fall to the floor at her feet as she twirls a finger at the zebra. “You know what to do.”
At this point I’m not sure I know my own phone number, but there’s one thing I know with crystal clear certainty. I will do anything—anything—to have my hands on Lily Archer.
So I take a deep breath and shove my foot into the stirrup.
Chapter 9
LILY
“That’s it.” I fight to keep my breathing steady as James climbs aboard the carousel zebra and grabs hold of the golden reins. I can’t believe he’s doing it.
“This is insane.” The muscles of his thighs flex as he throws one leg over the saddle. The motion is fluid, like he grew up taking riding lessons at some fancy country club. Then he turns those green eyes on me and pins me to the wall.
“Touch yourself.”
His words don’t shock me, but the heat in his voice does. “Like this?” I lift one hand and flutter the tips of my fingers at the edge of my lacey bra cup. “Is this what you want?”
“What I want is to put my hands all over you.” He glances at his watch, which I’m positive is a vintage Rolex. “Which will happen in exactly forty-eight seconds.”
I shiver, impressed he’s maintaining his master-and-commander presence while being sexually coerced into riding an antique carnival zebra.
My bravado slipped a long time ago, and I’m teetering on the edge of melting into a big pile of lust goo. Somehow I hold it together and step to the front of the zebra. Here he’ll have a clear view of me in my lacy La Perla set, one I chose this morning with exactly this in mind.
Okay, not this exactly. No zebra factored into my fantasies.
“Take off your bra.”
The command is low and gravelly, and I catch myself responding before I’ve fully recognized the order. I slip the straps off my shoulders, but keep the band hooked around my ribs. “Is this what you want?” My voice is breathy and high as I peel down one bra cup, then the other.
His breath comes out in a hiss, or maybe that’s mine. The pad of my thumb grazes my nipple and it feels way better than it should. That’s the power of those green eyes watching me, the power of James lording over me on the back of his striped antique steed.
“That’s it,” he growls. The darkness in his eyes gives him a dangerous look, like a Viking. A Viking on a goddamn zebra. “Jesus, Lily—you’re so hot.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out in a moan. I squeeze my breast harder, circling my thumb around the peak of my nipple. I’ve done this zillions of times before, so why does this feel like the first time I’ve been touched? By anyone, not just myself.
Glancing up, I see James staring down with a naked hunger that makes me shiver. “Put your hand in your panties.”
My throat tightens, and I don’t even try to respond with some flirty comment. I’m too far gone for that as my fingertips slip beneath the whispery lace.
I only mean to tease, to give him a good show. But something happens when I graze the slippery cleft between my legs. I’m wetter than I have any business being for a guy who hasn’t laid a hand on me, and I swirl that wetness around the tight bundle of nerves.
“Oh, Jesus.” The moan slips out before I can stop it, and my legs part wider as I find the familiar rhythm. How could this possibly feel so good?
“That’s it, Lily,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Imagine my fingers, my tongue, right there.”
“God.” How did I go from calling the shots to panting spread-eagled against the wall, taking orders from a CEO on a carnival animal?
He wasn’t kidding when he said this is some sort of weird dream. If that’s true, I never want to wake up. I lean back against the wall, no longer trusting my legs to hold me up as my fingers dip and thrust and tease and play.
“Twenty-three seconds,” he murmurs. “How fast can you make yourself come?”
I start to laugh, to tell him there’s no way. But then—
“Oh, fuck.” It hits me like a blast of lava, a trip-line of pleasure yanking my legs out from under me. I clutch at the zebra’s nose, desperate to stay upright, to ride every wave of pleasure I can. “James.”
“Don’t stop,” he urges.
Stars burst behind my eyelids, and I’m positive I’ve set a world record for the fastest orgasm in history. “Ahhhghh.”
The sounds I’m making aren’t practiced or sexy. They’re raw and unrehearsed and forced from my lips by the shockwaves jolting through my body.
At last, the sensation ebbs. I bring myself down slowly, just as James swings one leg over the saddle and drops to the floor beside me. He’s still in master-and-commander mode, and I’m a puddle of goo. I can’t help it; I start to quiver.
But he’s right there with his hands on my waist, holding me steady. Green eyes lock with mine, and I make a vain attempt at smiling. I’m pretty sure I look like I’ve sustained a head injury. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he whispers back, and smiles.
Oh, God, that smile. It’s my kryptonite. It’s so much more powerful than the CEO giving orders thing. He could close a million business deals on the power of that smile alone.
“Tell me something,” he murmurs.
Right now I’d tell him my social security number and all my internet passwords. “What?”
“Real or for show?”
I laugh. “You really have to ask?”
“No,” he says. “But sometimes I don’t trust my own read on things.”
Trust issues. That doesn’t surprise me “I never fake it,” I tell him. “Never.”
“I believe you.”
I can see it in his eyes that he does, and that touches me more than anything. More than the fact that he rode the zebra, or that I just rubbed one out in his office. I glance around, coming back to my surroundings and my body.
My dress is puddled on the floor next to the zebra, so I scoop it up and start refastening buttons as I take in my surroundings with the clearer eyes of a woman wearing clothing. Why am I self-conscious? Not about nakedness. Not physical nakedness, anyway.
“This really is a nice office.” I fasten the last button and pick up a framed picture on the edge of his desk, desperate to play it cool. To get my emotions back in check. “This frame must be antique?”
“Yeah.” His voice is still husky, like it’s taking him a while to come down, too. “Gilt gesso from the eighteen hundreds.”
I touch the filigree edges, the raised gesso roses on the molding, but my eyes linger on the image inside.
At first, I think it’s Jonathan with his arm slung around a much younger-looking James. But the man’s green eyes aren’t lit with the same kindness. There’s a hardness in his features that comes from more than just age.
“Your father.” Of cours
e it’s Cort Bracelyn. I’ve met the man before.
But I’ve never seen him like this. He’s much younger and beaming at his son, who’s decked out in a navy cap and gown.
“Graduation,” he says tightly. “The frame, the photo—they were a gift from him.”
His voice sounds strained, and I feel like an asshole for reminding him of his dead father at a time like this. “I’m sorry,” I offer, chiding myself for wrecking the afterglow.
James shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “I don’t know why I keep that.”
“It’s an important moment in your life, right?” I glance back at the image and wonder what I’m missing. There’s a fingerprint smudge on the glass, so I pick it up again and use the hem of my dress to wipe it clean. “He was a good-looking guy.” I set the frame back on the desk. “But a little scary.”
“Scary?”
“Not in a serial killer way.” Crap, I’ve just denigrated his dead father. “More in a—‘I’m not sure what this guy’s capable of, and I’d rather not find out’ kind of way.”
“That’s rather specific.”
I shrug. “I’ve spent a fair amount of time studying men in bars, assessing the risks, deciding who’s worth the trouble and who I’m smart to steer clear of.”
“And you’d have steered clear of my father?” He doesn’t sound offended, so I answer truthfully.
“For sure.” I hesitate, then reach up and thread my fingers through his hair. It’s still rumpled from his zebra ride, and the absence of a necktie gives him a faintly disheveled look. “You’re much more attractive than your father. Your eyes are kind, and you look like the sort of guy who knows right from wrong.”
A flicker of steel glints in his eyes, then vanishes. I start to withdraw my hand, but he reaches up and catches my wrist. “Thank you.”
He plants the softest, sweetest kiss on my palm, then smiles. One by one, he kisses the tips of my fingers before letting go.
I draw my hand back, conscious of how it’s tingling and the memory of where it was just a few minutes ago. From the heat in James’s eyes, I’m not the only one remembering.