by J. Kenner
“She wanted to go have a drink tonight, but I have my own plans, obviously, and the afternoon was out because I needed a nap. Jet lag is not my friend. Honestly, I think she could have used a nap, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Teaching must be stressful because she was wound up tight. I think she probably needs someone to talk to, but I couldn’t abandon The Plan.”
“I think you could,” Nikki chides, and I make a scoffing sound.
“The Plan is perfect,” I counter. “The Plan is good. We’ve already had that conversation, so drop it. And Gabby hijacked my phone and put all her contact info in. I promised to text her tomorrow as soon as I’m free.”
“Good. Tell her I said hi.”
“Will do. And now I’m really hanging up. Got places to go and people to do.”
“James…”
“Love you, Nicholas,” I say, reverting to her nickname, too, and making her laugh.
“Love you back,” she says, then ends the call. For a moment, I simply stand there, wondering if she’s right. Maybe I am taking the completely wrong approach. But then I shake my head. I know my husband. I know what intrigues him. And what distracts him. I know how to get his motor going and erase everything else from his mind.
And I’m certain that what I have planned is going to work.
More than that, it’s going to be fun.
* * * *
“Do you miss me?” I cross my legs as I lean back on the padded bench, the cool silk of the upholstery a stark contrast to the heat of my skin. A heat that has risen simply from the knowledge that he’s on the other end of this line. And that he’s thinking of me, too.
“Oh, Kitten, how can you even ask that?”
Ryan’s voice fills my head through the small earbuds, low and rough. I feel it like a physical caress, and I press my thighs together in defense against a building storm of desire. “I want to hear you say it,” I confess. “Please, Hunter. It’s been too long.”
“That it has.” Longing fills his voice, and I close my eyes, imagining him. His chestnut brown hair. His clear blue eyes. And that lean, muscular body that fits perfectly against my curves.
“God, Jamie,” he says, his voice filling out my vision of him. “I miss you desperately.”
“It’s horrible of me, but I’m glad to hear you say that. The last time we talked you sounded distracted, and when you said you ran into someone from your past—”
“I think my wife is jealous.”
“Does your wife have reason to be?”
There’s the tiniest of hesitations, and I swear my heart skips a beat. “Kitten, how can you even suggest that? I’m here for work, you know that. And it’s kicking my ass. What you’re hearing in my voice is exhaustion. Not infidelity.”
A twinge of guilt assails me, and I start to quickly backtrack. “I didn’t think—”
But then I cut myself off because maybe part of me did. Not the big part that knows and trusts Ryan. But the teeny, tiny, buried and paranoid part that may never truly believe a man like Ryan could be passionately in love with a head case like me.
“Is it terrible that I’m glad you’re exhausted?”
He laughs. “Coming from anyone but you, I might be put off. But I know my wife well. And, Kitten, you know me, too. You weren’t really jealous, were you?”
“How much longer will you have to stay in London?” I ask, dodging the question.
He sighs. “Hard to say. It’s a monster of a project. But I think we can probably wrap up this week. Maybe ten days. We’re all busting our asses over here to make that happen.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
My husband, Ryan Hunter, is the head of Stark Security, one of Stark International’s newest divisions, with the mandate of providing help where needed, no matter how big or small the assignment.
That, however, is not why he’s in London.
He’s in the UK because before Stark Security existed, he was the Security Chief for all of Stark International, a multi-billion-dollar empire. Technically, he still holds that position. Which means that, with the exception of Damien Stark himself, Ryan is the big dog where all Stark-related security matters are concerned.
He’s no longer the day-to-day guy for the whole shebang, though. Stark Security keeps him too busy for that. Nowadays, he only gets personally involved in corporate security matters when there are big things going on. Apparently the opening-month security checks and tweaks at the brand new Stark Century London Hotel is a Very Big Deal. Not to mention an overhaul of the entire security system in the London offices of Stark International.
He and Baxter Carlyle—the guy immediately under Ryan with responsibility for overseeing security in all English-speaking territories of Stark International—have been leading a London-based team for going on three weeks. Which, of course, means that they’re both enjoying every luxury imaginable. Elegant suites. Incredible views. Stellar room service. An oak-paneled lobby bar with exceptional service, made better by an open expense account.
Working hard, yes. But I have a feeling the luxurious surroundings have taken some of the edge off.
As for me, I was left behind in Los Angeles. Work. Responsibilities. All that pesky adulting stuff. At first I stayed busy. But then the loneliness set in. Followed by the doubt that crept up after those few, odd phone calls with Ryan.
After that…
Well, there comes a point when a girl simply has to take action.
So I picked up my phone, and the rest is history. The fun part will be seeing where this goes. Already Hunter’s voice is working its magic on me, making my skin heat and my upper thighs tingle. My nipples are already as hard as pebbles, and I know it won’t take much more to really ramp me up.
And, yeah, I want to be ramped…
More than that, I have an idea of what I want next. Of which fantasies I want to live out while my husband’s voice whispers in my ear. I lick my lips and rise off the padded bench and continue our conversation, lowering my voice to convey the kind of heat I’m feeling. “You miss me desperately? Define desperately. And please—be very, very specific.”
His low chuckle reverberates through me, settling between my thighs. “Careful, Kitten. I’m in public. The hotel bar.”
“What a coincidence,” I say as I cross the tiled floor, passing men and women all dressed to the nines and ready for an evening out. “I’m in a hotel, too.”
“You’re not working?” I hear the frown in his voice. “I thought you were editing this week.”
It’s a fair question. For a while now I’ve been pulling exceptionally long hours doing the on-camera work and producing a series of celebrity interviews that air on various news and entertainment programs under the umbrella of Hardline Entertainment, a company owned by Hollywood mogul Matthew Holt. It’s a semi-open secret that he owns a high-end sex club, and he’s known around town as a total manwhore, but he’s been nothing but decent to me. So decent, in fact, that he is co-producing a two-hour special on the top three box office hits last year—with me as the intrepid reporter interviewing actors and off-screen talent as we try to find the secret sauce.
It’s a great project and Matthew has not only been a total gentleman, he’s been downright encouraging. And he’s completely respectful of Ryan. Sometimes I wonder if his manwhore, not-with-the-whole-metoo-thing rep is some sort of manufactured facade.
Then again, Ryan has the skill set to kill a man with his bare hands, and he’s best friends with Damien Stark. So maybe Holt just makes a point of showing me his shiny side.
Either way, the job is great and I love it. Yes, I’d love to land the acting gig I was telling Nikki about, but after being bounced around various positions in Hollywood, I finally feel like I’ve landed on my feet. No matter what happens with the Carson project, I’m happy. Which makes Holt something like a ridiculously good-looking fairy godfather to me.
I turn my attention back to the call with Ryan. “I told you we finished the rough cut fo
r the special,” I say in response to his question about why I’m not in an editing booth. Granted, there is still a shit-ton of work to do. But since my words are technically one hundred percent true, I don’t have to feel any guilt about lying to my husband. “And that,” I add with a sultry lilt to my tone, “is why I decided to go to a hotel and call you.”
“So far, I approve of your plan.”
“Do you? Good. But there’s a little more to it…” I let my words hang there.
“Oh?”
“See, the thing is, I’m feeling exceptionally naughty tonight.”
“How interesting.” There’s amusement—and heat—in his voice. A heat that is definitely doing a number on my senses.
I lick my lips, then stifle the urge to cup my own breasts and stroke my sensitive nipples. I’m in public, after all. “Well, I was wondering…”
I trail off as I reach the marble pillars that mark the entrance to the dark-paneled bar. I lean against one, surveying the customers, many of whom have their backs to me. My body is thrumming with desire. I want hands. Lips. Heat. Passion.
Most of all, I want Ryan. But at the moment, he’s not at my side.
“It’s just that there are some interesting people here. Stunning women. Seriously gorgeous men.” The guys in this bar are the kind of candy I would have recklessly collected back in the pre-Ryan era when I was the walking definition of a wild child. Notches on my bedpost, Nikki used to say, and always with a bit of worry in her voice. The kind of worry I ignored then. And, to be fair, I’m ignoring tonight, too.
“I’m intrigued.” I hear the question in Ryan’s voice even before he asks it. “What game are we playing, Kitten?”
I lick my lips, thinking of the earpiece and its tiny microphone, well-hidden under my hair. “What if I seduced one of them?”
I take a step into the room and see him. The one man who puts all the other customers to shame. He’s sitting at the bar with his back to me, so I can’t see his face. But his posture telegraphs confidence, and his short dark hair is thick. I long to run my fingers through it, imagining how silky it would feel against my skin. I can make out just a hint of his jawline—strong, with an evening shadow. I close my eyes, craving the rough feel of stubble against my inner thigh, and I actually whimper.
“Is that really what you want?” His voice is tight, but otherwise entirely unreadable.
“Is that okay?” I bite my lower lip, surprised by how fast my heart is beating. I’m genuinely nervous. More, I’m afraid he’s going to deny me. “You’ve always said you like my wild side.”
“I do,” he says. “You have a man picked out?”
“Yes.” I hear the breathiness in my own voice as my body sags with relief. Until right then, I hadn’t realized how much I feared that he’d shut down this fantasy tonight.
“Then I think you need to do that, Kitten.”
I drag my teeth over my lower lip, heat pooling between my thighs as I take a step toward the man sitting at the bar. “Are you sure?” I ask my husband.
“Have I ever denied you?”
“Never,” I say, then draw an excited breath as I approach the man at the bar. He sits up straighter, as if he knows I’m behind him, and when I slide onto the empty stool next to him, he turns just enough to face me. His eyes are as blue as I saw them in my mind, and for a moment, he only looks at me, his gaze roaming over my body, the icy blue leaving a trail of heat.
I clear my throat. “This seat’s not taken, is it?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Would it matter if I said it was?”
“No. Buy me a drink?”
One beat. Then another. He’s been focused on my lips, but now he lifts his head, then places his hand on my thigh, just above my knee. The contact sends lust curling through me, and I actually have to swallow a moan. I’m already wet and desperately turned on. And in that moment I realize exactly how much I need this night. This adventure.
His eyes lock on mine. “Why don’t I have a bottle delivered to my room?”
“Oh.” That was faster than I anticipated—I do enjoy the chase—but I can’t say that I’m disappointed. Already, I’m imagining his hands on my skin, my dress a tattered heap on the floor.
Still, I don’t want to seem too eager. I see his phone on the polished wood beside an almost empty glass, the screen face down. “Were you on a call?” I ask as I reach for his glass, then swallow the last sip of Scotch along with a few ice chips.
“I’m not anymore. You seem like a woman who’d insist on my full attention.”
He slips the phone into the interior pocket of his bespoke Brioni suit, then gets off the stool and holds out a hand to help me. I slide off as well, my dress riding up, the slit revealing quite a bit of thigh. And, possibly, a quick flash of my red thong panties.
He signals to the bartender, then puts his hand on the small of my back, bare in the halter-style dress. I stifle a moan, the heat from his touch filling me. I want to say something into the microphone, to whisper in Hunter’s ear about how my cunt is throbbing and my panties are already soaked. But that’s not possible, and it would sure as hell destroy the moment. And so I simply stay silent as a wild and wanton heat curls through me.
The elevators are all the way across the lobby, and by the time we get there, I’m weak with desire, and if the way he’s looking at me is any indication, I’m not the only one who’s desperate. There’s nobody else around, and when the doors open, he steps into the car, passes his room key over the control panel, then pulls me roughly toward him. I stumble into him, my breasts pressing against his hard chest as the doors close, and he pushes the button for the thirty-eighth floor.
“You must have a nice view,” I say.
His mouth crooks up into a smile as his eyes look me up and down. “I do.”
He takes his phone out of his jacket pocket, taps the screen a few times, then tucks the phone away again.
“What are you—”
He presses a fingertip against my lip. “Yes. My room has a nice view.” He steps closer, then reaches behind me and unzips my dress, exposing my ass. I draw in a sharp gasp, my eyes automatically seeking out the small metal and glass disk mounted in the elevator’s upper corner. A security camera.
“But—” I begin.
“No,” he says. “No argument. No protest. Remember that you’re the one who approached me.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and slides the thin straps slowly down my arms. “This is what you want.” He pauses, the bodice of the dress just barely covering my nipples. “Or am I wrong?”
I draw a breath, then exhale slowly. I glance once more at the camera, then tell myself it’s okay. It has to be because I want it so much.
“Tell me,” he presses.
My mouth is dry, my skin tingling, as if I’ve inched too close to a fire. “No,” I say.
His head tilts to one side, then he raises a brow. His hands on my dress, however, don’t move. “No, what?”
I lick my lips. “You’re not wrong.”
He says nothing, just takes a single step back, releasing the dress, which slides over my hips and falls to the elevator floor, leaving me bare except for the tiny thong. I let my purse fall, too, then draw in another breath, my heart pounding so hard he must surely hear it. But this isn’t fear. This is a wild, intense, crazed need. A wanton passion that is coursing through me, making my nipples painfully tight and my sex throb in a silent, demanding plea.
“Take them off,” he orders.
I do as he says, sliding the panties down, then holding the rail as I balance on one high heel so that I can step out.
He holds out his hand, and I give him the small scrap of red satin. He lifts it to his face, and with his eyes on me, breathes deep before sliding the panties into his trouser pocket. Then he leans against the elevator’s far wall and slowly looks me up and down.
“As I was saying, the view from my room is nice. But this is much better.” He crosses the car, needing only one long str
ide to reach me. One thumb brushes across my nipple, and I tremble, then gasp when he pushes me back against the wall. He shifts, one hand now cupping my neck as he holds me in place, the other sliding down between my legs.
Roughly, his mouth closes over mine, our teeth clashing and our tongues warring. He’s fierce, demanding, and I close my eyes and think about the way Hunter is with me at home. Wild and bold. A man who takes what he wants even as he gives me everything I crave.
I arch back as a satisfied tremor courses through me. Just like home, I think. Only decadently different.
“You are so fucking hot,” he says when he breaks the kiss. Then he steps away from me, and I moan in protest, only to swallow the sound when he flips the emergency Stop button on the control panel.
I expect the klaxon of the alarm, but there’s no sound except his low, firm words: “I have to have you. Right now.”
I can only nod, and instead of a ringing alarm the only sound that fills the car is the metallic scrape of his zipper. His cock is rock hard and perfect, just as I’ve seen it in my mind, and I feel my body clench in time with the chant that is filling my head—yes, yes, yes.
He doesn’t hesitate. There’s nothing uncertain or tentative about him. Instead he closes the distance between us, then runs a finger over my pussy. “You’re wet,” he says. “Hell, you’re soaked.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I retort. Or I try to. I half-swallow the words as he thrusts two fingers inside me.
“More,” I say, but he only shakes his head and continues to finger me.
“I—”
But I don’t finish the thought, because now his hands are on my waist, and he’s lifting me, his strong arms pinning me against the wall. In reflex, I wrap my legs around him, and as his hands slide down to grip me at the hips, the tip of his steel-hard cock presses against my entrance. I whimper, wanting to feel him inside me, my body craving his. Needing him.
I arch my back, searching for a hotter, deeper contact, and at the same time, he slams his hips forward so that I’m impaled on him. He fills me completely, and I cry out from the unexpected intensity. A delicious hint of pain that is soon soothed by the familiar rhythm of a wild, fast fuck.
