“Hey you tan goddesses,” I teased. “Enjoying the Florida sun without me?”
“We’d be lying if we said we weren’t.” In the background, I heard music start. “How’d the interview go?”
I delivered the good news, the girls squealing with an excitement that rivaled my own, a laugh spilling from my mouth at their reaction. “I wish you guys were here to help me celebrate.”
“Woman, hop on a plane and get down here! We’ll save one of these beautiful men for you.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I warned. “I’m so sick of New York men I could scream.” A vision of Clarke Brantley appeared in my mind’s eye, his hand against the window, his masculinity screaming through every line in his body. I closed my eyes briefly and fought the urge to check my lower lip for drool. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. I’m going to check out apartments, try and find a place to live. I just wanted to let you guys know the good news.”
“That’s great news, babe,” Benta called out, her voice overshadowed by the background noise. “Go have fun tonight! Celebrate without us!”
I smiled at her order, said my goodbyes to both of them and ended the call before dropping my phone into my purse and jogging down the subway steps, the mild warmth of the afternoon sun fading as I stepped into the dark underground.
My phone rang as I hit the bottom step, the muted song chiming from my purse. I stepped out of the way, digging frantically as my ringtone neared its end. I followed the glow of the screen, pulling out my cell just in time. My finger froze mid-swipe, and I stared down at my screen at the name.
I smirked. Straightened the strap of my gown and looked out the window. “Shh. The driver will hear you.”
“The driver’s job is to hear me. Now, get on your knees.” Vic’s hand landed on the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. I twisted away, shooting him a warning look.
He leaned over, whispered in my ear, his breath tickling the wisps of my chignon. “Do it, and tomorrow I’ll fly us to Paris.”
That got my attention. I turned, sliding across the seat, his hand immediately traveling up the slit in my dress, teasing the skin on my thighs, my legs obediently parting as he did what he did best and ran his fingers over the silk of my panties. “Private?” I asked, the negotiation eliciting a chuckle from him, his eyes darkening when my hips curved into his fingers, the steal of a digit sliding under my panties turning everything—for one exquisite moment—beautifully black.
“Yes, we’ll fly private, you spoiled woman. Now, let me feel that delicious mouth.” His fingers gently played on my neck, a light reminder, and this time, I didn’t resist, sliding down, the limo’s carpet stiff against my knees, the beaded dress snagging on the edge of the seat before breaking free.
I unbuckled his belt and looked up into his eyes, dragging the zipper down. Heavy and hooded, they stared at me as if drugged, his handsome mouth opening slightly when my hand stole into his tuxedo pants and wrapped around him.
The car took a turn, my left hand gripping his thigh for balance, his finger tapping at the window control, a sliver of cold night air and city sounds pouring through the now-open crack, my eyes narrowing as I placed his cock in my mouth, showing my teeth, threatening him with my eyes.
“Easy princess.” He smiled, his perfect grin white in the dark space. “Just adding a little atmosphere. Not enough for anyone to see in. Now, suck.”
His order excited me, the dominance in his tone making my thighs clench, arousal growing. Arousal, which, knowing Vic, he’d light into a full-fledged fire by the time we hit his elevator. Arousal he’d put out with his fingers, his mouth, and his body. I closed my eyes and concentrated.
I loved the power of having him in my mouth. I took my time, taking him deep and feeling him stiffen against my tongue, in the course of seconds, my oral ability proven in eight inches of reaction. I smiled around his cock and buried it down my throat.
Fifteen blocks later, only minutes before we pulled up to his Fifth Avenue residence, he moaned my name, his hand tugging at my hair, the shudder of his body the final warning before he thrust into my mouth and came. Hot satisfaction of which I swallowed every bit, the small aftertaste well worth the worship in his eyes as he pulled me into his arms and kissed me senseless.
“I love you,” he whispered, brushing the hair off my shoulder, the hair that had come undone somewhere around SoHo. “Oh Chloe. I love you so much.”
And that, in a cum-filled nutshell, was my ex. Vic Worth. His family’s name was plastered on buildings all over Manhattan. A billionaire trust-fund baby, we met sophomore year at NYU. Dated eighteen months before I walked in on him mid-thrust into his maid. I dumped him, and he popped the question with a six-carat ring amid a flurry of exorbitant gestures. I said “no” in about four different combinations, most paired with an expletive or immaturely presented middle finger. He wasn’t deterred, his pursuit impressive in its effort, a pursuit that I had hoped, with a two-month hiatus since his last contact, had finally ended.
Yet that afternoon, my high from my new job draining with every note of my ringtone, he called. I hesitated, then, despite my better judgment, dragged my finger across the surface and raised the phone to my ear.
I barely had time to speak before Vic’s voice came through the cell, his words barking out with some degree of urgency. “Don’t get on that filthy thing. The subway? God knows what you’ll catch.”
I spun around, peering up into the bright white square of sunlight, a swell of bundled New Yorkers pouring over its edge and hurrying down the steps, the vibration of the oncoming train pulsing under my feet. “Are you following me?” I hissed into the phone.
“Hell no. I’m at the Bellagio about to clean house in blackjack. But Jake just texted me that he saw you going down to the six. What the fuck are you doing?”
“Is this seriously why you called me?” The train approached, its brakes screeching as it came to a stop and was immediately surrounded, the crush of bodies swelling like a sea of maggots around a prize. I tapped my MetroCard against my leg, in no hurry to join the party.
He sighed into the phone. “According to Jake, you’re in heels—and I know your heels. They aren’t built for actual use. Trot your sexy ass up those stairs and get in the warm car; let Jake take you home. Please. Then I’ll hang up and never bother you again.”
“Never?” I challenged, the promise one I’d heard before.
“I’ll try my best.”
I twisted back and forth, my purse swinging with the momentum, from darkness to light. Though, in this twisted scenario, they were flip-flopped: the dark and dirty wheeze of the subway was where I should be going, the light and sunny street the path I should avoid.
“Come on, baby. Let me do this one thing. Just one.” The beg in his voice, the crack on the word baby. It reached up my skirt and teased my skin, probed into my brain and lured out all of the times his gorgeous mouth had whispered the words.
Come on, baby… his hand pulled me into a coat check closet, parting furs and pushing me back against the wall.
Come on, baby… his tongue, soft on my inner thighs, the scrape of his five o’clock shadow tickled as his hands spread my knees apart and his mouth moved higher.
Come on, baby… his hands up my dress, fingers digging into the meat of my ass, his mouth on my neck as we—tucked into the shadows of a club, music thumping, bodies everywhere—let passion override sense.
Come on, baby…
That was the problem with love. There was no OFF switch.
I ended the call and hurried down the steps into the cold darkness.
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Also by Alessandra Torre
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Blindfolded Innocence. (First in a series) A college student catches the eye of Brad DeLuca, a divorce attorney with a sexy reputation that screams trouble.
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Moonshot, the New York Times Bestseller. Baseball’s hottest player has his eye on only one thing—his team’s 18-year-old ballgirl.
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Some suspenseful Alessandra Torre novels:
The Ghostwriter. Famous novelist Helena Roth is hiding a dark secret – her perfect life is a perfect lie. Now, as death approaches, she must confess her secrets before it’s too late. An emotional and suspense-charged novel.
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About Alessandra
Alessandra Torre is an award-winning New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels, and is the Bedroom Blogger for Cosmopolitan.com. In addition to writing, Alessandra is the creator of Alessandra Torre Ink: a website, community, and online school for aspiring authors.
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Learn more about Alessandra at alessandratorre.com or join 40,000 readers and sign up for her popular monthly newsletter at nextnovel.com.
Acknowledgments
With every book, a team effort is involved. I wanted to take a moment and thank the following individuals:
Marion Archer - for your care and attention to this plot, characters, and the hundreds of little moments we worked through in these pages. Thank you so much!
Tricia Crouch - for all of the support and friendship you give me, the pep talks when I was ready to abandon this plot, and for reading a dozen different versions and loving them all. Thank you!
Janice, Perla, and Erik - it is incredible how three sets of eyes can find so many flaws! With over a hundred catches, I am reminded, over and over again, how valuable you each are and what a difference you make in my novels. Thank you!
Sommer from Perfect Pear Creative - you nailed this cover on the first try, then made it even better. Thank you so much for sharing your talents with me!
Yulanda B, Jenny V, and Karen L - thank you for reading early bits and for your quick and insightful feedback!
Maura and Flavia - thank you for taking this new baby under your wing, let’s get it in bookstores around the world!
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