by Julie Kenner
“Yes, too bad.”
“None of that sounds very sleep-inducing,” he said.
“No, it wouldn’t be. But my point is that I think Ellis missed one. A big one. My thesis is that there’s a wealth of erotica found in sleep.” She licked her lips. “There’s something very erotic about watching your lover—or even just some person you’re trapped in a building with—sleep.”
“Or just watching them,” Bryce said, cutting a glance toward the screen behind which she’d hidden.
“Very true.” She grinned. “But voyeurism, while related, is another lesson altogether.”
“So you weren’t really hiding back there,” he said. “You were researching.”
“Absolutely,” she said, her expression serious. “Voyeurism with a higher purpose.”
“Higher than sex? I find that hard to believe.”
She smacked him across the knee with the back of her hand. “A little respect, please,” she said. “This is serious business.”
He looked at his knee. “Slapping,” he said. “Your friend Havelock would find symbolism there.” He cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes to stare at her. “Ms. Benetti,” he said, “all these little symbols, these unspoken innuendos…are you trying to seduce me?”
“Trying and succeeding,” she said, then stood up. He expected her to move close to him. Instead she took a step away, backing out from between the sofa and the coffee table.
“Going somewhere?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She nodded toward the bedroom. “Sleep,” she said. “I presume you want me to keep up my stamina.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were the woman who shut down even the hippest of New York clubs.”
“True. But we’re not clubbing. And I need my beauty rest. Especially if I’m going to be clearheaded tomorrow when you give me my business lesson.”
“Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart. Without tit, you’re not getting tat.”
She reached down into her oversize purse, then pulled out a single volume. She flipped through it, finally marking a place with her finger. “Frank Harris,” she said as she passed him the book.
He took it, replacing her finger with his as a page marker.
“This is lesson number one. You study that…and then you tell me what you learned.” She brushed a light kiss along his cheek, the gesture filled with erotic promises, then walked toward the bedroom.
Bryce watched her go, both bemused and bewildered. At least, that is, until he opened the book to the marked page. He only had to read a few lines before bewilderment was pushed aside by arousal, anticipation and just a hint of jealousy directed at the couple described on the pages.
The woman was sleeping, wearing nothing but a thin silk chemise with the covers tossed aside in deference to the heavy heat. The man stood in the doorway, his eyes caressing her. And with each shift of his gaze, the man hardened as he imagined himself sinking deep into the sleeping beauty’s delicious, wet folds.
He went to her, crouching on the bed where she slept, one arm tossed over her face to block the dim light. Gently, he pressed his hands to her thighs, urging her legs apart. She wore no undergarments, and the image of her sex that was revealed to him caused his member to throb.
Bryce drank in the words slowly, fascinated by the writer’s languorous pace, his reverence of both the woman’s beauty and her sex.
In the story, the narrator dipped his head, pressing his cheek against the soft, hot flesh of his lover’s thigh as he laved her sex with his tongue in long, gentle strokes. Beneath his ministrations, the woman squirmed, but didn’t awaken.
Her body, though, responded as if she were awake and in his arms. Her nub hardened under his tongue, plumping and throbbing in silent demand for his touch. She writhed beneath his attentions, even in sleep her body seeking that most exquisite of releases.
He kissed her deeply, intimately, his tongue slipping inside to stroke hot, demanding flesh. Small shivers shook the woman’s body, building in power until she awoke from the sound of her own voice, crying out her lover’s name as wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure crashed over her.
Bryce exhaled, his own body thrumming as if he himself had touched the sleeping woman. He thought of Joan alone in the next room, imagined her laid out on top of the hotel’s fine linens. Perhaps asleep, perhaps not. But either way, ready for him.
He smiled, his erection throbbing insistently.
Oh, yes. Joan had given him one hell of a first assignment. And Bryce intended to ace the class.
JOAN SHUT the louvered doors behind her as she entered the bedroom. The bed loomed large, the focal point for the entire room, and Joan was drawn to it.
Four o’clock in the morning, and she wasn’t the least bit tired. On the contrary, she’d rarely felt more alive. Her body hummed with a sensual energy and she craved Bryce’s hands on her.
She’d tossed her resolution to the wayside…and she couldn’t be happier.
Reaching back, she tugged her zipper down, then shimmied out of the dress, leaving it on the floor as if it were one of Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs leading the way home. One more step toward the bed and she left her bra. The last step, and she left her garter belt. The thong panties had long been abandoned on the living room floor.
She crawled onto the bed. The spread was some sort of silk or satin, smooth and cool to the touch, a welcome sensation against her burning hot skin. She kept the spread on, peeling it back only to retrieve a pillow.
Her thoughts raced, imagining Bryce’s hands on her body, wondering where he was in the story, wondering if he was as turned on by reading it as she hoped. It had been one of her most persistent fantasies ever since she’d read the passage in the Harris book—being awakened by a lover only to realize he’d already started making love to her. His tongue on her most intimate parts. His hands on her breasts. His breath, hot and moist between her legs.
She’d wake up and be consumed by this man, this lover, who would make her come. And then, once she was awake, start all over again, only slowly this time so that she missed none of it.
Joan shivered, hugging the pillow close. It wasn’t a fantasy she’d ever shared before. Somehow the moment for sharing just never came up. Now, though, she was glad. She wanted this experience first with Bryce. Stupid, she knew. She was falling for this man—this singular guy who filled every one of her fantasies to a T. She was setting herself up to get hurt, but somehow she just couldn’t help it. She wanted him, and, right then, she’d take him however she could get him—and as many times, too.
He’d walk away in the end. A guy like Bryce certainly had no reason to stay. But Joan had nursed a broken heart before, and in the meantime…
Well, in the meantime, she could pretend that he was Mr. Right. That he could give her a happily ever after.
She snuggled into the pillow, breathing in the fresh scent of the hotel’s detergent. Luxury. She closed her eyes. She wanted this fantasy, wanted the whole thing, and that meant she couldn’t be awake when Bryce walked through those doors.
If he walked through those doors.
She pressed her lips together, for the first time worrying that Bryce wouldn’t be nearly as turned on by his first assignment as she was. But no. She wasn’t really worried. She was in tune with this man, and she knew without a doubt that his touch would awaken her.
Assuming, of course, that she could fall asleep in the first place….
She snuggled closer to the pillow and took one last glance at the clock before closing her eyes—3:48. Deep breaths, that was the ticket. And clearing her mind. No thoughts of Bryce. No thoughts of anything. Just drifting.
Her head buzzed, the combination of the wine and the late hour. But then the buzz faded, and there was just the feeling of floating….
OH MY.
Joan’s eyes flickered open. Four-fifteen. She’d fallen asleep, and now she was drifting back to consciousness on a blanket of electrical sparks tingling ove
r every inch of her body. She lazily traced her hand up to stroke her erect nipples.
Her thighs were hot, and she could feel the scrape of his beard stubble against the tender skin. Bryce. He’d come, just like she’d known he would. Just like in the book.
Just like in her fantasies…
Her sex throbbed with need, and she shifted shamelessly on the bed, wanting him to take her in his mouth, to lave her, and to find and tease that one crucial spot.
His mouth closed over her, the most intimate of kisses, and she lost herself in the hot, wet heat. Her entire body seemed to have folded in on itself, until all that was left was a bundle of sensations craving release. A release that couldn’t quite come.
And then, just when she thought he never would, his tongue flicked over her. One stroke, but that was all it took. Joan cried out as she bucked against the bed, unable to control her body and certainly not willing to try. She was simply reacting, not even thinking except for the vaguely muddled thoughts—yes and please and don’t stop.
Don’t stop.
She must have said the words because Bryce pressed the pad of his thumb against her sex, rubbing in slow, sensuous circles just long enough to speak one simple word. “Never.”
Joan smiled, spreading her legs wider as she surrendered to his continued attentions. She’d known it was coming—hell, she’d orchestrated it—but the reality still surprised her. Bryce had made her fantasy come true. And before their confinement was over, Joan intended to return the favor.
BRYCE BURNED WITH NEED. He craved her, wanted to lose himself in her, and desire filled him like a red-hot liquid.
The moment Joan had awakened, trembling, under his touch, Bryce’s ability to reason, to think, to do anything other than touch this woman had evaporated like mist. She amused him, intrigued him, fascinated him. But most of all, Joan turned him on like no woman had before.
He didn’t know if it was their confinement, the titillating lesson, or simply the woman herself. A woman who knew what she wanted and went after it with a guilelessness and humor that Bryce found refreshing.
The reason didn’t matter. Right then, all Bryce wanted was to crawl inside her, to pull her around him and lose himself in her sweetness. He wanted to make love to her until the sun streamed in through the east window, and then he wanted to start all over again.
“Bryce…”
She whispered his name, and her voice cascaded over him. He kissed her intimately, breathing deeply of her sweet, feminine scent. He was as hard as steel, and it was all he could do not to raise himself up and plunge deep inside her.
Not yet…
With the pad of his thumb, he teased her, dipping into her wet heat. His other hand explored her skin, caressing her firm belly, delighting in the way her muscles tensed under his lightest of touches.
He’d been ready the second he’d finished reading the passage, but when he’d stepped into the bedroom, Bryce had come close to losing it. There she was, naked on top of the spread. Her legs were slightly parted, giving him the most enticing view imaginable. She’d either been asleep or faking it, but she’d come alive under his touch, filling him with wave after wave of masculine power.
Now, she murmured his name, her fingers twining in his hair. “Please,” she whispered, the word little more than breath.
Bryce wasn’t about to quibble. He wanted this woman. Wanted to possess her, to lose himself in her. Her legs shifted, widening in unmistakable invitation. Bryce didn’t hesitate. He’d tucked a condom into his pocket before entering the room, and now he sheathed himself, grateful that he’d thought ahead. He didn’t want to slow down, didn’t want anything that would take him away from this moment.
Slowly, he brushed his lips over the soft skin of her inner thigh, then moved his attention higher. Her hips, her belly. His tongue flicked over her navel, and he watched with supreme satisfaction as her stomach tightened and she trembled beneath his touch. Her fingers still curled in his hair, and she urged him up. He went willingly, one hand resting between her legs as his mouth found her nipple, hard and insistent beneath his tongue.
With the tip of his tongue, he teased her, flicking her nipple and then lowering his mouth to suckle the puckered, rosy flesh. While his mouth focused on her breast, his hand stroked her sex, his fingers dipping inside her soft, wet folds. She rocked her hips, drawing him in deeper and deeper.
He was throbbing, desperate, couldn’t stand it anymore. With one bold move he lifted himself up, his arms on either side of her, palms flat against the mattress. She was stunningly beautiful. Pale skin and golden hair accented by enormous blue eyes and full red lips.
The tip of his shaft teased her, the slight contact tormenting both of them.
“Now,” she whispered.
He didn’t hesitate, and with one quick thrust, he entered her. Her body welcomed him, her slick heat enveloping him like a glove.
He pulled out, then thrust in again, repeating the motion as she lifted her hips, her own rocking motion matching his. She closed her eyes, but Bryce watched, wanting to see every flash of passion, every hint of desire. He wanted her to come in his arms, and he wanted to see the spark in her face when she did.
She made love exuberantly, rising to meet his thrusts, her skin flush with the heat of desire. Her hands curved around his waist and he felt the pinch of her nails in his flesh as she urged him down, harder and deeper.
She whispered his name, then repeated it, again and again. Her voice, deep with passion, seemed to stroke him. He latched on, riding the crest of her voice, each thrust taking him that much closer to release.
“Bryce, please. Now.”
Her demand broke over him as he reached the crest, and his entire body seemed to explode, brought to the brink by the thread of pure need running through her voice. Spent, he sagged against her, rolling to one side so as not to crush her under his weight. She murmured, a soft sound of protest, then spooned against him.
He stroked her hair, enjoying the closeness wrought from the circumstances. So often when he was with a woman the first thing on his mind after sex was getting up, getting dressed and getting to the next meeting. Or the gym. Or the office. Or any one of a million little things that made up the ins and outs of his life lately.
Right now, he could do none of that. He and Joan were trapped. And yet he wasn’t feeling antsy. Wasn’t itching to check his e-mail or call Leo or review a profit-and-loss statement. Instead, he just wanted to hold her. He told himself it was only his unconscious taking advantage of a forced vacation. But he didn’t really believe that. No, for the first time in his life, he’d met a woman who interested him more than his work. And that, he thought, said a lot about Joan Benetti.
9
FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING.
Bleary-eyed, Clive glanced again at the clock on the far side of the kitchen. He’d been up for almost twenty-four hours. His body was humming, and he didn’t feel tired, but he knew he had to be. What he thought was crystal-clear thinking was really getting muddled. And soon enough, that would come back to bite him in the ass.
Damn Worthington.
And damn that bitch. The bitch in the purple dress who’d gone and muddled his plans. Worthington’s little whore.
Clive had worked the whole scenario out so beautifully, but everything had gone and gotten screwed. And all because of her.
He’d cased the hotel for days. Knew Angela’s routine—the private elevator to the penthouse, entering with her passkey, leaving the tray on the coffee table in the empty living room, then leaving. There was nothing—nothing—to prevent Clive from simply slipping onto the elevator with Angie and forcing her to let him in that apartment. Or else.
Of course, he’d have kept her up there. Couldn’t have her running back down and shooting off her mouth. But he’d planned for that, too. Hell, he’d planned for everything. Everything except a clumsy waiter and a busted duffel bag.
He was seated in a chair, the rifle tight in his hands as he su
rveyed his seven hostages. They were huddled together in the corner where he’d forced them, a few actually sleeping despite the circumstances. Four were awake, though, staring at him through bloodshot, terrified eyes.
Angie opened her mouth. The only one whose name he knew.
She made a little sound, something like a squeak.
“What?” he demanded, irritation blooming. He didn’t need this shit.
Her eyes widened and she shook her head, her lips pressed tight together.
“What?” he repeated, his hand tightening around the gun.
Her gaze dipped to the rifle. “I… Why? Why are y-you doing this?”
He almost didn’t answer. Shit, it wasn’t any of her business. But people needed to know. Needed to understand what that bastard had done to him.
“He’s got to learn,” Clive said. “Learn that he can’t just play with people’s lives. Can’t buy out companies and then lay off entire departments. There are consequences, you know?”
She nodded, as if she really did understand. How could she? How could anyone? Except maybe Emily. But she was dead now.
His stomach twisted with the memory of his wife.
“Who?” Angie asked. “Who needs to learn?”
He glared at her. He should have known she wouldn’t understand. He didn’t answer. He just ignored her. She wasn’t worth the answer. She’d played a part in messing up his plan, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to reward her for that.
No, this was too much. This had never been part of the plan. This wasn’t about anybody but Worthington, and now that bitch had gone and turned it into this whole big mess.
He went over his plan in his head again. He had to get out of there. Had to follow the routine as much as he could. He’d rehearsed, dammit, and he was just going to have to buckle down and make this work.
His primary escape route had been from the roof, accessed from the hall outside Worthington’s room. No good. Getting back up to the roof was too risky. His secondary escape route was the way to go. And while it had been the trickier route from the penthouse, from the kitchen it was almost easy.
