Secret Acquisitions

by Raleigh Davis

  I’m supposed to be the one in control here, and instead I want to surrender to my need before I’ve even touched her.

  “So where is this picture?”

  Her question pulls me out of my fantasy and back into the moment. I point to it. “My cousin said that every successful man needs an oil painting of himself. So she decided to gift me with this.”

  January starts to laugh, putting her fingers over her mouth to hold it in. Her entire face lights up, bright enough to see in the dark.

  I can’t blame her for laughing—the painting is of me at twelve, wearing a Star Wars T-shirt, shorts, and white socks up to my knees, standing in front of a computer. The style is garishly cartoonish, but my cousin has painted me with such a happy expression that it’s clear she’s making fun of me out of love.

  It’s probably my favorite painting in the entire world, one that I don’t let many people see. Not everyone would see the affectionate humor in it, and even more would take it as a blow to my ego. I’m supposed to be one of the most powerful men in one of most powerful industries in the world; pictures like that of me shouldn’t exist.

  But January knew me before, rejected me before. Even if she’s only here because of the money, I knew she would appreciate it.

  There are so few people in my life who would.

  “That painting is amazing,” she gets out between laughs. “It actually looks a lot like you in college.”

  “Please don’t remind me what a dork I was back then.”

  It’s as if lightning strikes between us, snapping us back into our respective corners when I say that. Reminding us of the distance and antagonism that should be between us. Even though I know this is the way things should be—me on the offensive, her on her toes—I still miss the easy warmth once it’s gone.

  “I won’t then,” she says quietly. “But thank you for showing it to me.”

  She takes a step back and folds her hands, her entire body saying what do you want me for next?

  The answer is crystal clear, always has been, but my conscience pulses like a stubbed toe.

  “You can still go home.” There, I tell my conscience, she’s not a prisoner. She can do whatever she wants.

  She lifts her chin, and she looks like the January I remember from college. Brave and wicked smart and ready to take on the world. “I don’t want to.”

  My aching conscience surrenders to a warm, glad rush of relief. Time to celebrate this victory with a special treat.

  I crook my finger at her, never saying a word, letting my expression describe the depth of my desire for her. She comes easily enough to stand before me, but her pulse is fluttering in her throat, a butterfly trying to escape its containment.

  She reaches behind her to unfasten her dress, and I shake my head. That’s not what I have planned.

  “On the desk.” My voice is rougher than I want it to be. I need to remember my control here.

  She pushes the chair out of the way and spreads her fingers wide on the green felt, letting her head rest between her outstretched arms. Her ass, pushed high in the air by her skyscraper stilettos, tilts up invitingly.

  “Like this?”

  It looks so damn hot I’m tempted to abandon my original plan. When I come around behind her, I see that her dress has ridden up high enough to reveal the lace edges of her stockings and the tiniest sliver of bare thigh. I sink my fingers in her hips and pull that gorgeous ass toward me, grinding my cock against her. Even through several layers of clothes, the sensation is wildfire licking my skin.

  Oh yes, I could very much do it like this. But somehow, even with the pure lust boiling in my veins, something’s off. Not quite in the right place.

  Her. She’s not where I want her to be.

  I steady my grip on her hips and, with an easy flick, turn her toward me and set her ass on the desk. Her legs open naturally, invitingly, and I step between them. Her skirt is clinging just barely to her upper thighs, ready to give up all her secrets with the slightest tug.

  Rather than taking advantage, I kneel before her. Immediately her scent hits me, more complex and enticing than I’d hoped. I’d bet my entire fortune she’s already soaked her panties.

  She’s definitely already shocked, her eyes wide and her mouth a wicked, hot O. My cock pulses at the sight. Later. There’ll be time later.

  For right now my plan is to keep on shocking her. I slip a hand under her skirt, finding the tops of her stockings. The lace gives way to the satin of her skin, and I toy with the edges, watching her pant with every motion of my fingers.

  “These are very naughty.” I tug one stocking down until the lace catches at the top of her knee. “Do your panties match?”

  Her cheeks flood with pink, and she catches the edge of her lip with her teeth, delicious guilt written all over her.

  “Oh,” I say slowly. “Oh, you were very naughty.”

  “The dress is too tight for panties,” she gets out.

  I’d call it perfectly tight, and sure enough, when I slide my hand higher, there’s no barrier between me and her soft curls. I delve deeper and find the core of her. Her folds are slick and plump, swollen with need.

  I can’t see anything, only feel, which might be a good thing. If I could see my fingers tracing her pussy lips, see her moisture coating my skin, see how hot and wet and flushed she was, I’d completely lose control. I’m barely hanging on as it is, the floor seeming to vibrate beneath my knees.

  No, that’s not the floor vibrating—that’s all of me, eager to get at her, to devour her with pleasure. I shouldn’t be this keyed up, not this soon, not with simply touching her, but I am.

  Thank God she doesn’t seem to notice, with her head thrown back, her lip between her teeth, and her hips giving small jerks. She’s more lost in this than I am, although the expression on her face, the stark, needy line of her throat, threatens to pull me all the way under.

  Keep it cool, Taylor. Remember why she’s doing this.

  Because she fucking wants me as much as I want her, my libido snarls back.

  “Open your thighs,” I command, my fingers still teasing all her most sensitive spots, the ones that make her breath catch.

  Her legs shake as if on marionette strings, the instructions from her brain garbled by her pleasure. But slowly she gives me one inch, then two. Her skirt rucks up past her hips.

  The change has transformed her pussy into the most enticing peep show, with her dark curls revealing and concealing her lips and clit as she shifts, seeking more sensation. She’s hooked her heels into the drawer handles, the better to hold on. And the better to expose herself to me.

  I’d thought the desk was perfect when I bought it, but it hasn’t achieved true perfection until now, with this woman framed on its surface.

  I don’t care what brought her into my VC firm in this moment; I’m too damn thankful she came at all.

  I sink my fingers into her thighs, steadying myself and her. Things are going to get wild here. Then I lower my head and taste her.

  My first taste is a gentle one; I want to savor her, to get to know her desire. I was right—her juices aren’t sweet at all. They’re musky, earthy, and tangy with need. Beautiful.

  I lick again, taking in all of her pussy, all the way to her clit. Her thighs tremble under my hands. This time her taste is deeper, more encompassing. My cock pulses, sensing exactly where it ought to be.

  On my next pass, I linger over her sensitive spots, the ones I already know make her weak. Her thighs tremble, then strain, and her breathing goes harsh and guttural. This is a rough, demanding need taking over her.

  But then I’m a rough, demanding man.

  I circle with the very tip of my tongue, moving closer and closer to her clit, pushing her harder and harder. When I finally make contact with the swollen, straining bud, January jerks like a live wire. The desk creaks as her heels dig in. Her knees are pressing hard against my hands, urging me on.

  I don’t need to be told twice. I slip on
e, then two fingers inside her, finding the spot where all her nerve ends are waiting for me. With my hand working in concert with my tongue, I push her to a fever pitch. I can’t see her expression, but the moans she’s making—rough, achy, begging—tell me she’s utterly lost in what I’m doing to her. Hell, I’m halfway to lost myself, simply from soaking in her responses.

  Her pussy clenches tight around my fingers, again and again, her climax setting a new rhythm between us as her hips lift completely off the desk.

  “Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell,” she chants. I wish it was my name she was calling, but we’ll get to that. I’ll make certain of it.

  I get to my feet as all of her goes limp, her orgasm leaving her a boneless sprawl. Her dress is around her waist, her legs hanging over the edge of the desk, and her lungs gasping for air. A tendril of hair clings to her sweat-slick face, but she doesn’t brush it away. Maybe her arms aren’t working again yet.

  Never in my life have I seen anything more gorgeous. I want to tear open my fly and bury myself in her, just like this.

  And then I want to gather her up and put her in my bed.

  I’m definitely going to do one, but not the other. Because gorgeous as she is, January’s got her own agenda here, which isn’t the same as mine.

  Sex is one thing. Sharing a bed is another, and my agenda definitely doesn’t include that.

  Chapter 5

  Mark Taylor, you are a sex god.

  The words hover on my lips, limp and satisfied and sprawled out as I am on his desk, but I have the good sense to hold them back. Mark doesn’t need any more fuel for his ego even if that was the best orgasm I’ve had in… well, ever. Seriously, the man’s fingers and tongue must have been blessed by a fairy or something.

  But I’m definitely not telling him that.

  What, exactly, I’m going to tell him I don’t know.

  First I need to sit up, but my arms are still lost in bliss, the same as the rest of me. I could happily fall asleep right here on the desk, although he probably wouldn’t be amused.

  And he’s not talking. He’s simply… staring at me. Shit.

  With a mighty effort, I force my elbows underneath myself, propping at least part of my body upright. My legs haven’t yet gotten the message that we need to get moving. My skirt doesn’t magically pull itself back into place, and Mark is still between my legs, so I can’t tug it down without shoving him out of the way.

  I’m in the worst position to have an after-orgasm talk. Mark’s expression is completely unreadable, although the bulging erection in his pants is pretty eloquent.

  “Hey.” If you can’t say anything, hey will always do.

  He doesn’t say anything back, not even hey. His jaw works like he’s trying to decide something. Or he’s grappling with a dilemma. I can’t tell what’s going on behind his green eyes, and it freaks me out. The man just gave me the most incredible climax—I need to see how he’s feeling here.

  But Mark’s giving me nothing, at least nothing emotional, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe this was all to put me in my place, on his desk, under his control.

  Fine. I get it.

  “Look.” I gesture toward the door. “It’s been great”—I give that a tart twist—“but I’ll be going.”

  Lombard Street is only a few blocks away, with cabs and several Muni lines. It’s not so late—or early—that my party dress will look like a walk of shame.

  “No.”

  Finally the man speaks. His expression doesn’t crack, but… but maybe there’s some vulnerability in that one syllable. Maybe.

  I raise an eyebrow and wait.

  His eyes darken, and with infinite care, he slides his hand into my hair, lifting me toward him. When his mouth meets mine, everything tightens. His hand, his thighs next to mine, and all of me.

  He’s not careful now. The way he devours me, his tongue thrusting in my mouth, his chest hard against my aching breasts, his erection pressed against my still-pulsing pussy, is way too wild to be careful. Sex isn’t careful or easy or nice, and this kiss of his is pure sex. I had the most amazing orgasm not five minutes ago, and he’s already pushing me toward another one.

  Two world-record orgasms and all without taking off my clothes? Yeah, his sex-god status is pretty much confirmed now.

  I hook one leg around his hips, pulling him closer. As hot as this kiss is, I want more. I want that cock of his deep inside me, and I’m not ashamed to let him know it. I feel like I can be as hungry as I want with him.

  When the tip of my heel catches in his waistband and scratches the skin beneath, he moans. Oh, he likes that. His moan makes me that much more frantic, more needy.

  My body becomes incoherent with desire. My hands pull at his shirt, his pants. My tongue blindly meets his thrust for thrust. My hips seek the anchor of his even as my pussy clenches emptily.

  But Mark is a master cryptologist when it comes to this. With a rough jerk, he unzips his fly, his knuckles digging into my inner thigh. Now it’s my turn to moan.

  Some last-minute warning sputters through my brain—Condom, you idiot, condom!—but Mark the sex god is on it. He pulls a foil pouch from his pocket and rolls the condom on with fierce impatience. He’s handling his cock likes he’s so worked up he’s angry, his strokes curt and forceful.

  I never thought I’d be turned on by Mark touching himself like this, but it’s so goddamn hot I go dizzy. Which is also a first for me during sex.

  He grabs one of my hips, his fingers biting me through my dress, then hooks my other knee high on his waist. I’m open, vulnerable, utterly at his mercy, and my pussy quivers at the cool air pouring over it.

  Then he slams forward and there’s nothing but heat. He’s not careful, he’s not controlled, and it’s fucking wonderful. I flex my knee, the better to meet every pump of his hips. We’re practically rutting here, grinding out God knows how many years of sexual frustration between us.

  In only a few seconds, my skin blooms with sweat. It drips down my back, between my breasts, reminding of how animalistic this all is. He’s sweating too, and in the open vee of his shirt, I see one drop travel all the way from the base of his throat to meander through the hair down below before disappearing completely.

  Lucky droplet. My tongue tingles with the need to follow its path, catch it before it hits his happy trail.

  I can’t though, not with the mad rhythm we’ve set between us. I can only concentrate on holding on. My orgasm comes on like a supernova, annihilating everything in its path but creating new and wondrous sensations in the chaos left behind.

  His climax grips his whole body, every muscle shuddering as his cock jerks against the rhythmic clenching of my own orgasm. His expression becomes… beautiful isn’t the right word, but it touches my heart as if it were.

  We both fall onto the desk, me backward and him forward. My head hits with a bang I wasn’t expecting, my knees are at a weird, dangly angle, and my back wasn’t meant to bend like this. But with Mark above me, panting like he’s just run up California Street at a dead sprint, it’s almost comfortable. He’s not any more in control of this moment than I am.

  I want to reach up and push back his hair, to put some tenderness into this moment, because it feels like there’s too much in my heart. I have to give him some.

  But that’s a mistake. He pushes himself up before I can make it.

  He doesn’t look at me at first, wiping his brow instead. He zips up his pants, adjusts his shirt. Only then does he meet my eyes.

  Maybe there’s some tenderness in his gaze. Maybe. Or maybe I’m only wishing for it.

  Which would be really stupid of me.

  He runs one thumb along my cheekbone, and when he pulls away, the pad is black with mascara. Great. My makeup is melting, I’m covered in sweat, and my dress is hiked around my waist. Yet I still feel amazing.

  With a tiny smile, he tugs down my dress and helps me off the desk. He still hasn’t said anything, but maybe that’s for the best. I don’t
know what I want to say to him either.

  He takes my hand and leads me to the door. “That was… You are amazing.” He brushes his lips over mine, and there’s definite tenderness there.

  Or is it gratitude? My mind and emotions are messy, raw. I need to get a handle on them before I do something stupid and forget this isn’t about affection. Mark doesn’t want it, and I can’t afford it.

  “Thanks.” Only the word is as vulnerable as I can’t be.

  “You’ll stay here tonight.” He doesn’t even offer me a choice, but I’m so worn out—the party, the ride back, the intense desk sex—I’m grateful for it. Even the thirty-minute ride across the park would be agony right now.

  So I let him lead me away.

  Chapter 6

  When I wake up the next morning, Mark is already gone.

  He put me in the guest room last night, giving me a kiss that started out gentle and flared into something sizzling before he gentled it again. Then he left me alone with a huge, fluffy bed. I was so tired I was only a little miffed.

  I am, however, put out that he’s gone before I even woke up, but there’s a breakfast plate and some coffee from the café down the street—on actual china instead of a paper plate—waiting for me in the kitchen and some clothes in my exact size waiting in my bedroom. There’s even underwear and a bra. Again in my exact size. I don’t ponder how he knows that—instead, I want to savor this luxury completely stress-free.

  There’s a note with the clothes too, on heavy ivory paper and in a thick, slashing hand: Last night was gorgeous. You were gorgeous. I’ll see you soon. M.

  You were gorgeous is double underlined, and I feel each of those marks like a caress against my cheek, my jaw. Phantoms of the same hands that wrote the note.

  I wonder what he means by soon. Tonight? Next week? Never?

  Never seems unlikely, given the clothes and the note, but he did have me sleep in a guest bedroom rather than with him. But maybe he snores like a tank.

  That makes me giggle, because Mark Taylor certainly wouldn’t snore, much less like a tank. Which leaves the knotty question of why exactly he did have me sleep in here, but I’ll leave that for later. I’ve got to get to work.