“Merry Christmas,” she said.
He pulled her close. “I’d kiss you but the beard itches like you wouldn’t believe.”
She reached for his hat and pulled it off. “Then let’s take care of that.” The beard attached with a loop around his ear and she carefully tugged it free. He let it dangle from his other ear, and pulled her in, his mouth covering hers in a hot collision of lips and tongue.
She pressed against his body, hot from watching him strip for other women, seeing them run their hands along his skin. She broke away. “I know they were a lot of older ladies, but that was still so totally hot.”
“It’s hot now.”
Syria glanced at the door, the jazz music muted from the other side. If she could get off to a bondage knot in front of a roomful of strangers, she could certainly risk this. She had, after all, almost become a signed and sealed professional Exhibitionist.
She reached down for his g-string. “I think you’ve still got some money in here.” She slipped her hand inside.
He grew erect against her so fast that bills flew out and fluttered to the floor. “You are one crazy girlfriend,” he said.
She pushed him back on the chair, his cock coming up at her like the north pole. “And I come prepared. She took his hands and slid them up her legs, revealing her naked skin beneath her long skirt. He slipped a finger between her legs, sliding up inside her. “I hope TSA didn’t have to search you.”
“I wasn’t concealing anything,” she said, and straddled his lap, pulling the skirt out of the way.
He moved his hand to her waist, eyes closing as her folds parted for him. When she sat nestled against him, all the way down his shaft, he held her so tight and so long that emotion welled up in her again.
“You’re here,” he said. “It’s not a dream.”
“I am,” she said, “and now you better pleasure me or you’re getting coal for Christmas.”
He opened his eyes, smiling up at her, and scooted down a little on the chair. “Prepare to get slammed.” His hand shifted to her hips, lifting her up, and bringing her down so hard and so fast that she gasped.
“Better?” he asked.
Syria couldn’t answer because he was doing it again, shifting her body to his bidding, grinding against her, then starting another long stroke. Laughter broke out on the other side of the door as somebody gave a speech, and Syria prickled with the danger, the risk, and the willingness in both of them to do whatever the other wanted, anywhere they wanted it.
She clutched his shoulders and dropped her feet on the floor, helping him move with her, adding to the impact of their bodies slamming together. The heat curled up through Syria, starting at the burn between them, the slide of his skin inside her, and the pain of overworking her muscles, all combining to shoot her into a new level of pleasure. She was just starting to spiral up when the door opened and a shocked woman looked at them with an open mouth. Tyson stopped a moment, holding Syria close, but the woman simply backed away and closed them in again.
“I think you might be fired,” Syria whispered. “And the cops might be on their way.”
“Then I better hurry this up,” Tyson said. He increased the speed and pressure, and now it was going, her body tightening, then letting loose, cascades of shivers crossing her body and gripping him where they were joined. Tyson slammed his cock into her one final time and now everything burgeoned with warmth and wetness, his cum flowing inside her as she relaxed down on him.
“I hate to fuck and run,” Tyson said. “But we better run.”
Syria burst into giggles as they snatched up his money and their bags. He thrust his arms into the jacket and did a patchy job of connecting the velcro of his pants. They were running through the empty room and out the other side when the doors opened a second time.
“Go!” Tyson yelled, pulling on her arm as they dashed out into the night. “My car’s over here!”
He unlocked the doors and they jumped inside. They pulled out of the slot just as two women came out the back door. Tyson careened across the lot, speeding their way to the side street.
“You are a mad mad woman!” Tyson shouted as they left the hall behind.
Syria laughed. “I am.” She reached over and gripped his arm. “I’m mad about you.”
He grinned at her, checking his rear mirror. “I’m glad you are. Nobody’s following. I think we got away with it.”
Syria squeezed him. “I mean it. It’s taken a lot of sorting out, but I finally realized what was going on with me.”
They pulled up to a red light, the color splashing across Tyson’s face and the beard, still hanging from one ear. He pulled it off. “What’s that?”
“I love you too,” Syria said. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get us in the same city, and I’m fine with your work. I trust you.”
He reached for her, and she pulled against the seat belt so he could hold her close. “Then I can tell you my Christmas surprise right now.”
She pulled away just enough to look at him. “What is it?”
“I got a job with a national talent agency.”
“As a stripper?”
The light turned green, and Tyson pulled through the intersection, then into another empty lot, dropping the car into park.
“No, as a booking agent. Actors and models, mostly. No more stripping, or at least no more taking gigs I don’t want.” He glanced behind him. “I’m probably done with the single ladies’ auxiliary.”
“Tyson, that is great!” Syria rested back against the seat. “So where is the job?”
“That’s the best part. They have ten offices. We can go wherever we want. We can stay in New Mexico if you want, since you have your studio. Or come here. Or choose a different place.”
Syria thought of Erik, and the proximity of his slaves, and the bondage people, and that restaurant she was pretty sure she couldn’t never go to again.
“Where are the other cities?”
“LA of course. And New York and Florida and Houston and a new office in Vegas.”
“Vegas?”
“Yes. They are growing quickly there.”
“I could shoot some fabulous things there.”
“I could send you portfolio work, easy.”
“I could start over.”
“We could both start over.”
Syria unbuckled her seat belt and leaned over the console. “Let’s do that,” she said. “Let’s move to Vegas.”
He pulled her in close, his mouth in her hair. “Let’s go.”
And he kissed her again, a different sort of kiss, one Syria wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before. It was kiss that said, this isn’t for now, for a lark, for a one-off good time. But for real. For love. And maybe, even, for keeps.
More from Starla Cole
Aren’t Tyson and Syria adorable?
Find ALL the books with Syria and Tyson on my web site:
Starla Cole’s Boudoir
If you’d like to go back to when Tyson and Syria met, read Naughty Santa.
You can start at the beginning of Syria’s journey as a photographer with Syria’s Seduction.
Never miss a story by Starla by joining her mailing list!
About the Author:
Starla Cole is a boudoir photographer and writer. She began her Boudoir Sessions stories after some crazy guy called her once and said he was so hot, she'd want to have sex with him during the photo session.
After she hung up, she thought--hmmm. What if he WAS? And wrote the story Naughty Santa.
The characters Syria and Tyson seemed to decide they wanted an actual relationship, so the Boudoir Session series has continued. She has also started a series with her husband (who was *not* amused by the phone call) called Couples Play.
Watch for more work from Starla at her web site: http://starlacole.blogspot.com or join her mailing list for sneak peeks and free excerpts at http://eepurl.com/tlv6b
The Object of His Desire
PJ Adams
Part one: Wanted
1.
Even now, I’m unsure whether it was a genuine Jane Austen moment or the worst of clichés: eyes meeting across a crowded room, for heaven’s sake.
What can I say?
I was nervous, in a crowd of mostly strangers and distant acquaintances.
I was feeling flustered after a difficult journey and finally arriving at this little chapel in the middle of nowhere later than I’d intended – I hate not being in control.
I was unsettled by the rush of mixed emotions in my head. I was about to see my big brother again after far too long; despite following him across the Atlantic to England we’d drifted ever farther apart over the last couple of years.
I was thrown by the realization that his best man was Charlie, the ex who could still wrap me around his posh little English finger after all this time.
Under these circumstances a girl can surely be forgiven a lapse into cliché. No?
§
I’d driven for nearly four hours to reach this remote little Norfolk chapel. It had taken far too long to escape the tangle of London traffic, and even longer driving through the winding East Anglian lanes trying to find the place.
Deep breath, Trudy. I was here. I’d made it on time.
I stood outside the chapel and straightened my three-quarter length Anoushka G dress. Deep cornflower blue, with scooped neck-line and a lily fascinator pinned to my long auburn hair, even I’d admit that I felt good in my wedding outfit.
I realized I was falling back on coping strategies I’d developed in my teens: a constant interior monologue of commentary and pep talks.
You look good, Trude.
That dress will make up for all sorts, and you can get away with those sucky-in Magic Knickers you bought in desperation, because you just know you’re the only one who’s ever going to see them.
Nice shoes, by the way.
Whatever it takes.
I recognized a few of the faces of the guests milling around in the churchyard. They were Cambridge buddies of Ethan’s. When I’d first come over from New Haven, I’d hung out with him in his college halls for a few weeks before landing my temporary job at Ellison and Coles, a wonderfully quaint traditional publisher with offices just off Covent Garden, right in the heart of London.
As we waited to enter the chapel, people smiled at me and nodded, but they were all in their own little groups and no one seemed particularly interested in me. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t in any mood for small talk, just yet. Instead, I checked my cell phone, only to find that there was no signal. I opened my mail just the same, and glanced through emails I’d already downloaded.
“You’ve got signal? Or are you just bluffing so you look busy even though you’re here on your own and nobody’s talking to you?”
I didn’t look round. I didn’t have to.
“Bastard,” I said softly.
“But a good-looking bastard, right? You always did say that I scrubbed up rather well.”
I turned. Honey-blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and the way the tuxedo and neatly pressed pants hung on his lean body... I took a deep breath and tried not to find him attractive.
Charlie didn’t look a day older than when I’d last seen him over a year before, ducking a flying ash tray as he backed out of the Islington apartment we’d shared back then.
“Last time I saw you–”
“You were a lousy shot. I only ducked to make you feel better about your aim. See? Even then I was looking out for you, babe.”
“I only missed because I didn’t want blood on the carpet. It was deliberate.”
“You preferred that dent in the door?” The ash tray had made a nasty gouge in the wood-panel door on impact. I’d never got round to fixing it: my little memento of the year with Charlie.
“Okay, so I misjudged that one. I should have hit you with it.”
“You look good, Trude.”
“Too damned right I do. You think I’d come to my brother’s wedding and look like shit?”
I was smiling by then. Our arguments went like that: they either got more and more intense or we’d end up laughing and wondering what we’d been fighting about.
“It’s been a long time, Trude.”
I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He smelt of Issey Miyake and cigarettes.
“Shouldn’t you be inside with Ethan? I assume he’s turned up?”
“Fresh air break,” said Charlie, tapping the cigarette-box-shaped bulge in the breast pocket of his tuxedo. “You know how it is.”
“Haven’t you given that stuff up yet?”
“Everyone’s got their vices, Trudy. Even you.”
I raised one eyebrow and fixed him with a hard stare until he was forced to look away. If the occasional vodka and tonic too many and a tendency to over-stretch my credit cards on Karen Millen and Jimmy Choo were vices, then yes, Charlie had a point, but he was pushing it.
I looked around again. The chapel was set in a stand of pine trees, a short distance from a sprawling country house, all tall windows and mock classical columns. The landscape was so flat here: fields stretching away to another line of dark pine trees, and the sea beyond. I don’t think I’d ever seen a landscape so haunting, so weighted down with sadness.
“I need a drink,” I muttered. I don’t know why I was so tense. There was no bad feeling between me and Ethan; we just hadn’t seen each other for a while. A bit of awkwardness, that was all.
“Later, Trude. Later.”
“So how did my brother end up getting married in a place like this? Does all this belong to her family? Is that it?”
One further element of embarrassment was that I’d never actually met Ethan’s fiancée, Eleanor.
I didn’t know much about her at all. Very English, was how Ethan had described her on the phone, way back when they’d just started to realize they were getting serious. An English rose, Trudy. Can you believe that? Me, with my very own English rose?
I thought he was a bit scared then, feeling out of his depth with this girl and her landed family and their English ways.
“Family with money,” said Charlie. “It’s all about who you know. Connections.”
That was when it happened. My Jane Austen moment. My cliché.
My attention was snagged by movement in the chapel doorway and I turned, thinking Ethan must be emerging and now was the time for me to go and hug him and sweep away the distance that had grown between us.
Instead, it was a guy I’d never seen before.
He was in a tux, this newcomer. He was about six foot, and his shoulders were square, almost as if he was wearing a quarterback’s shoulder pads. He was either an athlete or he spent far too much time looking after himself in the gym.
So: first impression was okay, but nothing to write home about.
And then... that Jane Austen moment.
He peered around, as if lost, and then his eyes fell upon me. It was almost as if he recognized me, as if he’d been waiting all his life for me... but then realized he was mistaken, he didn’t know me at all – exactly that kind of double take.
He looked away, and then glanced back.
His eyes were dark, but when they settled on you it was as if you’d been fixed by a hawk. A raptor, eyeing his prey.
I shook myself, made myself look away. I couldn’t believe I was actually blushing.
Eyes meeting across a crowded gathering.
It was a cliché. I was flustered by my late arrival and by the tense undercurrents of the occasion.
That’s all it was.
Nothing more.
And yes, perhaps I protest too much.
2.
The moment passed.
I looked more closely and decided I didn’t like what I saw any more. First impression: fit body and smoldering eyes. Second impression: yes, nice eyes and body, but... his suit was crumpled, as if he’d slept in it. His shirt definitely needed ironing; how does a shirt get so creased? His
bow tie was crooked, and badly knotted. His jaw was matted with thick, dark stubble, and his black hair was tousled and in need of a good trim. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a man who looked so unprepossessing.
“What street did they drag that one in from?” I muttered, and Charlie gave a short laugh. “He could have at least made a bit of an effort. He looks like he’s come straight here from an all-nighter.”
Then the newcomer spoke. “Right, folks,” he said, in a clear tone that cut through the hubbub of conversation in the churchyard. “Time to head inside. Nice and cool in there, and the bride’s on her way.”
I turned to Charlie. “Who does he think he is? Isn’t that your job? You’re best man, aren’t you?”
My ex snorted again. “That’s Will,” he said. “He’s like that. Don’t worry.”
“But why does everyone pay attention to him like that?” Everyone had fallen silent when Will had spoken and now, as Charlie and I talked, they were all filing into the chapel.
“That’s Will for you,” said Charlie. “Always gets what he wants.”
Intrigued, I looked at the disheveled man standing in the church doorway as people passed. When his eyes met mine again, it was that raptor’s stare. I looked away, then slipped my hand into the crook of Charlie’s elbow and said, “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
§
As we passed him to enter the church, Will nodded at us. Charlie grunted and looked away. Bad chemistry, clearly.
I met Will’s sharp gaze and smiled. There was something in those eyes: deep, dark pools that could swallow you up. Dark secrets. Mysteries...
I looked away, and realized I was blushing again. Like a god-damned school girl! I didn’t know what had gotten into me.
Dark secrets, indeed. There were big shadows under his eyes. Hangover eyes, that’s what they were. He was just some rough friend of Ethan’s, who’d probably come here straight from a party. Ethan’s bit of rough, that’s what he was!
Stop it, Trudy: you’re obsessing. Straighten that back, find your confident walk – everyone’s looking.
Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set Page 30
