by JC Harroway
This time, he gave her everything. Two fingers burrowed into her tight channel, his mouth feasted like a starving man and he growled out his own frustrations against her swollen lips and clit.
He’d primed her so effectively, it took seconds to send her over. Her whole body lifted from the chair when she came, the power of the climax arching her back to an almost impossible angle, her cries bordering on screams and her fingers clamped around the short strands of his hair as if she’d tear it from his scalp.
He was relentless. His mouth working at her until his jaw ached, he sucked every drop of her arousal, swallowing her taste over and over again. All the while testosterone roared through his blood, triumph hot on its tail. In those protracted seconds she gave herself completely. Her sublime reactions, total surrender, beyond his wildest imaginings. Her buy in to his one-upmanship challenge with himself a hundred and ten per cent.
Perfect.
Spent, she pushed him away. Her stare shone from beneath heavy lids and she whispered, ‘Wow.’
‘Was it better?’
She nodded. ‘So good. You’re clearly some sort of sex guru. Architect by day, orgasm whisperer by night.’
He laughed and eased to a standing position, his cock rigid, tenting his pants. She sobered. Her sexy stare traced a path up his thighs, along his abs, finally settling on his eyes.
She licked her lips. Slow. Seductive. Salacious.
He hardened further, although he wouldn’t have thought it possible. He needed to get out of these pants before his balls turned blue. Her mouth, the flushed, plump lips, the peak of her tongue, the twitch of a smile, held him captive. Fuck. Payback would slay him. If he ever saw that mouth around his dick... Game over.
‘Does it work for you too?’
Clearly her mind was more attuned to his than he realised. She slithered from the chair, settling on her knees at his feet, eyes wide, hair gloriously tousled, a satisfied glow to her creamy skin. She tugged at his zipper, her bottom lip trapped beneath her teeth on one side. His mind turned to mush. What had she asked him?
‘What?’ Fuck, was that his voice? He needed to get a grip. Now. If she put her mouth anywhere near him in his current state...
‘Orgasm denial. Does it work for you too?’ She yanked the trousers over his hips, the tight cotton boxers following until he was trussed at the ankles by his own clothing. Hell, no. No way could he last if she thought to torture him as he’d done her.
He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her lower lip, wiping away the indentations left by her teeth. He should claw back control. Find a condom and finish this inside her, but clearly the memo stuck in his brain, his legs rigid and his feet glued to the spot before the goddess at his feet.
Clearly she’d waited long enough for his answer. She gripped the base of his cock and closed her eyes, running the tip of her nose along his length as she dragged in a deep breath. She moaned, her eyes opening as she reached the tip, her mouth placing a chaste kiss there.
Every muscle strained towards her, his cock bobbed before her and she smiled, a feline grin that both chilled him and boiled his blood.
Could she be any hotter?
And then she stopped.
How he managed to keep the roar inside he’d never know. She sauntered to the end of the bed and retrieved her clutch. With a small smile that didn’t bode well for him, she reached inside and retrieved a tube of lip-gloss. With two quick swipes, she’d painted her mouth that shade of blood red that almost brought him to his knees.
With her eyes fixed on his, and her lips parted, she returned.
‘Now, where was I?’
He cursed at his words repeated back at him. Harley dropped to her knees again, her hands at his hips as she stared up at him, all wicked eyes and pouting lips. While he clenched and uncurled his fists, struck dumb, she dipped her head. Her tongue peeked out tracing a path from the base of his shaft. At the most sensitive area, just below the crown, she paused, her tongue swirling there, before placing a firm kiss on him. She leaned back, eyes sparkling, admiring her handiwork.
‘And what do we call this in French?’ A small smile and a tilt of her head.
Fuck, he loved her sass, her playfulness.
‘Harley.’ The bite of warning gave his voice a harshness he’d regret if he weren’t so close to plunging inside her and taking what he wanted. What his strung-taut body craved.
She smiled, the merest brush of her lips over his crown. ‘It will be worth it, I promise.’ Her eyes sparkled. And then she engulfed him. Her hot, tight mouth practically swallowing him whole, while she held his stare to ransom.
The pleasure was so intense, his eyes started to close. He slammed them open, the visual of her on her knees, that pretty red mouth of hers wrapped around him, too good to miss. His hips jerked of their own accord, shunting him deeper inside her warm, wet cavern. She nodded and groaned, taking him further to the back of her throat. So close to losing it.
No. Show some stamina.
He pulled back and she gripped her hand around the base of his cock with just enough pressure to send his hips in the opposite direction once more. Her other arm circled the steel of his clenched thigh, anchoring them together so he couldn’t escape, even if he wanted to.
His world shrank to the single entity of Harley on her knees with her mouth on him. Her sultry eyes, burning with erotic promise, mesmerised him, the tiny streaks of green a siren’s call. An endless ocean where a man could drown.
He cupped her face, his fingers anchoring into her hair as she bobbed her head and slid her tongue over his shaft with a frantic rhythm that left stars flashing behind his eyes.
His clothing, still around his ankles, held him prisoner. Without pulling from the warm clasp of her mouth, he lifted one foot free and widened his stance. When she gripped his flexed buttock, nails digging, he lost the battle to keep still, to let her guide the pace, and began plunging into her mouth with shallow thrusts.
She hummed, her head nodding her assent and he touched the back of her throat with a grunt.
She reached for his balls, her small hand cupping and rolling, all the while tiny groans vibrated from the back of her throat to the tip of his cock.
It was over.
‘Harley,’ he barked in warning. He tried to back away, but she clung, her hand squeezing his shaft like a vice, and gave a small shake of her head.
Heat slammed through him, from the base of his spine to the tip of his cock. Fire raced, spasms rocked him and he emptied himself down her throat. He forced his eyes to stay open, willing himself to suck every second of rapture from the wonder of the woman giving him the best head he’d ever experienced.
Her fingernails grazed his sack as the last spams tore through him and he registered the yell—harsh, broken, and from his own throat.
She released him with a final suck that made him wince. He panted down at her. She gazed up at him, her own chest working hard and brushing her nipples across his thighs. He hauled her to her feet, crushing her body to his.
Emotions expanded inside his chest. He pushed them aside, crediting the high, the euphoria to the physical release. It was just sex. Tremendous sex.
Out of nowhere, a question slammed into the forefront of his mind. One he’d shelved long ago.
Why? Why had she dumped him all those years ago? Swallowing hard, he sucked the scent of her fragrant hair into his lungs to stop the words escaping. The past was done. He’d started this to show her what she’d missed out on. And he’d made his point. Exacted his revenge. There was nothing more.
He’d end it soon, when the novelty had worn off. When they’d exhausted the burning chemistry. With those words running on repeat in his head, he dragged her to his bed, and collapsed alongside her, his grip on her suspiciously tight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACK’S MADISON AVENUE pre-war apartme
nt was renovated to an exquisite standard. Clean minimalist lines made the most of the light spilling in from the east-facing wall of windows. The masculine space could have been sterile, but it worked—a perfect balance of soft furnishings and art softened the look and made Harley want to curl up in the contemporary white leather armchair and enjoy the sunrise over the Manhattan skyline.
At the thought of armchairs, she grew hot and achy. Memories flashed—last night and what he’d done, wringing her orgasm from her with complete proficiency the way a skilled seamstress manipulated oddly shaped pieces of fabric into the most exquisite of garments. Her bare toes curled on the polished hardwood.
Forcing her thoughts away from toe-curling orgasms and back to the job in hand, she lowered the heat under the griddle and flipped the pancake with a small smile. Teenaged Jack had loved pancakes. They’d often met early, before the others awoke, to share breakfast at the Aspen lodge their families rented every year for skiing holidays. He’d always chosen blueberry pancakes laden with maple syrup.
When she’d roused early, before the dawn, and padded out into Jack’s comfortable living space in search of coffee, the idea to make him breakfast had struck. She’d eventually found the hidden latches on the kitchen cabinets, which had at first seemed like an intimidating wall of brushed steel worthy of an operating theatre. And she’d almost squealed with delight when she’d found blueberries in the freezer.
She plated the golden pancake dotted with blueberries and poured a generous helping of mixture into the pan for a second.
The trip down memory lane stirred up unwanted emotions, which dampened her sexed-up high, the associated memories of the bust up between Hal and Joe bringing an abrupt end to their trip that year and the demise of the friendship between the two families.
Of course, she’d already withdrawn from Jack, her fear and confusion over discovering her father’s and Jack’s mother’s affair leaving her reeling and running scared.
She flushed with heat, her throat tight. She could have handled their break up differently, with more maturity, and she’d never explained any of that to Jack.
But she couldn’t go there now. Too much time had passed for excuses. And the truth...
Harley sprinkled blueberries onto the second pancake and flipped the disc as her stomach lurched.
Did he already know about Hal and his mother? It would explain his reluctance to have any business dealings with her father. Not that she blamed him. She herself had made vows never to do business with and, more importantly, never to behave like Hal Jacob.
Although aren’t you doing just that—Jack, your dirty little secret...?
She shook her head, dragging her mind from past regrets. The bedroom was in darkness when she carried the tray loaded with pancakes and coffee back to Jack’s bed. She placed it on the dresser while she opened the curtains, allowing golden morning light to spill over the polished hardwood floors that appeared authentically original.
Jack slept on his stomach, his back muscles clearly delineated even in sleep, and the thick white sheets pooled around his slim hips. Golden hair dotted his arms, the same golden hair that covered his chest, and led, by way of a happy trail beneath his navel, to the thatch at the base of his spectacular cock.
Harley pressed her thighs together, marvelling at the vision of him naked. She crawled onto the bed, pancakes forgotten as she traced the dip of his spine between the well-developed ridges of muscle with her mouth. He groaned, stirring. She slipped one hand under his hip, burrowing for the magnificent appendage that was, blessedly, fully hard.
She gave him a couple of experimental strokes, and then released him as he started to rouse fully awake to shuck the T-shirt of his she’d donned to cook breakfast.
He rolled over, his hands reaching to cup her breasts even before his sleepy eyes had fully opened. He scraped the pads of his thumbs over her tender nipples, sending shock waves south.
‘Fucking fantastic morning...’ His voice was thick with sleep, but his cock, jutting above his belly, was thicker and Harley couldn’t help rising above him and sliding her slippery sex down his length as she kissed him, agreeing wholeheartedly with his assessment.
She nibbled a path across his scruff-covered jaw to his ear while he teased her nipples and palmed her ass, guiding her hips where he wanted her.
‘I made pancakes.’
His eyes opened wide. ‘Blueberry?’
She smiled with a nod, his obvious delight turning her insides to goo.
His expression sobered as he studied her, as if she’d snooped through his office files rather than cooked him breakfast. Perhaps she’d overstepped the mark. Outstayed her welcome. Perhaps morning-after chat should be limited to I’ll call you.
But he’d fallen asleep spooning her. He hadn’t suggested she leave and his body was certainly up for round two. Perhaps breakfast had been a step too far. Too couply.
She shrugged. ‘I should have asked.’ She reached for the T-shirt, her high dissipating.
He gripped her arm, stilling her retreat.
‘No. It’s fine. Thank you. I just...’
Whatever he’d been about to say, he stopped, kissing her instead. Her mind grew hazy under the constant stroking of his thumbs over her nipples.
Forcing her thoughts from his confusing reaction to pancakes, which was only destined to destroy her burgeoning orgasm, she gripped his cock, using her own moisture to lubricate the glide of her hand along his length. He groaned, rolling them so she no longer straddled him but lay sprawled beneath him, thighs open. Wet and ready.
His hips stilled. He stared down, his eyes so close, the brilliant blue hazed out of focus. His mouth met hers with the barest of whispers. He swept the hair from her face with a tender touch, both hands lingering in her hair. She stilled beneath him, pancakes and even orgasms forgotten as she got lost in his eyes. Lost in this precipice of a moment.
Emotion trapped in her chest, pushing aside vital organs to make room for the unnamed feelings springing up. Did he feel it too?
A ringtone killed the anticipation. Harley railed between heart-thudding relief and skin-crawling frustration.
Jack scanned the nightstand, his body tense. He flicked apologetic eyes back to her, one hand raking his hair until it stood up on end in all directions.
‘It’s my personal cell. Only a few people have the number.’ He softened against her belly but still covered her, pressing her into the mattress.
‘Of course. You should get it.’ She made to slide from under him but he held her firm, his mouth covering hers again while his hand patted the nightstand until he located and silenced his phone. He pulled his mouth from hers with a sigh, lifting the device to his ear.
‘Yes?’
His face changed from mild frustration to relaxed and happy and then he spoke in rapid-fire French she had no hope of following, even if her command of the language stretched beyond the few sex words Jack had taught her. Not that she’d really been listening, too caught up in his sexy mouth and its power to send her shooting to the stars.
Harley let her hands explore his sublime body, tracing his shoulders and back and then fingering the silvery scar on his elbow where he’d broken his arm ski boarding aged sixteen and had required surgery.
He smiled, his eyes following the path of her fingers, and then kissed her, his conversation continuing between chaste presses of his mouth to hers, her neck, even her fingertips.
And then he stilled. His relaxed and happy expression morphed into a small frown but then his French became more animated, punctuated with laughter.
A twinge settled under her ribs, a slow burn that burrowed deep. Who had put that look on his face? What made him so animated? She knew so little about his life now. Aside from his work, his sexual skills and penchant for bilingual dirty talk.
Harley tried to escape again, to offer him a modicum of priva
cy to finish his call. His arm tightened around her waist, and he pressed his lips to hers once more, stilling her retreat.
Harley made out a female voice on the other end of the conversation. She breathed deep, trying to still the thrum of her pulse in her head and rein in her wildly spinning imagination. He must have sensed the tension she held in her body because he pulled away, his brows dipped as he peppered her lips with kisses, presumably waiting for a break in the conversation.
With his stare fixed on Harley, he said, ‘Chérie, I’m not alone. Can I call you back?’
The response came in French and he ended the call, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand and returning his undivided attention to Harley. ‘I’m sorry.’ A soft kiss. ‘That was rude of me.’
Harley wriggled again, desperate now to dress in last night’s ball gown and call her driver. To get out of here and take her confusion and her confessions with her.
‘No problem. I need to leave anyway.’
He let her wriggle free, a small frown crinkling his brow.
She’d just made it to the edge of the bed in a sitting position when his arm scooped her waist, first hauling her back against his hard chest and then tumbling her back under him.
He was fully hard again against her thigh. His mouth swallowed her gasp and any objections. When the slow, thorough kiss ended he reared back to pin her with an open and sincere look.
‘Isabel. You remember my little sister. She got married this summer.’
She nodded, recalling the girl who looked like a female version of Jack.
His mouth tensed, the playfulness draining away as he absently stroked her collarbone.
‘You don’t approve?’
He frowned. ‘It’s not that.’ He rolled onto his back, resting his clasped hands under his head.
Harley slipped the T-shirt back on and retrieved the tray from the dresser. If Jack was anything like Ash, he’d be more communicative well-fed. She placed the tray on the bed, and he smiled, sitting up to take one fork and offer her the other. Half a pancake in, he found his voice.
