Looking Inside

by BETH KERY

  No, a man like Trey didn’t stay partnerless for long. Her entire performance tonight was solely to encourage him to abandon his flirtation with celibacy and indulge in the delights of the flesh once again.

  With her.

  She hoped she was one of those rare females who made it to Trey Riordan’s bed more than once, but she wasn’t holding her breath. Surely one ride on that man-coaster would be enough to silence this uncustomary, uncontrollable hunger of hers. One thing was for certain: he’d never have a more appreciative lover.

  For over a year now, Eleanor’s obsession with him had taken root and flourished. But to this day, she’d never looked into his eyes. That simple fact festered.

  She inhaled, breathing in determination.

  The boots seemed to strut her instead of her strutting in them. She jogged up two stairs and slid into a window seat at a small table just eight or so feet in front of Riordan. Unfortunately, all of the lounging chairs were taken, but maybe that was for the best. A puffy armchair might block her performance from her target audience in a way that an armless wooden one wouldn’t.

  She swung her bag onto the back of the chair, her heart fluttering uncomfortably in her chest. As if she had all the time in the world, she smoothed her long, loose curls over her shoulder in seeming distraction, pausing over the sensation of the strands’ texture. It’d been part of her act, but she was surprised to feel just how soft and sexy her hair felt sliding against her fingertips.

  She knew the precise moment when Trey’s stare landed on her. It was the moment her cheek tickled in awareness and her breasts suddenly felt obvious and swollen in the suede cradle of the bodice. She suppressed a strong urge to finally look point-blank into his eyes. Don’t blow it, Eleanor. Trey Riordan cut his teeth on some of the boldest femme fatales in the world. You’ve only got one first time.

  Slowly, she crossed her legs, feeling her skirt ride higher on her thigh. When she felt air brush against the strip of skin at the top of her thigh-high tights, she ran her fingertips across it in a seemingly distracted gesture. Her bare skin felt smooth and warm. Her clit prickled. She instinctively clamped her thighs tight to alleviate that pinch of excitement. Perhaps it was that she knew Trey’s stare was on her at that moment, or maybe it was because for the first time in her life she wasn’t wearing any underwear in public, but the sexual charge she experienced was shockingly strong.

  Keeping her stare demurely lowered, she reached into her bag and pulled out the coup de grace: her newly purchased copy of the hugest source of derisive jokes, critical outrage and horniness in recent history, the cultural phenomenon Born to Submit. Due to her voyeurism, she knew firsthand the topic might capture Trey’s attention. Again, she ran her fingertips over the strip of silky skin between the hem of her skirt and the top of her thigh-highs.

  Making sure that Trey could see the cover, she opened the book to page one.

  —

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

  Trey Riordan read the first line of Pride and Prejudice and smirked. He hadn’t realized Jane Austen had a sense of humor. Maybe that’s why ninety percent of the women he’d ever known adored this book. No, that wasn’t it. It was because of the romance that women loved it. When women talked about Pride and Prejudice, they did so with a faraway look and a little Mona Lisa smile. It wasn’t an expression he much associated with himself or his relationships. There was nothing mysterious about what he typically inspired in a woman.

  Not that he was complaining, of course. What kind of idiot would whine over the fact that the most common reaction he drew from women was hunger? A hunger to screw, sure, but also apparently a hunger to monopolize, to control all of his time and his attention, to trap him into something he wasn’t interested in . . . to squash his very spirit.

  Clearly, he was not attracting the right kind of female.

  It was either that, or his problems were far more serious. There was a very good possibility that he just wasn’t meant for the long term.

  That’s why he’d made a conscious effort a month ago to step back from women and dating and examine what the hell he was doing with his life. Because the sad truth was he was complaining, wasn’t he? He’d grown frustrated and listless in regard to smoking-hot but brittle, unsatisfying relationships. His dating life had grown as stale as week-old pizza . . . and about as nutritive to his well-being.

  For more than a decade, the success ran just as thick as the stream of women and easy sex. He’d come into money and a kind of minor fame as a carefree, partying twenty-one-year-old when he first created BandBook, a mixture of a social and career Internet platform that hosted pages for musicians and bands. The site became popular for its original customers: people looking to book a band or musician for an event. But with its sophisticated search options, videos and the audience rating and comments feature, BandBook quickly earned a reputation as being a pulse-taker of popular culture. His start-up company became a go-to site for talent scouts looking for the next hot thing. It’d taken off like a rocket, and Trey had soon expanded the applications to other groups, like actors, artists and filmmakers. Since then, his newly consolidated company, TalentNet, had gone global. Today, Trey was proud to say that dozens of bands, musicians and other artists credited TalentNet with their first big break into celebrity status.

  But he wasn’t that smart-mouthed, cocky, oversexed kid who had unexpectedly discovered entrepreneurial gold anymore. After losing two friends recently, along with a couple of ugly, messy breakups in a row, it had started to dawn on him how empty and unsatisfied his relationships with women were leaving him.

  So he’d vowed to take a sexual sabbatical.

  Almost five weeks without sex. It’d been hard, of course, but he’d kept his eye on the prize. If he wasn’t cut out to be in a serious relationship, best he figured that out now. And if he was? Well, he wasn’t ever going to achieve the gratification of a meaningful relationship until he broke his old patterns and figured out what he wanted . . .

  And what women wanted, of course.

  Romance. That was what he suspected they wanted. He wasn’t entirely sure what the meaning of the word was. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d never really appreciated the inner workings of the female mind. He’d certainly never been in a relationship that resembled anything close to what his father and mother, or what his sister and her husband, shared. Like his perennially single but never alone older brother, Kevin, Trey worried he’d missed out on the meaningful relationship gene.

  It was time to do a serious self-examination and personal overhaul. So far, that had involved working out for an extra hour every day at the gym, because it was hell being a celibate thirty-three-year-old healthy man. He had a shitload of sexual energy to burn.

  Self-improvement also meant taking a class on degenerate art at the Art Institute and enrolling in an advanced tai chi class that emphasized the meditative aspects. It included daily practice on his guitar and focusing again on writing music, another thing he had abandoned by the wayside in the energy-sucking process of developing, expanding and steering TalentNet for more than a decade. He’d reapplied himself to his massive music collection too, relearning the medium that he loved and that had originally made his career.

  Trey also possessed a respectable personal library in his home. That library had started to represent everything he’d begun to resent about his life. Recently he’d realized that he hadn’t actually read anything of significance in almost a year. The library had become a decoration, a novelty talking point when he gave a guest a tour of the penthouse. When he’d started BandBook twelve years ago, he used to regularly inhale three or four books a week: great works of philosophy, literature and history, and biographies of the world’s movers and shakers.

  Now, the only action his library was getting was his maid’s weekly dusting. God
, it was lame. He was.

  That’s why when he’d seen the ad for Leave Everything Behind but a Book, he’d signed up immediately. It was the prod he needed. The concept was that while people might want to get around to reading that one particular book collecting shelf dust, it was hard to do so in this busy, technology-ridden world, especially during the frantic holiday season, which was just around the corner. The museum came up with a simple idea: grab that book you’ve been meaning to read forever, check your technology at the door, sit your ass down in a chair and pledge to read for two hours, two nights a week for two weeks in the company of like-minded, committed readers.

  With his commitment not only to self-improvement, but to understanding the mysteries of the female mind a little better, Trey had chosen Pride and Prejudice as his book for the event. He’d never read it in his life, despite all the cultural references to it. He didn’t get its appeal; he often didn’t get women; women loved Pride and Prejudice.

  It couldn’t be more obvious he should be reading this damn book.

  By the end of the short first chapter, Trey was feeling mildly optimistic. He hadn’t encountered the adored Lizzy yet, let alone any of the famed romance, but it was entertaining watching Mr. Bennet verbally dance circles around his stupid wife. He flipped the page to Chapter Two, and that’s when it happened.

  His attention fractured at movement: a purse swinging at the very top of his vision. He glanced up distractedly and did a double take.

  Oh no.

  No, no, no. This was not good. What had he done to deserve this?

  Realizing he was gaping, he lowered his head back to the book, but his gaze shot back up over his reading glasses. He watched, his mouth going dry. The newly arrived bombshell who sat just feet away from him pushed a sexy mane of loose chestnut brown curls behind her shoulder. A rebellious, glossy tendril remained. She slid her fingers down the smooth length distractedly and let it fall on the upper curve of a mouthwatering breast. Lust poured through him, the strength of it surprising him a little.

  Sweet Jesus. She wore some kind of tight suede vest under her blazer, like a modernized, chic version of those lace-up bustiers women used to wear on the covers of those old-fashioned bodice-ripper romance novels. She crossed her legs. He went rigid.

  Everywhere.

  Her legs were slender and about a mile long. She wore a pair of tight, supple suede boots that rose several inches past her knees. When she crossed her legs, the tops of her thigh-high stockings eased into view . . . along with a strip of golden, gleaming skin. She distractedly glided her fingers across the tops of her thigh-highs. His cock jumped higher to attention.

  Realizing he was staring, he lowered his head and covertly traced the profile of her face from beneath a lowered brow. She wasn’t your standard beauty, but that made her even more of a knockout. Unique. Exotic. Off the charts on the sexy factor: Those were a few descriptors that came to his mind. Her neck was slender and graceful, her facial features delicate and finely wrought. He couldn’t get over the color and quality of her skin. It was a feature meant to be flaunted. She looked like she’d tan easily, but refrained from roasting in the sun. The result was a smooth, satiny texture and a pale gold, dewy glow. His gaze stuck on the expanse of skin at her chest and the incredible tease of the upper swells of her breasts in that suede lace-up vest-thingy she wore. She’d be so soft there, her curving flesh firm and velvety against his lips and tongue. He imagined unlacing that vest and exposing the treasure of her breasts, cradling them in his hands and then—

  He abruptly became aware of his runaway fantasizing. Was this some kind of a joke? How was he supposed to concentrate on reading a book with this goddess just feet away? It’d be torture enough if he hadn’t sworn off sex for the past month, but considering the circumstances, this was nothing less than downright cruelty.

  He glanced aside, half expecting someone to be filming his lechery. Unfortunately, he wasn’t unfamiliar with the possibility. Some joker to the left of him stared at the woman in slack-jawed wonder, his book forgotten in his lap: The Iliad. Trey suppressed a strong urge to laugh. And he’d thought he had it bad trying to comprehend a word of Pride and Prejudice with sex personified sitting just feet away. A quick survey of the room told him that the woman was having a similar effect on more than half a dozen other helpless saps.

  Forget it. Forget about her. You came here to read. Remember, the self-improvement campaign?

  Right. Focus.

  Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley.

  What? Who was Mr. Bingley, and who was this waiter, Mr. Bennet? Why should Trey care? He read the line again, but apparently, his brain had been turned to sex mush.

  Sometimes, it was just plain shit being a guy.

  Movement caught his eye again and he glanced up against his will. The goddess was pulling her book out of an expensive handbag. (He’d bought enough designer purses as gifts for girlfriends over the years to know that the woman’s bag did not come cheap.) His stare got stuck on her legs. She must be pretty tall to have legs that long. Five foot eight or nine? At six three, he liked a tall woman . . . liked the feeling of long, strong legs wrapped around him, pulling him deep. He liked seeing them spread-eagled and tied to his bed too. He’d love to see this woman in that position. The boots? Hell yeah, he’d keep those on, right along with those stockings.

  She settled into the wooden chair, shifting her hips ever so slightly. Ever so distractingly. The stockings she wore weren’t lacy lingerie; they were opaque. In combination with the boots, short skirt and legs that seemed to extend all the way up to her armpits, they struck him as ridiculously sexy. His gaze locked on the juncture of smooth, toned thighs. His mind zeroed in on what was snuggled in that dark, tight crevice. She shifted her hips again slightly, as if she was getting friction on her pussy, stimulating herself ever so subtly.

  Not that she was getting off on exhibiting herself so enticingly, of course. That was just his filthy man brain pulsing with hormones and going into overdrive.

  Wasn’t it?

  She set her book on the top of her thigh and opened it, the cover facing him. He immediately recognized what was quickly becoming an iconic cover. Born to Submit.

  You have got to be fucking kidding me.

  He started to sweat. He hadn’t read it, any more than he’d read Pride and Prejudice. Both the book he held in his hands and the one she held in hers were considered women’s reading, even if they were drastically different in content. Of course, he, along with every other salivating schmo in this coffee shop, knew that Born to Submit was about sex. Raw, hardcore BDSM. Trey didn’t consider himself to be some kind of card-carrying BDSM master, but he enjoyed being the dominant in the bedroom.

  He was aware of the cultural buzz about the book, the massive sales figures, the talk shows, the Saturday Night Live and YouTube spoofs, the snarky newspaper and magazine articles. But he’d never thought about it much until tonight, seeing it in this woman’s hands. Surely she knew what the book involved too. Yet she’d brought it to a high-minded reading event at a museum.

  Well, she was wearing that sexy, sophisticated outfit, wasn’t she? This was no naïve little girl.

  Then she began to read, and Trey found himself doubting. He had the bizarre thought that the somber, endearing expression she wore while she focused on the page was a completely natural one for her. This was how she looked often: sweet and sexy and utterly absorbed in her task, her succulent, full mouth pursed ever so slightly, her brow wrinkled with the innocent hunger of curiosity.

  Suddenly, she looked up and met his stare dead on. He started slightly at being caught red-handed at gawping. Huge greenish gold eyes—cat’s eyes—held him in their hypnotic trap, making it impossible to look away. Then she smiled, slow and sexy, the widening of her pink lips corresponding with the swelling of his erection.

  And he wondered how the
hell he could have ever thought she seemed innocent.

  TWO

  Blue.

  Trey Riordan possessed the most amazing pair of clear, cobalt blue eyes. They seemed to see straight through her.

  Eleanor had been dubbed shy as a child. As an adult, she preferred to call herself reserved, or possibly just extremely discerning about to whom she opened up. Whatever her excuse du jour, the truth was that self-consciousness usually overwhelmed her when she met an attractive man’s stare. At twenty-eight years old, this particular trait had grown beyond annoying, but she couldn’t seem to prevent it. Her gaze typically skipped off a man’s interested glance like a nervous twitch.

  Miraculously, that didn’t happen with Trey. Instead, she sunk into his direct stare.

  His dark-rimmed glasses were swoonworthy. He didn’t wear them in his bedroom that she’d ever seen, or when he was making love to a woman. She’d seen photos of him before, once in Rolling Stone magazine and another time in Forbes in an article entitled “Trey Riordan and TalentNet, Rocking the Online Artist Scene.” But she’d never seen him wear glasses. She couldn’t have guessed at the impact of his eyes, either from those photos or her bouts of voyeurism into his bedroom window. She sensed his intelligence in his gaze, the crystal-clear acuity of his mind. Her smile came naturally, along with a rush of warmth that suffused her limbs and chest.

  Her sex.

  Before she knew how far she’d sunk into his eyes, they suddenly turned smoky. Hot. It hit her that she was sharing a steamy stare with Trey Riordan. As if he’d experienced a similar shock to the flesh, he started slightly. Her gaze popped off his face before she could stop it. Damn it, stop being so jumpy. She was supposed to be a bold, experienced woman, not a skittish virgin. Not that she was a virgin, of course. Even if she did sometimes feel like she was the next closest thing to one.