by Louise Bay
“Stay there,” she said, breathless. “I like you over me. On me. So heavy.” She groaned and arched her back off the ground, turned on by her own words. Fuck me, that was nearly too much. I almost let go, but I refused to go before her. I pushed harder and deeper, keeping my movements small, squeezing into her.
My tongue reached for her mouth again in a desperate attempt to have more of her, to give her more of me. This time our tongues crashed together as she gasped. Her fingers on my arms froze and I felt her pulling me into her, her orgasm igniting mine.
It didn’t need much encouragement. I managed to pull back just a few inches to see her beautiful face. Her eyes were glassy, but she was looking straight at me as if she knew everything.
“Fuck,” I cried out as I spilled into her, bowing my head, my cheek resting against hers.
It was just sex, just fucking, but it seemed like so much more than I’d ever felt before. As if she’d pricked my skin with that final look and I’d unraveled before her.
Our breaths were uneven, pushing and pulling against each other’s necks.
“Jesus, Grace.” I hadn’t expected that.
She didn’t reply, but shifted underneath me.
I moved to her side, discarded the condom and then rolled onto my back, my breath still stuttering.
Eventually, Grace sat up, giving me a view of her back. She turned her head to look at me over her shoulder. “Why don’t you have any furniture?” she asked, her voice unsteady, still recovering from the exertion. It puffed up my ego. I did that to her. “Is it in storage?”
“How long have you been waiting to ask me that?” I missed her warm, soft body beneath mine. And I wasn’t ready to let her go just yet. I wanted to feel her surrounding me again. And I still had to make her come with my tongue. So much to do.
She raised her eyebrows. “Have you noticed how often you answer one of my questions with a question of your own?”
“You do it, too,” I replied.
She settled back into the crook of my shoulder, respecting the fact I didn’t want to answer her question. Which only made me want to tell her everything. “There’s nothing in storage. I rented until I bought this place.”
“You didn’t collect anything on the way?”
“I told you I’m not a collector of things. Or of people. I’m not sentimental that way.”
She didn’t respond and we lay there marinating in what had just passed between us—the words, the touch, the way she fit so comfortably against my body.
I might not be sentimental, but for the first time ever, I knew there had to be something after the fucking.
Chapter Eight
Grace
“You’re not sentimental at all?” I asked after a few minutes. Why was I still lying here, against his hard, delicious body? I needed to get the hell out of there, not be in his arms. If only my muscles just had a little bit more power in them. It was as if Sam had drained me of all my energy.
It always took my body a while to open up to a new guy, and I never had an orgasm the first time I slept with a man. I wasn’t sure whether or not I’d ever felt anything so intense. My climax had rumbled low and deep, in wave after wave. This man, who could have any woman he wanted with his sure smile and easy confidence, had waited for me to come first. It was only after me that he’d come, as if he’d finally been allowed to do the one thing he wanted to do most.
I shuddered.
“Hey, are you cold?” he asked.
I wasn’t, but I couldn’t tell him it was thoughts of him, of what we’d done together, that had made me shiver. “Maybe, a little.”
He pulled his shirt over me like a crisp cotton sheet.
“I’m not ready for you to put on clothes yet. We have plenty to do first.”
He couldn’t see the grin trying to escape my pursed lips, but I couldn’t stay here. My desire to bury thoughts of Steve had made me weak. Momentarily. But, as comfortable as the crook of his shoulder was, I shouldn’t settle here. “I can’t believe I fucked my first client,” I said, then wished I hadn’t said that out loud.
He pulled me closer and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “I think you’ll find I fucked you.”
I wasn’t going to argue. He was right. I’d had little say in the how, and I found I liked that. I squeezed my thighs together as I remembered his hot breath on my pussy. I rarely let a man go down on me, but as much as part of me hated to admit it, I was pretty sure if Sam Shaw suggested it again, I’d say yes.
His cock pulsed against his belly, as if he was getting hard again. Jesus. I needed to go. I should have left already. Like he’d said, nothing came after the sex, so what was I doing lying here, basking in postcoital glow?
“I need to leave,” I said.
“Not yet. Soon. I want to come again. Make you come again.”
It was what I wanted, too. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, that I hadn’t imagined he’d made my body sing the way I thought he had. Even now, just a few minutes later, I was sure it couldn’t have been quite as … overwhelming … different … or as good as I thought it had been.
“And you haven’t agreed to be my art consultant yet.”
I groaned. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t mention the art consultant thing again. Now I wouldn’t make any money from Steve’s earlier work, I needed the cash.
I couldn’t say no.
Even though I wasn’t qualified.
Even though I didn’t have enough contacts.
Even though working with him would be a complete distraction.
The “nothing” after sex would be easy if I never saw him again. But the way he made my body feel … Surely I wouldn’t be able to be near him and not think about it.
“I’ll have my office update the contract I had with Nina with your details, and have them send it over.”
I stayed silent and kept as still as possible. I should say no, but I couldn’t.
“We can start right away.”
What was his rush? Art collecting wasn’t a sprint. It was something you took a lifetime to do. I sat up and glanced around for my clothes. “There’s an auction of Old European Masters at Sotheby’s next month.” I reached for my bra and fastened it around my chest. “I’ll check out the program and see if there’s anything I think you should bid on.”
“You’re saying yes?” he asked. He sat up and snuck his palm under my bra strap.
I shrugged him off as a sadness I couldn’t place settled in my belly. “Yes.” I stood and he grabbed my hand, trying to pull me back to him. I twisted my arm and he let go.
“Hey, I said I wasn’t done.”
“Well I am.” I continued to dress. He’d been clear there was nothing after the fucking, and I wasn’t about to wait for him to kick me out.
“I thought you were sticking around?” he asked.
“I need to be somewhere,” I replied.
Somewhere with alcohol.
Even though Harper was breastfeeding and spending most of her time in Connecticut, she still made sure she made it to Tuesday girls’ night. I couldn’t have been more grateful. One of the hardest parts of breaking up with someone was the transition period where for a few weeks I had so much more free time. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but at the moment I was aware how much I was on my own.
I’d spent most of my time since the gallery opening working. I went home and continued to fill in spreadsheets or research new artists. Periodically, images of Sam Shaw in my secret, sectioned-off corner of the gallery, sliding his large hands over my ass and pulling me against him, interrupted my concentration but I was fighting it.
“You look different,” Scarlett said as she pulled away from my hug and slid into the booth next to me.
I rolled my eyes. “No I don’t.” Maybe I did. Even days later, my body still felt the aftereffects of Sam’s touch. The bruises on my breasts had faded to penny-shaped shadows on my skin. I savored each one, more disappointed every day they grew smaller and fainter. No
man had ever left a physical mark on me before. I liked it.
He’d left his mark on my mind, too.
“Just tell me you didn’t fuck that loser painter of yours.”
I cringed at the thought of Steve’s soft, spindly body. “No. Not at all.” There was nothing soft about Sam Shaw’s body. Nothing unsure about his touch. “But you’re right. I fucked a client the other day though. Pretty stupid, I guess.”
Except that I couldn’t regret it. Sam’s body gave me masturbation fantasy material for the rest of time. Had he really been that big? Had he really made me come that hard? It was as if he’d reached into me and pulled out the orgasm by sheer force.
“Why was it stupid?”
“Because I need him to still be my client.” I didn’t tell Scarlett that Sam’s assistant had sent me over the contracts as promised. Or that I’d signed and returned them to her. I didn’t explain how Sam had called me three times since, or that I’d ignored him each time. I didn’t want anyone to know how he seemed to be taking up more and more of my thoughts.
“Was it bad sex?” she asked. “You can’t look at him because he had a two-inch penis?”
A small dick wasn’t Sam Shaw’s problem. I shrugged and coaxed over a waiter. Harper arrived at our table at the same time. “Can I get a virgin mojito and a bread basket, please,” she asked before she even acknowledged us.
“Two more margaritas, please,” I said and turned back to my friends.
“Move over,” Harper said as she slid onto our booth. “What are we talking about? Jesus, is there nothing to eat in this place? I thought this was supposed to be a restaurant.”
“Take it down a notch. You just ordered a bread basket,” Scarlett said. “And we were talking about guys with two-inch dicks.”
Harper grimaced and moved away from us, as if Scarlett had announced we both had herpes. “Who’s got a two-inch dick?” she asked.
“No one,” I replied.
Scarlett gave Harper a knowing look. “Some guy Grace banged.”
“You banged a guy with a two-inch dick?” Harper asked.
“No, his dick was plenty big, thank you.” Jesus, how did we get here? I didn’t want to think about the size of Sam Shaw’s penis, or how it felt slipping into me, pushing deeper and deeper. How I felt it in my toes and finger tips, beneath and through every part of me.
Harper and Scarlett just looked at me, waiting for more.
“So, who’s the guy?” Harper asked.
I shook my head, glancing across at the waiter, hoping he’d interrupt us soon so we could change topics. “No one.”
“A client,” Scarlett said.
I rolled my eyes.
“When did it happen? Could it be a thing?” Harper asked. Trying to get Harper to talk about finding a serious relationship before she met her husband had been almost impossible. Now she wanted everyone to have what she had. It was sweet, but it was annoying.
“No, it’s not a thing and it’s never going to be. It just happened, but it won’t happen again.” Because nothing happened after the sex.
And that suited me fine.
“I need to focus on the gallery at the moment. I think I’m going to offer art consulting to people who want it.” I twirled the stem of my empty margarita glass.
“Oh, I thought you weren’t into that,” Scarlett said.
I shrugged. “But with Steve’s work gone, I have to do whatever it takes to make it work.”
Thankfully, the waiter arrived with our drinks and took our order, taking Harper and Scarlett’s attention away from me, giving me room to breathe, to think. I tuned out whatever it was Scarlett and Harper were talking about. Was he in his apartment now? On that old beat-up couch, the TV on, his hand slipping past his waistband to circle his cock?
I jumped at the buzz of my phone on the table. Sam flashed across the screen. Three ignored calls and two margaritas meant it was time to speak to him. “I have to get this,” I said, sliding out of the booth.
“Sam Shaw,” I answered, placing my finger in my ear as I walked through the restaurant toward the exit.
“I’ve called you three times, Grace Astor,” he replied, clearly irritated.
“You’re on my call sheet, but you beat me to it.”
“Your call sheet?” he asked, giving me a second to respond. I stayed quiet. “You signed the papers; you’re supposed to be my art consultant. I’ve not been consulted about anything.”
“I signed the papers, that doesn’t mean you own me.”
More silence, but from the few hours I’d spent with him, I understood it wasn’t angry, just contemplative. He absorbed what people gave out, learning about it, and then stored it up. For what?
“I went to the preview for the auction I told you about.”
“You don’t think I should have come with you? I thought you wanted me to like what I bought?”
I ran my thumbnail between my bottom two front teeth to interrupt the smile that threatened. “I thought you just wanted to make money? I’ll get the catalog sent over tomorrow and we can decide before the auction on Thursday.”
“No. Bring the catalog. Lunch tomorrow. And what time’s the auction on Thursday?”
“Oh, no, you don’t need to come. We can establish your upper limits and I can have you on the phone.”
“I don’t think so, but we’ll discuss it at lunch tomorrow. Twelve thirty. Come to my office.”
And he was gone.
I stared at the screen on my phone. Not only had he hung up on me, he’d ordered me to his office without telling me where it was. He just assumed I knew. Which I did, because of course, since he’d made me come like it was his job, I’d thought it only polite to Google him. But it was an arrogant move. Spoiled.
The problem was, he wasn’t as typically spoiled as I’d thought when I first met him. Some things fit—he was demanding, confident he’d get what he wanted. But then there was the part of him that didn’t have any furniture in his apartment. And the way he listened a little more than he spoke. And most of all, I was attracted to him.
That wasn’t typical at all.
I went back inside, the rush of the air conditioning bringing me back to the moment.
“I met someone I thought might be good for you,” Harper said as I sat down.
“Did Scarlett turn him down?”
I looked between the two of them. Scarlett was single and always dating two or three people at any one time. I couldn’t keep up. But I admired the way she picked up and started again after her divorce.
“Duncan and I decided to be exclusive,” Scarlett said.
My eyes widened. Duncan was a tool. “Really? Wow. When did that happen?” I asked as Scarlett grinned from ear to ear.
Shuffling excitedly in her seat, she said, “Last night. He took me to dinner and said he’d suspended his online dating account.”
No more violins or roses. Suspension of an online dating profile was the grand romantic gesture in New York.
“Well, that’s exciting,” I said.
“I just think you should keep your options open. I don’t trust him,” Harper said, which was what everyone else was thinking.
“As long as you’re excited about it,” I said, kicking Harper in the shin.
“Hey, don’t kick the breastfeeding lady. I’m only saying what you’re thinking.”
I shook my head. “Who’s this guy, anyway?” Not that I was interested. I didn’t trust my judgment at the moment. Sam wasn’t falling into my clearly defined boxes, and despite thinking it was the rich who used people, Steve had proven me wrong on that, too. Everything was topsy-turvy. I needed a time-out from men.
“He’s a client of mine,” Harper said. “I met him last week and he’s just divorced his wife. He’s rich and I know you hate that, but I swear I’m not making this up, he works at a homeless shelter twice a month.”
I chuckled. “He’s either not as rich as you’re saying, or he’s lying to you.”
“Don
’t be so cynical.” Harper accusing me of being cynical was like the Queen of England calling me posh. “You should give him a chance.”
“I’m not ready for …” Anything. I wanted nothing at all, at least for a while.
“You were ready for casual sex with a new client,” she said. Harper and I always challenged each other. It was part of the reason we’d been friends for so long. The difference was I nudged and she shoved.
“That was different.” I wasn’t about to give in.
“Different?” Scarlett asked.
“Yeah, like exercise or something.” I hadn’t invested anything in Sam, and the freedom felt good. So good I was looking forward to seeing him for lunch the following day.
It was warmer than fall in Manhattan should be at lunchtime. I’d chosen my favorite Chanel skirt suit—black and white and paired with bright red matte lipstick and scarlet stilettos. The skirt was a little shorter than I usually wore. I wanted to see if Sam noticed my legs.
I was looking forward to seeing him. I wanted to check if I actually found him as attractive as I remembered. I wanted to know whether that jawline was quite as sharp as I pictured. Whether that quiet smile was as beguiling as lived in my mind.
Clearly, being ten minutes late was bad form if this was just a client meeting, but this was something a little more complicated. A business meeting with someone who’d been naked the last time I’d seen them called for slightly different etiquette. If it had been a drink with a casual fling, I’d have been twenty minutes late. Ten was a compromise.
“Grace Astor for Sam Shaw,” I said to the receptionist behind the high, shiny maple desk. She was the girl men loved—a younger, hotter version of Jennifer Lopez, if it was at all possible.
“Please follow me, Ms. Astor,” she said and she and her fabulous ass led me along a plush carpeted corridor to a corporate dining room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said before shutting the door as she left. Well this lunch was all business, that was for sure. I’d expected to go out to one of the numerous restaurants around midtown that specialized in meals for suits. But it seemed we weren’t leaving the building.
