by Louise Bay
“I really want to come in,” I said, stroking my finger down her jaw and under her chin, lifting it so I could see those beautiful blue eyes. She looked up at me, her brows drawn together. “I just don’t know how this goes.” Could I not know what happened next and be okay with that? Could I want more from her?
I knew that wanting led to disappointment.
“You don’t know how this goes?” she asked.
I shrugged and took my hand away from her face. Unwittingly, I’d shown her parts of myself no one ever got to see. I wasn’t sure I was capable of giving her anything more. I was midway through a marathon I hadn’t trained for. My muscles were weak and my lungs were empty.
Because it was what we did, she could have made a joke, given me shit. But she didn’t. She seemed to understand where my boundaries were better than I did.
“Me either. Let’s find out together,” she said.
She turned and went inside and, as if she were my oxygen, I followed her. I couldn’t do anything else.
“Grace,” I called out.
“In here.” I followed the sound of her voice, my feet sinking into the thick pile of the rug in her hallway. Her home was as sophisticated as she was. Modern chandeliers hung from the ceilings. The grays and silvers on the walls, floors and furniture blended together without matching in a way that expensively decorated places managed. It wasn’t the apartment of any ordinary twentysomething living in Brooklyn. You could take the princess off Park Avenue, but you couldn’t take Park Avenue out of the girl.
“In a bed this time.” She stood facing me from the corner of her bedroom and kicked her shoes off.
“You’re impatient,” I said. She wanted me and that felt good. Perhaps it didn’t matter what came next. We’d managed so far.
“I’ve waited all evening.” She fiddled with the fastening of her skirt, but I stepped forward and batted her hand away.
“If we’re going to do this, then I want to take my time.” I slid one hand around her waist and cupped her face with my other.
“There’s an if?”
There wasn’t an if. Not now that we were here. I’d have her tonight, but it wasn’t just about getting off, scratching an itch, and I wanted her to get that. “There’s no rush, Grace Astor.” I smoothed my hand down her neck, mesmerized by her milky-white skin.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pulled her between my knees. I could see her better like this. I unbuttoned her blouse, raising an eyebrow when she tried to help. She dropped her hands and let me work the small blue buttons through their holes. I parted the sides of her shirt to reveal a lacey white bra. “This, I like.” I ran my forefinger under the edges of the cup opening, relishing the feel of the rough lace on one side of my finger and her smooth skin on the other. Her nipples pebbled and I resisted the urge I had to pinch, bite, suck. My dick pressed against the seam in my pants.
Fuck she was so sweet.
I tugged her shirt from her and reached under her skirt. “This room is so perfect. The carpet, the cushions, the comforter. We’re going to mess it up a little bit. You know that, right?”
She pulled the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth, her body swaying slightly as I slid my hand up her thigh. “We’re going to fuck every which way.” I stroked the juncture of her leg with my thumb. My thumb slicked easily across her skin—she was so wet—teasing the edges of her panties. “Your juices are going to be everywhere, staining everything. Can you handle that?”
She nodded, her movement a little slow, her eyes a little hazy.
“And I’m going to come all over you. I’m going to stain your beautiful skin so I own you.” I slipped my thumb beneath the lace and into her folds. She gasped, grabbed my forearms for balance.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes fixed to mine.
I began to shift my thumb in small circles. The movements were wet and easy as slowly I edged up toward her clit. Her grip on my arms got tighter and tighter.
I was casting a spell over her, and the deeper under she fell, the more intoxicating I found her. The way she worshipped my fingers and what they could do was almost as good as if I were thrusting my dick inside her. I’d never experienced the euphoria that making someone else feel good could bring until Grace.
She pulsed beneath my thumb and my cock throbbed in response. Seeing her turned on, feeling her slippery wetness—I was being seduced. I was falling under her spell.
“I need more,” she said, pulling the cotton of my shirt.
“More?” I asked.
“Of you.” Didn’t she know she had more than anyone ever had?
I removed my hand, sliding her panties down, then unclasped her skirt, followed by her bra. My hands on her waist, I moved her to the bed. “Lie back,” I said, unable to look away for a second while I undressed.
“Yes.” Her eyes flickered between my jutting cock and my face. She reached out her hand. “I like this.”
“This?” I asked, kneeling naked on the bed.
“Us,” she said sleepily, running her foot down my calf then pulling me closer. “I like it when we’re close like this.”
My heart swooped. She was describing a pattern we had together. I wasn’t used to having patterns with a woman. In the back of my head I knew I should run, but with Grace, my head always got overruled. This was how it should be.
“And naked.”
I placed my lips over her small smile, grazing her soft mouth with mine. She hummed and the vibrations travelled straight to my dick. If she were any other girl, I’d have come by now. My cock strained for release, desperate for her tight, wet pussy.
I worked my way down her neck, kissing and sucking, wanting to devour her, wanting to make her as crazy with lust as I was.
I trailed a line of small kisses from one hip bone to the other, then dragged my tongue back to where I started.
She pushed her fingers through my hair. “My legs are shaking.”
I skimmed my hand down the length of her thigh. “That’s your body telling you how much you want me,” I mumbled against the skin between her breasts.
She moaned.
“But I want you to tell me.” I wanted to hear it. I needed her to know this was what she wanted.
“I want you,” she whispered.
“Say it again.”
“I want you,” she panted. “I want you. I want you.” She writhed underneath me. “Please, Sam.”
I groaned.
Quickly, I ripped open the condom I’d pulled out of my wallet while undressing and sheathed my cock. “Are you ready, Princess?”
She looked at me from under her lashes and nodded.
“Flip over.” Maybe if I didn’t have to see her beautiful eyes fall half closed as I drove into her, I’d have a fighting chance of lasting more than five seconds.
She reached over her head and rolled to her stomach. Straddling her, I pulled her hips up, revealing her swollen pussy. Jesus. Five seconds would be a miracle. I pressed my dick against her entrance and had to pause. Just the wetness surrounding my tip was dizzying.
But something wasn’t right. I needed to see her beautiful face, feel her heat against my skin. She wasn’t someone just to fuck—we shared this experience together.
I slumped to her side and pulled her toward me, her ass in my lap, her shoulders on the bed. Yeah. I needed this closeness with her, needed there to be nothing between us. I sucked in a long breath, breathing the almost sweet smell of her hair. “Look at me,” I said, and she looked up at me. Fuck yeah. I pushed inside her, right up to the hilt, and nearly came as she caught her breath.
“You okay?” I asked.
“More than,” she replied, reaching for my ass as I pulled her closer. We were a tangle of limbs, every part of us interconnected.
I started to move in slow, small movements, hooking my arm across her chest and onto her shoulder, keeping her in place.
“Jesus,” she choked out, her eyes drifting closed.
“Look at me,” I said again.
I needed to see her. For her to see me. I wanted to be reminded of our connection—to know it was real.
My thrusts became sharper. Her fingernails dug into my thigh. I hoped she’d leave a mark. Another rendition of ultimate bliss to add to my skin.
I found her clit and her lungs decompressed in a guttural cry, her mouth opening wide as I gently circled the bundle of nerves. Her muscles clenched around my cock.
We stared at each other, wrapped in wonder and lust and connection as the drag and thrust of our bodies wound us tighter and tighter. Our eyes never left each other’s as thunder rumbled louder and louder until interrupted by a crack of lightning. Her orgasm hit her in a wave across her body that covered me a fraction of a second later.
It was as if we’d been on a journey, a quest, weathered a storm—sex had brought us closer, bound us together.
“Tonight was …” Grace paused and looked up at me as if I held the word she was looking for. “More,” she said finally.
There was no denying she was right. “More” was exactly what tonight had been. More than I’d ever had with any woman. More than I’d ever dared to want. More than I ever felt possible.
“Thank you,” she said. “Not for the—well, yes, for the orgasm, but—”
“Orgasms. Don’t talk about the orgasm as if it’s lonely all by itself.”
She giggled and poked me in the chest. “Okay, thank you for the orgasmsssss, but also for the Frick, and for dinner. I’m not used to … It was all so thoughtful. It was beyond …”
“You’re a princess, after all. It’s what you deserve.” I hadn’t planned the date at the Frick because I’d ever considered what other men had done for her. I’d just thought she’d enjoy it.
“You think I’m some stuck-up Park Avenue princess, but—”
“Hey,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “I’m teasing. I think you’re very special and if you haven’t been treated like a princess, then shame on the men who’ve taken you out.”
“You have no idea,” she mumbled.
I wasn’t used to sharing stories with women, knowing their history. Angie knew everything but she wasn’t a woman to me in the same way. Grace, mumbling into my chest, dropping her lips to my skin in an effort to distract me, made me want to ask a thousand questions of her. But what if she didn’t want to answer? I’d shut her down when she’d asked something personal of me earlier. Would it sting if she did the same to me? I needed to learn how to open up to her—to give more of myself. It was only fair if that’s what I was expecting from her.
It was worth the risk to get to know more of her. “Can I ask you a question?”
She stilled her fingers that were tracing patterns on the back of my palms. “What kind of question?” Before Grace did it to me, I didn’t realize how answering a question with a question was a form of self-defense.
I pulled her closer and kissed her on the head. “Why do you spend time on men who don’t deserve you?”
She shrugged, brushing me off, just as I had done her.
She needed me to share something first—I was asking for her to reveal her vulnerability without being prepared to do the same.
I took a deep breath. “My mother and father were killed by a drunk driver when I was twelve.”
I swallowed, looking straight ahead and not at Grace. I didn’t often say those words anymore, there was little need, but the rush of pain I braced myself for wasn’t as brutal as I remembered the last time I did. It would always hurt, but the fear of the hurt was as much an obstacle for me as the pain itself. “I had no other family, so I went into the system.”
She shifted in my arms so she was facing me. Cupping my face in her tiny hand, she brushed her thumb across my cheek.
Her touch gave me the strength to go on, to share more. “It was tough. I was old enough to understand what I’d lost. To have experienced a different life, a better life, and have it taken away.” Telling her was almost a release and I managed to glance at her as she blinked away tears.
“It was a long time ago. Things are better now.” I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. I wanted to be closer to her, not feel her pity. I just wanted to give her more because that’s what I needed from her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I exhaled and threaded my fingers through hers.
“I think you’re so special, Sam Shaw,” she said, dropping a kiss on our joined hands.
I smiled. “I think you’re special too.”
“So is that why you don’t buy furniture? Or have any relationships?”
What was she getting at? I had Angie, an apartment on Park Avenue. I just didn’t attach meaning to material possessions in a way most people did.
“Because you know how painful it is to have something and then lose it?” she asked. “You don’t want to have to experience that again.”
The ever-present pain in my gut I’d gotten so used to, sliced deeper. Was she right? Did I keep my life free from things and people so I couldn’t be disappointed again?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push. It just makes sense,” she said.
I couldn’t argue with her. It did make sense. I’d just never seen the connection before.
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”
She leaned forward and kissed my stomach. “My mother cheats on my father. Always has. He knows, but for some reason he stays married to her,” she explained, revoking her earlier shrug in the same way I had. She was confessing, letting me in, giving me more.
“And you’re your father?” I asked. “Picking people who don’t deserve your love?”
“Maybe. Maybe I just don’t want to be my mother.”
Had both of us approached life and relationships based on our past experience? Maybe everyone did. But I still didn’t understand, why was I able to be caught up with her in a way I’d never let myself before? How had she gotten me wanting more when I’d spent my whole life determined to need nothing?
She circled her fingers over the place where she’d kissed my stomach, giving me a glimpse of the tattoo under her arm.
Ultimate Bliss.
I hadn’t had much time to think about what her tattoo should be when she asked me to pick, but those two words had been the first thing to come into my brain.
Did my subconscious know something I didn’t? The words of that well-read passage tumbled through my head.
There is neither happiness nor unhappiness in this world; there is only the comparison of one state with another. Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss. It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live … the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope.
Had she been what I’d been waiting for? What I’d been hoping for?
Was she my ultimate bliss?
Chapter Fourteen
Grace
Saturday night had been special. Something had shifted between us. I had plans to spend Sunday in Connecticut with Harper and Max, so Sam had left early. When he called me on Monday and I realized he didn’t have any specific reason to, I found myself grinning like a maniac into the phone. He’d just wanted to hear my voice. Talk to me.
It felt good. More than good.
I’d offered to oversee the furniture delivery the next day. He’d suggested we go to dinner afterward. Of course I said yes. I couldn’t wait to see him again—have him look at me with that complete openness and honesty that seemed to permeate from him. He was special and I couldn’t get enough. I practically bounced through the first two days of the week at the gallery.
I waited by the elevators at 740 Park Avenue, listening for the whirs and clicks to indicate the car was at ground level. I was impatient to get up to see Sam. He’d said he’d leave work early to make sure he was here. I wanted to know how things would be between us now, after Saturday when we’d shared so much.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal Sam, my mother and fathe
r standing in front of him.
“Hello, darling. We didn’t know you were coming over,” my mother said, adjusting her mink coat. “We’re just heading out.”
My eyes flicked between Sam and my parents as they all trailed out. Sam made to move past us all, as if he were leaving. Was he?
“Oh, that’s fine. I was here to see Sam, actually,” I said. He stopped and pulled out the megawatt Sam Shaw smile I’d only seen on the rarest of occasions.
“How do you do?” Sam asked, taking my mother’s hand. Oh Jesus. My mother would love manners like that.
“Sam’s bought a number of works from my gallery,” I explained as he and my father shook hands. “I’m helping him arrange them. Sam, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Astor.”
My mother’s gaze flitted between Sam and me. “What did you say your surname was?” She was confused by Sam. She clearly hadn’t come across him but he was wealthy enough to live in their building.
“He didn’t,” I replied.
“Shaw,” Sam said. “My name is Sam Shaw.”
My mother nodded and I could tell she was scanning through her contact list, trying to place him.
“And have you lived here long, Mr. Shaw?” she asked.
“Sylvia, we’re running behind. We’ll leave you to it,” my father said, wanting to discourage my mother’s nosiness.
“We have a few minutes,” my mother said, clearly eager to spend a little more time in Sam’s presence. I knew that feeling.
“No, darling. We’re late already.” My father wrapped his arm around my mother’s waist, guiding her toward the door. “And we’ll see Grace for her birthday next week.”
My mother’s attention shifted from Sam to me. “Yes. I’ve left you several messages about the menu, but I’ve not heard from you.”
I avoided my mother’s calls ninety percent of the time. When she wanted to discuss my birthday, I nudged that figure up to an even one hundred.
“I don’t care about the menu. It’s the Four Seasons—I’m sure it will all be good.” I hadn’t spent a birthday with my mother in a couple of years, but I’d promised my father I’d make more of an effort. I glanced at Sam, who was smiling politely at nothing in particular. He’d lost so much and here I was, acting like a princess talking about the Four Seasons to my mink-wearing mother. My birthday dinner was so inconsequential.
