He pulls my left leg back over his hip, shoves the fabric aside, and slowly pushes his middle two fingers all the way inside me until I can feel the palm of his hand rest against my clit. His palm stays there almost motionless, the heel against my sensitive extrusion, while his fingers scissor and stroke inside me until he finds that soft little sponge of flesh that makes me gasp out loud.
“Right there, hmm?” It’s not a question that requires an answer—at least not a verbal one. My body is telling him he’s stroking me in exactly the right way. My hips thrust toward his hand, and when he dips his head to nip at my ear, my arm reaches up hook his head closer to mine. His comfort doesn’t enter my mind. Am I pulling too hard on his hair? Are the nails of my right hand that’s moved down to press on the back of his hand digging too tightly into his skin? I don’t care.
I’m swimming in a tide pool of sensation that I want to wallow in forever.
“Not yet,” he whispers as he rolls me over onto my stomach. His fingers pull out of me, and I let out a sound of protest that is muffled by the pillows. Even if I were louder, I don’t think he would cease. He pulls down my sodden panties and shoves a pillow under my hips. Then his mouth is where his fingers used to be. His broad shoulders have spread my thighs apart and his tongue is spearing inside of me. I’m grateful for the pillow at my mouth because I can hear myself moaning.
“Right there. Oh god. Faster, please.” But my pleas are ignored. He has his own rhythm. His tongue is savaging my clit while two of his fingers are thrusting into me, curling and seeking until they hit that same spot he’d discovered earlier. Once found, he relentlessly fucks me with his fingers, all the while sucking and tonguing and licking me. Tension coils within me, curling my toes and causing my fingers to dig into the mattress.
From between my legs I can hear his groans of satisfaction—as if he’s getting as much out of eating me out as I am by being the recipient of his gifted tongue.
But every time I think I’ll climax, he brings me down again, slowing the pace and moving his fingers in an unhurried fashion, in stark contrast to the frantic thrusts seconds before.
“You’re killing me,” I gasp out.
“I hope not.” There’s so much smug amusement in those words that if I wasn’t ass-up and facedown with his head between my legs, I’d have to punch him. But he knows that I’m too delirious with desire to call him out.
“Stop teasing me,” I beg. Thinking he needs more encouragement, I spell out explicitly what I want. “I need your big, hot cock inside me. Fucking me hard and fast.”
His fingers tighten and he groans, but instead of rising up and thrusting inside me, he slaps me on the ass. It’s almost a little too hard to be affectionate, but because I’m so hot for him, all I do is raise my butt in the air higher in a “Please, sir, can I have another?” move. This causes him to speed up the thrust of his fingers, and soon I’m too lost inside my own head to care that it’s not his cock inside of me, not when his magical tongue is back between my legs.
Desperate and needy, I gyrate against the pillow and alternately pant out commands and pleas. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t you ever stop.”
And he doesn’t. He’s relentless in his assault. It’s as if he doesn’t even need to breathe down there. His mouth is attached to me and his tongue is like a lash against my clit. Inside me, I can feel the drag of his calloused fingers against the swollen tissues of my inner walls. With each glide in and out, he rubs against the front flesh, causing my whole body to tighten. And then it’s faster, until the combined force of the suction of his mouth and the push of his fingers causes a cacophony of sound and light to explode in my head, and I’m lost on delicious waves of feeling.
He does rise up behind me, but doesn’t move his fingers. He’s cupping me as if he’s trying to keep tendrils of my orgasm inside me for as long as possible.
“I want to fuck you bad, Tiny.” His husky voice raises goose bumps all over my body. “But I’m going to need at least eight hours of uninterrupted time.” The goose bumps turn to shivers.
Ian holds me, running his fingers over my back and down my arms and over the tops of my thighs, trying to soothe my shattered nerves. After a few moments of comfort, he rises from the bed with a slap on my ass. “Too bad we both have to work today.”
I roll over and watch him stretch next to the bed. His erection bobs right in front of me. The hard length of him is flushed an angry red.
“What about you?” Suddenly I want a taste. Scrambling up on my knees, I lean over the edge of the bed and grab his arm. “You can’t go out like that. Heart attacks will happen. Think of the elderly.”
He looks down at me with amusement but then presents his back to me. “Climb aboard, then, and you can take care of me in the shower.”
If pressed later about the decor of the bathroom, I’d have to say it was full of steam and tile. Ian spends most of the time kissing me while I stroke him with both hands. While his large hands cup my face, he caresses me with his mouth and tongue, showing me that I hadn’t really been kissed before.
It’s not enough for me to hold him between my hands—his flesh pulsing against my palms. I want him in my mouth. I want to know the flavor and the smell, the girth and the length. I want to know it all.
This time he doesn’t stop me as I slide downward. The tile is warm from some underground heater, and the steam rises from the hot water that sluices around us. He drops a thick towel onto the tile and I slip it under my knees. Droplets drip down his hard abdomen and cling to the hair that surrounds his thick, heavy erection. The head arrows toward me and follows my tongue as I lick delicately at the top and the sides.
Ian’s hands come down to push my hair aside, and when I glance upward through my lashes, his eyes are heavy lidded and he’s breathing heavily. Finally, I take him into my mouth. He’s very thick and my lips are stretched to their fullest. One of his hands drops away from my hair to stroke my jaw and chin. Then he cups my face, holding me under my chin as he begins to shuttle in and out in short, shallow lengths.
“I can feel myself in your mouth,” he says above me. “I can feel my cock through your cheek. Your lips are stretched and you can barely take it, isn’t that right?”
I would’ve nodded but for the steady hand under my chin.
“If I touched you right now, how soaked would you be?” he asks. “Is all the moisture from the shower or are you so fucking wet right now that it is dripping down your thighs?”
The last few words are growled, and I can’t keep a moan from slipping out. Above my mouth, his taut abdomen flexes as he pants and grapples for control. I grip his thighs for balance, my nails digging into his flesh.
“You look like a fucking goddess right now,” he continues. “Hotter than the desert sun in August. I want to come down your throat. Will you swallow it all?”
I nod, flicking my tongue against the bottom of his cock. He presses slowly to the back wall of my mouth. I gag and then swallow it down, feeling the cockhead swell in my throat.
“Open up for me,” he says, moving his fingers down to rub my neck as a little more of him eases down my tight throat. He hisses, “Jesus Christ, bunny. That’s so fucking good. So good.”
He withdraws, flexing his hips, and then slowly glides back in. This time it’s easier. I’m prepared for the fullness and hungry for his taste. This time he slides so far in that the coarse hair of his pubis tickles my nose. His hands are on either side of my face, tipping my hair back. I can feel my hot arousal trickling down my leg, a thicker, more viscous fluid than the water. I’m consuming him, eating his essence, taking him inside me in a way I had never envisioned possible.
With his hands around my face and neck and his rigid length down my throat, I’m entirely his. His cock drags along the soft tissues of my throat. I feel the ridges against my tongue and his firm grip against my chin. My entire world is his cock and fing
ers and the smell and taste of him.
I drop my hand to my clit and start to rub furiously, unconcerned by balance or resistance. Ian has me in his hands. He’s thrusting now, not as deeply, and his movements lack his regular precise control.
“I’m going to come now,” he grits out. I think he tries to push me away, but I lean forward and open my mouth as wide as possible. I want to drink him down. A shout sounds and then he comes, the thick, ropey jets of semen coating the inside of my mouth. There’s so much of it that it leaks onto his hand and spills out onto my face, and it is hard to tell where the soap stops and the evidence of his climax begins. I lick as much of it as I can before the water washes it away.
Ian lifts me into his arms and kisses me, uncaring that he’s tasting himself. His slick tongue is devastating. “I want to be inside you. Soon. I have to have you, Tiny.”
“Yes, Ian, yes,” I moan between kisses.
His fingers slip inside me again, pumping me to the release that had been building the entire time I had sucked him down. It takes only a minute for him to rub me to an orgasm.
“God, bunny.” His eyes darken and his breath quickens, and for a moment I think he’ll impale me right there in the shower. But for that brief moment when I was on my knees before him, Ian’s self-control governs him more strictly than the never-smiling guards outside Buckingham Palace. Instead, he lowers me to the ground, kissing me gently. With his hot gaze on my every move, I quickly shower and step out. As soon as I am out of the enclosure, he blasts the cold water but his eyes never waver from me. I swear the steam rises from the heat of his gaze.
I have to turn away before I’m burnt. He gives me a wry smile and finishes his shower.
“You can leave your bike with the doorman. They’ll store it,” he tells me as he’s dressing. I try not to dwell on the fact that he has a couple of suits in the walk-in closet next to my jeans and spandex. I’m too chicken to ask him what it means—mostly because I don’t know what I want the answer to be.
“They won’t think it’s weird?”
“They are paid too much to say anything but that you look beautiful and that biking is good exercise.”
Ian moves too fast for me. I understood his bedtime story last night. He likes making quick decisions, believes in them. But I’m not a manufacturing company.
“Do you still own the plastics company?” I ask him.
“So you did hear that?” His eyes flick from the mirror to me and then back to the mirror. His collar is flipped up, and he’s wrapping the large end of his tie around the little one in expert, practiced movements. I don’t have the first clue how to tie a man’s neckwear, so his morning rituals are fascinating. In about thirty seconds, his tie is knotted and his collar is back into position. “Yes, I still own it. It’s a very profitable company. Maybe you’ve heard of it.” And he names a company that I thought made shampoo.
“Wait, they’re a plastics company?”
“They were when I bought it. Now they are a much larger business with many diverse interests. Cuff me?” In his hand he holds out two mother-of-pearl cufflinks. They’re almost feminine in their appearance, but against his masculine hand, they look exotic and are a perfect match for his oyster-pink tie.
“Did you pick this tie out?” I flick my index finger against it.
He looks down. “No, personal shopper.”
“She has good taste,” I say sourly—but like all my other feelings involving Ian, I’m confused about this too. The thought of another woman dressing him somehow bothers me, as if she’s got intimate knowledge of him that I don’t have, or maybe even a longer, more personal relationship with him.
He taps my nose and says, “It’s a him, but I like your jealousy. Gives me hope.”
As he sits on the end of the bed to put his shoes on, I slip on new panties, spandex bike shorts, a sports bra, and a T-shirt.
“While I’d love to stay here all day with you, I have meetings to run.”
“People to ruin?” I joke.
He pauses in the midst of pulling his laces tight. “People to ruin.”
He gives me a quick kiss on the forehead, which is fast becoming his go-to region. I’ll put a sticker there that says “Ian’s landing spot.” And then he’s gone in a whirl of custom-made superfine wool and hand-stitched shoes.
Mom is still sleeping when I let myself out. I make my three deliveries for Malcolm as he requested, but my thoughts are still in the shower. I’m wet all day and not just from sweat.
Around noon my mom calls, diverting my thoughts away from Ian. “Hey sexy momma, what’s cooking?” I say brightly.
“This place is so beautiful, dear. I swear I can see all the way across the park,” she exclaims.
“That Ian boy is so nice.” Leave it to my mom to call him a boy. Shit. I don’t even know how old he is or what his middle name is, yet I’m living in an apartment that he’s paying for and my clothes are sharing the same closet as some of his clothes. I wonder what goes on at the fuck pad down in the Meatpacking District—the one with the cameras that look like live creatures.
“Yeah, don’t get too comfortable,” I warn.
“Did you know that there is a concierge for the apartments? As if we were staying in a swanky hotel!” She continues on, gushing about it as if my warning never happened. Each compliment increases my concern over taking her out of there and back to the walk-up. It’s my own pride that makes me want to leave.
“It’s a nice place,” I say begrudgingly.
“I can’t believe he’s having trouble moving this place. I wonder if there’s been a crime in the building.” Mom speculates on all the ways that the apartment building may have lost value. “It’s also very cold except for my room, and the bed in your room is far too big. It makes the room look crowded. He should hire a stager.”
“I’ll mention it to him the next time I see him.” When she hangs up, I stare at the phone for a moment. There’s no way I can move out now. Part of me feels elated, but that’s the dumb, foolish part of me. The part of me that’s going to not understand when he loses interest. The part of me that will be crying into the pillow for weeks after he’s moved on.
CHAPTER 17
I’m in the midst of patching a tire when “Room at the Top” by Tom Petty starts to play.
“Hello?” I answer tentatively, wiping the residual tar off my fingers. Thank god for Bluetooth headphones.
“Bunny.” Ian’s low baritone slides down my ear and right into my belly.
“Is this call for work or pleasure?”
“Do you spend the entire time brooding on that bike? You should quit and do something else that occupies your quick mind.”
“I don’t have time to brood. I’m too busy trying to avoid the taxicabs who treat bikes as the enemy.” In truth, I daydream. I dream about my mother being cancer free. About having a family. About reading to my own kids. They would be whip-smart and go to Harvard or Princeton, and I’d beam proudly in the crowd when they graduated. They’d be scientists or lawyers or writers. They wouldn’t be me. They wouldn’t be locked into a job that doesn’t require reading or writing skills. I say none of this to Ian.
“Thanks for reassuring me,” he says dryly. “Unfortunately, I can’t be there to watch over you this week. I have to go to Seattle and look over a possible venture. Wearable military tech. What do you think?”
“Would Tony Stark buy it?”
He chuckles. “Should that be my investment measuring stick from now on?”
“I think so. You aren’t as successful as he is. I haven’t seen you in anything but those old cloth suits. So twenty-first century.”
“I’ve already admitted that my sense of fashion is pretty poor and I pay someone to shop for me.”
“Like the lingerie?”
“That is some of the best money I’ve spent.” His voice is husky
and the weak and vulnerable part of me responds with a swifter heartbeat and a throb between my legs.
In the background, I hear rustling and a pleasant voice indicating that a flight is about to take off. “I need to go, Tiny. I should be back on Friday. I trust you’ll still be at Central Towers when I return?”
“Probably. I can’t move my mom right now.”
“Don’t sound so glum. I have a task for you. Friday night you’ll need to get yourself to the Red Door Spa on Fifth Avenue at seven p.m. Can you make it?”
“Sure, but why?”
“I’ll need you to get properly armored at the Red Door at seven, and I’ll pick you up there at ten. The Aquarium is,” he pauses, searching for a word, “a shark tank. I want you to be properly armored.”
“OK. Is this for the project?”
“Yes. I was going to explain it to you this evening, but obviously that’s not possible, and it’s not something I want to do over the phone.” He says something indistinguishable to another person and then returns. “Where are you going next?”
“I have deliveries in Midtown and then on the East Side. I’m at Tenth and Fifty-Second Street. I’ll be going crosstown because I have a delivery over on Designers’ Way. Probably dropping off fabric samples.”
“Have you considered not doing your messenger job?”
“No,” I say shortly. “Does it embarrass you?”
“It worries me.”
That shuts me up. Only my mother worries about me, and the idea that this bothers Ian touches me in a deep way. I blink rapidly to stave off any physical reaction to his concern. Why am I so hormonal lately? “I’m safe.”
“You told me earlier you spend each moment thinking about how to best avoid an accident. That doesn’t sound like a safe job to me. Do you know that there is an actual New York City government study on bicycle fatalities? Between 1996 and 2005, 225 bicyclists died in crashes.”
Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1) Page 12
