Meet Me at Midnight (Forbidden Flowers Book 2)

by Donya Lynne

  “And your employees? Your business partners?”

  “What about them?”

  “What will they think when they find out you’re sleeping with a woman less than twice your age? Your intern, for God’s sake?” And wasn’t that such a cliché?

  “My personal life is none of their business.”

  She tilted her head at him like he was dim. “You’re Harrison Devereaux. The world has a way of making the personal lives of people like you their business, and they’ll cut you up in the press. Me too.”

  “Then we won’t tell them.”

  “They’ll find out eventually.”

  He released her hands and took a frustrated step back before dragging his fingers through his hair, looking away. “So, what are you saying? You don’t want to do this?” His stern but disappointed eyes met hers again.

  She hadn’t meant to be such a killjoy. She’d looked forward to tonight all day. She’d even bought a new nightie, for chrissakes! And while she was ready for “this,” whatever this ended up being, she wanted to make sure he was too.

  Closing the distance between them, she slid her hands under the hem of his shirt and up his firm stomach. “Did I say I don’t want to do this?”

  He frowned down at her hands inching toward his chest. “No, but—”

  “Harrison, I just want to make sure you’re prepared. We’ll only be able to keep this a secret for so long, and when people find out, everyone’s going to have an opinion . . . about both of us.” Her fingers glided over his taut nipples and played through the hair on his pecs. “Are you prepared for that?”

  He moved closer, brushing her long, auburn hair off her shoulders, looking at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. “I am.”

  She scratched her nails down his stomach, retrieving her hands from under his shirt as she smiled coyly and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Then I think you owe me an orgasm, Mr. Devereaux.”

  Chapter Six

  Harrison dropped his gaze to her nightie, a delighted grin playing over his mouth. “Is this new?” He slid his index finger under one of the spaghetti straps and ran it up and down, then casually flicked the strap off her shoulder. “Oops.”

  “Oops, my ass.” She didn’t bother retrieving the strap, letting the fabric hang loose. “But yes, it’s new.”

  “It’s nice.” He brushed the backs of his fingers over her barely concealed breast. Her nipple tightened in an instant and he moaned his approval, admiring her body’s response to him. “I like that I can see all of you through the fabric.”

  “Is that so?”

  He nodded, hooking his arm around her waist. “Come here.” He pulled her close, cradling her face in his palm. “No more talking about what could happen if people find out about us. No more what-ifs. I’ve lived in the spotlight my whole life. I’m used to it. Let the press write their stories about the dirty old man with a beautiful young woman in his bed. Let my clients dare to try and criticize me for feeling something I thought I would never feel again.” His fingers dug into her hair as he searched her eyes. “Half of them have done far worse than I’ll ever do, and they wouldn’t dare cross me if they don’t want their own dirty laundry aired in public.” His gaze drilled into hers. “I don’t give a shit about what they’ll do to me, because I know how to handle those jackals. My only concern is for you. I don’t want you to worry, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Corinne had grown up around this life too. Her family wasn’t as publicly positioned as Harrison’s, but when you came from wealthy stock, there was always a certain amount of public scrutiny and disdain.

  Of course the press would have a field day. But if it wasn’t this that gave them their headlines, it would just be something else. The only reprieve was that after the initial flurry of excitement over the latest Devereaux scandal dimmed, interest would quickly die, especially when the next celebrity scandal captured the world’s attention.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “I won’t get hurt.”

  The stern gaze she remembered from her childhood penetrated hers as if he were warning her not to lie to him.

  “I won’t,” she stated more firmly, sliding her hands up to his shoulders and maintaining eye contact. “I know how the paparazzi can be, remember? I grew up around the limelight too.” She closed her eyes, letting her sense of touch tell her everything she needed to know about the immovable force standing in front of her. Every muscle was firm and set in stone, and his skin was warm and inviting, the hairs on his arms feather soft. “And I want this.” She opened her eyes and stepped closer. “I want you. What I’m feeling inside . . . for you . . . for what I want you to do to me and what I want to do to you . . . it’s worth the risk.”

  He gazed down at her as if searching for any doubt. She never wavered, holding steady, staring him dead in the eye. No way would she give him any reason to walk away from this.

  Finally, his expression relaxed, and his mouth curved into a sexy smirk. “Then you’re right.”

  She tried and failed to hold back a sly smile. “About . . .?”

  He lowered his hands to her bottom. “I do owe you an orgasm.” His hands shot lower, gripping her under both cheeks as he lifted her.

  With a little hop, she helped him heft her off the floor and wrapped her legs around his waist. “I thought about this all day,” she said, holding on to his shoulders.

  “So did I.” He carried her to the foot of the bed and set her on the edge, then knelt on the floor between her knees. “I imagined you sitting in my chair in my office, skirt bunched around your waist, legs spread wide . . .” He hooked the tips of his fingers inside the elastic waist of her panties. “My face buried against you.” He dragged her panties down her thighs. “And on the way home, I imagined getting on my knees in front of you in the car, pushing up your skirt”—he let her panties fall down her calves, then wisped them off her feet, dropping them on the floor as if he’d already forgotten she’d been wearing them—“and fucking you with my mouth until you came all over my face.”

  Mmm, Harrison was a cunnilingus connoisseur. Nice.

  “Let me guess, you like oral sex?” she asked, leaning back on her hands as he eased her legs open and rocked forward to fill the space.

  “I fucking love it.”

  Hearing him say something like that with a growl of arousal rolling across every syllable made Corinne’s heart skip a beat. She’d never heard him speak with that kind of heat and vulgarity. It was enough to make her insides turn to hot mush.

  Gazing down at the hunger in his eyes as he skimmed his lips up the inside of her thigh, her heart raced as heat ballooned in her core. When he reached home base and lashed her clit with the tip of his tongue, she gasped and fell to her elbows, letting her head drop back as he did it again before briefly sucking her hardened nub into his mouth before really going to work on her.

  There was a difference between men who truly loved giving oral sex and men who merely liked or tolerated it. Men who truly loved it got in there like they’d never tasted anything so sweet, and they knew what they were doing. They knew when to lick, when to suck, and when to do both at the same time. They used their tongues like a painter used a paintbrush, sweeping with long, full, soft strokes, then short, fast, stabbing ones . . . circling, flicking back and forth, up and down, teasing, tasting, pressing. And they used their fingers to spread and stretch the flesh, exposing that precious sensitive button between a woman’s legs for optimum stimulation before squeezing the labia around it to dull the sensations again.

  Such men enjoyed oral sex. To them, cunnilingus was an art they never fully perfected, only honed. There was always something else to learn, some new technique that could stir a new ripple of pleasure . . . or prolong it.

  Men who merely tolerated giving oral sex weren’t as adept. Their ministrations were okay and could get a woman off, but they did so with the minimum amount of effort and skill. A few flicks, a little sucking, and m
aybe a plunging finger they didn’t know was supposed to stimulate the G-spot—or maybe they didn’t know where or even what the G-spot was—and then they sped the woman toward orgasm as if getting her there as fast as possible was the objective.

  Harrison was the former. There was no rushing. No race to the finish. He pushed her right to the edge of orgasm, then pulled back a split second before she reached the point of no return, letting her excitement cool and come back down before ramping her up again.

  Over and over, his masterful mouth and skillful tongue lifted her just to the brink of heaven, then dragged her back down to earth. She had no control over her own pleasure. He’d taken that power from her, and all she could do was let him command her body like a maestro commanded an orchestra.

  He’d promised to give her an orgasm, and if this was how he wanted to complete his mission, she would let him.

  She’d fallen to her back ten minutes ago, legs hanging off the edge of the bed and over his arms. He held them open wide, his thumbs parting her labia, his tongue firmly stroking her. Her body squirmed, every exhale a cry for release.

  “Please, please . . .” She panted deliriously with the need to come.

  He was bringing her up again. How many times had it been? Five? Six? She couldn’t remember. All she knew was that if she didn’t come soon, she was going to faint.

  Hell, she might faint even if she did come. All the blood in her body had flooded between her legs by now, so passing out was a real possibility.

  “Harrison . . . please . . .”

  Every muscle had pulled in on itself. She was like a compressed spring, ready to shoot off the moment he let go of her.

  And this time, he was going to let her go. He took her to the edge, then past it.

  Her back arched off the mattress as she realized the magnitude of what he’d done. By repeatedly taking her to the edge of orgasm and bringing her back down, he had intensified the pleasure. And not just intensified it but quadrupled it. If she’d thought she’d given herself a strong orgasm two nights ago while watching him masturbate, the explosion that was about to shred her body limb from limb would make that measly thing look like a sparkler compared to a pound of C-4: fun and exciting under the right circumstances, but not nearly as dramatic as blowing a hole through a concrete wall.

  After one long, breath-holding moment and several perfectly exquisite tongue lashes, her orgasm barreled into her like an avalanche obliterating everything in its path.

  Thank God her room was in the guest wing of the house, because a high-pitched squeal ripped from her throat as her body lurched off the bed, then crashed back down in a shower of contractions.

  Talk about volcanic eruptions! If Harrison could make her come that hard with only his tongue, she couldn’t wait to see what he could do with his cock.

  Speaking of which . . .

  While she was still coming, Harrison surged over her body, pushing her into the center of the bed as he shoved up her nightie to expose her breasts. He was naked. Sometime between starting his oral mastery over her and now, he’d taken off his clothes.

  Well, his flannel pants weren’t completely off, but they were hanging off his ankles. And he’d already sheathed his healthy erection in latex. When had he done that?

  He didn’t give her time to ask. In one smooth stroke, he drove into her and reignited her passion.

  Digging her fingernails into his upper back, she bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming again as another orgasm shot through her without warning.

  His arms shoved between her and the mattress, crushing her to him as his hips slapped forward, his erection discovering her depths in an exploratory onslaught as his own release spiraled out of control.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He slammed into her and shuddered as a long, protracted groan growled tightly from his throat, his cock lurching roughly inside her.

  The muscles along his spine twitched beneath her palms, tiny convulsions that rippled up and down his back with each orgasmic spasm.

  As his climax wound down, and the contractions waned, his whole body began to tremble as if from chills.

  “Are you cold?” she said, reaching to the side to tug the comforter over them.

  He shook his head and burrowed closer. “Huh-uh . . . not c-cold.” His teeth chattered as he tucked his face against the side of her neck.

  “Are you okay?” She’d never experienced a man trembling like this after sex and wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “I’m f-fine.” He swallowed and shuddered through another wave of trembles. After his body calmed, he whispered, “I’m happy.” The way he softly spoke the words—almost like a question, but not quite—made it sound like he’d forgotten what true happiness felt like.

  She kissed his sweat-dampened temple. “Happy’s good, right?”

  He nodded but didn’t reply.

  Harrison had probably thought he would never be truly happy again after his wife died. From what Susanna had told her, her parents had been childhood sweethearts who dated in high school, dated on and off through college, then got back together for good after college. Corinne wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been the only woman Harrison had ever had sex with, but as good as he was with this tongue, he’d probably done some oat sowing during those off times during college. No man was that skilled unless he’d been with at least a few women.

  After the trembles finally subsided, he pecked the side of her neck one last time, then lifted himself off her. Settling into the mattress, he pulled her into his arms, spooning her.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “For what?” She caressed his forearm with her fingertips. “For being happy?”

  He kissed the back of her shoulder. “For not lasting longer.”

  She hadn’t expected a marathon. After all, it had been over ten years since he’d had sex. She’d known going into tonight that if he lasted more than two minutes, they’d be lucky.

  “Do you hear me complaining?”

  He circled his nose in her hair. “No.”

  “Then there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  She wasn’t disappointed in the slightest that he’d come so quickly. His mouth had given her more than enough pleasure and had damn near worn her out.

  “I just wanted it to be good for you.”

  She rolled to face him. “In case you missed it, it was good for me. It was incredible. I screamed, Harrison. Screamed.”

  He laughed and brushed back her hair as she propped herself on one elbow, looking down at the boyish gleam in his eyes. “Yes, I heard you scream.”

  “That’s how good it was,” she said at the same time he added, “Let’s hope no one else heard you, or I’ll have some explaining to do.”

  Bending forward, she slid her lips over his. “What can I say, I can be a screamer when the sex is that good.”

  He grinned, then released an amused huff through his nose. “Stop teasing me.”

  “I’m not teasing.”

  “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better. I know I’m a little bit rusty, Rinn. I’ll get better.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Better? Than what we just did?”

  He frowned at her like he wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

  “Harrison, if what you just did to me with your tongue is what you call ‘a little bit rusty,’ you’d better know CPR, because I am literally going to pass the fuck out if it gets much better than that. I thought I was going to pass out tonight.”

  “Seriously?” He appeared flattered, but still dubious.

  Corinne pushed him to his back and eased herself on top of him as she pulled off her sex-disheveled nightie and tossed it to the side. “Let me spell it out for you, Harrison. That was the best sex of my life.” She wriggled her hips against his slumbering cock, feeling it twitch back to life as his eyes drank in her breasts.

  “The best?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s not even close. You owned this.” She waved her hands down
her body.

  Confidence intensified in his gaze, and his chin lifted as his chest puffed out. “I owned this, huh?” He ran his palms up her thighs.

  Her lashes fluttered as his thumbs stroked firmly up the insides of her still swollen labia.

  Licking her lips, she rose to allow his fingers easier access. “You own it.”

  He sharply arched one brow, showing her a side to his austerity that left her weak in the knees. “So this”—he cupped her between the legs—“is mine?”

  All she could do was nod as his middle finger slid inside her.

  Unlike other men she’d dated, he knew exactly where her G-spot was, and based on how well he massaged it until she was moaning and riding his hand, he knew its purpose. Within minutes, she was ready for round two.

  As if perfectly attuned to her body’s needs, he flipped her to her back and came down on top of her. “Want to help me build up my stamina?” he asked, already grinding his fresh erection against her.

  “Am I under boss’s orders?” She grabbed a condom off the nightstand and handed it to him.

  He grinned, tearing the cellophane pack open. “Cute.”

  “Well, you are my boss.”

  He quickly rolled on the condom, then the head of his cock breached her, making them both gasp before he exhaled a shuddering breath and said, “Well, your boss is very pleased with your work.” He plunged forward, letting her feel all of him.

  She had more than two weeks of Christmas break left to help him build his endurance, but it wouldn’t be nearly enough. Not for her. She was already addicted to him.

  Leaving him to go back to Yale was going to hurt.

  But they could face that later. Right now, she just wanted him. All of him.

  And damn if he didn’t give her what she wanted.

  Chapter Seven

  Back in Dr. O’s Office . . .