‘Because I meant what I said in our messages. I just needed to have sex.’ More heat in her cheeks but she doesn’t blink away from me now. ‘I hadn’t been with anyone in ages and I felt like I’d forgotten what intimacy is like.’ She lifts her shoulders. ‘I wanted to get laid. And let’s face it, you’re somewhat of an expert in the meaningless sex department.’
She’s right. I’ve made one-night stands an art form and my reputation makes sure everyone knows it. So why does it piss me off royally that she says it so casually?
I make no apologies for the way I live my life. This is who I am. I’ve tried to fit myself into a different mould before, to be Lord Rothsmore In Waiting, and it was an abject failure.
At least when I get back to England this time I’ll have a better idea of who I really am.
‘You weren’t supposed to come looking for me,’ she says.
I roll my hips once more, enjoying the look of heat that shifts over her features. Desire flares between us, a flame too bright and searing to ignore.
‘Why did you come looking for me?’
That’s a great question. The thing about one-night stands is that they’re always one night. That was what we’d agreed. I’m the one who wants to shift the goalposts, to make this something else.
Except, it’s not as if I’d be changing the terms of our deal substantially. She wanted casual, no-strings sex. We obviously still have chemistry. So why not have fun until I leave? It’s exactly the kind of relationship I do. Never commitment, never serious, never more than great sex, and lots of it. I am the king of casual fun, and suddenly it feels like a month of that with Imogen would be a lot like bliss.
‘You know who I am,’ I murmur, and with her back propped against the glass, her legs wrapped around my waist, I separate the lapels of her blazer so I can see the skimpy yellow singlet top thing she’s got on underneath. It’s soft like silk. I slide my hands under it; her skin is warm to the touch. She’s not wearing a bra. My dick is hard again. Rock hard, as if I didn’t have sex just minutes ago. My palms curve over her breasts, tormenting her nipples just how she likes it.
It was only one night but I learned a lot about her and I’m not ashamed of using it to get my way.
Her eyes hook to mine, powerful and yet powerless, lost as well as found.
‘You know who I am,’ I say again, and drop my head to take one of her nipples into my mouth through the flimsy fabric. It adds an extra layer of eroticism to something that’s already pretty damned hot. I press my teeth to her nipple, just enough to make her draw in a sharp breath of pleasure.
‘Yes.’
It’s not clear what she’s saying ‘yes’ to.
‘You know I am due to inherit my father’s title, the estate, the whole thing.’
She groans, nodding.
‘In one month, I’m due back in England to take up my place in that life.’ I’m surprised how flat the words sound—the usual derision not in evidence. ‘I have only weeks left in Manhattan.’
Another gurgling noise as I transfer my mouth to her other breast and give it the same little bite. Her insides squeeze my cock so tight. I need more of her. All of her.
Impatiently, I push at her blazer and she pulls her arms from it, understanding that I need all of her, all of this. The camisole follows, the wet patches from my mouth visible as it scrunches to the ground at our feet. I have to put her down to get the tattered skirt from her body and I drag it off her with the lace thong, leaving both on the floor before spinning her around so her back is to me.
I push her forward at the hips, so her arms are braced against the windows, and I take the briefest second to imprint this memory on my mind—the sight of her naked ass, how hot she looks from behind. I spread her legs with my knee, and bring one hand around to her breasts, keeping it clamped there as my other holds her hips steady. I take her from behind quickly, thrusting into her, our voices mingling at the total possession of this, the rightness of my being buried deep inside her. The hand on her hip travels lightly to her clit, and I run it over her cluster of nerves as I move deeper and harder inside her.
My voice is music, deep and throaty, taking over the room. There’s no clock here ticking as a background accompaniment to this passion, but the desire is just as intense and just as overwhelming.
I forget that we’re in her office, I forget there’s a secretary just down the hallway. I forget everything except how this feels, how badly I need her, how it’s been nine nights of tormenting, snatched memories, of how I didn’t even want to go out and hook up with someone else because I didn’t think it could live up to this.
I am angry at that—angry at my dependence on being with her—but I am also thrilled because I’ve found Miss Anonymous and I have four weeks in which to enjoy her.
So long as she agrees...
CHAPTER FOUR
WHAT THE HECK just happened?
I press my overheated forehead to the glass, staring down—way down—at Manhattan. My office is on the ninety-second floor of this glass and steel monolith. Believe me, I’d have preferred to cut costs and rent something cheaper, but my parents own two floors of this building and gave me a great deal on rent—besides which, my clients expect a certain air of wealth and prestige. The whole Billionaires’ Club is predicated on the idea of unattainable wealth and prestige, so I can’t exactly have my office headquarters in some three-storey brick walk-up in Brooklyn.
His breathing is ragged, just like my own. I stay right where I am, pleasure like fireworks just beneath my skin, exploding fast at my pulse points. I stare down at the snow-covered city, thinking of the time I went to visit Meemaw and Pa. I’d heard about them, but had barely spent more than an hour in their company. My mother worked hard to distance herself from her working-class roots. She’d married Hollywood royalty, she was a theatre queen and she wasn’t going to have the fact that she came from an ordinary family in the south do anything to harm her carefully cultivated image. I didn’t have those hang-ups, and right after Abbey died, I just felt as if I needed to see my grandparents, to spend time with them. I wanted the authenticity their life offered; I wanted to be as far from my parents and their set as possible.
So I went to Meemaw’s, and only a day or two after I arrived, a tornado crossed town. It was loud and fierce and so fast. It must have lasted only two or three minutes before it moved away again and the most surreal, unnatural silence followed.
That’s what’s happening now.
Silence, but weird and unnatural and, contrasted with our earlier passion, it is freakishly quiet in my office.
And I have no idea what to say, which makes me even more freaked out because I pride myself on being able to fill difficult silences and cover awkwardness with a quip or a joke.
Now, I’ve got nothing.
I’m just a tangle of nerves and excitement. My whole body feels as if it’s been stretched in a thousand directions, stretched by the speed with which my blood has terrorised it.
His hands on my back are gentle now, inquisitive, returning me to the here and now with a slow, sweet touch. He curves his palms over my shoulders and turns me around to face him.
It makes it so much harder to kick my brain into gear because one look at his face and I’m melting. What the heck is wrong with me? I don’t do rich guys. I find all that money off-putting and there’s no mistaking Nicholas Rothsmore’s background of privilege and wealth. It is in the strength of his spine, the confident tilt of his chin, the sophistication of his eyes, the dimple of his chin that for some reason screams aristocracy.
But there’s also something hard-worn about him, something broken and devil-may-care. Something that tells me he’s a risk-taker and an adventurer, that he might have been born to fit the mould of a privileged aristocrat but that he’s worked hard to fight his way free of it.
That alone keeps me rooted to the spot, unable
to look away from a face that I have been seeing in my dreams since we snatched an hour together in Sydney.
‘I’m...’
He lifts a finger and presses it to my lips, his dark brows knitting together as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ I say against his finger. When he doesn’t move it, I dart my tongue out and flick it. His eyes flare wide and power rushes through my body.
This is bigger than me, bigger than him.
‘You made pretty sure of that.’
‘Not quite.’ I bite the soft flesh of his finger now, and he presses it to my lips, so I roll my tongue over it and feel his cock jerk against me.
He’s like the Energizer Bunny of sex. Then again, apparently I am too, because desire ignites inside me, and I wish we were anywhere but my office.
My office!
‘Oh, crap.’ I press my hand to his chest and push him back, everything forgotten except the fact Emily and I have an extremely casual relationship and she walks in whenever she needs anything. Not to mention I’ve just been screaming like a banshee at the top of my lungs.
I sidestep him and move away as if he’s explosive dynamite and I’m right in its trajectory. I need space. Space to think and I definitely absolutely need to get dressed.
‘That was...completely unprofessional.’ I lift a hand and smooth my hair over one shoulder, my fingers grazing my nipples by accident, so I have to spin away or risk him seeing my instant physical reaction to the simple touch.
‘It was also completely fucking great.’
A smile curves my lips. There’s a bathroom across my office—I work long hours and frequently have to attend Billionaires’ Club events, which I go to directly from here. Fortunately for me, there’s also a wardrobe and it’s always stocked with an array of outfits. I pull out a black pantsuit and a silk camisole, trying not to think about what Emily will say when she notices the obvious change of clothes, pulling the silk top on quickly to dispense with the whole nakedness thing.
I spin around to find him watching me with an expression I can only describe as indolent. He’s like some kind of crack cocaine to me—I’m high on him and already craving my next fix.
I stare across at him—he’s pulled his boxers back on but there’s still an expanse of toned abs and tanned skin—and my mouth goes dry, my stomach loops and my fingers tingle.
‘I don’t do this.’
He lifts a thick, dark brow, his expression quirking with curiosity. ‘Do what?’
‘This.’ I gesture from him to me. ‘Sleep with clients. Sleep with anyone.’
He laughs, the sound bouncing around my office. My pulse trembles. ‘You weren’t a virgin.’
I jerk my head. ‘Yeah, but...’
He begins to prowl towards me.
‘It had been a while.’
I told him that in Sydney. There’s no point in denying it.
‘What’s “a while”?’
I swallow, my throat bone dry. I wave my hand in the air in what I hope passes as some kind of descriptor of time. He catches it in his, lacing our fingers together and holding it at my side.
Up close, I look at him—really look at him—in a way I haven’t had the luxury of doing yet. I notice things that previously passed me by. Not because they didn’t warrant notice, but because there’s so much of him that demands attention: his square jaw; his perfectly sculpted lips; the little indent above his mouth, forming a bridge to his nose; a nose that is straight and strong—patrician, appropriately, given his pedigree—but that has a bump halfway down, as if it’s been broken at some point. His lashes are thick and dark and clumpy, and close up it almost looks as if he’s wearing eyeliner. He’s not, but that’s the effect the weight of his lashes combines to create. He has a silvery scar near his hairline—a single, trembling line about an inch long, very faint and, going by the shimmery paleness of it, earned long ago, perhaps even as a boy.
My tummy swoops. ‘Oh, you know, years.’
‘Years?’ The word is like a curse, and his brow dips as if he can’t even comprehend this concept. I can’t really blame him—standing here in a post-orgasm glow, I have no idea why I’ve denied myself this for as long as I have.
I go to pull away but his hand squeezes mine. ‘Years?’ Softer, gentler, less shocked, more wondering.
‘Yeah.’ I don’t meet his eyes. I hate feeling like this. Most people look at me with awe and it’s pushed my vulnerabilities deep inside me. But suddenly, I feel gauche and insecure; I feel like the gangly, solitary teen I was after Abbey died and I realised I had no one who really knew me.
I make an effort to straighten and transform into Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur, philanthropist.
‘It’s not a big deal, okay?’
‘I beg to differ. Are you some kind of masochist? Or nun?’
‘Clearly not the latter.’
‘So why the hell have you been single so long?’
I square my shoulders but make no effort to pull my hand away from his. I like touching him. That should set alarm bells off inside my brain. Maybe it does. I ignore them, though, staying right where I am, his naked torso with that cursive script tattoo inked over his heart calling to me.
‘I’ve been busy,’ I point out, waving my free hand around the office.
‘But sex is...’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I roll my eyes. ‘To you, sex is like breathing. I get it.’
‘I was going to say,’ he interrupts, a little gruffly, ‘that it’s an instinct. And it’s more than sex, it’s companionship. It’s falling asleep in someone’s arms, it’s having someone to laugh with.’
‘Says you, Mr Manhattan Playboy?’
He lifts his defined shoulders. ‘So? A varied sex life doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy those perks.’
It’s an admission I didn’t expect. Our eyes connect and something electrifies my pulse. ‘With a different woman every night, right?’
His eyes hold mine unflinchingly and I admire him for his lack of apology. Why should he apologise? He’s a renowned bachelor; he lives as he preaches. Everyone who sleeps with him knows what they’re getting.
Great sex.
Lots of it.
But just for a night or so.
I knew that—it’s why I approached him, specifically, in the forums. I didn’t want the complication of a guy who might want more from me.
Which somewhat begs the question as to why he’s here.
And why I don’t feel more annoyed about it.
‘You like sex,’ he says, as if I’m a puzzle he wants to work out.
My cheeks flush. Because up until a week ago, I didn’t know how much I like sex. I’ve only been with two guys. My college boyfriend, who it turns out was using me to access my mother’s production company connections, and Jackson, who was ‘great on paper’ but a complete dud in real life. It’s a shame it took me six months to work that one out.
In any event, the sex with both was...nice. At best.
‘Apparently,’ I murmur, scanning his face.
I had no idea it could be so completely mind-blowing. I mean, I’ve read my fair share of romance novels and watched movies where the women just have to be kissed on the nose to go into a full-blown orgasm, and I’ve always thought it was a stupid fantasy.
Not so much now.
‘You came looking for sex,’ he prompts, and I get a glimpse of the determination that’s made Nicholas Rothsmore such a success in business, away from his family’s prestigious standing in society. He has a needle-sharp focus and he’s using it to sift through my soul.
‘Yes.’ I jut my chin out unapologetically.
‘Why?’
I open my mouth to answer and then shake my head. ‘I told you, it’s been a while.’
‘So why now?’ he persists
.
My eyes drop away from his, skimming the walls of my office. This place is my home away from home and yet it’s nothing like the real me. Elegant Scandinavian furniture, obvious signs of wealth and success. It’s what my clients expect.
‘I guess...’ I search for an answer. The truth is, it wasn’t one thing or another. People in the club have been pairing off lately. There’ve been engagements and rumoured weddings, and I guess it’s made me realise how far I am from that. It’s the knowledge that I’m approaching thirty and that happy couple life is nowhere near being on my horizon. But mostly, it was desire. Curiosity. Loneliness—the kind that permeates me on a cellular level, so I could no longer ignore it.
He squeezes my hand so I jerk my attention back to his face.
‘I just wanted to get laid.’ The admission is bare-faced, if only a fraction of the complex knot of emotions that led me into the Intimate Room. ‘And then get on with my life.’
‘Ah.’ He grins, just a flash, but I have the strangest—and most unpleasant—sensation that he’s laughing at me. ‘Sex isn’t a part of your real life?’
I shake my head. ‘This is...’ I wave around the office. ‘My business. The club. The charity. That takes pretty much all my time and energy. It’s hard to meet anyone, but—’
‘But?’ he prompts, when I don’t finish the sentence.
My teeth press into my lower lip as I think that through. ‘But, I’m twenty-nine and I have barely been in a relationship. I mean, a couple of guys but nothing serious, nothing that could ever go anywhere.’
He’s quiet, listening attentively.
‘And suddenly, everyone seems to be pairing off, like the club has become its own kind of Noah’s Ark or something.’
He laughs gruffly.
‘I’m almost thirty and I have no social life to speak of.’ I grimace. ‘I haven’t dated in four years. The guy I have the most frequent conversations with is my doorman, Mr Silverstein, and he’s seventy-five years old and very happily married. My parents won’t get off my back about being single. It doesn’t matter that I’ve built all this, they really only care about me getting married and having babies—not so many that I ruin my figure, mind you.’ I pause to roll my eyes, making the mental excuses for my mother that I always bring to the fore when I’m frustrated with her. How she’s an aging Hollywood starlet who sees youth and beauty as her greatest assets—and both are shifting away from how she wants them to be. ‘But more than that, I’m...getting used to being alone.’ I swallow, the raw truth of the confession surprising me.
The Deal--A Sexy Billionaire Romance Page 5
