by Penny Wylder
“Shouldn’t I wear it?” I ask, eyebrow lifted. “I thought that was the whole reason for buying it.”
“You should wear it,” he agrees. “Though not until I properly give it to you.” His eyes sparkle, then, and I have a feeling he’s got mischief on his mind.
* * *
We wind up at a little bar on the boardwalk, way out on the tip of the pier that juts out over the sea. Ocean breezes drift past us, and overhead, the sun is dipping toward the horizon, already painting the clouds orange with its passing. We’re still waiting on our drink order—a bottle of champagne, chilled on ice, and a brand that I’ve never actually been able to drink, only ogle on magazine covers, due to the steep price tag—when Jasper suddenly swings around on his feet to face me.
“Dee.”
“Oh God,” I say in response.
He drops to one knee. “I know we’ve only known one another for a short time now.”
My face immediately goes hot. I hear whispers start up around us, a few squeals of delight. Total strangers whip out cameras and flashes start going off all around. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” I hiss under my breath, though I can’t help the faint smile that touches my lips.
It is kind of funny.
And embarrassing. Mostly embarrassing.
But funny.
“In the short time we’ve been acquainted, you have swept me off my feet,” Jasper says, eyes locked on mine. “I’ve fallen for you, head over heels. For your love of cars, and your death-wish when you drive those cars.”
I snort and roll my eyes. But when he holds up a hand, I extend my left one, and let him grip it tight.
“I’ve fallen for your sense of humor, and the way you’re glaring at me all the time,” he continues.
Now I’m outright laughing. To my surprise, I can’t drag my gaze from his, either. I’m stuck here, watching him propose and wondering… How much of what I’m feeling is real?
“I love you, Dee Smith,” he says, and he draws the ring from his pocket, the diamond flashing in the setting sun. It throws stars in my eyes. Blinds me, until all I can see is Jasper. “Will you marry me?”
I pause. Take a moment to survey our onlookers, who cheer and whistle. More cameras flash in my eyes. Then I look back to Jasper, and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “Well, Jasper Quint,” I say, loud enough that neighboring tables will be able to overhear. If we’re going to sell this performance in public, we may as well put it to good use. Maybe some of those gossip rags will get wind of the heir to Quint Motors’ engagement and spread word to his father. “You don’t leave me much choice, I have to admit.” I flash him a wink. “But given all your insistence, I have to say… yes. I’ll marry you.”
He slides the ring on my finger, and pulls me to my feet all in one motion. Before I can protest, he cups my chin in one hand and tilts it up to his. Then his lips are on mine again, and I don’t want to protest. I want to sink into this moment, stay here forever. I want this kiss to keep going. I want his warm hands to circle my waist, slide down, farther.
I want to be alone with him, back in our hotel room, where I can tear that stupid tie off him and rip the buttons off his probably too-expensive shirt, and run my hands over his hot, bare skin, the way I’ve been itching to do ever since our last kiss.
I wrap both arms around his neck, pull him to me, as he deepens the kiss, and I nip his lower lip, a hint at what I want, a hint at more.
Then the waiter reappears with the champagne, and a cork pops, and the cheers explode into full-blown applause, with mixed whispers of Jasper Quint thrown in and circulating the growing crowd, and finally, we pull apart, both of us breathless, eyes glazed, a little stunned, as we drop back into our seats, and allow the congratulations to wash over us.
6
Dee
We stop back at the hotel to change before dinner. Unlike last night, we’re going somewhere showy, celebratory. Jasper brought me a dress, he informs me once we reach the suite, and he hands it to me without looking, without an offer to trail me into the bedroom this time. His usual flirtation and overly sexy commentary faded this afternoon—ever since his proposal and the kiss that followed. Both of us are a little quieter after that. Shell-shocked.
I can’t stop thinking about the way he made my heart beat faster, the way he tasted, and the way…
The way I felt like I had butterflies in my stomach. I’ve never felt like that before. I’ve never had feelings like that for anybody, even guys I’m attracted to. What on earth is wrong with me?
Then again, nobody has ever proposed to me before. Maybe I’ve just never been forced into a ridiculously romantic situation like that before. Maybe I’d feel like this about anybody who got down on one knee and slipped an enormous diamond onto my finger.
Still, I can’t help wishing that Jasper’s prior flirtation would return. After that kiss, I might actually be tempted to let him get away with something right now.
But he stands by the door of the living room like a perfect gentleman, picking out a new “evening tie” while I slip past into the bedroom.
The moment I unwrap the gown, I have to laugh. It’s just so not me. I wear dresses, don’t get me wrong, but not like this. Floor-length, satin, with a sweeping neckline and crystals studded along the hemline. It would almost look like a wedding gown if it weren’t a deep mauve. A beautiful color, but not me.
Still. Duty calls. This is what I signed up for, after all. Pass as a rich girl in a rich world. So I step into the gown and draw it up—it fits me perfectly. I have to admit, Jasper is good at sizing people up. I gave him my dress size, but this is a really close fit, a risky buy. Unless he’s been studying my curves…
Stop thinking about that, I scold myself. I fix the ring on my finger—it does go with the dress, I note, though it’s the only thing about me that does. Then I do up my hair, and finally I reach over my shoulder…
And find I can’t reach the zipper on the gown. It’s too low, nestled at the small of my back.
I glance at the door. Take a deep breath, and cross over to it. “Jasper?” I call softly through the crack.
“Ready to go?” He appears on the other side, fully dressed, in a suit that shows off the money he grew up around, that he wears like a glove, easily and lightly. He looks fucking hot as hell, frankly.
“Not quite,” I reply. I ease the door open wider. “Could you help me?” I turn so my back is to him, my exposed skin tingling in the cool air.
He crosses the room to me, and takes the zipper in one hand, rests his other against my shoulder blades, his fingertips white hot on my skin. “Do you like the gown?” he murmurs, not moving the zipper yet. He looks past me, and I look up to find a mirror on the far side of the room, against a wardrobe. Looking at the two of us there, his hand at my lower back and another on my shoulder, we match. Two birds of a feather, getting dressed for some glamorous ball.
“It’s not what I’d normally wear,” I admit. I glance over my shoulder at him. He shakes his head, seems to recall himself, and zips up the dress.
But he doesn’t take his hand away from my shoulder. And when I turn and place both palms on his chest, he doesn’t step back from me. We both gaze at one another head-on now, entranced. “What about you?” I ask, leaning back, so my hair tumbles down my back, in the faint waves it always has when I’ve worn it up overnight. “Are you always the suit type?”
“I have to be,” he answers.
“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?” I smile, tilt my head.
His eyes search mine, gaze as piercing and white-hot as ever. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he lets his hand trail up my bare shoulder toward my neck. Just his fingertips, a barely there touch that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and electricity fly through my veins. His fingertips pause when they reach my jawline, then curl along it until he’s cupping my chin in his hand. “If you don’t like the d
ress, you don’t have to wear it.” His voice comes out a breath, a whisper against my lips.
He’s close, so close that our breath mingle, and all I can smell is his scent, delicious and sharp and distracting all at once. “Would you prefer if I took it off?” I ask, and I lift one eyebrow, playful, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy, stormy atmosphere.
“Very much so.” And then his lips crash into mine again, and this time, I don’t pretend I can possibly resist him. I wrap both arms around his neck and arch up against him, loving the sensation of his firm body against mine. I arch my hips and dig them against his, and his arm dips to circle my waist. He tightens his grip, crushes my body to his and picks me up, just high enough to slide his feet under mine. Then he walks us both, lips still crushed together, my hips digging into his, and the hard press of his cock against my belly—walks us backwards until my legs bump into the bed.
We collapse across it, and he lands above me, braced with one hand on the bed, the other still tracing my jawline, down my neck, around to the back of the gown to undo the zipper he just did.
I dig my hands into his back, pull him down against me, hard and hungry. At the same time I lift my legs to either side of his waist, arch up until I can feel the outline of his cock against my soft stomach. He feels huge against me, and I gasp a little as my gown hikes up around my waist.
“God, you are exquisite,” he murmurs against my jawline, my neck. His lips move lower, even as his fingertips trail after the hem of my gown, hiking it farther up, until my legs are exposed, only my panties separating me from his suit pants. He arches against me, shifting lower, and I gasp as I feel the hard dig of his cock right over me.
He pauses and arches a brow at me, still poised above me. “Already wet for me, Dee?” He reaches a finger down and runs it over the outer edge of my panties, making me shiver with want. I’m already soaked through, and I know he can feel it.
In response, I slide a hand down his hips to trace the outline of his cock through his pants, pressing hard with my fingertips. “As wet for you as you are hard for me, Mr. Quint.”
He flashes me a broad grin. “Aren’t you the naughty girl after all, Ms. Smith?” He leans back, and I gasp at the sudden loss of his heat, and the pressure of his fingers against my aching pussy, after so many days of thinking about him, fantasizing about this moment.
He leans back on the edge of the bed and watches me with those dark, hooded, unreadable eyes. “Take off your gown.”
I stand up and slip off the shoulders, one at a time. I stand for a moment, holding it up, teasing. And then I let it drop to my ankles, and step out of it with a kick, smirking as I step toward him. “Do you like giving commands, Mr. Quint?”
“Only if you like to follow them, Ms. Smith.” He tilts his head to one side, waiting.
In response, I spread my hands at my sides and bow my head. “Tell me what you want.”
He steps closer. Traces a hand over my hair, and then gently tilts my head back until I’m looking up at him once more. “You, beautiful.” His eyes drink me in, taking their time. I’m wearing a lace slip of a bra, the only thing that fit under this gown, and my panties. That’s it. Yet somehow, under his gaze, I don’t feel exposed in a bad way.
I feel sexy. Brazen as hell. Maybe it’s because of the way he takes me in, like he’s loving every second of it, and he can’t get enough.
“I want you every which way,” he murmurs, and his lips brush my cheek, my neck, my collarbone. Dip down until he’s kissing between my breasts, and his hands reach up to tweak my nipples, toy with them through my bra, and I get so hard so fast that I have to gasp. “But first, I want to enjoy the view.” He steps back and smiles. “Lie down on the bed.”
I do as I’m told.
“Spread your legs,” he says, and I spread them wide. He hooks one thumb under my panties and tugs them down, in one swift motion. I gasp as the cool air of the hotel room brushes my bare pussy. My already soaking wet pussy. Then he climbs between my spread legs and runs his hands up my sides to my bra.
“Take it off,” he says.
I lean forward to undo the clasp. Let it fall down my arms. He tosses it aside, and then he’s over me again, his hands tracing the edges of my breasts. He leans down to kiss my chest, lick and suck underneath each breast, and then, one at a time, he swirls his tongue around my nipples, alternately thrashing them with his soft wet tongue and gently rolling them between his teeth, never biting hard enough to hurt, just enough to make me harder than a damn diamond.
I reach up to grab the clasp of his belt, unable to wait much longer. I whip that off, then tug at his shirt. I start undoing the buttons, but get frustrated halfway up, because he keeps nipping and sucking at my nipples, then dips lower, out of reach. He chuckles slightly against my belly, and his tongue flicks into my navel for a second, sending a shockwave of sensation all the way to my toes.
“Just tear it off, if you’re so anxious,” he murmurs against my stomach.
So I grab the shirt in both hands and rip. Buttons fly every which way. He laughs again, flashing me an appraising look.
“I didn’t think you actually would,” he’s saying, but I don’t give him time to pause and think about it. I grab his tie and yank him back down into a kiss, my legs wrapped around his waist now as I reach down with my other hand to grab for the waist of his pants.
He bites my lower lip as we part from the kiss, both of us breathless, and then he yanks on his own tie, undoes it, and tosses that aside after his shirt.
“God, Jasper.” For a moment I pause, distracted by his now bare torso. Because God damn he is ripped. I knew he was cut from his build through the T-shirt, but now I can see every inch of his muscles, the perfect plane of his abs and the V-cut over his groin.
He smirks. “Like what you see?”
“Fuck yes,” I whisper. I run my fingertips over it all, leaning up to kiss his pecs, his abs, and flick my tongue across his nipples.
He shudders above me, and I take that as encouragement and undo his pants button. “Dee…” he starts, but I don’t listen. I yank the zipper down, and tug them over his hips. He lets them fall, and I push his boxers down after, eager.
His cock springs free, just inches from my face where I’ve arched up underneath him now, and it’s all I can do to contain a pulse of white hot desire.
Desire… and concern.
Because he’s huge. Thick and long, with a vein that stands out along one side, so irresistible that I can’t help myself—I lean in to trace my tongue along it, and savor the way he gasps and digs his hands into my hair, tightening.
“Fuck, Dee,” he groans through gritted teeth.
I run my tongue along him, from his base to his tip, exploring him as I marvel at his length, his thickness. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to fit him completely in my mouth, let alone my pussy. And yet, I’ve never been this wet for a guy, either. I’ve never felt like my clit was a lead weight between my legs, heavy and aching with desire.
Much as I’m enjoying myself, it’s almost a relief when he gently pulls me back. “Not yet,” he tells me, gaze on fire as he stares down at me. “I want to fuck you first.”
My heart skips a beat at that.
He reaches for his pants, rifles in a pocket for a condom, and I hold out a hand for it, wordlessly. He places it in my palm, and I roll it down over his cock, savoring the velvety grip of him, the steel underneath.
“Not going to lie,” he says, as he leans down along me, forcing me back down against the bed, his hands tracing my hips, my thighs. Down to part my legs and run one hand along my slit, a single fingertip delving between my folds to massage the wet warmth there, rocking back and forth, coating his finger in my juices. “I’ve been imagining this for a very long time, Dee.” His gaze meets mine, white hot with naked lust. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
I swallow hard around the fire that’s flaring through my body. Distracting me. Making me catch flame, a
s he teases me again and again with that lone finger of his.
“I’ve fantasized about this. About making you scream my name.”
I gaze up at him, dare a faint smile. “I’ve fantasized about screaming your name,” I reply, and if anything, that only seems to make his stare hotter.
He adds a second finger, presses them against my entrance. Not quite entering me, not yet. “Why can’t I get you out of my head, Dee?” he whispers, just before he slides those fingers inside me, an inch at a time, teasing into me.
My lips part in a silent gasp, eyes locked on his. I don’t know what to say to that, don’t know how to respond except to arch my hips up against him, grant him better access as he pushes his fingers deeper, deeper. When they reach their limit, he curls his fingertips inside me and draws them out again, dragging along my inner front wall, and I groan with delight, as the pads of his thick fingers graze over my G-spot.
“You are fucking sexy as hell,” he murmurs, as he strokes his fingers out, and then gently glides them back in again. Back and forth. Working me up. Stoking the flames inside me. “And this tight, gorgeous little pussy of yours? Mmm.” He grins and pauses to glance down. To watch as his fingers spread my lips and press into me. Then, without warning, he adds a third, and I gasp and buck beneath him. He starts to stroke his hand faster, harder. “I can’t wait to spread those tight little lips with my fat cock. I can’t wait to be inside you, fucking you…”
I start to rock my hips in time to his finger thrusts and his words, the pressure mounting. I reach down with one hand, unable to resist, and grab his cock, stroking him at the same time he strokes me. “I want… you to… fuck me,” I manage, as much as I’m able to keep my head together in the midst of this firestorm.
