Fierce (Not Quite a Billionaire)

by Rosalind James

  So Much More

  Why hadn’t he come in with me? Why on earth would he leave?

  I couldn’t come up with a reason, but then, Hemi’d had me off-balance since the moment I’d met him. So I hung up my coat and brushed my teeth, then turned on the table lamp in the living room, turned off the chandelier, and finally, took a deep breath and switched on the light beside the bed. After that, I sat on my boudoir-pink couch and waited.

  Which lasted about thirty seconds, and then I was jumping up to go look out the window, down an avenue of golden light ending in the gorgeous, glowing façade of the Paris Opéra, the elegant lines of its copper dome a delicate tracery against the night sky. Over everything, in other words, that reminded me how completely I was out of my element.

  When the door opened again, I whirled. Hemi was barefoot, without his jacket, his sleeves rolled up. Still dressed in business attire, but so much harder. So much hotter. Something in him had shifted, and this was a different man. Or maybe the fundamental man. He dropped the keycard on a table by the door, set the bottle and glasses he’d been carrying on the coffee table, then looked at me where I still stood, framed by the window.

  “You’re scared,” he said, his voice low, thrilling. “But you listened.”

  “You—” I swallowed. Quit being a butterfly. Except that I wanted to be one, now. I wanted it so badly. “You told me to.”

  “Yeh. I did.” He sat down on the couch, still watching me. “Come here.”

  I moved hesitantly toward him, sat down beside him, as close as I dared, and he didn’t touch me, didn’t kiss me. Instead, he opened the bottle and poured a splash into each of the balloon glasses.

  “Cognac.” He handed me a glass, picked up the other and touched it delicately to mine, the faint ting sounding loud in the silence. “To your first time. And, Hope—” His steady gaze told me he meant it. “It’ll be good. I promise.”

  I drank, because I couldn’t think what else to do. The minute I put the snifter to my lips, the aroma filled me. I inhaled, sipped, and the fiery liquid warmed my mouth, lit a path down my throat, settled somewhere in my chest, lighting me up. Or maybe that was the man beside me.

  “Everything we do tonight,” Hemi told me, “is going to be about giving you pleasure. About me learning how to please you, finding out what your body and your mind respond to.”

  “My…mind?” I took another mouthful of smooth, aromatic comfort.

  “Tell me,” he said, his hand sliding under my hair, beginning to stroke my nape, “when I said those things to you after our day in the rose garden, how did they make you feel?”

  “Uh…” It was hard to talk with his sensitive, powerful fingers on me, moving around to the side of my neck now, up to my jawline, taking their time. “They made me feel…warm,” I admitted. “They made me…shiver.”

  They’d made me do a whole lot more than that, but I wasn’t telling.

  “And when you took your bath that night,” he said, “did you think about them then? What did you imagine?”

  It was as if he could see to the heart of me, to every hidden desire, every secret pleasure. “How do you know I took a bath?”

  “You have one bed,” he said, his gaze so intent, “and you share it with Karen. But somebody as sensual as you knows how to give herself pleasure. I’m guessing that you don’t get it nearly as often as you need it, but when you do…it’s good.”

  The heat was rising into my cheeks, and I knew he noticed. His hand had drifted down, was stroking down my neck, tracing the neckline of my sweater as he had that day, and I shifted a little at the pleasure of it. “What kind of orgasm did you have that night?” he asked me softly. “When you thought about what I’d said? When you thought about me?”

  Oh, yeah. I was telling. Whispering the words, though. “Hard. Good.”

  “Had trouble keeping quiet, eh.” His fingers were still moving, drawing a slow path along the edge of the fabric, and the shiver was going straight down my body, the tingle that had long since set up residence becoming a full-on throb. “Because you’ve always had to hold your breath, to do it fast, to get it over with before somebody notices. But tonight’s going to be different. Tonight, we’re going to go so slowly. We’re going to find out exactly how loud I can get you. We’re going to see how much you can burn.”

  I couldn’t even answer that, because I was burning already. I took another sip of cognac, which only added more fuel to the fire that was licking into every secret spot, until I had all I could do not to squirm under his hand, his dark-chocolate voice, the heat of his gaze.

  “Do you remember,” he said, “when I put your shoes on for you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Remember” was putting it mildly. The memory of his hands wrapped around my ankles was imprinted on my brain.

  “Do you want to know what I was thinking?”

  “Wh-what?” That butterfly was trapped now for sure, every flutter of my wings only securing me more tightly.

  “I was thinking of how much I wanted to put you on your back. How I’d take off your clothes. How slowly I’d shove your legs up over your head, and how I’d open you up for me. How hard I’d be holding your legs when I took you that way.”

  I was burning with arousal, and by now, I couldn’t have spoken if I’d wanted to.

  “And tonight?” he said. “Tonight, I’m going to do it.”

  It had taken only a minute. Only a suggestion, and the barest touch. What would happen when I touched her more? I needed to know, and I needed it now.

  I stood, and she watched me with those big eyes, her soft lips parted. “Stand up,” I told her.

  She did it, then lifted her flower of a face, expecting my kiss.

  Not yet. Instead, I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her around.

  She sucked in a breath when I got my fingers under the waistband of her skirt, took the zip in the other hand and began to lower it. The full taffeta skirt fell to the floor, and she was standing there in that little beaded sweater that ended at her narrow waist, and a thong in the most delicate peach, the tone barely warmer than her skin. In the black heels I’d bought for her, with the perfect curves of her tight little ass right there for me, asking for my touch.

  “Step out,” I told her. “Kick the skirt away.” And she did.

  I ran a slow hand over a delicate curve, and she jumped and gasped.

  “Yeh,” I said. “Feels good, eh. Anybody ever touched you here?”

  “N-no.” It was barely a breath. “No.”

  “I’m going do it tonight. I’m going to touch you everywhere. This is all mine now.”

  I held her a bit away from me, because I wanted to watch, and kept my hand moving, stroking. I felt her trembling under that hand, as she’d been trembling all along, and then I shifted it, began to trace the thin line of fabric down between her cheeks, and at the same moment, slid my other hand inside the V-neck of her little sweater, straight inside her filmy bra.

  I’d sat through dinner and watched her nipples hardening under the thin wool fabric of the sweater, had needed my hands and my mouth on those firm little peaks. And now, as I squeezed her between two fingers, she pebbled instantly, the arousal just that sharp and sudden. She was squirming, caught between my hand holding that sensitive nipple as I began a slow, rhythmic squeeze and release, and the other hand, still moving, tracing all the way down. Exploring everything.

  “Hemi.” She was trying to twist away from it, so embarrassed to have me touch her like that.

  “No,” I said, and squeezed her nipple a bit more tightly, so she gasped. “No. Stand still.”

  My hand reached beneath her at last, felt the wetness that had soaked through the delicate material of her thong. “Ah, sweetheart,” I sighed. “Ah, that’s nice.” I rubbed the material into her, felt her shudder at the gentle abrasion, and then, finally, reached all the way through and up, found the sensitized nub, already swollen with arousal. Then I was pinching that as well, and she cried out
loud.

  After that…I kept going. Faster, then slower. Softer, then harder. Finding out what made her sigh, and what made her moan. Finding out how much she loved to be teased. Every time I stopped for a second, she stiffened, and when I started again, she jerked against me and went higher. I kept on until I could feel her legs shaking, her body beginning to rock, then took my hand out from between her legs, closed it over her hip, and hauled her back hard against me. Her head fell back against my shoulder, and I could look down and see her eyes closing, her lips parting as her uneven breath filled my ears.

  I sent my hand down to her inner thigh this time, skimmed it slowly up on a lazy journey, exploring, teasing some more, and she held her breath. Finally, when I knew she couldn’t last another minute, I slipped my hand under that tiny triangle and claimed her. I kept my other hand working, squeezing and releasing her nipple to the rhythm of the pulses that were overwhelming her now, and she was rocking in the heels, gasping, some little moans escaping her.

  “I’m going to lay you down,” I murmured in her ear, both hands driving her higher with every circling touch, every hard squeeze. “And I’m going to hold you down hard. Do you want that?”

  “Yes.” It was a moan, and her hips were moving in an urgent rhythm. So close. So close.

  “You won’t be able to move,” I told her. She was panting now, her arms limp at her sides. “And I’m going to fill you up all the way. You’re going to be stretched so wide, and you’re going to think you can’t take it, but I’m going to make you take it anyway. And when I tell you to …you’re going to come harder than you ever have in your life.”

  “Ahh….” It was a cry, then a wail, and her hips were bucking, her upper body slamming into me as the waves overtook her. Again and again, for what felt like minutes.

  “Again,” she said when they finally receded, leaving her shuddering. “Please. More. Please.”

  I swore under my breath, kept both hands going, and, yes, she was climbing once more. Within seconds, she was convulsing again, and then again. Five times in all, until she was shaking so hard, she wouldn’t have been able to stand if I hadn’t been holding her up.

  I reached for the hem of the little sweater, pulled it over her head, and dropped it onto the couch. I’d wanted to go slowly, to unfasten each tiny button, but that would have to be another night, because I couldn’t wait. Instead, I reached down to pick her up, carried her into the bedroom, tumbled her onto the bed, and looked at her. All white skin, blonde hair, huge eyes and full lips parted with excitement. Another scrap of peach covering her pretty little breasts, the tiniest triangle hiding the most vulnerable part of her from my gaze, and I needed every bit of her.

  I was always controlled. Always deliberate. Except tonight. Tonight, I was ripping buttons off my shirt in my haste, and Hope was wrenching her shoes off and tossing them, and then she was on her knees on the bed, giving me her eager, inexpert assistance. The minute my shirt was open, she was running her hands over my chest, and then setting her mouth to me, her lips closing over my nipple, her teeth grazing it, making me jerk and swear beneath her.

  She pulled back fast. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” I was unfastening my belt, pulling down my zip, and yanking off my trousers and briefs, only pausing to grab the contents of my pocket and toss them into the side table, and Hope’s eyes were glued to me, her breath coming fast.

  “You’re so…” she said, and I could see her throat working. “I want to touch you.”

  “No.” Finally, I was over her. “I need to do this. I need to do it now.”

  I wanted both things so desperately. Wanted to touch all the hard muscle and hard man lying over me, to lick over the whorls of his tattoo, to explore his beautiful body with my hands and mouth. But I wanted this even more. To feel him threading his fingers through mine, pulling my hands up beside my head. Holding me down, exactly as he’d told me he would. The excitement was a dark thrum overtaking my body, overriding even my nervousness, and my thighs parted for him as if they had a mind of their own, as if they knew he belonged between them. And at last, he was kissing me, starting to give me everything he’d promised.

  His mouth forced mine open, leaving me no choice but to accept the deep kisses that stole my breath and my wits. His hands flexed around mine, holding them hard. And the alien length and breadth of him pressed hard against my thighs, letting me know what he had in store for me. I wanted it, and I dreaded it, too.

  When I’d watched him undress, I’d had a moment of near-panic at the size of him. I’d never seen a man in this state before, not in the flesh, but I’d seen pictures, and surely Hemi was too big for me. All the same, I’d wanted to touch, to feel. But the touching and feeling, it was clear, were all going to be his.

  His mouth left mine, moved to my ear, to my neck, and he bit me hard there, making me jump and moan. I heard his low chuckle, and then he was letting my hands go, moving down my body, kissing and licking his way, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he touched.

  When he flicked the clasp of my bra and brushed it open, then closed his lips over my nipple, I jumped again and cried out.

  “Anybody ever done this?” he demanded.

  “N-no,” I said. “No.”

  “Ah.” His sigh was pure satisfaction, and then he was on me again.

  Whenever I’d touched my own breasts, it had felt good, but it had never been anything special. I’d wondered if there was something wrong with me. Now, I knew. Because if Hemi’s fingers had felt good pinching me, his hard, suckling mouth was light-years better, sending an electric current straight to my core, setting up an answering throb that insisted on being satisfied. And my body was so charged, so primed, all it would take was a touch. One touch. One.

  It was a touch I wasn’t getting, because Hemi wasn’t doing it. Instead, he shifted his attention to the other breast, one hand continuing to lavish attention on the one he’d just left. My hips wanted to move, but they couldn’t, not with him between my legs, and I was panting, whimpering, my hands moving frantically over the bunched muscle of his shoulders, needing to hold on, needing to hurry him, needing what I couldn’t get.

  He lifted his head, stilled his hand, and I cried out and tried to pull him down again. “No. Don’t stop. Please.”

  He was rolling off me, though, and sitting up.

  “Hemi,” I said, and if I was begging—well, I needed to beg. “I’m sorry if I did it wrong. Please. Don’t stop.”

  His face was hard again, twisted with an emotion I couldn’t identify. Anger? Oh, no. “Please,” I said again. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I just don’t know what to do.”

  He was reaching beyond me for the nightstand, dumping a handful of items beside me on the bed, and finally, he was answering.

  “I wasn’t going to do this tonight,” he said. “Not for your first time. But I have to, because you need to be able to let go.”

  He was holding a length of heavy red ribbon, twisting his hands, somehow fashioning two loops, sliding them over my wrists, then lifting my hands above my head and pulling the ribbon tight, fastening it to something behind me, and I was tied, exactly as he’d told me I would be, and I whimpered again.

  “If you need to get free,” he told me, “if you get scared, you tell me to stop. Do you understand?”

  When I didn’t answer, he gave the ribbon a hard yank that jerked my arms straight. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I gasped, even though stopping was the last thing I wanted. Having my hands pulled tight overhead excited me almost past bearing, and the look on Hemi’s face as he gazed down at me was doing the rest. “But touch me. Please. Touch me.”

  He didn’t smile. He just looked at me some more, then moved over me, got two hands around the band of my thong, and drew it over my hips, down my legs. And then he put one hand on either thigh and was pushing my legs apart, so far that I instinctively tried to close them.

  “No.” He was over me
again, still holding me open. Lying much too far down my body. “No. We need to get you ready.”

  “I’m ready,” I tried to tell him. “I’m ready now. It’s—it’s too embarrassing. Don’t.”

  I tried to squirm away, but he wouldn’t let me. And when his tongue touched me, gave me a long, slow lick, my back bowed, my upper body actually rose from the bed, and the noise I made—well, you could call it a scream. And that was when he really started to work.

  The orgasm came fast, and it came hard. One moment I was spiraling, gasping. And the next, I was crying out incoherently, my hands jerking hard against my bonds. And Hemi didn’t stop. He kept going, but this time, his fingers were entering me, too, so alien, so hard, stretching me wide, and I was keening.

  He worked me through two more orgasms, each more intense than the last, until my breath was coming in sobbing gasps, and then he was rolling off me again as I opened my eyes and struggled to focus.

  “I think—” His voice was strained, and he was ripping open a condom packet. “You’re ready. But we’re going to take it slow.”

  “No,” I said. “No. Please. Fast. Go.”

  He didn’t listen, again, and he was right. At first, he met resistance.

  “You won’t…you won’t fit,” I said.

  His laugh came out a little strained. “Oh, baby. I’m going to fit. Just as soon as we relax you.”

  One hand came up to wrap around my wrists, and my excitement surged again at the feeling of him holding me there. His hard fingers closed over my breast, began to flick over the nipple, and I moaned. With a single thrust, he was inside, and I cried out. Not with pleasure this time. With something very much like pain.

  He was on his elbows, holding still for a long minute, and I could tell what an effort it cost him. And then, finally, he began to move. So slowly, so carefully, and gradually, it began to feel…warm. To feel good. Every slide sent echoes through every bit of sensitized flesh, and the tingle was starting up again.

  When he felt me moving with him, he began moving faster, and that was even better, the tingles centralizing, becoming a pulse, a hum. A hard thrust, a slow withdrawal, a teasing pause while I squirmed and tried to hurry him. Every inch of him setting up residence, letting me know he was there to stay, and I couldn’t believe I’d thought he was too big. He wasn’t too big. He was perfect.