She locked her legs tighter around his hips. “How fast can you get us to a table?”
Horny delight shot through him. “Start counting.”
Mischief danced in the desire smoldering in her eyes. “One, two, three…”
He turned, ravishing the side of her neck, and carried her from the foyer into the living room. He reached the console table next to the entryway by the time she counted to twelve.
“Impressive,” she murmured as he settled her with far from gentle grace on its surface.
He chuckled even as he proceeded to roam his hands over her thighs, her hips, her waist. “I’m certain I only careened off three chairs on the way.”
“You did?” She gripped him more firmly with her thighs, tugging at the bottom of his shirt, freeing it from his waistband. “I didn’t notice.”
His shirt muffled his laugh as she pulled it up over his head.
“Oh, wow.” She ran her gaze over what she’d revealed. “Wow.”
He stood motionless, aching for her.
She met his stare for a heartbeat before returning her attention to his torso. “You’re built like some kind of sex god.”
His body thrummed at her breathy exclamation. His cock jerked in his pants. “You haven’t got to the best part yet.”
The ridiculous boast made her laugh. “Your dick is the best part? And here I was impressed by your skill with words.”
Another rush of hot blood sank into his groin. He needed to be inside her. Now. “How much do you like this dress?”
“Why?”
He slid his hand under the soft neckline, to capture her breast. “Because I’m two seconds away from tearing it off you.”
Her eyes fluttered closed as he dragged his thumb over her beaded nipple. “You tear it, you buy it.” A wicked smile played with her lips as she skimmed her fingers over his abs and down to his waistband. “Isn’t that how it goes?”
“I’ll buy it,” he answered on a growl. How the fuck was he not already inside her? “And a dozen more if it means making love to—”
She reached behind her back and lowered the zip of her dress.
…
Thomas stared at what she’d presented to him, his nostrils flaring, his blue eyes dark with open desire. “Christ, you are beautiful.”
A flush of happiness swept through her. No one had ever told her she was beautiful. Her past sexual partners and boyfriends had, it seemed, never been moved to share their thoughts with her about the way she looked. Sure, they’d commented on how hot her breasts were, but beautiful? As a whole package?
She caught her bottom lip, reaching for her glasses. “Thank you.”
He stilled her hand just as she began to remove them. “Don’t.”
“Leave them on?”
A shaky laugh fell from him. “Told you this morning, they do it for me. As does this bra.” He skimmed his hands over the pale lilac lace bra she wore. Her one Victoria’s Secret indulgence found in the bargain bin at a factory outlet store. It was still more expensive than all her other bras, but when she wore it she felt…special.
God, had she put it on hoping for Thomas to see it?
Before she could process what her subconscious had been planning, Thomas stroked her rock-hard nipples through the lace with his thumbs.
She shuddered at the tight, hot pleasure his touch created.
She hadn’t meant for this to happen. She’d meant to have dinner with him, ask him about his book, enquire how much longer he thought he had to go, and tell him they couldn’t act on their sexual attraction again. What he did to her, what he awoke in her…it was too intense, too powerful. But the second she’d taken his hand in hers on the sidewalk, without thought, the second his palm pressed so intimately to hers, she was lost.
She’d tried to fight it the whole way home, but it was useless. Not because she wanted to have sex with him, but because she couldn’t stand the thought of not being with him.
How did she come to terms with that? She had no clue. She’d deal with it later. But for now…
“This bra does it for me.” He trailed his fingers over the intricate patterns made by the lace, his gaze tracking their path. “But I’m afraid it still has to go.”
Slowly, as if very aware of how mesmerized she was by him, he leaned closer to her, slid his hands behind her back, and unfastened her bra.
Her breasts spilled free of the lace cups, her nipples brushing his bare chest. The fine dark hair on his pecs tickled, a wicked sensation that made her gasp. And then it was his hands on her breasts, cupping them, kneading them.
She gripped the edge of the table, head back, eyes closed. She tightened her legs around his hips, drawing his groin harder to her spread sex. Could she beg him to sink into her now? Did she have it in her to survive the pleasure he already wrought upon her? If this was foreplay…
He closed his lips around her right nipple and sucked.
“Oh God,” she cried out, fisting one hand in his hair. She shook. Trembled.
He chuckled against her breast, the sound low and devilish. “I’m going to make you call out my name, Mila. Mine.”
“Ego,” she rasped, writhing in his arms as he rolled her nipple between his teeth, “thy name is St—”
He snagged a fistful of her hair in a tight grip and deeply sucked on her breast.
Words, thought, shattered. She gripped his hair tighter and bucked into his hard groin. “Don’t stop.”
With another chuckle, he released her breast and captured the side of her throat as well, his mouth hungry and damn near savage.
Hickey. Can’t have a hickey for school. Can’t…
Delirious with a need beyond her, she yanked his head from her neck and stared into his eyes. Lust burned in their blue depths, detonating a tight pulse in her very core. “Don’t leave a mark.”
His lips curled. His nostrils flared. “And if I want to?”
Carnal excitement sank into the pit of her stomach at his arrogant tone. The urge to surrender to it welled through her. How easy it would be. “Please don’t,” she whispered instead.
There was no way she could live with herself if she went to school with a love bite on her neck.
His nostrils flared again, his jaw bunched, and then he dipped his head in a single nod. “For you.”
The agreement left him on a rough breath.
“Thank—”
He silenced the rest of her words with a kiss before returning his mouth to her breasts.
She clung to him, an intoxicating pressure building inside her with every swipe of his tongue, every nip of his teeth, every drawing pull on her nipple.
God, was it possible to orgasm in such a way?
“I th-think I’m…”
A thick, heavy contraction gripped her inner walls, an explosion of exquisite heat, and she threw back her head and shuddered in his arms, aching for more even as her unexpected orgasm pulsed through her.
“Now”—his lips grazed her ear—“let’s make that happen again, but this time with my mouth.”
Before she could react, regroup, he disengaged himself from her legs and removed her matching lilac lace panties from her body.
“Th-Thomas,” she gasped as he parted her thighs wide with gentle but firm hands. “I…I…”
“Shhh.” He slowly bent at the waist, slipped her stilettos off, placed the soles of her feet on his shoulders, and then—kissing and nibbling his way toward her sex—traced her folds with his tongue. Flicked her clit. Teased it. Explored it. Over and over and over.
And over.
Until an eruption of concentrated pleasure claimed her once more.
She came, his tongue propelling her over the edge.
And when she couldn’t do anything but whimper and pant and tremble, her bones melted, her body sated, he licked her over the precipice again.
“Oh my God, Thomas.” Too good. It was too good.
“Fuck, I love the way you say my name,” he growled, his breath hot
on her inner thigh. He slowly straightened, eyes half shuttered, chest heaving. He replaced his tongue on her sex with his fingers, gently caressing her sensitive flesh. “Say it again for me, babe.”
“Thomas…” she said, every nerve ending in her body craving him still. “I want you inside me, Thomas.”
“This way?” He slid his fingers into her. A little.
She shook her head.
His nostrils flared. Wordlessly, he stepped backward, removed his wallet from his pants’ pocket, and withdrew a condom.
“This way?”
Urgent need cramped her inner walls. “Yes.”
He sucked in a slow breath. “Here? On the console table?”
“Can’t be wild monkey sex on a table without the table.”
A low sound—part groan, part chuckle—tore from him. “Mila, where the fuck have you been hiding all my life?”
She swallowed, a cold finger pressing at her heart. If only you—
He undid his belt and opened his fly, killing the rest of the unsettling thought.
Her mouth went dry. “Holy crap.”
His erection jutted free of his open suit pants, thick and hard and impressive. “No underwear?”
He tossed his wallet over his shoulder and tore open the condom packet with his teeth. “Against my religion.”
Breath growing quicker, she arched an eyebrow. It was that, or stare at what he was now very slowly covering with a glistening sheath of latex. “I didn’t realize the gods of writing were so invested in what their followers wore.”
“Who understands the working minds of deities?” he murmured, wriggling his hips just enough to cause his pants to fall down. “Although I can’t complain.”
“You can’t?” Goddamn it, was that her voice? That husky, panty whisper?
He shook his head, stepping out of the puddle of material at his feet before smoothing his palms up the length of her outer thighs. “No.”
He nestled himself into the V of her spread legs, moving his hands to grip her hips, nudging his cock against her folds. Parting them.
Her breath fell from her in ragged puffs. Her chest tightened. Oh God.
“Why not?” she croaked, every nerve ending in her body crackling with need as the tip of his erection dipped into her.
His fingers grew firmer on her hips. “Because they brought me you.”
And with one fluid thrust, he buried himself inside her.
…
Perfect. So perfect.
Wave after wave of pleasure rolled through Thomas as he stroked deeper into her. He gazed into her eyes, reveling in the open desire, the raw arousal in their grey depths.
She squeezed him, her heat tight around him. Squeezed him, and hugged him with her legs and clawed at his back.
He rolled his hips, already close to detonation.
Think of something else, think of something else…
Her scent, her perfume, her taste, the velvet smoothness of her skin…
Fuck, not that. Think of anything else. Think of…think of…
“Thomas…” she moaned his name, her nails racking up the back of his neck, over his scalp. “Oh God, Thomas…don’t stop…so good…so…” She arched, digging her heel into the small of his back. “God, I’m coming again.”
Her heat constricted around him, gripped him, tight pulses and everything shattered for him except her. Being with her in the most intimate, raw, perfect way.
Rhythm deserted him and, as a litany of words tore through his heads—perfect, mine, oh fuck, forever—he emptied himself into the condom.
Her nails scraped his back. She squeezed him, milked him. Rode the waves with him until they were both still.
He buried his face into the side of her neck, not wanting to move away from her yet. Wanting to breathe her in.
“Wild, passionate, crazy sex on the table with you is quite enjoyable.” Her voice vibrated against his lips, her soft chuckle making him smile.
Raising his head, he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Quite enjoyable? That’s it? You know we creative types really thrive on good reviews.”
Laughter danced in her eyes. “An epic masterpiece of carnal intensity and primal physicality, with an explosive climax the likes of which this reviewer has never experienced before.”
He grinned. “That’s more like it.”
She arched an eyebrow.
Before she could berate him for his ego, he kissed her and withdrew from her body.
A pang of disappointment shot through him, her almost inaudible sigh telling him she felt the same.
“I won’t be long,” he murmured.
She nodded.
He hurried up the stairs to his bathroom, dealt with the used condom, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face. He had no idea if Mila was the kind of woman who enjoyed being kissed after her partner went down on her, but he planned to spend the rest of the night kissing her. And the next morning. And the following afternoon. Staring into his reflection’s eyes, he snagged the bottle of mouthwash, swigged a mouthful, rinsed, spat, and then made his way back down to the stairs.
Hurried down the stairs.
He’d been away from her too long al—
The console table was devoid of the sexiest woman on the planet.
“Mila?”
Her name bounced around his quiet home. Reaper yapped somewhere from the floor below, the click-click of his claws growing louder. He appeared in the living room, tail wagging, his favorite disembodied Barbie head dangling from his muzzle.
“Where’s Mila?”
Reaper’s tail lashed back and forth faster and he scurried to the door.
No. Not again. She didn’t—
“You need to get to work.”
Thomas jumped, spinning around, heart smashing in his throat. “You’re still here?”
Mila strode toward him, dressed once again. “I am. But I’m leaving now, because you need to write. Muse’s orders.”
“Muse’s orders?” His heart thumped fast. Her leaving wasn’t part of his plan. “I think you have the whole muse-artist relationship confused.”
“I know exactly what the relationship is.” She stopped before him and adjusted the glasses on her face. He fell into her grey eyes for a heartbeat. “I inspire, you work. Which is what you’re going to do now.”
“What if I want you to stay?”
“Remember when I told you I am a high achiever?” Her gaze held his with an unreadable intensity. “My job, my role, in your life right now is to help you finish your book. You can’t do that if you’re not at your computer. You can’t be at your computer when you’re taking me to dinner. For me to be the best muse I can be, I need to know you’re writing. So text me when you’ve written another twenty-thousand words. No phone calls. Just a simple text.”
She crossed the foyer, her hips swaying in a sinful way he suspected she was clueless about, and gave him another one of those enigmatic looks as she opened the door. “Twenty-thousand words, St. Clair.”
“What if I want to tie you to my bed, blindfold you and worship your body with my hands, mouth, and tongue instead?”
Her breasts heaved with a shaky breath, and she shook her head. The deep red curtain of her hair shimmering over her shoulders like a caress sent him wild with lust. “Twenty-thousand words. No less. Prove to me how amazing you are.”
She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
Reaper barked, looked at Thomas—head cocked—and barked at the door again.
Thomas didn’t move. She’d walk back in. Any second now, she’d walk back in. How could she not? She’d realize how futile it was to fight the magnetic pull between them, and she’d slam open the door, stride into his home, throw herself at him, wrap those exquisite legs of hers around his hips, and beg him to make love to her again.
Any second now.
Any second.
Reaper sniffed at the gap at the bottom of the door, yapped once, and trotted out of the foyer.
Thomas let out a sigh. “Fuck.”
The last thing he wanted to do was write. He wanted to laze away the night talking with Mila. He wanted to turn on Netflix and binge with her. He wanted to watch her sleep, wanted to wake with her in his arms in the morning. He wanted to make her coffee, and make breakfast with her.
He wanted her.
On every freaking level. Not just a sexual one. The blindfolded dinner had made him suspect every sense in his body was already implicitly attuned to her. Making love to her had proved that. Aching to just be with her, talk with her…cemented the fact beyond doubt.
He wanted her in ways he’d never wanted another human being.
His phone—somewhere in the living room—beeped with an incoming message.
Heart wild, a hard-on to beat all hard-ons straining in his pants, he hurried from his vigil at the closed door.
Found his phone where it, no doubt, fell from his pocket earlier, and picked it up.
Read the message.
10k words, St. Clair. Get to writing.
He grinned.
Ten-thousand words?
Done.
Chapter Fourteen
22,627 words written in three days.
Three solid days of writing. Three days where words poured from him every waking moment.
He’d written more than six-thousand words in the first night alone, Mila’s scent still on his skin.
When he’d finished and climbed into bed, exhausted and mentally drained, he’d feared those six-thousand words were crap. Words and sentences and pages of drivel born from sexual frustration.
They weren’t. The next morning, reading them back, he couldn’t help but smile.
Mila’s impact on his life, his creativity, was incredible.
That day he wrote eight-thousand words. He prowled all four floors of his house when he finished. He didn’t eat. He drank too much water during the day and became the clichéd drunk author that night by drinking two glasses of Scotch on an empty stomach while trying to talk himself out of calling her.
The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series) Page 13
