by Shayne Ford
The car deposits me in front of the entrance. I flick my gaze up, taking in the imposing building as I slip out of the car.
Allan waits for me in the lobby. Two men keep him company, executives like him.
To my surprise, he seems to be in a good mood. He looks dashing in his sharp suit as if he spent the entire day preparing for the party. My gaze rolls over his freshly shaven face. He smells good too.
I don’t have much time to muse over the details when he takes my hand and introduces me to his colleagues. They all work in the same branch with Allan. Their wives join us, and soon, we start a conversation.
Half an hour later, we enter the venue. A large room with round tables, a couple of bars, a spacious terrace and a dance ring, sprawl on the second floor.
Walls of glass outline the space, the downtown lights pulsing all around us. The view is par to none.
Servers walk around with plates carrying hors-d'oeuvre and flutes filled with rose champagne. The atmosphere is relaxed, making me forget for a moment that this is a corporate event.
Forty-five minutes later, people start to dance. Allan and I spend a few moments on the dance floor as well before he excuses himself and retreats in a different corner where he converses with his boss.
I linger by the bar, my gaze sweeping the crowd.
Once in a while, I glance in Allan’s direction. His face glows, his eyes sparkling as he smiles. Something about him strikes me as different. I’ve never seen him more content. I’m happy for him, but some little voice inside my head wonders why.
Sipping Martini Rosso from a delicate glass, I keep observing him.
His phone must be ringing––I muse behind the rim of my glass, as he starts patting his jacket, looking for his phone.
He retrieves his cell from his pocket and takes the call, a faint grin coloring his gaze.
Turning his back to his boss, he pivots away from the group as he starts talking on his phone.
He is too far from me to read his lips, but I can tell that from time to time, he utters words to the other person.
Something about his stance strikes me as odd. I don’t know what. Perhaps, his chest thrusted out, or his hand tucked in his pocket? The way he tips his chin down, curves his lips into a slow smile and mutters words in secret?
Something tells me that is personal call. That much I can tell.
A few more minutes tick by before he removes himself from the main room, and steps outside. I can still see his profile as he props his hand on the balustrade, and keeps talking on the phone, at the same time staring at the river of lights glimmering below.
I move my gaze away from him and back to my drink when someone’s presence jolts me back to the immediate reality. I swivel in my bar stool and glance around.
I see no one looking remotely familiar, so I shift my eyes back to my drink.
The sensation becomes even more intense when I feel the heat of someone’s body right behind my back.
Lips mutter in my hair.
“How is your night so far, Tess?”
His voice falls through me, turning me to mush.
I swing my gaze to my side as if bitten by a snake.
Clad in a dark suit that shimmers slightly in the dim light, and fashioning a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie the color of the molted amber, Sebastien Rockford leans against the bar, his hands in his pockets, his back turned to the bartender.
My gaze slides over his smooth, clean-shaven face and his beautifully arched lips, now seasoned with a secret smile. His hair catches the light too, dark with a subtle sheen.
The first breath of air I take comes with the scent of his perfume.
I part my lips in surprise.
“What are you doing here?” I quietly ask, positioning myself in such a way so that a casual bystander couldn’t pick up on our little conversation.
He faces the venue. My face is turned to the bar. My fingers slide off the glass, trembling. He tips his head toward me and briefly dips his gaze to my mouth.
“I’m here with business. You?”
His words come at me fast. He makes no effort to conceal his irritation. His dark emotion hits me like a fist right in the pit of my stomach.
Even before I speak, I know that what I’m about to say will make him angry.
“I’m here with my husband,” I say, my eyes rooting to the bar mirror stretching in front of me.
I keep my eyes on the back of his hair, waiting for his reaction.
He doesn’t move or look at me. He only speaks.
“I told you that I don’t want him anywhere near you,” he says curtly, the tone of his voice leaving no room for discussion.
And yet, words come running to my lips, right behind them spinning a twister of emotions.
How dares he to question me and impose his will on me?
Frustration grows in me at a rapid pace. There are so many things I want to say to him right now, so many questions to bombard him with, so many daggers to throw at him, my mind coming up with grievances every new second.
But how can I let all that long-bottled up chaos vent out here with my husband out there on the terrace and his wife possible in attendance?
“Where’s your wife?” I shoot back at him, pissed.
He swings his gaze at me, satisfaction reading in his eyes.
Taking his time, he slowly parts his lips, giving me a sizzling, lopsided smile. His eyes go down on me, sweeping my shoulders and my chest, my crossed legs.
He drags his gaze up so slowly, goosebumps start dotting my skin.
He finally locks his eyes with mine. A sense of entitlement flashes through his gaze as he opens up to me and lets me read his eyes.
He thinks he can have me any time he wants. And then he can drop me any time he feels like it. He thinks he can claim me every time he fancies, and then move away from me as he sees fit.
I wish I could slap him.
Annoyed, I slide off the chair.
“Where are you going?” he tosses at me as he smoothly pivots and blocks my retreat, catching me between his hard body and the counter.
His hands slip to either side of me, his chest and shoulders blocking my view, his frame concealing me and separating me completely from the people in the room.
I feel trapped.
Scratch that.
I’ve never felt more trapped.
Panic comes in waves to me, making me hot against his body, dotting my skin with beads of sweat.
I have no other choice but slide my palms onto his chest.
“Let me go,” I quietly say.
He smiles at someone behind me. Most likely the bartender.
“Scotch on rocks,” he says, keeping the appearances, pretending that he didn’t just make me his captive.
“Let me go,” I mutter again, sinking my nails into his chest.
They slide onto the expensive fabric, and dig deeper into him craving to give him pain.
Unfazed, he lowers his lips to me.
He doesn’t speak immediately but rather fills his lungs with my scent.
“You smell good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my earlobe.
I almost collapse at his feet.
I push his chest again, and he comes back at me, pressing into me. Full body. Wool against silk. Hard hips and torso against my thighs and chest.
The moment our bodies start talking to each other, my willpower slithers out of me.
I no longer push against his chest but rather brush his pecs through his shirt.
“Sebastien,” I call him, my voice so soft and tender it takes me by surprise.
He leans closer again, his lips buried in my hair, touching my earlobe gently.
“Yes, Tess.”
My name on his lips sounds almost sinful.
His breath rolls over my skin, covering me in tingles from my shoulders to my arms.
“Tell me,” he speaks again only to turn me on even more.
“We can’t do this right now,” I say unexp
ectedly calm considering the turmoil spiraling inside me.
“We can do whatever we want,” he says with that confident, irresistible voice again.
I feel like slapping him again.
But I don’t do it.
Because I can’t do it.
And he knows it.
As if his words aren’t enough to bend my will, he tilts his hips and presses himself into me.
The room begins to spin.
I want him gone. I want him in me. I want to run away from him. And then I want to run to him. I want to speak, but I can only gasp.
I want to tear away from him so that I don’t feel him, and yet, I meet his hardness with my softness.
“I can’t...” I say, suffocating. “Please...”
The panic is real as is my dizziness and lack of air. The voices seem to multiply and the lights to throb erratically as my mind gets tangled in them.
“He’s here,” I say desperately. “Please,” I beg him.
His arms close around me, in an insanely arousing embrace, and then his hand starts descending on my back, his fingers splaying possessively over my skin, his touch such a turn on.
I can’t believe that we are in a room with over a hundred people, and if it wasn’t for the music, the lights, and the alcohol running through their blood, I’m sure someone would’ve noticed us.
He’s masterful at covering me with his body, his hands not visible to anyone. A moment later, he fills his hand with the swell of my backside. He does a little motion, rubbing the silk against my skin, and my body vibrates, crying for more of his touch.
“Sebastien,” I gasp again, his lips so close to mine I’m breathing in him.
My flesh starts burning.
And then I mutter the unthinkable.
“Not here.”
The moment I utter the words, he smoothly straightens his back and gives me room to breathe, his fingers fleetingly touching my breasts.
A ripple rushes through me.
Calm and collected, he looks down at me, a faint grin clinging to his lips.
His hands go back into his pockets as he motions with his chin to something behind my back.
“Walk out of here in five minutes,” he says with a smooth voice. “Turn right, go past the security booth and take the exterior elevator up to the last level.”
“What if he stops me?”
He smiles.
“He won’t.”
He moves his gaze away from me and picks his glass of scotch from the counter.
Unfazed, he takes a swig.
“How do you know?” I ask, sending panicked glances to the terrace.
He runs the tip of his tongue over his lip as he sets the glass back on the counter. My eyes follow him as he leans to me again.
“It’s my building,” he says quietly, and slightly amused. “Don’t be late,” he murmurs before his lips trail my jawline, raising invisible hairs on my arms.
He smoothly pulls away while I teether on the verge of chaos.
12
TESS
His silhouette gets swallowed by the sea of suits and dresses before I flick my head toward the patio again.
Allan is still there. Still talking. His back turned to the room.
For the next five minutes or so, I wait for him to finish his conversation and come back in. As the time passes by, my blood cools off, my common sense poking at me.
Sebastien Rockford reign on me has to come to an end right now, I decide, grinding my teeth in frustration.
Torn, I check the time.
The minutes fly by.
Allan doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to return, and my mind refuses to stay quiet. Perhaps I should meet with Sebastien and have a clarifying conversation.
More minutes pass by.
At last, Allan finishes his conversation, slides his phone into his jacket and enters the room. I pin my gaze on him, hoping to catch his eye.
Deep in his thoughts, he goes back to his boss and his co-workers and resumes his dialogue with them. I wonder if he knows that I’m still here.
He turns his back to me, and soon, his shoulders shake with laughter.
I grab my purse and sneak outside.
The corridor is mostly empty. I take a turn and round a corner, leaving the noise of the party behind. A large hallway sprawls in front of me, spacious offices lining the sides. Soft lights and silence greet me at the end of the hall.
My heels tap the floor, their cadence nervous like the beats of my heart. I spot the elevator in question not far from the security booth.
The man lifts his gaze from a screen and gives me a quick glance before he shifts his focus away from me as if he’s never seen me.
That’s it?
Without a word, I dash to the glass elevator. I step in and press the button for the last floor.
The capsule of glass starts ascending, the view of the city sliding down as I glide up.
From where I stand, I can see the skyline, the streets and the week-old snow that’s still smearing the roads.
The higher I go, the more nervous I become. The car glides smoothly and securely, and yet the thought that I’m suspended feet away from the ground makes my hair bristle.
The air is warm inside, a breath of cold air touching my shoulders, drifting from the glass wall.
A ding signals the arrival at the... Rooftop?
The doors slide open, at the same time a man entering the car. He presses a button, and the doors slide shut. And then another one and the car gets stuck.
“What are you doing?”
He turns around and looks at me, his eyes burning.
He takes a step toward me, and I take one back.
My shoulders hit the glass, my hands instinctively looking for support. I can’t help but glance down to the maze of streets, and the dots of light, the cars looking like strings of crawling bugs.
We are so high in the air I see only rooftops as I look around. The cold wind hugs the elevator, and it may be only an illusion, but I sense the cube trembling.
I hope it’s only me.
My skin rebels under the touch of glass, rippling from shivers.
It’s hard to put a thought together, let alone articulate words.
“This is crazy...” I mutter as I catch sight of his grin and his hands coming to my shoulders.
Silent, he tips his head, his palms slowly sliding down my shoulders, removing the straps of my dress.
My back turns to ice from the glass while my front turns into a volcano.
“I’m here to tell you––”
My words get buried in the softness of his lips.
The entire world seems to be going down a big black drain as I get swept away by him.
His palms rest on my bare shoulders, making a home at the base of my neck. I curl my fingers around his wrists, his cuffs rubbing against my skin.
He keeps a little space between us as his lips melt into mine.
“I shouldn’t...” I try again when he lets me breathe freely for a moment.
“Stop talking, Tess,” he says with a commanding voice, and that’s enough for me to put that thought to rest.
His lips come to mine as I slowly dive into a world of pleasure. Made of his lips and his touch, and also his hands as he starts claiming my body again.
He kisses me slowly as if he walks me through a new world, one made of hidden treasures. As if he wants to get to know me and make me a part of him. As if he slowly ties my body, shackling me to him.
Heat comes from his lips as he presses them into mine. He claims my mouth fully and boldly, without a hitch or hesitation, parting my lips, sliding his tongue against mine, and stealing my breath. It feels as if he enters my body with all his power, my depths already crying to be filled.
“Sebastien,” I gasp as his lips peel away from mine and slowly go down my neck, his hands dragging my dress down.
I hear the soft whisper of the torn silk as he pulls it down completely. My nipples turn to stee
l.
I can’t... I can’t even comprehend.
My back is pressed against the glass, the faintest light rolling over us, the starry night looking down at us. I look away in the distance, and then I look up, and all I see is the backdrop of the night, and the trails of stars. The immensity of the sky.
My body shakes from head to toe.
And yet, I cannot stop him.
He kneels in front of me, his hand parting my thighs, his lips tracing the patch of skin above my stockings, raising a storm of tingles. He swirls his tongue, exposing my skin to a sweltering summer.
I no longer fear the heights or sense the cold. And I no longer hear my mind talking. It all becomes a celebration of the senses. Of touch and scent. Of sight and hearing.
I tip my gaze down to the line of his shoulders now stretching his suit jacket, and I slide my hand through his hair marveling at the silkiness flowing through my fingers. His hair rebels against my palm, unwilling to get caught, pretty much like him.
His thumbs trail up, drawing lines from the bands of lace marking the end of my stockings to the patch of fabric covering my slit and folds.
I feel his hot breath first, on the delicate fabric and then his lips kissing my sex through the sheer lace.
Both hands go to his hair as my head tips back, and I lower my lids over my eyes, my back craving the coldness of the glass as fire pours between my legs. The wind growls around us, the stars blinking above us.
His thumb traces the spot he just kissed, making an upward motion, the reverberation rolling up my spine all the way to my neck.
My flesh gets crushed beneath his touch, the pleasure making my thighs shake.
He does it again, and then he presses his mouth against me, the hot air he breathes on me sending a shudder through my body.
I softly call his name and firmly grip his hair.
He lifts my thigh and drapes my leg over his shoulder. My swollen flesh becomes addicted to his mouth and yet he leaves my panties on. My wetness soaks the fabric, trickling on his lips.
I start to arch, my hips thrusting forward, my body craving even more of his mouth. He keeps my panties on, blowing more hot air on me, slinking his fingers beneath the edge of the fabric.
