Best of Penny Wylder: Virgin Romance

by Wylder, Penny

  Somehow, though, I already know it won't be like that. He will be in complete control, that much I'm certain of.

  He'll be in control of me, too.

  All too quickly, the limo pulls to a stop. I haven't finished, and my clit throbs in protest, but I ignore it as the driver opens my door. It's probably better if I'm already a little horny going into this anyway. After all, what if I pull another prom night and freak out?

  This isn't high school, I remind myself. And right now, I'm about as far from crouching under the bleachers with another inexperienced kid as I can possibly get.

  I stand at the door to one of the nicest restaurants in the city. I know the name, of course, because anyone who's anyone in service, even down to the dishwashers, has heard of this place. The creme de la creme of elite society dine here every night, and although I heard a rumor that the French fries are actually just McDonald's fries shipped in at 3am every night under cover of darkness, everything else you could imagine ordering here is apparently to die for.

  "He's inside?" I ask the valet as I step from the car.

  The man smiles. "On the roof, miss."

  I tilt my head back to spy the rooftop, a few dozen stories above my head. Before I can get too dizzy, a maitre'd from the restaurant opens the door, and next thing I know I'm being whisked inside, up an elevator. "Top floor," he says, needlessly, since he pushes the button for me. Then he steps out of the lift, and I'm alone with my thoughts.

  Luckily, I don't have much time to start to panic. The elevator slows to a halt, the doors slide open, and . . .

  I forget to keep breathing.

  The elevator opens directly onto a rooftop, which is empty save for one sweetheart table, two chairs side-by-side, settled beneath a heat lamp against the faint chill in the night air. Beyond the rooftop, even just from this angle, I can see half of the San Francisco skyline glittering in the late afternoon sun.

  Closer at hand, however, is what catches my attention.

  Pierce stands beside the table in a jet-black three-piece suit—or maybe it's a tuxedo? I can never remember the difference, but he's wearing a bow tie and cummerbund beneath it, whatever it is. The sharp contrast of the white shirt and black suit make his ice-blue eyes pop even more starkly. He has just enough color in his cheeks to suggest he recently returned from somewhere much warmer than San Fran in the fall. And his hair, so dark on cam that I hardly saw it, is cut to fall just so over his right eyebrow, one of those I just fell out of bed like this looks that you know must be planned, and yet, it's so convincing that I really believe he didn't try too hard to style it that way. For a second he looks otherworldly, too attractive to be real, like a man who stepped out of a TV series into the real world.

  Then my feet remember how to function, and I step out of the elevator, still staring mutely like an idiot.

  "You must be Bonnie," he says, and holy hell, it's a good thing he didn't send me higher heels. It's hard enough to keep my balance at the sound of that deep, sexy voice of his, almost a growl in itself. "You look lovely, my dear."

  "Sir," I reply, all I can think to say. Instantly, I hate the way I sound in comparison, so high-pitched and young. "Um. You look great too, sir," I manage. Ack. Why am I so awkward?

  Oh, maybe because I've never had a billionaire rent out a private rooftop in preparation for defiling me before. I swallow, hard, past the nervous lump in my throat.

  "I trust your morning went well." There's a faint smile on his lips, and a knowing tease in his voice.

  "As well as possible, considering I was being tortured for half of it," I respond with a sarcastic smile of my own.

  His grin only deepens. "Believe me, Bonnie, you don't know the meaning of torture."

  A shiver races down my spine and settles deep in my body, centered somewhere around my already-damp panties. Damn him. "I trust you'll remedy that shortly, sir," I respond with a toss of my hair, stepping around him to slide into the seat he draws out for me.

  "You seem quite comfortable," he remarks as he takes the seat beside me. We're close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, and his arm almost brushes mine, not quite, but close enough that the hairs standing on end on my forearm touch his coat sleeve. "Are you positive you haven't done this before?" His eyes catch mine, cock-sure and confident as hell.

  Fuck, I wish it was easier to breathe around him. "I'm glad I fake it well." I arch one eyebrow, but there's a telltale quiver in my voice, and I curse myself for it. I didn't want to seem weak.

  He seems to enjoy it, though. "There it is," he responds, his voice nearly a purr it's so soft. Then he snaps his fingers, and the sound is so startling on the quiet rooftop that I jump in my chair. "Champagne please," he says without taking his eyes off me, and for a second I think he means for me to serve him, until I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. A waiter appears, also in a suit, and carefully fills two flutes with champagne.

  "Would you like to see the menu, sir?" the waiter asks, and Pierce shakes his head. He still won't take his eyes from mine.

  Which means I still can't catch my breath.

  "We'll have the chef's choice."

  "What's the chef's choice?" I ask, as the waiter steps away from the table.

  Pierce shrugs one shoulder. "No idea. That's part of the fun. Being surprised."

  "Ah," I reply, not quite sure what else to say. I'm the kind of person who reads the whole menu three times over before I decide what I want, and even then I second-guess myself half the time.

  "So." Those eyes scour my body again, pausing to linger on my chest before he catches my gaze again. "Tell me who you are, Bonnie."

  "Er . . ." I procrastinate by taking a small sip of champagne, but it doesn't help. I shake my head a little to clear it. "I'm a student, studying to be a nurse in—"

  "I didn't say tell me what you do," he interrupts. "I said tell me who you are."

  "Well, I'm an Aquarius." I grin as he rolls his eyes. "And I also think zodiac signs are kind of bullshit, before you say anything else." He laughs at that. "Hmm, and . . ." Who am I? Why is this so hard to articulate? I force myself to look away from those piercing eyes of his, and study my empty plate instead. "I'm the kind of person who takes an eon to decide on my entree at restaurants, and then no matter what I choose, I have food regrets."

  "Noted." He smirks.

  "And, I . . . I'm kind of an introvert. But I like being around people too. Ambivert maybe? Like, I enjoy parties and meeting new people and making new friends, but I need recharge time in between to be alone and get my head on straight again."

  "Sounds pretty normal to me."

  I shrug.

  "That's it?" he asks when I fall silent again.

  "Well, it's a hard question," I protest.

  "Those are the only kinds of questions worth asking, if you ask me."

  I roll my eyes. "Okay, fine, Pierce, who are you, then?"

  "An egotistical and eccentric man with a penchant for corrupting nice young ladies such as yourself, probably because I was corrupted at an early age myself and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I'm an acquired taste, but I try to make up for that by ensuring that anyone who spends too much time with me is rewarded, shall we say . . ." His fingers brush my inner forearm, ever so lightly, the barest touch on my naked skin, but it makes my whole body stiffen. I almost gasp in shock at the rush of electricity that flows through my body. "Pleasurably."

  My mouth has gone too dry to swallow. Probably because all the blood in my body is headed south right now. Focus, Bonnie. I refuse to let him overwhelm me this easily. "So, what you're saying is you're kind of an asshole."

  He laughs again, louder this time. I like his laugh, to my surprise. He seems to open up then, like the rest of this front he puts on is an act, but when he laughs, that's when I catch a glimpse of the real person underneath all the show . . .

  "Precisely," he agrees when he's finished laughing. "What about you, my dear?"

  "Am I an asshole?" I r
aise an eyebrow, torn between amusement and offense. "I really hope not. I'm sure my friends would have mentioned by now if I was, though."

  "Do you have a lot of friends?" His hand is still on my arm, resting there now, and the pressure of his fingers is driving me wild.

  I've never felt like this before. So electrified by a single touch. It makes me even more resolved—this is a man who's used to getting whatever he wants from everyone he knows. He may be buying my virginity, but he's not buying every inch of me. I steel myself against the desperate fluttering sensations in my stomach. "Only a few, but the ones I do have, I've had forever. I couldn't ask for a better crew."

  "And your family?"

  That helps shut down the butterflies. "It's just me and my gram."

  "I see." There's something in his eyes that makes me think he might know a little something about that.

  I shake my head, not wanting him to get the wrong idea or feel bad about me. "It's fine. Like I said, I have my friends. They're my family, really."

  "So, you're a well-adjusted young woman, with good friends, and you're in school apparently . . ." That hand dances up my arm, touching the crease where my elbow bends, his fingers caressing the sensitive skin there. "What made you decide to sell yourself?"

  I jerk my arm free, startled. "I'm not—" I start to protest, then cut myself off. Because, of course, I am. Technically. "I mean . . . It's not . . ."

  "I'm not judging you, Bonnie." He stares at me, every inch sincere. "How could I possibly, if I'm willing to buy in? I'm merely curious what made you decide to take a step like this, especially if it will be your first time with a man."

  "I've had boyfriends," I huff, still indignant, though his response helped a little. "I just . . . Didn't want to do anything beyond kissing with them."

  "Why not?"

  I shrug one shoulder, imitating him earlier. "I just . . . It never felt right. I’ve been imagining my first time for so long. I want it to be memorable. Not just some throwaway night, with someone who . . ." I pause before I finish. Because that was the real problem, wasn’t it? With someone who won’t take charge. My boyfriends were vanilla-baked, sweet and homegrown. They wouldn’t take what they wanted from me. They wouldn’t bend me over and mercilessly fuck me until it was hard to walk straight.

  Pierce’s eyes search mine for a moment. "I can promise you, Bonnie, you won't forget this." His hand rests on my arm again, light but somehow still possessive. “I will give you the night you want.”

  Oh, I am damn sure he will. And that thought is almost as terrifying as it is thrilling. I squirm in my seat. This is getting too deep and conversational. I came here to get rid of my V-card, not talk or make connections. Shit. I frown. "It's okay. I mean, I don't . . ." I huff out a sigh. "Can we change the subject?"

  "Certainly." He laughs softly, and I can't help but resent him. Even more so when his eyes dart down to my crotch. "How does your pussy feel, now that it's smooth as silk?"

  As if in response, it clenches, a pulse of desire rocketing through me. I shift in my seat, uncomfortably aware that he turns me on way too fucking easily. "I was thinking of another subject." I press my palms flat to the table, hoping that will disguise the way they've started to shake a little. "When are you going to pay me?"

  "Straight to business, hmm?" He smirks. "I like that in a woman. If you're so eager, we can get right down to it now."

  My eyes dart around the empty rooftop. All I can think about is the waiter who was just here a moment ago, and the many buildings around us, with hundreds of windows facing our way. How many dozens of people would see if we went at it right here?

  "But . . ." My gaze darts toward the door again, and he seems to read my mind.

  "It will be fine."

  "You can't know that," I say. "What if he comes back, or someone looks out their window? We could get caught."

  His smile widens, sharklike, the way it did on camera yesterday. "That just makes it all the more exciting, no?"

  "You don't worry about getting into trouble?" I raise an eyebrow.

  "I think I could avoid any sort of real trouble, my dear," he responds pointedly.

  "I . . ." Damn. He has me there. I'm sure he could buy his way out of any sort of fines for public indecency he might incur. But could I?

  Then again, with the money he's offering me, yes . . .

  But what if someone took photos or something? He's rich enough that someone might find it worth their while to sell photos of his hookups somewhere, maybe one of those gossip sites. I have a horrible flash of my grandmother stumbling across a picture of me in flagrante delicto in one of the gossip rags she devours, and my whole face heats up bright red.

  "Not out in the open," I mumble.

  "My mistake. I thought you wanted to get this over with." His eyes positively sparkle with mirth. He's enjoying himself, the bastard.

  "Don't you?" I counter. "You've bought your goods. Don't you want to enjoy them as soon as possible? Get this over with and move on to the next conquest?"

  His expression darkens, goes serious. "When I purchase an expensive meal, I do not inhale my food. I take it slowly. Savor every bite." His hand touches my shoulder now, and lightly pushes my sleeve off my shoulder, so the dress sags down my chest a few inches, revealing my collarbone. His fingers trace that, slowly as promised, like he's memorizing every inch. "I want you, Bonnie. But I want to enjoy owning you. I want to take you one piece at a time, and make you cry out in pleasure every step of the way."

  My heart beats so fast I'm surprised he doesn't hear it, or at least feel it in his fingers, which now trail across my chest toward my exposed cleavage. It takes conscious effort to breathe, to keep myself from begging him to take me right now. I'm not even sure if it's because I want to get this over with, anymore, or if it's just because his touch, his voice, those self-assured words of his, are making me hot as hell.

  He leans in closer, and my lips tremble, anticipating the feel of his rough mouth against mine, the scratch of his stubble on my soft cheek. But he tilts his head, brings his lips beside my ear instead, and whispers, his breath hot on my neck as he does. "If you really are so eager, though, I'll oblige. If you want to get this over with, I'll take you into the bathroom right now. Bend you over the sinks and fuck you, hard and fast. Someone might hear us, of course, especially as I intend to make you come on my cock at least, oh . . ." His hand reaches my cleavage, and he drops a finger beneath the neckline of my dress to trace circles around my nipple. "At least five or six times, before I'm finished with you. You’ll be screaming by the time I’m finished."

  I'm breathing hard now, not even bothering to hide it. I couldn't if I tried. My whole body arches forward, my chest pressing shamelessly up against his hand.

  "But if you are set on moving forward now, then very well. I'll make you beg in the public restroom here, and if we're overheard, oh well . . . If you want my cock that badly, it simply can't be helped."

  My face must be bright red by now. I turn to face him, reaching for him almost without thinking about what I'm doing. But he pulls away. Turns in his seat to face the rooftop, his pose as casual as if we'd just been chatting about the weather.

  Only a glance at his crotch reveals that he's as affected as I am. He's hard as a rock, straining against the zipper of his pants.

  "Maybe . . . Maybe not," I stammer, finally, now that I can think straight, without his hot breath in my ear. "Maybe we should wait until later." Then my stubborn side kicks in. I won't give him the pleasure of totally throwing me off guard. "Or not, I mean. Up to you." I lift my chin, calling his bluff. He said he wants to enjoy me. Savor me. He won't ask me to fuck him right here, or in some restaurant bathroom. No way.

  But to my surprise, he tsks softly, still smiling. "Ah, Bonnie. Now you've gotten me all worked up." When his eyes flash back to mine, I see desire. They've gone darker, more dangerous. Hungry. "I told you, all of your firsts belong to me." He glances pointedly at the table.

  Under it.
"Let's start with the easy one."

  Oh, hell. My cheeks might have been red hot before, but now it feels like my face could start a forest fire. "Are you . . ." He's laughing softly, enjoying every second of my shock and discomfort. Oh hell, no. Two can play this game. I lick my lips, slowly, and lock eyes with him. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

  His hand slides down my arm to cup my fingers in his. He spreads my fingers with his own, and draws my hand over until I'm cupping his cock. I can feel the hard strain of him through the fabric of his dress pants, pulled taught now with his need. Fucking hell. My fingers stretch around him, and keep going, and going. His dick is long, yes, but also thick. I swallow a little nervously. Will that even fit in my mouth?

  He doesn't give me more time to think about it. His other hand finds my shoulders, gently presses me down, off my chair, toward the floor. "I want you to put my cock in that pretty mouth of yours and suck. I want you to swallow every drop of my cum."

  My pussy clenches again, reflexive. I'm getting wet just listening to him. Fuck.

  Almost without thinking, I slide off my chair and drop to my knees. The rooftop floor is wooden, a little hard beneath me, but not unbearable. It's got some flex and give, and as I duck under the table, thanking god for the tablecloth that hangs almost to the ground beneath it, I find the position isn't as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. The fabric of my long dress bunches under my knees, provides a cushion as I kneel between Pierce's legs. He spreads them, and guides my hand to the zipper of his crotch, but he doesn't need to. My fingers are already working at his top button, undoing his fly. My mouth waters in anticipation. He wraps his other hand around the back of my head and digs his fingers into my hair, roughly, and I gasp, surprised by how much I enjoy it.

  I draw his cock out of his fly, and take a second just to stare.

  He's as thick as he felt, wide enough around that my fingers don't fit all the way around his girth. I run my hands up and down the velvety smooth skin that covers his steel-hard shaft, and smile to hear his faint, appreciative groan above the table. I lean in and lick him, slowly, starting at his base and trailing my tongue along his underside, all the way to the tip. A drop of precum hangs there already, and I lap at him, savoring the taste. He tastes exactly how he smells, masculine and heady and just a little salty. That surprises me, too. I like the way he tastes.