by Leigh, Mara
“Didn’t your boss arrange it?”
He rubbed his bulge against her, and she pushed right back, unbelievably excited by the sensation of his hardness teasing her flesh.
“I’m my own boss.” He lifted her hair and slid his lips and tongue along her neck. Through the layers of fabric, his cock and her ass stroked against each other, while his hands expertly worked on her breasts, circling, squeezing, then pinching her nipples through her dress.
“Should we skip dinner?” he asked huskily.
“I can’t.” She tipped her hips forward, breaking contact with his hardness. With a sigh, he filled the vase with water and placed the flowers inside.
“Let’s go if we must.” He smiled. “But know that during dinner, all I’ll be thinking about is how badly I want to fuck you again.”
Smiling, she led him to the door. He took her hand as they stepped into the elevator, and the gesture was so sweet and unexpected. So tender. So in contrast from the way he’d fucked her last night. She stared ahead at the closing elevator doors, trying to regain her cool facade for the dinner. Sensing him watching her, she turned her head to confirm. He was studying her intently.
“What were you like as a girl?” he asked.
“Why?” She leaned away from him, shocked by his out-of-place question.
“I’ll bet you were the smartest kid in your class.” He traced his fingers down her bare arm. “You always sat in the front row, didn’t you?”
She laughed. “Good guess.”
“I was the guy in the back row, falling asleep.”
“That was you?” she said. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”
“Yup, that was me. I was what you’d call a late bloomer. I barely finished high school, then spent a few years traveling around the world before I figured out what I wanted to do.”
“Fulfilling women’s fantasies?”
“That’s flattering.” He continued to stroke her arm, moving to the inside and grazing her breast with each pass.
“Did you always know what you wanted to do?” he asked. “You must have. You had so much success so young.”
“I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up,” she answered.
“I love that,” he said. “I like to keep everyone guessing, too. Even myself.” His grin was infectious. He was a fabulous actor. Something about his tone made her believe he wasn’t just playing a part, that he was telling the truth.
The elevator doors opened and he offered her his arm, the way men used to decades ago. Charmed, she took it and they walked through the hotel halls, sharing private jokes about some of the tackier patrons, and opinions about the faux opulence and how the artwork and architecture in the Vegas hotels didn’t compare to the grandeur of the European buildings they were designed to emulate.
Earlier, had he told her the truth? Had this Vegas sex worker really spent years traveling the world before taking a job fulfilling women’s fantasies? Based on his knowledge of art and the details he knew about various cities, either he’d traveled or had spent days researching for tonight to impress her. Either way, it didn’t matter. She was impressed.
She dropped his arm as they walked into the private dining room, and then spent the next fifteen minutes making small talk with various titans of industry and their wives and girlfriends. Every few minutes she glanced around, to find that Connor was holding his own: making small talk with the best of them, joking and clapping men on the back. He was impressive. Eleanor had selected well.
Connor caught her eye, smiled, and rolled his eyes slightly. Warmth spread through her. It was like he knew how she felt. How, in spite of the front she put on, she’d rather be anywhere else than in this private dining room pretending to be charming and interested in the conversation.
It was like he knew how, deep inside the persona of Victoria Adams—inventor, entrepreneur, philanthropist—she was still Vicky, the shy keener who spent too much time in the library and tinkering with electronics in her parents’ basement, dreaming of the cute boys who’d never paid her any attention. And saw through the woman who, once she got so rich, couldn’t trust the intentions of men who approached her, who’d been stung enough times to realize that the only way to be taken seriously in her male-dominated industry was to stay aloof, untouchable, unapproachable in any kind of intimate way. It was crazy to believe that this man knew her, but even thinking about it enhanced her fantasy.
When it was time to be seated, Connor pulled out her chair and sat next to her, ignoring the seating arrangement.
“I think that’s my place,” Harry Glendon said, his forehead creasing.
“Take mine.” Connor gestured toward his assigned seat at the other end of the table, then possessively slid his arm across the back of her chair.
Vicky loved how bold he was playing this, how aggressive. This was a man who knew what he wanted and took it. She was glad to have him seated so near and found it hard to sit straight, as if a magnetic force was pulling her, urging her to lean toward his chest.
As the first two courses were served, his leg pressed against hers. Every time he shifted, electric currents flowed through her, fueling the fires of anticipation for what might come after dinner. It was like every bite of the exquisitely prepared food was an aphrodisiac.
When dessert was served, he leaned over and whispered, “You are, by far, the sexiest woman in this room.”
She brushed her hand against his thigh in response. Most of the other women were trophy wives of the highest grade—ex-supermodels, at least one famous actress—and yet she believed him. She chose to believe that he meant it. She actually felt like the sexiest woman in the room.
He took her hand, tucked it under his napkin and pressed it against his hardened cock. Her cheeks heated, but she glanced around and no one else seemed to notice. Their laps were well hidden under the draped tablecloth, so she stroked lightly, teasing him with her fingers, remembering how he’d felt inside her and desperately wanting to have that again.
His hand slid up from her knee over her inner thigh, and she spread her legs, thankful for the loose skirt on the dress she’d chosen and her naughty decision to skip panties. His thick fingers grazed her sex, and her back straightened; the air caught in her chest.
Someone across the table asked her a question, and she had to ask him to repeat it. When he did, she answered coherently, even though Connor’s fingers had started to fuck her.
While his fingers pressed in and out, she even managed to ask a few questions of her own, recalling details about each person from Evan’s thorough briefing notes. She sipped her dessert wine and continued to chitchat as she toyed with Connor’s cock, as his fingers fucked her. She’d never felt sexier, more powerful, more in control.
She wasn’t an Ice Queen, she was a goddamned fucking Sex Queen and not one of the other people in the room knew it. Except Connor.
As soon as coffee was served, Connor turned to her, plunging his fingers in deeper. “I’m leaving now. Are you ready to come?” On the word come, his thumb brushed her clit.
“Yes,” she gasped. “I’m ready.”
Taking the cue, everyone at the table rose. As the group said their goodbyes, she caught Connor brushing his fingers under his nose. It was subtle, not lewd, yet as he flicked his tongue over his fingers, she felt like they were inside her again.
He leaned forward to air-kiss one of the other women, and all the while his gaze bored into hers, as if they were the only ones in the room, as if they were already fucking.
Chapter Six
* * *
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he guided her from the private dining room, his hand burning on the small of her back.
“Your room,” he said.
She stopped and turned to him. “Really?” She’d figured Eleanor would arrange something better.
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m at the overflow hotel. And I don’t know about you, but I need to get somewhere private. Fast.�
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She nodded, and they made their way quickly to the elevators. A group of drunken twenty-somethings and an older couple got on too. She pressed her card against the panel that allowed the elevator access to her private penthouse floor.
Connor leaned against the back of the elevator and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly against his hard body. His manly scent engulfed her and his hands pressed possessively, erotically, against her belly, as she rubbed her ass against his raging erection.
“Get a room,” one of the drunken kids snickered, and over her shoulder, Connor kissed her—hard, passionately, driving his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the fucking she knew they both wanted.
“Geez,” she heard someone say, but she ignored them, wrapping her arm up and around Connor’s head as he leaned over her, completely possessing her mouth, her whole body, with his kiss, his height, his hands.
This very private display of affection was at odds with the parameters she’d given Eleanor, but she was too turned on to care.
Clearly Connor, if that was his real name, was a bit of a renegade. She liked that. It made him seem more real—it made the whole fantasy less fake. And there was nothing fake about the throbbing hot dick pressing into her hip, or the groan that rumbled from deep in his throat when she sucked on his tongue.
Finally, they were alone in the elevator on their way to the top floor. His hand plunged under the neckline of her dress, aggressively grasping her breast and pinching her hardened nipple. She was going to come. She’d never had an orgasm without clitoral stimulation, but he pressed her dress down, pulling her breast almost painfully over the top of the fabric. His lips latched onto her breast, sucking so hard she felt the visceral rush of her blood, and her orgasm exploded, making her cry out. He pressed a hand against her sex, nearly lifting her as the doors to the elevator opened.
“Card. Now.” He reached for her room key and he slammed the door open. He swept her into his arms and threw the card aside as he barged into the suite and carried her into the living room.
“Strip. Now.” He’d torn off his tie, his jacket, his shirt, before she’d even reached for the zipper of her dress. Kissing her, hard, he reached behind her to draw down the zipper.
She let her dress slip to the ground, standing naked before him as she hungrily watched him tear off his belt, finish undressing and sheath his erection with a condom. Neon lights from surrounding hotels shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting him in multi-colored lights. His body was perfect. Not as heavily muscled as her man from the afternoon, but trim and fit and tall, and his cock was so hard and so long it bounced off his belly as he covered the small space between them.
She reached down to grasp it, and his groan matched her own as he throbbed in her hand. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the window, pressing her back against the glass. They were up high, but the next tower wasn’t that far away. They might be seen. Someone might know it was her.
But before she had a chance to question their location, he hiked her legs up and slammed his cock inside her so deep she felt like his tip might hit the window behind her. Working his powerful legs in tandem with his hips, he impaled her, stabbing and thrusting, hitting every sensitive spot. Her ankles hooked tightly behind him, she held on for dear life. She couldn’t begin to meet his thrusts, couldn’t begin to have any control over the sex as he repeatedly rammed her. His balls smacked her ass, her back slammed against the window and every hard stroke hit a place that made her cry out from pleasure and near pain.
Then, as quickly as he’d taken her, he pulled out and let her legs drop to the carpet. Turning her, he bent her forward, her hands braced on the glass. He grabbed her hips and penetrated again, able to drive even deeper from this angle, and his hands slid up to her breasts, pressing against them, pulling her back with each thrust.
“Oh, god, Vicky. Fuck. You are the sexiest thing I have ever seen. And your cunt.” His words, deep and rough, heightened her desire. And that he was calling her Vicky, not Victoria, added to the intimacy of the moment, added to the fantasy. No one but her two best friends called her Vicky.
Finally finding his rhythm and matching it, she pressed back with each thrust, feeling completely wanton, completely out of control, completely out of her mind. Another orgasm overtook her and she contracted around him.
Clutching her hips, he thrust through her aftershocks, continuing even after she started to shudder, unable to control her body’s thrashing and shaking as her over-stimulated sex absorbed everything he gave.
Right now, even if every important work acquaintance in the country were watching, she wouldn’t care. She, the woman who always claimed what she wanted, was being claimed; the woman always in control had lost control. She was totally possessed by the cock and hands and lips of the most assertive and attractive man she’d ever fucked.
His pace quickened, and then he lifted her high on her toes. “Fuck, Vicky. Fuck. Vicky. You are so fucking hot.” He called her name over and over as he came, thrusting a few more times. He set her back down and slumped over her, holding her tight against him, his cock still inside.
Finally he straightened, slipping from inside her and pulling her up with him, panting, his arms still around her from behind as they faced out the window.
“Nice view,” he whispered in her ear.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning a thousand things at once.
***
“Shower?” he asked as they sat naked on the couch, her head against his chest, her hand resting near his semi-hard dick.
“Excuse me?”
“I need a shower before bed. Unless you’re up for round two?” He pulled back to look into her eyes.
Round two sounded great, even though she was sore. A bath sounded good, too, but reality had crept back in and she couldn’t let herself get attached to this man. It was fine for him to be play-acting, fulfilling his role, but she couldn’t get swept up into playing the part of his lover. They weren’t lovers. They never would be. This was his job. She was his client.
He’d done a fucking awesome job—literally—but she needed to sleep. She extricated herself from his arms and stood, stepping back when he reached for her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She turned on her best icy smile as she reached for her dress and held it up to cover her exposed body. “Excellent work. I’ll make sure Eleanor knows. And don’t worry, you’ll get a handsome tip.”
“Who’s Eleanor?”
“Come on. Enough already. We’re done for now.”
He stood, and she took another step back from his body, slick with sweat. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Red card,” she said, invoking her safe word. Even though it seemed out of place, it would make her point.
“Red card?” He shook his head. “Vicky. You’ve got to fill me in here.”
She staggered back a few steps. He meant it. He had no idea what she was talking about. Connor really was a tech entrepreneur. He didn’t work for Fantasies Unleashed. He was not part of her fantasy for hire.
For him, the sex had been real, and now she had to deal with the consequences. Did he want financing? Some kind of deal for his company? A foundation grant for his charity?
“What do you want from me?” she asked. “Just lay it out. Stop playing games.”
“Want from you?” He frowned. “I wanted to fuck you. I wanted to get to know you better. I wanted to see you again. But at this moment, I’m not so sure I want anything from you.”
She pulled on her dress and reached back to pull up the zipper.
“Let me help.” He reached for her, but she swatted his hand away. “I can manage.”
“Fine.” He lifted his hands and stepped back. “But what the fuck? Clearly something happened. I wish I knew what.”
She brushed her hands down the front of her dress and lifted her chin, trying to pull it together and don her comfortable persona, to
hide the bits of the woman she’d accidentally exposed. Given her mistake, he held something over her now, or at least he thought he did. He’d try to use what she’d revealed to him, given him, to get whatever it was that he wanted.
And they all wanted something.
“Please show yourself out.” She strode into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Chapter Seven
* * *
Vicky stepped onto the stage for her last panel of the conference. After this, she only had to do the closing remarks, and then she could leave and put Vegas and the experience behind her. She shook hands with the moderator and other panelists, then took her seat. Instead of having the speakers in a long row, each of the six panelists had their own table set in a slight semicircle, the table covered in heavy black cloth. She was relieved upon seeing the cloth. It had been a long couple of days, and she welcomed the chance to relax her legs under the table while she talked. Maybe kick off her shoes and tuck up one leg.
After she sat, she realized she was kidding herself. It didn’t feel natural to be in front of a crowd without her back straight, her chin high, and sitting, as usual, at the very edge of her chair with her platform shoes planted firmly on the floor for support.
The panel’s title was “Throwing Good Money After Bad: When Enough is Enough.” The mere notion rankled, but she knew that sometimes the titles for these things were meant to be provocative to attract more attendance, so she hadn’t objected or requested a change. The moderator introduced each panelist in turn, reading the provided bios, and Vicky turned on a smile for the crowd as she nodded to acknowledge the applause that followed her canned introduction.
Something moved under her seat. She braced her heels to push back her chair, but someone grabbed her ankles, holding her firmly in place. Another one of Eleanor’s fantasy facilitators? On her table, she noticed a handwritten note on a tablet of paper. It read:
Enjoy your talk. I know I will. Luke.
