by Megyn Ward
The irony that his manservant procured my birthday cake from my father’s restaurant and that Tobias’ penthouse is three floors above my mother’s is almost too much.
“Cozy.”
He looks up at me when I say it, shooting me a quick smirk. “Thanks, I decorated it myself,” he says, letting his gaze rake over me, his eyebrow lifting when he gets to the shoes in my hand.
“I didn’t want to ruin your floor,” I explain, setting them down, just outside the elevator. When I straighten and turn, I find him watching me.
“Still want to get out of that dress?” he asks, gaze dark and hooded, tone heavy with promise.
“Yes, please.” The words tumble out, fast and eager, the desperation I hear in them heating my cheeks.
He gives me a lopsided grin, letting his gaze slide back to the stack of mail in front of him. “Bedroom is over there,” he says, jerking his chin. “Help yourself to whatever.”
Knocked off balance, I let my gaze follow the movement of his chin. Tucked into the far corner of the enormous space is a separate room, cordoned off by rice paper panels, hanging from tracks set into the ceiling.
I pad my way across the room, marveling in how different his place is than my mother’s. Black granite floors. White walls. White furniture. White rugs. Nothing but the occasional splash of red. When I came to visit as a child, I was made to sit in one spot, the nanny hired for the occasion cleaning my hands and face regularly to ensure I didn’t soil the aesthetic. Even with no furniture, Tobias’ place is a million times more welcoming than Solange’s ever was.
One of the panels is slightly cracked. I slide it further on its track and step through, shutting it behind me. There’re no Edison bulbs in here but the glow of them pushed through the delicate paper panels, lighting the space enough to see by.
An enormous, low slung bed—neatly made—flanked by a pair of squat, round tables, topped with lamps. A stack of books, nearly as tall as I am. A freestanding clothes rack that holds a parade of dry cleaning bags and a tall chest of drawers.
Bingo.
I hesitate, feeling like I’m snooping. Reminding myself I have permission, I pull the top-drawer open. Black Socks. Black boxer briefs. I almost shut the drawer when something catches my eye. Pulling it open even further, I reach into the back of the drawer and pull out a pair of red silk boxer shorts. Not something a man would buy for himself. Something a woman would buy for him.
Something shifts around in my chest. Something hard and tight. Something I’ve never felt before.
Stuffing them back into the drawer, I feel my fingers brush against something slick and cool, tucked behind the boxers. A photograph.
Knowing I shouldn’t because now, I really am snooping, I pull it to the front of the drawer. As soon as I do, the photo in my hand splits in two.
The first photo is of a group of boys, four of them—all different ages and sizes but none older than mid-teens—standing in front of a large building. It has the clinical feel of an institution. Like a hospital or school. The four of them are standing in a line, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders while they grin into the camera.
I recognize two of them right away. Gray, the man I met tonight, and Tobias. It makes sense. When I met Gray, I could tell that they knew each other. They were close. I have ten brothers and sisters, some of us closer than others. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s family.
The other two, a lanky boy with dark, unruly hair and thick-rimmed glasses and a blond with sparkly, almost impossibly blue eyes, stand on either side of them. The blond could be the man I saw Tobias with tonight but to be honest, I really wasn’t paying attention to him.
Reluctantly, I shuffle the pictures, pulling the one in back to the front. This one is older, faded. A smiling woman with dark hair, crouched down, her arms wrapped around a little boy who couldn’t be older than four or five. Again, I recognize Tobias right away. The woman, same eyes and mouth, must be his mother.
Feeling like an intruder, I put the pictures back where I found them, closing the drawer gently. Reaching for the next, I find a stack of neatly folded shirts and sweaters. Pulling one off the top, I toss it onto the bed.
Reaching down, I catch the hem of my dress and draw it up over my head, breathing a sigh of relief when I’m finally free of it. Throwing it on the floor, I resist the urge to kick it across the room. Next time I see Delilah, I’m going to strangle her with it.
Picking up the sweater I pulled out of the drawer I push my arms through the sleeves. Dropping it over my head, the soft, dark cashmere knit falls to my knees.
I’m still not wearing panties.
Considering my options, I jerk open the top drawer and pull out the only suitable replacement I found. The red silk boxers. Disgruntled, I step into them, rolling the waistband a few times to keep them up. Sweeping my hair up, I twist it into a rope, coiling it around itself before tucking the tail of it into its center, creating a loose, sloppy bun.
Suddenly nervous, I square my shoulders. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly, trying to push myself out of the room.
“I wasn’t kidding about this cake,” he calls out. “It really isn’t going to eat itself.”
Something about his tone—easy, confident—puts me at ease. Makes me smile. Makes it possible for me to slide the panel open and push myself out of the room.
He’s still in the kitchen, or where the kitchen table would be if he had one. Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands dug into his pockets, staring out across the skyline.
“Sorry,” I say, as soon as I’m close enough to say it without feeling like I have to shout. “The dress put up a fight.”
He turns away from the window, letting his gaze sweep over me. “I’m glad it lost,” he says, flashing me a grin so wicked I feel it in my knees. Before I can react, he speaks again. “Open your present. I’m dying to see what I got you.”
Looking down I see the white cake box, with its red ribbon. Next to it is another box. This one is square and thin. Trademark Tiffany blue, tied with a silk white bow.
I feel him brush past me and my gaze darts up to find him leaning against the counter, watching me.
Picking up the box, I tug on the ribbon and it slips loose in my hand. Lifting the lid, I let out a small gasp, my gaze darting up to look at him. His shoulders are stiff, expression guarded. He expects me to gush and squeal and throw myself at him. I have a feeling that’s exactly what he doesn’t want.
Instead of gushing, I tell him the truth. “It’s beautiful,” I say, lifting the bangle from its nest of white satin. Heavy, platinum, studded with diamonds. I slip it on. “Thank you.”
He relaxes. Gives me another smile. “Angus will be pleased that you’re pleased,” he says, lifting a pair of forks, offering me one. “Now, that that’s out of the way, let’s get to the good stuff.
”
8
Tobias
I’m not sure what happening here. Normally I’d have her on her knees by now. Fucking her against every flat and stable surface I can find. Which considering I’ve lived here for three years and have yet to so much as buy a lamp, are in definite short supply.
But under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have brought her home. I wouldn’t have bought her a birthday cake and offered her a change of clothes.
When I saw the Tiffany blue box sitting next to the cake, I almost tossed it in the trash. For fuck’s sake—what’s Angus trying to do to me? Not that I don’t buy gifts for women—I do—but not for ones I’ve just met and never for special occasions. You start buying birthday gifts and Christmas presents, the next thing you know they’re asking you to drive to the Hamptons for Thanksgiving to meet their parents or some shit.
I don’t do birthdays.
I don’t do holidays.
I don’t do parents.
But here I am, watching her open a gift I didn’t even pick out, for an occasion I’m still not even sure is real, with the sort of antici
pation I haven’t felt in years. I mean, come on—what are the odds that the random woman I picked up at a nightclub shares my birthday? My skepticism does nothing to dampen the pleasure I feel when she opens the box and her breath catches in her throat. I’m waiting for the gush. Bracing myself for the fawning and squealing. The speculation. The what does this mean?
The expectation of more.
But it never comes. She smiles and thanks me, slipping the bracelet onto her arm. That’s it.
Now, she’s sitting on my kitchen island, silky black hair piled on top of her head. Smooth, bare legs swinging, one of my sweaters hiked high on her thighs.
She sinks her fork into the half-eaten cake between us. Lifting the bite to her lips, she slowly slides the fork between them, her eyes closing when the chocolate hits her tongue, a little sigh of satisfaction as she savors the flavor and texture of it.
I’ve never considered myself a fetish guy. Never been into feet or spanking or handcuffs. Never get turned on by anything considered nonsexual or even kinky.
Watching her eat changes my mind.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says, cocking head slightly.
I look up at her and nod, expecting her to ask what I do for a living. Where I got my money. Who I am. “Shoot.”
“The man I met at the club—the big one with the great smile…” She looks down, skimming her fork along the cake’s decorative ribbon of thick chocolate frosting, “how do you know him?”
Gray. She’s asking me about Gray. “He works at the club,” I say carefully. “He’s my employee.”
She shakes her head. “No, he’s not.” She lifts her fork, licking off the frosting that coats it. Watching her lave the tines with the flat of her tongue, I almost groan. Can feel the sensation of it, like phantom pains, running up the length of my cock. If she knows what’s she’s doing to me, she doesn’t show it. “At least that’s not all he is.” She narrows her eyes and points her fork at me. “He’s something to you. You’re something to each other.”
“Gray is my brother.” I don’t know why I tell her the truth. Everyone knows Jase. That he’s my brother. That we’re partners in about a dozen nightclubs in Manhattan. That while the nightclubs are nothing more than a hobby for me, they’re everything to Jase.
No one knows about Gray. He’d joined the Marines straight out of Brighton and only recently came home. No one knows him as anything other than my employee. Nothing more. Same with Logan.
“My turn,” I say, leaning into her just a little.
“Okay.”
“Is it really your birthday?” It surprises me, the question I ask. I could’ve asked her who she knows that lives in my building. Why she called my doorman Ted-o. About a dozen different things but I ask about her birthday because, right now, it’s the only thing that matters.
She laughs, shaking her head while giving me a look that tells me she’s just as surprised by my question as I am. “Yes,” she says, sliding a bite between her lips. “Actually…” She cocks her head, giving me a grimace. “I wasn’t even supposed to be at that club tonight. I was all cozied up on my couch, throwing myself a birthday party for one, when my sister showed-up with that ridiculous dress and dragged me out.”
“You have a sister?” I like knowing that. That she isn’t alone in the world.
She laughs. “I have four of them.”
“There’s four more of you?” My eyes must light up because she laughs even harder.
“We’re all very different, I assure you,” she says, taking another swipe at the cake with her fork. “Is Gray your only brother?”
“No.” That’s the only answer I give her because I want to give her more. I want to tell her everything. Instead, I change the subject completely.
“You know,” I tell her, pointing my fork at the bracelet on her arm before I sink it into the cake between us. “Most women would’ve gone on and on about how they couldn’t accept a gift like this from someone they barely know.”
“But I like it. It’s pretty.” She lifts her arm, flashing the bracelet at me. “And you probably have a dozen of them, stuffed in a drawer somewhere,” she says with a laugh. She’s wrong but I don’t dispute her assumption. “Besides, if you wanted typical, you would’ve stuck with the twiggy blonde you had in your lap half the night.”
“Twiggy blonde?” I laugh while I slide my fork through chocolate but instead of taking the bite, I lift it to her lips. “You noticed me?”
She rolls her eyes, opening her mouth so I can feed her like it’s the most normal, natural thing in the world. “Am I supposed to pretend I didn’t?” she says, giving me that eyebrow of hers while she chews.
And suddenly, I’m done. Finished. So far gone, in the blink of an eye, I’m practically shaking with the want I have for her. Standing up straight, I take her fork away, tossing it with mine in the direction of the sink.
Stepping into the soft, warm space between her thighs I grip her, pull her close. “No more cake,” I say, my voice tight, straining for control. “No more talking.”
“Finally,” She sighs, reaching up to wind her arms around my neck, her fingers threading through my hair. Capturing her mouth with mine, I slide my tongue past parted lips, tangling it with hers. She slants her mouth under mine, moaning softly.
There’s no hesitation. No pretense. She simply locks her legs around my hips, the heels of her bare feet digging into my ass, pulling me tight against her. I stroke the length of my erection against the unbearably hot center of her, loving the way she gasps. Arches into me. Asks for more.
Hips circling, she meets each of my strokes with hungry desperation. Welcoming me inside. Pulling me closer. Deeper, until something snaps loose inside my brain. Want is no longer want.
I don’t want.
I need.
I need her naked. Her taste in my mouth. The feel of her in my hands. Her slick heat wrapped around me.
I need her.
I need her now.
Gathering the hem of her sweater in my hands, she lifts her arms so I can jerk it up, over her head, tossing it aside with an impatient grunt.
Forcing myself to slow down, I skim my hands over her hips. The soft skin of her stomach. Fingers tracing the curve of her breasts, her nipples hot and swollen against my palms. As soon as I close my hands over them, she moans into my mouth, goosebumps breaking out across her skin.
Her reaction to me, what I’m doing to her, is the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. “Fuck,” I groan, low and guttural, dipping my head to draw one of those hot, tight pebbles between my lips, sucking and licking until she’s panting and shaking against my mouth, her fingers in my hair, holding me close. Gripping me against her, so tight it almost hurts.
She smells like chocolate. Feels like perfection. Tastes like sin. Every part of her invading me, turning me inside out until I feel desperate. Shaky and strung out.
Reaching between us, I find a barrier I hadn’t expected. I don’t know what it is but it’s pissing me off. Keeping me from what I want. Finding an edge to them, I curl my fingers around it and yank and am instantly rewarded with the sound of rending fabric, followed by a sharp gasp.
And then she’s there, the slick heat of her under my hands. Hot and soft, like molten silk between my fingers.
Right where I need to be.
“Tobias.” She moans my name again, her head dropping back on her neck, the line of her throat taut, breathing harsh and shallow. “Please…”
The tail end of her plea drifts into a shuttering sigh as I slide my fingers past her folds, stroke her deep, brushing the pad of my thumb against the tight bundle of nerves at the top of her cleft.
“Oh god,” she whimpers, her arms sliding from around my neck. She uses them to brace herself up, back arched. Breasts pushed forward, swaying gently with the rhythmic stroke of my fingers between her thighs.
With a groan, I lean into her, taking what she’s offering. Capturing one her breasts with my free hand, I lave its tip
with my tongue before pulling it into my mouth. Sucking and nipping, stroking and caressing until she’s shaking with her need for release.
Breaking contact with her breast, I press my forehead to her sternum, eyes squeezed shut against the sight and feel of her. “Not yet,” I say, my breath, harsh and labored, against her quivering belly.
“I can’t…” She moans her frustration. “please, Tobias.”
I almost give in. Give her what she wants. Let her come this way.
Instead I push her to the edge and keep her there. “Not yet,” I repeat, lifting my head to find her looking down at me, gray eyes glazed with passion, as dark as storm clouds. Lips, swollen from my mouth, slightly parted. “I need my mouth on you first.”
Sliding my hand upward, I wrap it around her shoulder, pushing her flat beneath me. Stretching her out, I kiss and lick my way between her breasts. Over her ribs. Across her belly getting a good look at what she’s wearing. Red silk boxers, ripped up the middle.
Seeing them gives me a moment’s pause. Something about them… and then she’s lifting her hips, a silent plea to take them off.
9
Silver
Tobias jerks the ruined silk down my legs, seconds before I feel the press of his mouth on the inside of my thigh, urging me to open them further. I don’t think about what I’m doing. That I’m doing it for a man I barely know. All I can think is yes.
Yes.
His tongue skates a trail along the seam of where my thigh joins my hip. “You’re going to taste so good,” he whispers, each word brushing his lips against my skin, closer and closer to my core.
Without warning, he drags his tongue slowly up the center of me. The contact, so intense, bows me up off the counter, strung so tight I can feel my spine crack, the sound ripping out of my throat barely human. He does it again, and again, until I’m shaking, writhing under the sweet assault of his mouth.
