by Joanna Shupe
“Come here, beautiful creature.” He fell back on the bed and swung her legs over his hips. His erection nestled against her cleft. Rolling his hips, he dragged his cock along the lips of her sex.
“Oh,” she breathed. “That feels wonderful.”
He couldn’t wait any longer. Raising her slightly, he lined up and let her fall, her channel swallowing him up. When their groins met, she ground down and bit her lip. “You feel much deeper this way.”
“Yes, it’s the angle.” He could hardly wait to take her from behind. If she thought he was deep now . . . “Ride me, Ava.”
She began to move, slowly at first, but Will didn’t care. Her slick walls dragged over his length as her heavy breasts bounced. Her nails dug into his stomach, her thighs straining at the effort, and he had to close his eyes or risk finishing too soon.
It was no less intense this time around. He hadn’t been this greedy for a woman . . . ever. Will could not get enough. Every sigh, every sweep of her delicate hands, every taste only caused him to want her more.
When he felt her begin to tighten around his shaft, he grabbed her hips and took over, pumping up into her with a primal force that surprised him. Ava didn’t seem to mind, however, her cries growing louder as Will found the one sensitive spot deep inside her. She clutched at his arms as her head dropped, long brown hair escaping from her coiffure to cover her breast. “God, yes, please,” she said in his favorite low rasp, and he bucked wildly, the pleasure building under his skin, behind his thighs.
He rolled the swollen bud between her thighs with his thumb and her walls immediately clamped down. She let out a shout, limbs trembling, as the orgasm engulfed her, and he’d never seen a more erotic sight. When she ceased shivering, he let go, unable to hold out a moment longer. He jerked her off his hips and then moved his hand furiously over his cock until he came with a roar. The orgasm sped through him, his muscles shuddering with the force of it, spend flinging onto his stomach. When he finished, he closed his eyes and tried to recover his wits. “That was better than the first time.”
She didn’t respond, just flopped down on the bed beside him. He raised up to clean himself off with a corner of the bedclothes, then he wound his arms around her and pulled her close. A thin sheen of sweat covered them both, but he could not let her go. Exhaustion overcame him, a result of the two fantastic orgasms and the soft, warm body in his arms. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head. “So much more than I expected. Thank you, Ava.”
* * *
Ava knew the second he fell asleep. Will’s arms went lax, falling to the mattress, and his breathing grew even and deep. This was her chance to leave.
Gently she disentangled herself from his enticing limbs and stood. Her clothes were strewn about, so she quickly gathered them and went to the small water closet to dress. Living with her siblings in a small apartment, she was used to dressing herself quietly in a small space. After fifteen minutes, she had seen to her needs and put herself back to rights as best she could. Too bad she hadn’t a brush handy for her unruly hair. She repinned it and affixed her bonnet.
Careful not to make any noise, she crept from the water closet through the hotel room. Most women would likely regret what had occurred here . . . but Ava did not. Not when Will had been so unexpectedly passionate. He hadn’t made her feel tawdry or sinful. Instead, she’d been worshipped. Adored. Pleasured to within an inch of her life. He’d taken more care with her in one afternoon than Stephen van Dunn had in five months.
Nevertheless, that was all it could be, one afternoon. Today’s interlude would not be repeated. She’d already begun to feel too much for him, thanks to his tender words. “You are so much more than I expected . . . More beautiful. More responsive. More bold. More passionate.” The remaining ice surrounding her heart had melted clean away after that, leaving a warm, full sensation in her chest that scared her.
He had no plans to marry her. Hell, he didn’t even want to court her. He’d admitted as much when they’d first discussed meeting in a hotel. There was no future for Will Sloane of Northeast Railroad and Ava Jones of Bank Street. This wasn’t a fairy tale, and she certainly wasn’t a princess. She would not be a rich man’s mistress.
Grasping the door handle, she turned back for one more glimpse. Sprawled on the bed, naked, Will was a sight to behold. A lock of sandy blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and her fingers itched to touch him. He appeared young. Disheveled. Relaxed and well sated. She could stare at him like this for hours, marveling over the contradictions in him. Ruthless one minute, tender the next. Selfish and demanding, yet he had been a giving and generous lover. Some Fifth Avenue debutante would be one lucky woman someday.
That woman would not be Ava. She had allowed herself one afternoon of hedonism. One afternoon to experience pleasure at his hands. And though it had been spectacular, this could not be a habit. She had too much to lose.
Ignoring the weight in her chest, she left the room and continued down the hall toward the stairs. The walk home would do her good, help to clear her head. No other guests were about, a fact she was quite grateful for as she made her way down the flights of stairs and into the lobby.
As she passed the door of the café, she paid no attention to the diners, the wealthy women and well-dressed men enjoying their lazy afternoon. This was an entirely unknown crowd for the likes of Ava Jones.
So she nearly tripped when she heard a man’s voice call out her name. Panic welled in her throat, and she hastened out the door and onto the walk. The fading June sunshine momentarily blinded her, and she wondered how long she and Will had been upstairs. Two hours? Three? She needed to get home and start supper for her family.
She had taken only four or five steps before a hand fell on her shoulder. “Miss Jones.”
With no choice but to stop, she turned around. Mr. Charles Tompkins stared down at her, his bushy mustache twitching. “Mr. Tompkins. Hello.”
“I was surprised to see you in the lobby. Were you dining in the café?”
“Yes,” she lied. “I met a friend here for a late afternoon tea. You?”
“I had a business meeting in the restaurant. I am glad to bump into you. Would you be interested in having a quick drink? I wish to speak with you.”
“I’m sorry but I must get home—”
“I insist,” he said, and took her elbow. “I promise I won’t keep you long.” He began leading her back toward the last place she wanted to be. However, short of digging her heels in, there was nothing to do to prevent it.
Still, she tried to reason with him one more time. “No, really. I must be getting home. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow?”
“I don’t believe so. You’re a hard woman to find.”
Dread settled in her stomach like a stale blintz from a hawker’s cart. He’d been looking for her? Damn Will and his lie about her working for a newspaper. Her mind began to race with what Tompkins might wish to speak with her about. The interview with Bennett? She straightened her shoulders as they entered the café. Indeed, she’d lied her way out of stickier situations. She could handle Tompkins.
They settled at a table. A waiter appeared and Ava ordered tea, Tompkins a cup of coffee. When they finished, Tompkins relaxed his large frame into the small metal chair. “Let’s start with the truth. You don’t work for the Brooklyn Daily Times because there is no such paper.”
“Yes, that’s true. However, it’s best if you remain unaware which paper employs me. We prefer to keep that information from the candidates until after the story is finished.”
He cocked his head. “That is certainly unusual. No paper I’ve dealt with in New York, New Jersey, or Philadelphia operates in that fashion.”
She lifted one shoulder, not caring whether he believed her or not. Rule number one of telling a convincing lie was to stick to the lie no matter what. “Nevertheless, my editor prefers it this way.”
The waiter promptly returned and set up their drinks. When he departed, Tompkins as
ked, “So when may we expect this story to appear?”
“I’m not certain.” She stirred sugar into her tea. “Before the election, obviously.”
“Well, I should hope so. Still, it would be helpful to know if the story will be favorable or not. Since nearly all of the papers are controlled by one of the predominant political parties, it’s advantageous for me to have a positive story at the ready, one that may counteract any negative story that appears.”
“I hadn’t realized political strategy was so complicated,” she demurred. “You must be very good at your job.”
His intense expression changed not a whit at her compliment. “I am very good at my job. Which is why I won’t allow Bennett or Sloane to make a mistake that could jeopardize the campaign. For example, it’s one thing to have a quiet, discreet affair with a rich society widow, but another altogether to carry on with a young, unmarried newspaper reporter.” He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and sipped, while Ava tried to find her tongue. “Do you see what I mean, Miss Jones?”
Her skin became a tight, fiery layer of embarrassment. Though she was not truly a reporter, the comparison struck home regardless. She was aware of how damaging it would be to Will’s campaign should his association with her and/or Madam Zolikoff be discovered. Nevertheless, this overbearing man had absolutely no right to order her about.
Anger sizzled in her blood, wiping out the embarrassment. She leaned in closer. “You are under the misguided impression that you have any say over when and with whom I decide to ‘carry on.’ I do not answer to you, Mr. Sloane, or any other man, for that matter.” She came to her feet. “Thank you for the tea.”
She left the café, not glancing back even once.
* * *
Political support in New York didn’t merely mean large rallies and parades; campaigning also included small, intimate dinner parties with a select group of supporters, ones who donated large amounts of money. Since those supporters usually included men Will had known from years of parties and clubs, they were generally enjoyable evenings. On this night, however, Will was having trouble mustering up any enthusiasm whatsoever.
He gave his hat and stick to the butler and then shook hands with Mr. Updike, an elderly gentleman and a big supporter of the Bennett/Sloane campaign. Updike also happened to sit on the board of Northeast Railroad. “Thank you for hosting us tonight.”
“My pleasure, William. Anything to help the Sloanes, you know that. Your father would be so proud of you.”
Will tried not to grimace. Pride was not an emotion Will’s father had ever experienced in relation to his only son. The stick by which the Sloanes measured success had always been set ridiculously high, and Will had certainly never come close during his father’s lifetime. No matter his marks, no matter the praise heaped on by his instructors, Will had been considered a “disappointment.” The memory shouldn’t bother him, considering everything in Archibald Sloane’s life had disappointed him. His wife, his company, his children . . . A more miserable man had never been born to such privilege.
Will hoped the old man was roasting over a spit in hell, green with envy over what his “lazy” son had accomplished.
Nevertheless, one did not disparage one’s parents, even if they were long dead. “That is kind of you to say,” Will answered. “He certainly respected you.”
Updike’s chest puffed up. “Damn shame he didn’t live longer. Well, come in.” He waved Will through the threshold. “Most of the other guests have already arrived.”
Within the Updike drawing room was the usual crowd: Bennett and Tompkins, of course, as well as the chairman of the New York Republican Party. Other members of high society were here as well; faces Will had known his entire life.
A footman stopped and presented him with a crystal glass of champagne. Will accepted it just as a familiar voice called out, “There you are, Sloane!”
He turned and found Tompkins waving him over. Next to the campaign advisor stood John Bennett, Mr. Robert Iselin, and a young brunette who was not Mrs. Iselin. The daughter, perhaps? Will had never met her in person, but she was one of the debutantes on his list of candidates for a wife.
He waited for the usual rush of eagerness when the completion of a goal was in sight . . . but it strangely did not come. More than anything, Will wanted to walk out of Updike’s house, take his carriage to Bank Street, and demand Ava tell him why she’d snuck out of their hotel room two days ago without a damn word.
But he could not. Responsibilities called, so Will threw back his champagne and strolled to the small group situated near the empty fireplace. “Good evening.”
“Good to see you, Sloane.” Tompkins slapped him on the back, an overly familiar gesture that set Will’s teeth on edge. Perhaps because he did not care all that much for Tompkins. “I trust you know Mr. Iselin.”
“Indeed, I do. How are you this evening, Robert?” The men shook hands.
“I am quite well, Sloane. I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter.” He smiled fondly at the petite girl. “My dear, this is Mr. Sloane, the candidate running with Mr. Bennett.”
“Miss Iselin,” Will said with a bow over the girl’s gloved hand. “It is an honor to meet you.”
“The honor is mine, Mr. Sloane.” She had a nice, clear voice. Confident. No giggles. He liked that she held his gaze, too. “I’ve been closely following your campaign.”
“Better watch out, Sloane,” Bennett said. “She knows more about politics than you and I put together!”
Everyone laughed, including Miss Iselin, and Will said, “Then I certainly look forward to hearing more.”
“I believe dinner’s about to start. Why don’t you escort Kathleen, Sloane? I’m certain she’s tired of hearing her father talk already tonight,” Iselin suggested, and Will silently chastised himself for not coming up with that idea. Wasn’t he supposed to be hunting a bride?
“Of course, it would be my pleasure. Miss Iselin, would you do me the honor?” He held out his arm, and she dutifully placed her hand on his sleeve.
The crowd began to filter out of the room and into the hall. “I apologize for that,” Miss Iselin said under her breath.
He glanced down at her and found her clear blue eyes studying him. “For what?”
“For being foisted on you. I’m afraid my father isn’t very subtle.”
“I never mind when a beautiful girl is foisted on me. And, as a debutante, it cannot be the first time for you.”
“No, but it is uncomfortable all the same, so I beg your pardon on both of our accounts.”
The girl had impeccable manners and a forthright approach that Will appreciated. He should be giddy with possibility right now . . . but he felt nothing. None of the expected excitement over the idea that he may have found the perfect political wife with ties to society.
Stop thinking about Ava. Stop wondering over why she left without a word.
He needed to focus. He and Bennett were nearly assured of receiving the Republican nomination, and the support of the men here could go a long way to securing Albany this fall. Wringing his hands over a woman he could no more control than the wind would not help the campaign.
“There is no need to ask for forgiveness, Miss Iselin. I am grateful you attended this evening. These dinners are usually as boring as a rainy day.”
The dining room sparkled with cut crystal and sterling silver. He found them seats and assisted Miss Iselin into her chair. He took the seat next to her, with Tompkins settled directly across. Bennett was at the end of the table, near Updike.
Dinner service began, and Will’s mind drifted to a familiar topic: the hotel with Ava. The afternoon had been astounding. Passionate. Wild. Even having her twice hadn’t begun to sate his longing. When he awoke to discover her gone, he’d felt disappointed . . . and confused. Unusual for a woman to slink away from his bed when his back was turned. It worried him that she might regret what had happened between them.
Not that it mattered. He had plans to co
nvince her of a command performance.
“What do you think of the movement to give workers fairer conditions and benefits, Mr. Sloane?”
Will glanced at Miss Iselin, who was watching him curiously. “I am for it. Owners who do not treat workers fairly can hardly expect to retain them. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, though many owners, such as Carnegie, certainly do not. How are Northeast employees treated?”
“Quite well, though likely there’s always room for improvement. Perhaps you could visit sometime and illuminate me.”
“I’d like that,” she said quietly.
Tompkins beamed in approval, as if Will had already proposed marriage. Irrationally, Will was irritated at the advisor’s admiration. Yes, Miss Iselin had shown promise this evening, but one simple exchange did not a wife make.
He had to know more about her, test their compatibility. There were probably dozens of issues they would disagree on. After all, he and Ava barely agreed on the time of day, let alone anything else.
“You probably support the strikes on the part of workers,” he told Miss Iselin.
“Oh, no.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Only when they are conducted peaceably. I do not condone violence.”
He peppered her with questions in an attempt to find a subject the two of them would lock horns on. But every answer she gave matched his own thoughts. Kathleen Iselin was smart, articulate, had a sense of humor, and came from the same background as he. So why did he feel numb?
“Are you traveling to Newport for the summer, Mr. Sloane?” she asked as the dinner plates were cleared.
“No, I hadn’t planned to open the cottage this year. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow, as a matter of fact. Father is anxious to sail.”
“Sloane has a beautiful yacht in Newport, don’t you, Sloane?” Tompkins gave Will a pointed stare. “Perhaps you could take Miss Iselin sailing.”
Will was too well bred to let his vexation show, but he did not appreciate Tompkins’s lack of subtlety. “Yes, I would be delighted if you would accompany me one day on the water, Miss Iselin. I should be able to get away in the next few weeks.”
