When she heard the click of the door, she stiffened as if it were a gunshot, then relaxed back into her pose.
He was wearing his suit, but the tie was undone and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing his strong forearms. He shut the door behind him and pulled a chair up to the bed. Sitting in it, he regarded her for a minute. There was silence except for their breathing, and his eyes, gleaming in the dim light, burned into hers.
He stood up and came closer, still not speaking. When he held out his hand, her entire body was suffused with adrenaline. She gave it over, still locked onto his eyes. He pulled her slowly to a sitting position, then came and sat beside her, the bed giving slightly at the added pressure. “You,” he said, his voice low, “are beautiful.” He traced the line of her shoulder and arm, flipping the gauzy fabric aside so his fingers could skim her breasts. “Absolutely breathtaking.” He grazed her nipples with his nails; she cried out softly. “And entirely disobedient.”
He pulled her onto his lap and she nestled into his body, shifting to get comfortable, her breasts pushing into the fabric of his shirt. He spoke into her neck. “And that means I get to punish you.”
A delicious tremor rippled through her body. He caressed the skin of her hip. “In any fashion I deem appropriate.”
She didn’t respond, but pressed her mouth to his, and the kiss was immediate and powerful. He grabbed the back of her head with one hand, the other on her neck, pulling her to him as he plundered her with his tongue. His lips traced a path across her cheek, down her neck, then he took her mouth again, confident and skillful. When they broke apart, panting, he squeezed her nipple.
“Lie back for me and put your hands over your head. I’m going to tie you up for my pleasure,” he growled.
She sucked in a breath and obeyed, reclining on the pillow and carefully placing one arm, then the next, up. He grabbed the gauzy fabric and wound it round and over her wrists, creating a binding that she could probably release if she needed to, but that held her firmly in place against moving her hands.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered, and when she did, slowly, he inhaled. “Fuck. Perfect.”
She could feel how wet she was; it was indecent and sexy, and she thrust her hips up, needing his touch. But instead of his fingers, she yelped in surprise when he ducked down and licked her clit, his dark hair tickling her thighs. “Zach!” She squeezed with her legs. “Oh, God.”
“No, stay open,” he demanded, giving her a light tap on her thigh. “Nice and wide for me. Let me lick that pretty, wet pussy.”
His tongue glided down her slit, then teased her clit, small flicks and licks that made her pant and try to push her hips up into his face.
“I love your taste,” he said, looking up at her. “Look at me.” She gazed down, and the sight of him between her spread legs, face intense with passion, lips glazed with her essence, made her cry out again. When he ducked his head back down and continued his gentle assault on her skin, she kept looking, mesmerized by the sight of this handsome man, so sexy in his suit, his muscles showing through the white shirt, straining at the shoulders. He was pleasuring her. Enjoying her.
Without warning, an orgasm started to well up and she managed to say breathily, “Zach, oh, God, I’m going to—if you keep doing that…”
“You’re going to come?” He stopped licking and looked up. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
“Yes, if you…”
“If I what?”
“Zach! Don’t tease me. If you keep licking me.”
“Ask me nicely for it. I want to hear you say please.”
Needy, she widened her thighs and fidgeted. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Keep licking my clit. Please.”
“No.” He smiled and withdrew from between her legs.
“Zach!” Frustrated, she thumped her bound hands above her head on the pillow.
“Punishment, remember?” He quirked a brow, then stood beside her and started to unbutton his shirt. “Don’t come until I say. And I promise you, it’s going to be a while before I grant you permission.” He grinned.
“Zach, that’s mean.” But her voice was low and sultry, and her body full of arousal and she shifted from one ass cheek to the other.
“Keep those legs open, Harper. If you wanted an easy orgasm, you would have obeyed me and gotten in the position I asked, the first time.”
He tugged off the shirt and tossed it to the chair. The sight of his bare chest and abs, rippling with muscles, made her glaze over in desire. “Come here,” she whispered.
He laughed. “Soon.”
His dress pants rode low on his lean hips, and she could see the tell-tale V of his muscles. She licked her lips. “I want to touch you.”
Instead of replying he came closer and leaned down to kiss her. “Taste your arousal,” he said. “I love that.” The kiss deepened, and she reached up with her bound hands to grab at his hair, needing to touch him some way, any way. He gently pushed her arms back down. “Not yet,” he said, then knelt between her legs. Leaning forward, he cupped each breast in a hand, then pulled her nipples until she squeaked.
“Ow,” she called out, although the bright pop of pain was not unwelcome; the sensation served to enhance the arousal.
He rolled the nipples between his fingers, then raked across her skin with his nails, making her giggle and shiver. “Zach, God, that feels… oh.”
The mixture of tickling and arousal made her quiver.
When he did it again and again, she bucked her hips and lifted her arms. “It’s, oh, God.”
He leaned in and took one nipple into his mouth and sucked, and she nearly levitated, then grabbed the sides of his hips with her legs. “Zach!”
He licked the other nipple, and bit it, and then reached down and tapped her clit, making a burst of arousal flood her belly. He slid a finger inside her and she moaned her approval, making sounds of pleasure as he stroked and fingered her, stoking her arousal.
It didn’t take long before she was nearing the edge once again, her orgasm building, powerful, her whole body keening for release.
But as she was about to tip over the edge, he withdrew his fingers and slipped out from between her legs. “No, Harper. Don’t do it.”
“Fuck!” she cried out in irritation and dismay. “I want to.”
“But you disobeyed me, remember?” His voice was light, teasing. “That means you don’t get to come… yet.”
Her breathing was rough, and the feeling as the orgasm started to recede was almost painful in disappointment. “Aarrgggh.”
“Next time, you’ll listen,” he suggested, grinning at her. “Isn’t that right? Will you obey me next time, Harper, so I don’t have to tease you like this?”
“I promise I’ll obey you, Zach. I promise.” Was that her voice, so high and breathy, so full of sex and submission? As if from above, she imagined herself lying naked, tied up, wet and needy, begging for his touch.
“Good. Let’s hope you do.”
He sat on the bed again and pulled her to his body. “Over my lap now, for a quick reminder.”
“A what?”
“What do you think?” His voice was silky and he positioned her over his hard thighs. “What do you think I’m going to do to remind you?”
“Spank me?” Her voice was at once nervous and eager.
“Hmmm.” He rested one hand across both buttocks, fingers splayed out. “Do you know how wet you are? I can see it and smell it from here. Touch it.” He dipped his middle finger down. “Spread your legs a little. Yeah.” He inserted his finger into her body and she whined, pushing up into his touch. “So fucking wet. You like playing like this.”
“Zach.” She could only whisper.
“We’ll play a little more before I fuck you, because I can. And because you asked for it on the plane. And because you fucking like it.”
He lifted his hand and brought it down, a sharp crack, right in the middle of her ass. She fli
nched, but the sensation, a stinging burn, only increased her arousal.
“Because sometimes,” he continued, bringing his hand down again in another resounding crack, “disobedient women need a good spanking to help them learn to behave.”
But he stopped and rubbed her heated skin, then he bent over her and whispered, “What drink did I send you tonight? Tequila?”
“White wine,” she said into his leg, grabbing at his calf. “Delicious. I want more.”
He laughed. “It will be my pleasure.” And when his hand rained more slaps onto her ass, she learned the rhythm and found it was like a dance, a hard, unyielding dance, and when the sensation got to the point where she was ready for the next thing, she called his name once.
He understood and lifted her up into his arms, cradling her, stroking her skin, kissing her mouth, her neck, until she was kissing back, ravenous, both of them attacking each other with fervor.
The rest was like something they’d done before, effortless. When he laid her back down and took off his clothes, letting his cock jut up, strong and hard, taking only a minute to grab a condom. When he spread her thighs with his hands, caressing as he did it, and when he pushed into her body, eyes locked onto hers, pumping softly and then harder. The sweet, unbearably delicious bliss that flooded her clit and her belly and her entire body, sparking through her nipples and veins and all through her skin.
When she came around him, crying out his name, he shouted hers and collapsed onto her, both of them breathing hard, sweating.
CHAPTER 23
A lone in the shower, Harper closed her eyes and let the fancy fixture rain silky drops down, relishing the heat and water, rubbing the floral body wash into her skin. Zach filled her mind: His face, his body, the look of passion he gave her before they kissed, when she knew what was coming, and he knew, and they both knew the other knew it—that fucking look. That sexy, dangerous little smirk. God. She felt aroused again already, just thinking of that expression.
His hard abs. The way he turned his head to look at something. His strong jaw. The way he smelled.
It struck her in that instant: She was completely infatuated. She’d told herself this was a fling, something fun. What happens in Phoenix stays in Phoenix, right? But it was too much, all of him together, his sexiness and his wit and his whole personality. She’d tried to keep it segregated, attempted to lock away her emotions, but he’d spilled over the borders and now she was infected with it. With him.
She liked him. A lot.
And that was going to be a problem, just like she’d predicted, because this wasn’t the kind of easy crush that would fade like a rainbow into the night. No, this was something bold and deep, a thing that grew, with roots so strong that they’d stay and fight and send out shoot after hopeful shoot of green into the air, over and over.
She wasn’t sorry. It had been a phenomenal night, something to treasure. How could something so beautiful be a mistake? Still, it would make the future harder, a little bleaker in some ways, heading back to Chicago at the end of the week with him under her skin, in her mind, living in her dreams, and not being able to have him like she wanted.
Was that the definition of coveting something? Wanting what you can’t have?
Poets said unrequited love could be the stuff of masterpieces. Not that this was love, not exactly. But it was more than like, more than want, more than desire.
She ran her hands over her breasts, remembering his touch, and squeezed her nipples. His voice. His mouth.
She didn’t want masterpieces. She already made masterpieces anyway, her photographs. She didn’t need more of those. She wanted him, warm and live, in her arms. Those poets weren’t entirely wrong; unrequited passion could probably be turned into other energies, but it was also sort of a sad truth, pathetic really, thinking of these people, alone and suffering, using their angst to create flat works without souls, all because they longed for the one soul they could never have.
Of course, she corrected herself, famous works of art lasted precisely because they did have a soul, in a way; they showed us something eternal to the human condition, something we recognized as essentially human and beautiful. But fuck that. She’d rather have Zach than paint a million Sistine Chapels.
Because that couldn’t have been comfortable, anyway, lying on your back, painting.
She thought that Zach might enjoy this train of thought. He’d probably say something funny and gross, like, “Lie on your back and watch me paint your chapel, baby.”
Or, in a more serious moment, maybe they’d talk about art and love. He was really very insightful and interesting.
She moved her hands back to her nipples, rubbing them over and over, feeling an answering call in her belly. Propping one foot up on the ledge, she reached down to stroke herself, moving her hips slightly out of the flow of water so her moisture could coat her fingers. One hand on her breast, one on her clit, Zach in her mind, kissing her mouth, touching her ass—and she came, a muted, beautiful little orgasm that furled to life in her palm and grew stronger until she cried out to herself in the shower with her own pleasure. Then, drained, she rinsed her fingers and splayed her fingers on her belly, closing her eyes, stepping back into the middle, letting herself relax and just enjoy the water.
THINGS SHOULD HAVE BEEN AWKWARD, she thought, but they were not. He put his hand on her back on the way to breakfast, sneaking an ass squeeze when nobody was looking. She squealed and pulled away, but he did it again, and then kissed her cheek.
He brought her coffee. “So, what’s on the agenda today?”
“Well, now that the bet’s off, I plan on taking a million pictures,” she answered, then giggled. “Kidding!”
“I was serious. I’m satisfied with everything you already took,” he said. “I wasn’t just saying that to, ah, you know.”
“Get me into bed?” She quirked a brow.
“Yes.”
“What’s on your agenda?”
“I have a few hours of calls to make. Then, if you can clear some space on your busy calendar, maybe we can go do some of those other things on your list. The museum.”
“I’d like that.” She gave him a shy smile. Probably they should talk about what happened. But on the other hand, this was more fun, just going with the flow. If it was a three-night stand, they should enjoy all three, right? Why ruin it with serious relationship-y discussions that could only bring an awkward tension and deflate the moment?
If he was content to just whatever, then she could do that, too. It was like a reprieve. She was a prisoner on death row who’d been granted a few extra days. No, scratch that—too horrible and ugly. She was a student who was blowing off exam studying in order to have sex with a hot guy, and the exam was just postponed for a few more days. Whee! Yippee!
“Something funny?” He noticed her smile.
“I’m just happy.” She grinned at him.
“Yeah? So am I.” He took her hand across the small table. “I’m really glad the bet ended up how it did. And our dates, too.”
“Yes.” She smiled more broadly. “I’ve never enjoyed texting more in my life.”
“It certainly made my evening better.” He lowered his voice. “You were so fucking hot, Harper, teasing me like that. And when you sent me your panties?”
“Oh, was that hard for you?” she asked, giving him an innocent gaze.
“In more ways than one,” he said ruefully. “I wanted to go over there and pick you up and fuck you on that patio, not giving one thought about who was watching.”
“Yeah, too bad for those pesky laws about public indecency,” she agreed. “Stupid backwards rules.”
“If you want to be on display, there are places we can go,” he murmured, giving her a sly grin. “There’s a club right in the downtown area, for example, where you can—”
“No!” She gave a sort of terrified giggle. “I was teasing! I don’t really want to do that in public.”
He laughed. “Got you.”
“Do you? Like public stuff?”
He shook his head. “No. I prefer giving my attention to entirely one person. I think with an audience, I’d be trying to please them, too. I like an audience of one. You.” His eyes darkened.
She caught her breath. “I like it better with one person, too. You.”
“Still think it would be hotter in Hawaii?” he teased her, running a finger down her arm.
“Hmmm. I don’t know. If I had a private pool, and Mai Tais, and hula music, I might be convinced to strip right out in the open.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I NEED to see the Fireflies exhibit.” Harper stuck her ticket into her purse and took Zach’s hand, or he took hers; either way, their hands were linked now, walking through a gallery of surrealist paintings by artist Philip C. Curtis.
“This one is pretty unusual.” Zach gestured at a canvas.
Harper stepped closer to read the golden plaque on the wall. “It’s called Farewell. He painted it in 1961.” She looked, then said, “It’s weird. It gives me that sad feeling I get with so many surrealist paintings.”
The canvas, a rectangle of about three feet wide by two feet tall, showed a family of tall, willowy people on a Western plain, waving goodbye to a little girl leaving on an old-fashioned but festive-looking train car. The women wore long, vivid red dresses and shawls with realistic wind-blown pleats, the man was in a suit. The light and dark colors seemed reminiscent of a dream turning into a nightmare, the details on the bark of the tree at odds with the slightly unrealistic nature to the work. It was a Western world, with hard ground and a large, wind-gnarled tree at an abrupt angle, separating the train car from the people. The woman (a mother?) waved a white handkerchief, but the girl, in curls and an old-fashioned dress, had her arms up in a pose of playful abandon, as opposed to the sadness of the group.
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