by Lara Adrian
Still, I need more.
Shifting on my feet, I push him backward a step. I see the flicker of surprise in his darkened gaze—the hesitance to give me this much control. My hands still wrapped around him, stroking every delicious inch of him from broad tip to balls and back again, I meet his challenging stare with my own. “When I see something I want, I reach for it too.”
His faint smirk doesn’t escape my notice as I sink down onto my knees before him. My discarded sweatpants offer a thin cushion, but if the marble floor is hard and cold beneath me, I don’t notice. Leaning forward, I lick my way around the crown of his cock, lapping at the salty drop of wetness I find at its tip.
Nick’s hand tangles in my loose hair as I begin to explore the rest of him, my tongue memorizing his intoxicating taste and texture. His strong legs are spread to allow me access, one hand braced on the wall behind me as if he needs something solid to ground him. “Fuck, that feels good. Ah, Christ, baby.”
I close my lips around him and draw him deep into my mouth, savoring the heat and power of this man who’s turning me into something wanton. Someone fearless and bold. Someone I barely recognize.
Someone I’ve never allowed myself to be with anyone else.
With Nick, all I know is need. It’s pure, untainted. Primal and raw.
Although I could feast on him for hours, he drags me off him all too soon, hoisting me roughly to my feet. He grips my shoulders in his strong hands, his eyes searing me with the ferocity of his gaze. On a curse, he hauls me to him and claims my mouth in a ravenous kiss. “I’m done playing now. I need to fuck you.”
“Yes,” I agree, my voice thready.
I only notice just now that he’s still wearing his blazer. As he shrugs out of it, he reaches into an inside pocket and withdraws a condom packet. I can’t help arching a brow at him.
“Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Baine?”
“Always.” The corner of his mouth twitches with a wicked smile. “But I also believe in leaving nothing to chance. And I need to be inside you, Ms. Ross. Now.”
He kisses me hard and long and deep, and I feel him maneuvering to put on the condom. Before I know what he’s doing, his hands cup my bottom and he’s lifting me onto my toes, spreading me open as his cock finds its position between my legs. He teases me with a few wet slides of our bodies against each other before he guides himself to my entrance and slams home, beginning the driving rhythm we both crave.
Holding me aloft in his hands, he commands every thrust, every impaling plunge. I cry out with the impossible fullness of him inside me as he lifts me to the crown of his cock, then settles me all the way to his root. His tempo isn’t gentle, but then, gentle isn’t what I want from him. From the wild look in his eyes and the savage grimace that twists his mouth as he fucks me so thoroughly up against the foyer wall, I don’t think gentle is what either one of us needs right now.
Our need is carnal, urgent. And it feels so good, so achingly right. My orgasm is building, rising swiftly, powerfully. I close my eyes to the immense force of the pleasure that’s spiraling through me. I’m overcome by how desperately I need this.
Need him.
Nick’s hot breath skims my cheek. “Open for me, Avery. Let me see you come.”
My lids lift. I have no choice but to do what he says, because I’m there at the edge now. I’m panting his name, whimpering as my orgasm takes hold of me. I break apart on a strangled scream, staring into his eyes as my release jolts through me.
Nick doesn’t let up his rhythm for a second. He doesn’t show me an ounce of mercy. And I love it. Clutching his broad shoulders, I writhe on him as he continues to drive into me, supporting all of my weight on his palms and forearms. I thrash and buck, my entire body shuddering as my core convulses with wave after wave of violent, shattering bliss.
It’s not until I start to sag against him, my head dropping onto his shoulder, that I feel Nick’s hold on me shift. He’s still hard inside me, our bodies still intimately joined, though he hasn’t yet come.
“Wrap your arms around my neck, baby. Hang on to me.”
I do, and then we’re moving. Away from the foyer, into the living room.
Nick carries me as if I weigh nothing, an added turn-on that also strikes me as ridiculously romantic. But that’s where his softness ends. When we reach the sofa, he sets me down onto my feet. I groan in protest as our bodies separate. Without a word, he strips off my T-shirt, then makes quick work of the buttons on his white dress shirt and throws the clothing aside. His cock is still as erect as when we started—in fact, more so. Even if it wasn’t, his scorching gaze leaves no room to wonder if he’s finished with me.
“Turn around.”
I stagger on boneless legs, hurrying to obey his rough command. When I’m facing away from him, he folds me over the arm of the sofa. My ass is in the air, my sex and backside totally exposed to him. I hear dark approval in the low growl that escapes him. I feel power and demand in the hot skate of his palm as it trails fire along the length of my spine.
His hand travels farther down, between the cheeks of my ass, his fingers stroking me indecently, exploring every inch of my nudity. I feel him part me wide open, then to my shock—to my unspeakable pleasure—he kneels down and buries his face between my legs. I clutch at the sofa cushions as his mouth and tongue flick hotly, wetly, along the entire seam of my body. He works his way down to my clit and sucks the swollen pearl into his mouth. As he does this, he pushes one finger into my vagina and eases another into the tight rosebud of my anus, which he’s made slick with his tongue and my own juices.
“Oh, God.” It’s only a brief tease of his fingertip inside me, but I gasp and feel myself go still, rocked with sensations I’ve never felt before.
As good as it feels, I’m also bewildered and more than a little afraid. Not because he scares me, but because of how badly I want him. I am alive with need, and terrified of how carnal he makes me feel.
“Have you ever?” His murmured question gusts against my bare ass, sending a shiver of anxious anticipation over my body.
“No. Never.”
“Good. Then it’ll be all mine. But not this time.” I hear him moving. I register that he’s standing up again, positioned directly behind me, his thighs warm between my own. He leans over me, putting his mouth beside my ear. “I want you too much to take things slowly right now. Do you understand?”
I nod, and before I can tell him that I don’t need him to go slowly, he enters me with a long, hard thrust I feel all the way to my throat.
And Nick doesn’t go slowly now.
He fucks me with unleashed abandon, as if he can’t get enough. As if he truly has been wanting this—wanting me—all this time we’ve been apart.
As I brace myself for each furious stroke, tilting my hips up to receive him as he pounds relentlessly toward climax, I realize that I’ve been wanting this too. I’ve been wanting him.
And if I’ve been worried that I’m letting myself get in too deep with Dominic Baine, today I realize the futility of that thinking.
Because I’m already there.
I’m in too deep, and what’s even worse is I can no longer pretend I’m not exactly where I want to be.
Chapter 20
A couple more orgasms later, I’m newly showered and wrapped in a towel, sitting on the edge of my bed in Claire’s guest room while I deliver what is probably the worst performance of a sick call I’ve ever given in my life. Fortunately, it’s early enough in the morning that Vendange isn’t open, so I mumble my excuses about being wiped out with a bad stomach bug into Joel’s voicemail at the restaurant.
He won’t be happy. He’ll most certainly punish me for leaving him short-staffed today, either with shitty schedule changes or docked pay. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past him to threaten to fire me the next time he sees me. At the moment, I really can’t give a damn. My body is deliciously spent, and I know there’s more pleasure waiting for me at Nick’s apartment
, where he’s gone to clean up and make breakfast for us.
I hit END on the call to the restaurant, and I’m already grinning as I dial Tasha to fill her in. No sense making her worry about me, which she will, when she shows up at work and sees I’m not there.
“Hey, girl.” She picks up after several rings. “Hold on for a sec. I’ve got a baby vomit situation to deal with over here.”
She doesn’t wait for me to reply before dropping the phone to tend to her child. In the background, I hear the muffled racket of general family chaos—water running in the sink, Antonio asking Tasha where he left his keys, a television chattering somewhere in the other room, and Tasha soothing little Zoe, whose hiccupping cries quiet down almost immediately under her mother’s tender care.
“Sorry about that,” she says as she comes back on the line. “What’s up?”
“I’m not going in today. I called in sick, left a message for Joel saying I think I have food poisoning or something.”
“Oh, no! Honey, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—”
“It was Tony’s beer, wasn’t it?” She interrupts me before I can finish talking. “Didn’t I tell you not to drink that shit?”
I can’t bite back my giggle. “The beer was nasty, but I’m not sick. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not going in because I’m spending the day with Nick.”
“Get out. You, who hasn’t missed a single shift since you started working there, are actually playing hooky?” She lowers her voice. “Are you with him right now?”
“No. I’m at the apartment. He left a little while ago.”
She snickers. “No wonder you sound all chill and relaxed. Go ahead, tell me. The sex was amazing, right?”
“It always is with Nick,” I admit. I toy with a loose thread on my towel, my body aching in all the right places when I think about how we spent the past couple of hours. “He showed up at my door this morning. He’d just got in from London and said he couldn’t wait to see me . . . to be with me. Now he’s back at his place, making us breakfast.”
“Do you have any idea how much you suck right now?” She says it sardonically, but I can practically see the smile on her face. “I’m standing here with a puddle of baby puke on my shoulder and a cup of lukewarm coffee in my hand, and you’re basically telling me you just spent your morning having amazing monkey sex with a gorgeous billionaire and are on your way to his penthouse to enjoy a delicious breakfast with him. A delicious breakfast, which I can only imagine he’ll be preparing for you while looking sinfully hot doing it. I seriously hate you, woman.”
I laugh. “I would probably have to hate me too. Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’m okay. But Joel’s going to be pissed.”
“Fuck him,” she says sharply. “The way you work? You deserve a night off and a little fun. You deserve to be happy, Avery.”
“I am,” I say, and it astonishes me how genuinely I mean it. My smile has hardly dimmed since Nick left the apartment.
To be honest, it’s barely dimmed since I met him.
“I have to run now, okay? He’s waiting for me upstairs.”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” she says, exhaling a quiet laugh. “Go on. Enjoy yourself. I’ll expect a full report tomorrow.”
~ ~ ~
Tasha was right. Nick does look sinfully hot making breakfast. She’d be even more jealous to know that not only is he amazing in bed, but he’s also incredible in the kitchen.
Seated on one of the tall barstools behind the island counter, I take a sip of my bubbly mimosa and stare in awe as he delivers two plates of perfectly prepared eggs Benedict that look like something out of a gourmet magazine. Fluffy poached eggs float atop a lightly browned English muffin stacked with a folded slice of Canadian bacon and a thin bed of dark green spinach. Creamy yellow Hollandaise sauce is artfully drizzled over the whole thing, with finely chopped green onions sprinkled on top. He’s finished off each plate with a colorful serving of cut fruit and juicy, ripe berries.
“When you said you were making breakfast, I pictured scrambled eggs and bacon. Maybe a slice of toast on the side. This meal is insane.”
His mouth curves. “I don’t believe in doing anything halfway.”
“So I’m noticing.” I smile up at him. “Lucky me.”
His gaze is locked on me, and the look he gives me makes my stomach flutter with something deeper than basic hunger. After a moment, he indicates for me to start eating. “Bon appetit.”
I slice into the egg and can’t hold back my moan as I savor the first decadent bite. Nick watches me the whole time, seeming in no hurry to dig in to his own meal. As I chew and swallow and sigh at the explosion of delicious flavors filling my mouth, his blue eyes glint with a spark of interest that’s nothing short of carnal.
Seeing desire that hot in his intense gaze makes my thoughts heat up too. It doesn’t help that he’s standing there shirtless and barefoot, wearing just a pair of faded jeans that hang low on his lean hips. For what certainly isn’t the first time, my eyes roam the muscled planes and ridges of his chest and arms and rippled abdomen.
He’s beautiful; there is no other word for him. Not even the tangle of angry scars that slash his right forearm and hand can diminish the masculine perfection of Nick’s body. His face is equally devastating—especially when he’s looking at me as if he’s about to leap over the counter and devour me.
“It’s good?” he asks.
“So good.” I lick my lips, uncertain what I find more appealing—him or the fantastic breakfast he prepared for me. “You cook better than a lot of chefs I know.”
“Is that right?” He seems surprised, flattered. He shrugs, but I can see the pride in his expression. And something else, which I’m tempted to call regret. “Cooking started out as therapy for me. A hobby I picked up many years ago when I needed to work to regain the use of my hand.”
He says this as if we both know what happened to him. I want to ask, but I don’t want to dampen this moment the way I sense forcing him to explain his scars to me would.
Leaning his hip against the counter, he crosses his muscled arms over his chest. “I cook now mainly because I enjoy it. It still helps me focus and recalibrate the way nothing else can. Almost nothing, that is.”
I smile as I stab a ripe, red strawberry on the end of my fork. “Well, I think you should know I’m feeling very spoiled right now.”
“Good. We’re only getting started.”
His smirk is dark with erotic promise, and I feel a mix of disappointment and relief when he finally breaks eye contact to pick up his fork and begin eating his breakfast over the counter. We eat in companionable silence for a few moments before he reaches for the bottle of champagne and refreshes my mimosa.
“No problems getting away from work, I hope?”
“No. No problems.” I give him a nonchalant shrug, hating the acid taste of my lie.
I should have told him before now what I do for a living. If he’d think less of me because I earn my paycheck serving drinks, then I’d be better off without him. I’d be smarter to find out now, while I can still break away from him with my heart and my sanity intact. That’s what I tell myself, but the fact that I’ve let the fib exist for this long only makes the truth seem all the further out of my reach.
“What about you?” I ask, trying to soothe my parched throat with a sip of champagne-spiked orange juice. “You’ve been gone for two weeks. I’m sure you have important business things you should be doing right now.”
He smiles as he chews a bite of his Benedict. “I can’t think of a single thing I need to be doing, business or otherwise. Except you, Ms. Ross. Which I mean to take care of just as soon as we finish here. You’re going to need sustenance for all the things I have in mind.”
I feel my cheeks flood with warmth, but I can’t resist teasing him. “Oh, now I see what’s going on here. This amazing meal isn’t so much about impressing me with your culinary skills as it is fueling
me up for a marathon in your bed.”
He chuckles, his eyes riveted on me. “Marathon, yes. Without a doubt. The bed is optional.”
I laugh with him, though inside my nerve endings thrum with anticipation. He leans forward to cup the side of my face in his palm, dragging me toward him for a long, slow kiss. Like always with Nick, just the barest touch, the briefest brush of his lips over mine, sends a rush of adrenaline through my veins. I can’t curb my response to him and there’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to try. I melt, I ache, I want . . . always for this man.
“God, you taste good,” he murmurs against my mouth as he deepens his claim. “I could eat you up right here and now.”
Yes. Yes, please, Nick. I start to say it, ready to give in to him—but at that same instant a cell phone trills with an incoming call. Nick’s phone is on the countertop where it’s been since I arrived. It rings again, vibrating against the black granite.
On a low growl, he slowly pulls away from me to glance at the device. I can’t help looking too—just a reflexive flick of my gaze to the name and photo illuminated on the display.
Lily Fontana.
She’s pretty. Jet black hair and milky white skin. A heart-shaped face that I put around my own age. Her smile is confident, her exuberant expression just as lovely as her name.
“I have to take this,” Nick says, holding the phone toward his chest. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”
I nod, because what else can I do? He walks away, into the living room to speak while I try not to feel awkward and out of place in his kitchen.
“Hello, Lily. Word travels fast, I see.” His voice is low, but it carries through the penthouse. “Yes, I got in this morning, actually.”
Although his tone with her is authoritative and firm, there is also a familiarity to their conversation—an intimacy—that kindles an unpleasant jealousy in my gut. I force myself to keep nibbling at my breakfast, even though my mouth feels parched and my stomach feels full for the weight of my disappointment.
