Bastard In A Sut (Book Three) (Bastard In A Suit 3)

by Ivy Carter

  The second pass slides across my abdomen.

  I open one eye. Duke stands by the side of the bed, shirtless, faded jeans hung low on his hips. My gaze goes first to his pelvis, and then to the flogger in his hand. His eyebrow rises.

  “Have I been a bad girl, Mr. Kingston?”

  His expression darkens and I’m instantly turned on. He passes the flogger over my lower belly, and down between my thighs. “Naughty girl,” he says. “You slept in. Your boss will be very upset.”

  I lift up onto my elbows. “Perhaps there is a way I can make him feel better?”

  Duke’s attention diverts to my hard nipples. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.

  I roll over onto my stomach and glance back over my shoulder. “Would you like to punish me, Mr. Kingston?”

  A low moan vibrates from his throat. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  I grab a fistful of the sheets and squeeze, bracing for the first thwack of Duke’s make-shift whip. The flogger comes down on my skin, and I bite my lip hard.

  “That didn’t hurt too badly did it, baby?”

  I love that he asks. It’s been weeks since I moved out of my apartment and into Duke’s penthouse. I donated most of my furniture to good will, but Onyx came with me. Duke, a self-proclaimed cat hater didn’t hesitate to adopt him, even gave him his own room.

  “Just enough,” I say. He leans down, hot breath against my skin, and leaves a trail of kisses across my bare ass. His wet mouth soothes the burn of the flogger. We’ve talked about buying new toys, but there’s something sentimental about this one.

  Duke drops the flogger and climbs on top of me, straddling my lower back to rub his hands up and down my spine. He kneads his knuckles into my muscles, easing out any residual tension after yesterday’s long day at work.

  His hands are soothing, magical. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to get enough.

  He leans forward to push the hair off my shoulder, and then kisses the back of my neck. Pleasure ripples down my spine. His mouth skims across my back and down to my ribs. He nibbles on the side of my waist and I flinch. “Ticklish,” I say, through a giggle.

  He nips again. “You don’t say,” he chuckles.

  Duke gently moves off me and rolls me onto my back. Without breaking eye contact, his fingertips dance across my breasts until they catch on my nipples. He pinches them hard enough to make me gasp. His mouth cups one and he starts to suck, as if pulling the pain from them. My body goes pliant.

  As his mouth moves down my stomach, one hand slides between my legs and pushes them open. His finger slides along my slit, already slick with arousal. He looks up at me through hooded lashes. “You’re always so wet for me, baby.”

  I close my eyes and arch my neck, basking under the heat of his breath as his mouth moves between my thighs. He inhales deep.

  “Jesus, Duke…”

  His tongue flicks my tight clit. I gasp and arch my pelvis toward his mouth. He takes it between his lips and lightly sucks. My hands cup my own breasts, squeezing hard enough to divert my attention from the intensity of Duke’s heat.

  His tongue swirls, and flicks, and slides across my pussy with slow, rhythmic strokes. Fast, or slow, it’s always the same—his mouth is magical, even more skilled that his touch, and I feel my first orgasm begin to build.

  I clench his head between my legs and he puts his hands on my knees to spread them wide. This push pull has become part of our routine, his need for dominance warring with my newfound independence. I squeeze my legs together again and he buries his tongue inside me. It darts in and out, increasing in speed and pressure.

  “I’m going to come,” I pant.

  The words barely leave my lips before a tidal wave of pleasure seems to come from nowhere. My body shudders under the intensity of the orgasm and I thrash on the mattress, grabbing his hair, the sheets, anything within reach. It’s as though every release is more intense than the last.

  When at last my body stops trembling, Duke flicks his tongue across my clit and raises his head. His lips glisten with my wetness. I crook a finger and motion for him to come closer. He gives me a devilish grin and crawls up my stomach, pausing to kiss the parts of me that are most sensitive and ticklish—the inside of my thighs, the thin band of skin where my abdomen meets my pelvis, the underside of my breasts.

  Finally, his mouth hovers over mine. When he dips forward to kiss me, I loop my arms under his and roll him over so I can straddle him. My fingers hook into his briefs and release his cock. “Thatta boy,” I murmur.

  My tongue trails down his pelvis and slides along his throbbing shaft. I circle the head of his cock, and then take it into my mouth. He gasps. “Jesus, Hailey.”

  My mouth slides up and down his length. I use one hand to grip the base of his cock while the other fondles his balls. His hand finds its way into my hair and he gently pushes down on my skull. I take him deeper into my mouth, sucking harder and faster.

  “I love you, Hailey,” he whispers.

  I lift my head and our eyes lock. My heart swells against my ribcage. Slowly, I tug his briefs off and toss them on the floor. Straddling him again, I guide his cock inside me. He gasps on entry. I still, savoring that first penetration, the way he fills me completely and fully, and then begin to move my hips.

  He massages my breasts, flicking his thumb across my nipples.

  I tilt my head back and grind into him. My clit rubs against the base of his cock, causing my pussy to clench. I place one hand on his chest and move faster, maintaining eye contact.

  He bucks beneath me. His hands grab my hips and hang on as I fuck him. “I love to watch your tits bounce,” he almost growls. His voice unfurls another burst of energy and I rock faster against him. I’m so fucking wet and turned on it’s about to send me over the edge. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Hailey.”

  Our bodies find rhythm and I lean forward to grip the headboard. He thrusts and I hang on tight. My pussy clenches around him. My breathing gets louder, I start to pant.

  “It’s coming,” I cry out.

  “Now?”

  I begin to pant. “Now.”

  He thrusts hard into me and I scream, “Fuck, Duke. Now. Now. Now…”

  I feel him spasm just as my own release hits. I ride the crest as tingles wrack my body and at last, I fall limp onto his chest. I swear I can feel his heartbeat thump against mine.

  “You are amazing,” I say.

  His fingertip trails along my back and draws circles on my skin. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he says and kisses the top of my head.

  I close my eyes, savoring this moment, until he taps my shoulder. “Coffee?”

  “Got an IV?”

  He chuckles. “I think that can be arranged.” I roll off him and spread eagle on the mattress. He kisses my forehead and then climbs out of bed and into a pair of plaid pajama pants. “I’ll see you in our kitchen.”

  Our kitchen. Sometimes I still pinch myself, thinking about how far we’ve come. I get out of bed and throw on my robe, tying it tight. As I make my way to the kitchen, I throw my hair up into a ponytail. Duke hands me a coffee in my “I’d Kill For a Coffee” mug and I follow him to the balcony.

  The sun is just beginning to rise over sleepy Chicago and I breathe in the fresh air. This is my favorite time of the morning, conversation and coffee as we prepare for the day.

  Duke tentatively passes me the newspaper. My eyes lock on the front-page story. Kingston Industries is back in the news—Jake will stand trial for murder and the Microtracker is a key piece of evidence. I sigh, both saddened and relieved.

  “I’d like to ask Forrest to work on my team,” I say. Things between us have been awkward, distant. But when the trial is over, I’ve assembled a group of keen innovators to begin work on the MicroTracker again, with a much stronger focus on making the device safe for commercial use. “He was with me on this in the beginning—he should be there with me now.”

  Duke sips his coffee. I anticipate an argumen
t, but he gently nods. “I agree.”

  I’m unable to hide my shock. “You do?”

  Duke threads his fingers through mine. “It’s your department, Hailey. I have full trust in your judgment.”

  My chest swells. I’ll never forget the pride in my Dad’s voice when I called to share news of my promotion to head of technology and innovation. “Good. With Forrest’s help, we’ll develop a product so safe the masses will not only feel safe using it, they’ll demand it. Even you.”

  “I look forward to it,“ Duke says. “Who knows, maybe I’ll have to use the MicroTracker on you some day.” He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses my fingers. “Just in case you ever have a hard time finding your way back to me.”

  “You’ll never have to,” I say, softly, emotion clogging in the back of my throat. “I don’t plan on ever being lost again.”

  THE END

  We hope you enjoyed this series! If you want to know the moment the next Ivy Carter book is released, and get alerted to more of the hottest deals in romance—sign up now to the Favor Ford Romance newsletter!

  Please continue on to read the entire Boss Me series by Eva Grayson, included as special bonus content for this edition of Bastard in a Suit!

  Bonus Content: Boss Me Good (Boss Me, Book One)

  Emme

  Damn it.

  I can’t get him off my mind.

  I nibble on the end of my pen and take another furtive glance at the door, where Dane Rossi is most likely holed up behind his massive mahogany desk, scrutinizing a pile of papers.

  My boss is a perfectionist, with a finely tailored Armani suit that hugs his chiseled body, clean-cut brown hair and welcoming smile—for clients, of course, manufactured but quite believable for those who don’t assume the way I do that it’s all just a mask.

  Something about that cool elegance, disguising what I suspect is something deeper, something I imagine few people ever get to see, just makes me crave him even more.

  It’s ridiculous how much the man stirs my blood.

  Ridiculous and borderline embarrassing. But I can’t stop fantasizing about feeling his big hands on my bare skin. His warm mouth caressing mine. Not once has he ever looked at me with an ounce of heat in his eyes—not that I’ve ever seen, anyway. This stupid crush of mine is getting out of control, yet I’m powerless to stop these feelings.

  The overhead lights shut off an hour ago, since the last person in the building except Dane has gone home, and now it’s just me, Dane’s personal assistant, waiting until I too can depart.

  I’m sitting at my desk right outside of his office at eight pm on a Wednesday night, with no real social life to speak of, working by a single lamplight.

  In yet another futile effort to stop thinking about my boss, I stare hard at the textbook open in front of me until my eyes feel like they’re crossing. I can’t focus on my classwork right now, and I finished all my regular work a half hour ago, so there’s nothing left to do. The silence in here is deafening, so unlike how it is during the day. There’s not a peep from behind his door. Did he sneak out without me knowing? Probably not, since there’s still a soft glow coming from the crack underneath his door.

  My fingers itch to reach for my purse, to grab my journal and spill out all my thoughts about this day. No, not here, I tell myself. It’s dangerous enough that I even carry it around with me. But ever since I was a kid, journaling has been my way of venting stress, working out my issues, and purging my secrets. Plus it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than therapy. And there are times when I just can’t wait until I get home at night to bare my soul to someone, something, anything.

  After another ten minutes dragging on, with the words in the textbook still blurring before my eyes, I give in and grab my journal. I whip the book open to a fresh page and write the date at the top.

  Today has been…interesting.

  I pause and brush my fingers along the leather edge of the cover, well worn and soft from regular use. I continue scrawling on the thick journal paper.

  My morning class was cancelled since the prof was sick and couldn’t find a TA in time, so I sat in the commons with a cup of coffee and watched everyone on campus. All these young girls, clustered together, giggling and wearing tight clothes to attract attention. I just don’t feel like any of them. Even when I was in undergrad, I never connected with others my age, but part of that was probably my fault, I’m sure. Mostly from not going to parties or socializing outside of class, even though I did get a couple of invitations that first year. But I couldn’t just ditch my brother to go enjoy myself, could I?

  Anyway, when I got to work and slipped into our daily meeting to take notes, Dane got pissed at Carl, who hadn’t completed the color survey with one of our new clients, a big corporation we recently snagged from a massive design firm—a huge achievement on our part. Carl’s lazy, and he totally had the ass-chewing coming. I can’t count the number of times that balding prick has tried to pawn his work off on me, acting as if he’s doing me a favor by giving me “real business experience.” Thanks so very much, douche. I might not be your age, and no I’m not done with my schooling yet, but I’m not an idiot. I hate that he treats me like one. Like I’m a slave here to do all the shit he thinks is beneath him.

  Anyway, when Carl stutteringly admitted in the meeting that he hadn’t yet done his work, Dane’s voice dropped to a low growl, almost inaudible. I could see a slow throb in the pulse on the side of his neck. His eyes slit just a fraction, and his nostrils flared. But he never yelled at Carl, not once.

  Somehow, the man’s so much more…dangerous when his anger is quietly controlled. Like all that suppressed emotion is coiled up in him, just waiting for an opportunity to be freed. Does he ever release it? Does he go home and punch a bag, or run, or drink? How does he vent the day’s stresses?

  As he quietly gave Carl the business, I couldn’t stop staring at him. And…my panties got wet. I know, it’s crazy, and I feel super embarrassed even admitting that. But it’s true. And if I can’t tell you, my dear journal, who else can I confess my darkest sins to?

  I don’t know why he makes me so hot when he’s mad like that. Maybe it’s how there’s a spark of realness in his eyes whenever he gets in that zone, not just that impersonal, formal persona he puts on around us in the office. But I imagine what it would feel like if Dane got passionate, fired up beyond the point of suppression, then got it out all of his system by slamming me against the meeting room wall and fucking me. Pounding me over and over again until I was raw and sore and thoroughly pleasured and begging him to stop—but not really meaning it, of course.

  Because if he ever looked at me with more than professional courtesy, if he ever put his hands on my body, I’d never want him to quit.

  I stop writing then and press a hand to my warm cheeks. Just thinking about it has made that low pulse in my belly return, and I struggle to control my breathing and keep it quiet. Biting my lower lip hard helps curb my rampant emotions.

  This craving for Dane is getting out of control. I can’t believe the feelings he brings out of me. No man has ever made me hurt and ache like this, like my body is both fire and ice at the same time. Just being in a room with him makes me throb all over, makes me feel feverish. I try so hard to keep a calm, even composure around him so he’ll never guess what I’m thinking.

  Actually, to tell the truth, I don’t know why I bother hiding how I feel. Dane isn’t going to notice me that way—he sure as hell hasn’t so far. I’m not insanely sexy. I don’t have huge, round breasts or super-long legs or glossy hair or a flirty style, like some of the girls who drop by to see him for lunch dates or whatever. I’m not overly witty and charming and dynamic.

  I’m just me.

  It’s not that I’m not proud of who I am—I work damn hard at school and in the office, and I’m honest and caring. But he and I are leagues apart. Worlds apart.

  And even if he did happen to see me as more than just a plain girl, he’s my boss. Nothing
can ever happen with us, so I guess it’s good that it never will. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting it like I need my next breath of air. It won’t stop me from writing all of these fantasies down, if only to purge them from me. Maybe someday I can get ov—

  My cell phone vibrates, startling me mid-word. I drop the pen and scramble for my phone, slamming the journal shut. The home phone line’s number pops up on my cell’s caller ID.

  “Emme,” my brother says, his voice sounding slightly ragged when I answer.

  “Hey, Robert,” I say evenly, struggling to tuck my errant emotions back deep, deep inside my heart. My brother has no idea how I feel about Dane. No one does. And no one ever will. I shove up from my desk and move to the women’s restroom, where I can talk to him in private for a minute. Not that I think Dane will eavesdrop on me, but I don’t want him knowing I’m taking a personal call when we’re still at work, even if it’s just him and I here. Since Robert knows not to call me while I’m in the office, something must be wrong for him to do so now. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly. “What’s going on?”

  My brother exhales loudly, and I can’t help the uneasy feeling that instantly settles in my chest, though I try to fight the kneejerk reaction back. “It’s just…it’s late, and you’re not home yet,” he says.

  I swallow and make my next words neutral, soothing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was going to be at work this long. Dane is still here, and you know I can’t leave until he does.”

  That was one of the clear rules when I got hired—Dane won’t make me put in one minute more of work than he does, but if he’s here and I’m not on campus, I’m here too, since he relies heavily upon my help to get his multitude of tasks done. Most of the time we don’t stay too late, but there are the occasional late nights that keep me burning the midnight oil. That’s how it is when your boss is the owner of the company.