But my heart wasn’t in it. I’d left it back in Southern Oregon. How corny was that? But it was true. Even though Caroline didn’t exactly seem to feel the same way.
From the second we’d been rescued, I’d felt her pulling away. She’d shrunk further and further away from me with each mile we’d crossed returning her home. I didn’t want all that separation. I didn’t want any separation. I wanted her right next to me, preferably naked, all of the time.
My old life was waiting for me, just as I’d left it. But to me, it felt like my favorite pair of gloves didn’t fit any more. Nothing in my life had changed. The difference was me.
I called her as I said I would, texted her, emailed her, had fresh flowers delivered to her apartment, her bakery. But I couldn’t shake the sense that she was slipping from my grasp. I had to see her.
“Come out to New York.” I invited her as we spoke one evening, about five days back into our respective lives.
“I can’t.” She had all kinds of reasons. The bakery. The fact that she’d just gotten back, that she didn’t feel that excited about hopping on a plane again. Oh, and her family needed her.
They could all kiss my ass.
“I could come to you,” I suggested. “Or you could just fly out here for a weekend.” I suggested flight times, reminding her of the convenience of using my private plane. “With a pilot and a co-pilot,” I assured her.
Finally, when I FedExed a package to her filled with New York-related enticements, she relented.
“This bagel is amazing,” she said, and I could hear her chewing. I’d had my assistant assemble a box of goodies, from playbills of hit Broadway shows, to menus from the best restaurants, to a few of the delicious delicacies you could only find in our fair city.
“I will get you fresh bagels every morning you’re with me in Manhattan,” I promised her.
We agreed, she’d fly out on a Friday and return the following Tuesday. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. We had to figure out how this was going to work. I was set on it.
I made all sorts of wild plans, double and even triple-booking us into shows and events and restaurants because I didn’t know what she’d want to do but I wanted her to have her pick. I spared no expense, setting up time with a personal shopper for her to go wild with at Saks and Bloomies, reserving a room at the Harvard Club and inviting fifty of my closest friends and associates to a small, private cocktail hour on Sunday so they could meet her. I wanted to bowl her over, make her never want to leave, make her mine.
§
“This is where you live?” She looked around my penthouse the night she arrived, eyes wide. Something in her tone wasn’t entirely admiring.
“Yes, when I’m in New York.” I surveyed my penthouse, wondering how it appeared to her through her perspective. I’d hired an interior designer to furnish and decorate, of course. I hadn’t given any of it much thought. The designer had made standard choices as I’d instructed her, going slightly over-budget but that was to be expected, too. She’d designed more than one wealthy bachelor’s Manhattan penthouse and she knew how to get “the look”—everything top-of-the-line, tricked-out and operated via “smart” automation, with heating, lighting, electronics, entertainment system, and security all controlled remotely through the screen of my phone.
“Wow.” She nodded. A non-committal statement if ever I’d heard one.
“You can redecorate it if you’d like.” I wasn’t kidding. I’d give her the budget, the people to work with. I kind of liked the idea of her putting her mark on my space, making it our own.
She gave me a confused glance, either not interested or not taking me seriously. And I remembered once again, Caroline wasn’t the type of woman I was used to dating. Redecorating was a typical milestone many couples I knew reached together, the expected result of merging his and hers. Moving in together was never as simple as shoving clothes to one side of the closet. Decorators needed to be involved at the very least, hired to put the couple’s stamp on a space. And if an entirely new home wasn’t being purchased, knocking down walls and enlarging bathrooms and kitchens seemed the only other option.
“Come here,” I tried instead.
She looked up and, thankfully, came on over. Wrapping our arms around each other, we stood together in my living room, next to a wall of windows overlooking Central Park. She relaxed in my arms, resting her head against my chest. That was better.
“What can I do to make this less awkward?” I asked. It didn’t help to pretend things weren’t weird. They were, and the only way we could move forward was to put it out in the open.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Do you feel like French-influenced Thai for dinner?” I asked. “Or a little cozy Italian place?” She said nothing. “Should I cancel our dinner reservations?”
She nodded against my chest. “Maybe that’s a good idea. I know you had a lot planned for my visit, but I think I’d rather spend some time just hanging out with you.”
That was a nice thing for a woman to say. I’d had a lot of fawning and praise over the years from women I’d dated, gushing over the types of reservations and tables I could get us for dinner. I wasn’t sure I’d ever had someone truly express interest in simply hanging out. Unless that had been a polite term for “lets stay in and fuck.” Which, come to think of it, would be just fine with me if that was what Caroline wanted. I aimed to please.
“What do you have in your kitchen?” she asked, ever practical.
“I have no idea,” I answered, honestly, leading her into the spotless, state-of-the art kitchen I barely used. I’d turned on the microwave a few times to heat something up. I always kept beer and wine in the refrigerator. That was about it.
“Oh dear God,” she marveled, touching my cooktop like it was made of diamonds. “You have a six-burner Wolf range!”
“Do I?” I looked at it, noticing it for perhaps the first time. I’d of course wanted the best of everything for the entire penthouse, for resale value if nothing else. But that didn’t mean I took advantage of everything.
“Can I use it?” Her eyes shone with excitement.
“Be my guest.” I felt so grateful to see her free from the anxiety and hesitation I’d seen far too much of lately. I probably would have said yes to just about anything to get her to smile like that.
She made herself at home, rummaging around in my cabinets and drawers, shocked at my near-empty refrigerator, laughing at the sparse and random contents of my pantry.
“Crème Fraiche?” That was one of the few things I had in the fridge. “Vanilla beans? Imported anchovies from Spain?” Those were from the pantry. “What’s going on, Colt?” She held up the miscellany in amused disbelief.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “There’s not exactly a plan in place for me with food.” Sometimes I was given specialty, imported foods as gifts. Occasionally I stopped at the small, gourmet store nearby and purchased a few things on impulse. The crème fraiche was a prime example. It was good with strawberries.
“I eat out almost every meal.”
“That’s a shame.” She, again, had almost the exact opposite reaction of most people I knew. And, again, I found her delightfully refreshing. “Well,” she rubbed her hands together, surveying my kitchen. “I do enjoy a challenge.”
“And I enjoy watching you take one on.” I poured us both some wine, turned on some music and let her boss me around, peeling and dicing a couple carrots she found in a crisper, stirring a sauce she concocted on the burner.
“Keep stirring,” she’d admonish me when I got distracted. Which I did, frequently, with her right by my side. With us working together, there were plenty of casual opportunities to place a hand at her waist, the small of her back. Or brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Each touch made me want more, like a lick of a favorite ice cream you’d almost forgotten how much you’d loved. How could you have gone all this time without it?
“Does this seem too sweet to yo
u?” She had me taste something off a spoon, but all I could think of as I licked it was how much I wanted to taste her. She was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted and I wanted more.
“It’s good.” Satisfied by my response, she turned off the burners on the stove and set to combining different things, setting up our meal. I wasn’t paying too much attention. She had her hair drawn all to one side, baring her throat. I came up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, bringing my mouth down to her bare neck.
Starting with a gentle kiss, I licked and loved my way up to her ear. “I’ve missed you, Caroline,” I murmured. She leaned back into me, her busy hands stilling. I traced the edge of her ear with my tongue, then sucked on her soft lobe, giving it a light bite. “Have you missed me?”
“Yes,” she confessed, her voice a low whisper.
“I think about you all the time.” Slipping my hands under her shirt, I stroked her stomach, up, slowly up until I cupped her breasts in my large hands. Brushing my thumbs across her nipples, I felt them pebble, hard under my touch.
“Mmm,” she moaned, pressing her ass back against me, arching her back, winding her hand up and around into my hair. I reached down and pulled her shirt up and over her head. No need for that. She wore a demi-cup bra, so much of her generous mounds offered up for my pleasure. I reached in and pulled her breast up and out. I wanted full, unfettered access to those nipples. I’d been thinking about them every night. Both hands wrapped tight around her tits, I pulled her against me, grinding my erection into her ass.
“It’s been too long, Caroline,” I groaned. Too much distance between us, too much time. I needed her. I need to bury myself in her, feel her come around my cock.
“Yes,” she moaned in agreement, one hand back on my hip to pull me closer. I reached a hand down to her jeans, pressing against the seam, pushing against her clit.
“I need to feel you come, baby,” I told her, unbuttoning her jeans, pushing them down her hips. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Oh, yes.” She pushed her panties down, getting in on the action, as impatient as me. I smiled, liking to see the eagerness in her.
“First I want you to come quick, sweet Caroline.” I dipped my finger in, plunging it straight up into her slick, hot depths. She groaned and sank down on me, starting to fuck me all on her own. I pinched her nipple between my other fingers, loving the gasp she made, the way her eyes fluttered closed as she sank her head back against my chest.
“I want you to ride my fingers. Get off on me.”
“Oh!” She cried out and I felt a flood of wetness at my dirty talk. She bucked against my hand, two big fingers now thrusting up inside of her. My thumb against her clit, I finger-fucked her rough.
“Are you going to come for me?” I asked, harsh, pushing my cock against her ass. “Right here, now, how I want you to?”
She screamed, coming undone at my order, shivering and thrusting against my hand. I let her ride my fingers, drawing every last tremor out of her that I could.
“So good,” I praised her, dipping my mouth down to the curve between her neck and her shoulder. Kissing, gentle, my hand soothed her breast, her nipple, where I’d been so rough and demanding.
“Oh, Colt. I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too, Caroline. I want to show you how much all night.”
The dinner she’d cooked sat untouched and completely forgotten for several more hours as we attacked each other in the bedroom. Somewhere around one a.m. we stumbled back out into the kitchen, hair rumpled, my back red with scratches from her fingernails, her neck and breasts marked with my sucks and nips. But we both had huge smiles on our faces.
“It’s ruined,” she declared, surveying our dinner, but not sounding overly upset over it.
“I think I have some crackers.” I rummaged around in the pantry and did, indeed, find an unopened box. We spread crème fraiche on them, one at a time, sitting on the kitchen floor and feeding them to each other.
“You know what would make these taste even better?” I asked, already hard for her again.
“What?” she asked, a devilish gleam in her eyes. She knew where I was taking things.
“If you climbed on my lap and I had my cock inside you.”
“That would make the crackers taste better?” she asked, feigning innocent curiosity while climbing onto my lap.
“You’re going to love it.” I wrapped her legs around my waist, then positioned the crown of my cock at her entrance. She looked into my eyes as she sank down, taking me into her yet again. She closed them, tilting her chin up, gasping as I stretched her.
“You sore?” I asked, grasping her hips, angling her just right for a long, slow thrust. I had worked her hard for the past couple of hours.
“Yes,” she groaned in pleasure. She didn’t want me to stop.
“You’re so tight.” I drove up into her again, the perfect fit. If she weren’t so wet it might be hard to enter her fully, but she dripped for me, so sweet and juicy and turned on. It made it easy to plunge right in.
And there was the crème fraiche sitting next to us in a container. I wasn’t not going to spread it on her breasts and lick it off, slowly, savoring every moan. I seemed unable to stop smearing food on her, honey, coconut milk, crème fraiche. She was like a perfect meal in herself, all honeyed, succulent sweetness. I felt like I could sustain myself on her and her alone for the rest of my life.
“Thank you for coming to visit me in New York,” I said, enjoying the long, slow ride she was taking on my cock.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she returned, breathless.
“Thank you for cooking me dinner.”
“Thank you for feeding me dinner.”
I kissed her, both of us smiling as we moved in a lazy rhythm. That was all well and good. But another idea came to me just then. She was so inspiring.
“Caroline,” I murmured in her ear, my hands gentle at her waist.
“Yes, Colt?” she asked, so sweet.
“There’s something I need to do now.”
“Yes?” she asked, breathless with anticipation.
“I need to fuck you like an animal.”
I pulled her off me and positioned her on her hands and knees before me. Grabbing onto her ass, I thrust into her pussy with a long, strong stroke. Pushing into her, ramming in fast, I fucked her hard. She groaned and tried to keep her ground, using a hand to steady herself against the cabinets.
“That too rough, baby?” I asked. I wanted to take her and fuck her senseless, but I’d already used her hard that night. It might be too much.
“Fuck me harder,” she ground out, wild.
“Yes.” I fisted her hair in my hand and rode her, my huge cock ramming into her slick pussy again and again. “Take it.” My balls slapped against her, and I felt her clench, her thighs contracting, the noises from her mouth now just grunts and pleas.
“You going to take my come?” I asked, thrusting deep inside her. As I exploded into her, flooding her with my come, she came full and hard around my cock, crying out, gasping and screaming my name.
“Caroline,” I groaned, then stretched out, lying by her side, pulling her on top of me. “Yes,” I murmured, stroking her hair, holding her cheek to my chest. I wanted her to hear my heartbeat, feel how much my blood boiled for her. Only her. My Caroline.
CHAPTER 18
Caroline
Waking up in Colt’s arms, I closed my eyes again so I could savor how good it felt. His smell, his warmth, the solid strength of his powerful arms and thighs. As crazy as it sounded, in the 10 days we’d been apart I hadn’t slept nearly as well in my bed as I had on a life raft in a cave on a deserted island with him.
He’d made me feel safe, and he’d kept me safe, hydrated and well-fed, warm inside and out. Now that I’d returned to civilization, I had a whole new perspective on how much danger we’d actually faced. I’d had to block all that out of my mind while we’d been in the middle of it. Too much th
inking about all the bad things that could go wrong while you were in the middle of a life-threatening emergency actually threatened your life even more.
I’d been so completely in the moment, no worrying about consequences, no “what does that mean?” complications plaguing my mind as Colt and I grew closer. I’d simply let myself feel, let instinct govern my behavior. And I’d never felt so happy in all my life.
It could be like that again, I told myself as I nestled into him in his giant bed, underneath sumptuous sheets that had to be a thread-count I hadn’t previously known existed. 20 gazillion. I’d been psyching myself out over the past week and a half, worrying far too much about all of the differences between us in real life.
My family and friends hated him, openly talked about him as The Bad Guy. To them, he was a one percenter, the epitome of a Wall Street tycoon who’d robbed the little guy blind. The protest of his construction site—which, by the way, I had started—was still up and running strong. Construction had halted in our absence, but it hadn’t stopped. The grounds for the proposed site of the resort’s main building were still cordoned off with barbed wire. Giant excavators still sat poised and ready, their metal claws awaiting the command to dig the foundation.
And even when we spoke on the phone, even when I could hear the emotion in his voice, that he sincerely missed me, too, I couldn’t help always being struck by the contrast between our lives. I’d get up and bake scones in my faulty little banged up old oven, in my tiny shop where the roof leaked and the fog seeped through the cracks, peeling paint and flooring, giving the place a kind of weathered, shabby seaside feel no matter how much I scrubbed. I chit-chatted with patrons, none of them in a particular hurry. Most afternoons I’d go for a seaside walk, maybe taking a few minutes to sit and look out over the ocean. Especially lately, when my thoughts always turned back to my time stuck in the middle of it.
Colt hurtled through his day at easily five times the pace. Even when he caught a second to talk to me he’d usually be surrounded by other people, waiting for an associate at a restaurant, grabbing an Uber with a colleague or two to shuttle him between meetings. He’d break away from our conversation, apologizing with a “this will only take a minute,” and I’d hear him bark orders like a Drill Sergeant addressing his platoon. He spoke a foreign business language using terms I’d never heard of like framing, arbitration, accumulated cost recovery and DCR.
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