by Amelia Wilde
He groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Start at the beginning?”
I scoot over a couple of inches, and he wraps his arm around my shoulders. It feels so good that I wish we could drive around forever. How much money does need in order to drive around forever? For the first time in my life, I’m considering a career that will end with me having exactly that much money. I don’t allow myself to think of the fact that Beau probably already has that much money. Not much, anyway.
“I met her when I first started going to Overton,” he says. I try to detect why he sounds wistful. If it’s because Kinsey used to be nice, then—“She was always . . . she’s always been the same.”
Good. “What happened?”
He sighs. “There were five of us who hit it off quickly. We lived in the same dorm—Hawthorne House. Within the first few months, we started spending time with a group of five girls who lived across campus. Theirs was called Heather House. God, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud.”
“It sounds like a fantasy.”
“A fantasy?”
“I would have killed to go to four years of school in the same place. Ever,” I admit.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t look down on it.” There’s a pause. “It’s one of those things that doesn’t make any sense once you’re on the outside looking in.”
“Why is she showing up at the Pearl?”
“She . . . always liked me,” he admits. There it is.
“Did you date?”
Might as well come right out with it.
“Very briefly,” he says, glancing over. “It didn’t work out, but she never left our group. When we graduated, there were seven of us who had stuck together through college. Kinsey was one of the women. A girl named Laura was the other. Is the other, I should say. It sounds so morbid to use the past tense.”
“Is this Laura going to show up here, too?” Do I sound jealous? I hope I don’t sound jealous. I’m the one tucked next to him in the back seat, after all. Still . . . if this goes south, they’re the ones who will be there to pick up the pieces. I’ll be long gone.
“I have no idea.” He makes a weary sound. “West is up to something with the show. Opening night is in two weeks.”
“Up to something like what?” I’m dying to know. I don’t have friends who do this kind of thing. “Like . . . a reunion? That’s what he said the other day.”
“A reunion, yes. But as for the scale, I have no idea.”
“But you passed up dinner plans.”
Beau puts his fingers under my jaw and turns my face toward his. “I did. I agreed to it before I got called away on that business trip. Now there are more important things to do.” He bends and presses his lips against mine, and it’s a sheer, deep pleasure that runs all the way down my spine. I lose track of how long he’s kissing me. I’m lost in the sensation of his hands against my spine, running down over my waist, my hips, to the front of my jeans, hooking a finger inside . . .
When I resurface, I’m panting.
“We’re here,” he whispers.
I whip my head around to look out the window. It’s a restaurant, not the entrance to the kind of upscale building I’ve always imagined him to live in. “Dinner?” It comes out as a plea.
“Dinner,” he says firmly.
I take one deep breath to fortify myself, then follow him out of the car, the heat between my legs impossible to ignore.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beau
We’re waiting for the bill when Annabel finally breaks.
“Beau,” she says urgently, her hands hooked on the edge of the table. “I don’t understand it.”
“They’re slow at bringing the bill.”
“No,” she says, her lips curving up in a smile. “Why are we here and not in my suite? Or at the gorgeous penthouse I’m assuming you own?”
“It’s true. I do live in a penthouse.”
She grits her teeth. “You are holding out on me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I mean—” Annabel blow a breath out through her rounded lips. “I know you’ve had important . . . business things to take care of. From the way you kiss me, I know you can’t possibly want to leave.” She narrows her eyes. “Is that it? Are you looking for reasons to be elsewhere?” She keeps her tone light, but I can hear the seriousness in her words.
My heart thumps in a wild rhythm, once and then twice. She doesn’t see it that way, does she? Work has always been the highest priority. There is no other choice when your success is based on such critical projects. The latest development from Edgar Sykes certainly fits that bill. I’m reaching for my phone before I realize what I’m doing. I stop and fold my hands on the surface of the table.
“No. Not at all.”
Her eyes go even wider. “You’re not—”
“No.” I don’t risk even the slightest glance away. “That’s not it, either.” This is not easy for me to say. It’s not easy to be this way with anyone, but in Annabel’s case, it’s too much of a risk not to be truthful with her. “You’re too important for a quick fuck.”
She stops breathing.
“I—” I sit up straight and reach across the table for her hand. “That was crossing the line.”
“It was not,” she breathes, her cheeks going pink. I can see the color even in the candlelight. “I don’t know where you think the line is, Mystery Man, but you haven’t even approached it yet. You’re not even close.”
Jesus, I want her. I know what I said, but I want her. Still, there’s an element of truth to it. I want to spend hours with Annabel. I want her to know what it is to be worshipped. I want her to know what it is to be claimed.
The way she’s staring at me right now, eyes dark with heat, is the key that unlocks everything else. It’s pointless to worry that I’m moving too fast with her, that I’m going to ruin what little time she thinks she has with me. That’s the cowardly approach, and I’m done with it. For once I’m done moving slowly, considering every angle.
I’m going to take Annabel Forester.
I’m going to make her mine.
As soon as the waiter comes with the bill.
*****
As soon as Winston pulls the car away from the curb, I take Annabel’s face in my hands and look into her eyes. “You have a choice to make.”
“Your place,” she answers before I’ve even posed the question.
“Home, please, Winston,” I say, and then I stab at the button to raise the partition separating us from the front of the car.
The second it connects with the ceiling, she pounces.
She jumps on top of me with such force that it sends me rocking backward into the door. Annabel straddles me, her legs stretching wide over my hips. Her lips meet mine with a fiery intensity, and she wriggles her hips, working herself downward until her pussy is grinding against my cock.
There are too many layers of fabric between us.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and tug them down. We don’t have the kind of time I want to spend fucking her, but she’s ravenous, desperate, and kissing her isn’t enough. Not now. Not anymore.
Her jeans, stretchy and tight, are at their limit when I stop tugging them down. The waistband rests below the curve of her ass, and there is enough room—just enough—for me to glide my hand between us, between her legs.
I drag my fingertips through her wetness—Jesus, she’s already soaked—and she moans at the first touch, her hips rocking back and forth. Annabel pulls away and presses her lips into my neck. “Why?” she gasps. “Why did you wait so long?”
I find her clit with the pad of my thumb and circle it, slowly, evenly. “I don’t know.”
She pushes herself backward, meeting my eyes even as I stroke her slit. Her eyelids are fluttering. She keeps her gaze on mine. I hope this image of her, legs spread wide, holding on for dear life, is burned into my mind forever. “Pleas
e don’t wait anymore,” she groans.
“I’m not waiting.”
“Please don’t wait ever again.”
“I won’t.”
She takes my shirt in her hands, clenching fistfuls of the fabric. “Please.”
“I promise you,” I tell her, circling her clit again. Her body trembles against me. I lock one hand on her hips to keep her in place. It makes her shudder, makes her dance. “I will never torture you like this again.”
She sucks in a breath.
“Unless you want it.”
“I definitely want it,” she says through clenched teeth. “I want to be yours.” Her voice drops for the last words, and it strikes me like lightning that this is Annabel at her rawest, at her most vulnerable. I love it.
I love her.
I love her.
There’s no rational explanation.
I don’t need one.
“Come for me,” I growl into her ear. It’s enough to set her off. Her hips jerk again, again, and there’s another gush of sweetness flooding over my fingertips.
When she’s spent, she drops her head against my shoulder.
I let her stay like that for a long few minutes.
I don’t mention the fact that we’ve been parked since she told me she’d be mine.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Annabel
Beau holds me in his arms while the private elevator whisks us up to the penthouse on the sixteenth floor.
For the first time in my life, I am weak in the knees.
“Does this go any faster?” I whisper to Beau.
He laughs. “Unfortunately, no.”
I turn in his arms, angling my face up to kiss him. “I wish it would hurry up. I’m not done with you yet.”
He pulls me in close, his muscled arms circling me completely. “Were you under the impression that I was done with you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says into my ear. “I’m not.” Then he pulls back again, remembering himself. God, I wish he’d forget himself completely. I’m a live wire, and I want him on my level. “Unless that was enough for you, in the car—”
“What did you hear when I said I’m not done with you yet?” I put my arms around his neck and kiss down his jawline. “I want you, Beau Bennett. I wanted you the first day we met. And you have been torturing me by making me wait this long.”
“I did make you a promise,” he murmured.
“Stop the elevator, and prove to me that you meant it.”
He shakes his head and laughs, the sound husky. “No need. We’re there.”
The elevator doors open onto an empty hallway with a door at the other end. There are no other doors. This is a penthouse. He owns the entire floor. He probably owns the entire building, but I don’t care. All I care about is where he keeps his bed. Or a sofa. Anywhere, as long as I can get his hands on me again. And his lips. And his cock inside me.
He hustles me down the hallway, takes his phone from his pocket, and taps it on the door above the handle. And I thought the sensors at the Pearl were high-end. This one is hidden in plain sight.
We step inside, into a hush that’s as luxurious as anything else in the penthouse. In New York City silence like this costs a fortune. It strikes me that Beau has not been exaggerating. Hotel chains are definitely not his only business. So what’s his secret side job? I’m curious.
But not that curious. Not now. “Oh, it’s so quiet.”
“We can turn on music, if you’d like,” Beau says, thumb poised over the screen of his phone.
“No,” I tell him, taking in everything I possibly can in a single glance. There will be time to see more of this later. And if there isn’t . . . I try to tell myself that this isn’t the only penthouse in New York City. Or even the only wealthy man. But none of that rings especially true. There is no one like Beau in the city. In the world. “Do you know what I want?”
“Tell me what you want, Annabel. Anything.”
“I want to know where your bedroom is.”
*****
It’s a blank canvas.
It’s only after I’ve had thirty seconds in the room that I register the personal touches.
There aren’t many. A small bookshelf with a row of books. A few paintings strategically framed and hung on the walls. The bed is the centerpiece. He must have staff, because it is meticulously made.
I can’t wait to destroy it.
Beau has the same idea.
He moves to the bed and takes the decorative pillows, with their heather-gray shams, off first, stacking them next to the bed. This reveals two pristine pillows, white pillowcases practically gleaming, behind them.
When he turns from the bed, I can see in his eyes how much he needs this. I can see in those green eyes, electric with heat, that he’s been trying his hardest to go about all of this in such a way that he’s never vulnerable, that he never makes a risky decision.
He is now, standing in the center of his bedroom.
Or is he?
He draws himself up, and I can hardly breathe at the sight of him. Meticulous. That’s what comes to mind. He is meticulous, methodical, and it hits me that this doesn’t mean he’s going to be boring. It means he’s going to be thorough. It means that once he lets his guard down, anything can happen.
And God as my witness, I hope it does.
He keeps his eyes on me as he reaches for the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. He unbuttons one, then the other. Once those are freed, he undoes the top button on his shirt, then the second.
I’m still staring when the shirt falls to the carpet.
When the undershirt goes, it has me scrambling to follow suit.
Beau is unbelievably hot. Every muscle is carved, defined. He doesn’t waste any time in the gym, that much is clear.
I whip my shirt over my head and shimmy out of my jeans. It’s getting hard to breathe.
In the silence he crosses the room, his eyes lingering on my body. He puts his hand on the side of my neck and kisses me, long and deep, before he allows himself another look.
“Jesus,” he says under his breath.
Then he reaches around behind me and unhooks my bra.
“Annabel,” he says, the sound barely audible.
This man, this gorgeous man, bends to slide my panties down my legs and off to the floor.
I’m utterly naked in front of him.
I’ve never felt so shy in all my life. I’ve been with plenty of men, in far more dangerous situations, but I’ve never felt shy. Not like this.
I savor the feeling, head held high.
Oh God, this is the sweet spot.
Then he pulls down his boxers.
I have no more words.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Beau
Annabel rides me with complete abandon, her head tossed back, hands pressing into my chest, her entire body thrown into the movement.
I cannot get enough of her. I will never get enough of her.
She takes me in deep, rocking her hips against me, and there’s nothing but an all-encompassing heat and wetness as her muscles work over my cock.
I don’t know what I’ve been doing, wasting my time with any other woman. I should have been spending every waking moment searching the earth for her.
I run my hands over that sweet line from her waist to her hips and hold on tight, controlling the movement, containing it so that every thrust is enhanced. I’m so deep inside her that there’s nowhere else to go, but her face is a mask of pleasure. She has her eyes squeezed shut, and her hair has come loose from its elastic. It spills down her back, and there’s nothing I want to do more than gather it in my fingers and tug.
So I do.
The extra arch in her back, her full, perfect breasts thrust out toward me another inch, sets me off.
Annabel lifts herself up, riding me harder, faster. She tightens around me—I can’t tell if it’s on purpose, and I don’t care—and it’s the last blow to my restraint. I
want to stay with her like this until the end of time, but men aren’t angels. We can’t last forever. And I don’t.
I take her by the hips and roll over, pinning her back against the bed. I lower my mouth to her collarbone as I thrust in deep. Once, twice, and the third time it’s too much. I release into her with such intensity that my vision goes gray at the edges, spots appearing in front of my pupils like tiny, shining gems.
When I can move again—when I’m sure I won’t lose consciousness from moving a single muscle—I roll to the side. Annabel lies with her head on my pillow, hair flung in a dark tangle on the white pillowcase, the rest of her body splayed wide on the bedspread. She’s smiling, eyes closed, and it’s one of the most breathtaking sights I’ve ever seen.
Then she bites her lip.
I know what that means.
I trace two fingertips down the line of her face, and then I keep going lower. Her hands are thrown above her head, and as I circle her nipples, already standing out from the swells of her breasts, she starts to bring them down. “Keep them above your head,” I tell her. Annabel sucks in a tiny breath and bites down harder on her lip. I circle the other nipple, taking my time, and feel the tension through my fingertips. This is Annabel deciding. She’s deciding whether she’s going to be a woman who can take a command in bed.
I trace lower on her belly, toward her belly button. Her muscles work.
She keeps her hands above her head, bringing them together so the wrists are crossed.
I don’t belong to a club. I’m not a dom in that sense. But once in a while, when there’s a woman like Annabel, it can make things deliciously intense.
Annabel is already spread wide for me, but this time I’m in no hurry when I stroke along the length of her slit.
“Oh,” she says softly. I take that as my cue to delve in with two fingers. I fuck them in and out of our combined juices.
Annabel’s legs start to tremble, her knees creeping toward each other. “No, love, keep them spread.”
A moan escapes her then. She opens her legs farther, her back arching. I bury the fingers inside her, keeping the rhythm agonizingly steady. I know it’s agonizing because as hard as Annabel tries to keep herself still on the bed, she can’t stop her hips from jerking back and forth.
