This isn’t some coyote-ugly situation.
Thank. Fuck.
“Ah, so you weren’t my knight in shining armor,” I tease, tongue in cheek. “But a stalker.”
The richness of his chuckle surprises even him. I can tell. He looks almost shocked that he can be amused. As though he can’t believe it’s possible for him to laugh anymore.
Such engrained sorrow disturbs me. What made him like that? The war? Life? I don’t know… I’d like to find out.
This man of few words has me on the edge of my seat, wanting to know more.
I’m in dangerous territory, but who can resist a brooding hunk?
I know I can’t.
“Well, I wouldn’t class myself as a stalker, honey. But you never know. I guess it depends on how deep you hook your claws into me.”
Tapping my nails against the scratched and scarred tabletop, I curl my fingers, lifting them to my mouth and blow along my nails as though I’ve just painted them. Then, proffering them to him, say, “I doubt they can do much damage.”
My nails are short. Practical. And un-lacquered. Unlike Marina and Eddie who seem to change the color of their nails every day of the week. I only bother to paint my toes.
If I could ask why he’d been watching me, why his eyes had been on me and not them, without sounding needy or insecure, I would have. Instead, I keep quiet and stop myself from messing up a good thing.
The more I see him in unflattering or flattering light—either way works just fine for Zane—the more attractive I realize he is. It’s also more astounding that he’s settled for little old me, but in light of this new information, he hasn’t settled. I’ve been chosen by him.
And suddenly, my self-esteem shoots up another ten notches. I hate the fact that a guy has done that. Twenty-first century or not, a woman should not be relying on a man to feel good. But dammit, when a man looks this fine, how can I not be pleased?
Hell, how can I not gloat?.
“Where are you staying?” I ask, hoping he’ll make an invitation of his own.
Smiling a little as he accepts my hand and curls his own fingers about mine, he says, “Oh, just the Kensington Park.”
I chortle at the use of the word just with the Kensington Park hotel. There’s no just about it. A boutique hotel in central Manhattan, it costs a bomb to stay there. I only know because Eddie works there as PA to the MD of the company.
“Wow, you’ve really made it, huh?” I mutter with a low whistle. “I thought all writers were struggling artists.”
He shrugs and for a moment, looks completely uncomfortable. “I’ve done okay, I guess.”
There’s made it, and then there’s the Kensington Park made it. But rather than argue, when I know it has to be anything but okay to afford those kinds of prices, I let the topic drop. I’m not interested in the man’s pockets, more like what lies between them.
“I can’t wait to find one of your books. Are you sure you don’t write under a pseudonym? Why haven’t I heard of you?”
“Mustn’t be your kind of genre,” he murmurs with a shrug and looks away. The discomfort I noticed earlier when discussing his work has reappeared. I don’t want to give it a chance to fester and spoil the moment.
So, I change the subject again and ask, “Do you want to show me your hotel room?”
“Ouch,” he mutters with a grin. “First base, thanks to my hotel room. I could be staying in a cardboard box down in the basement. Complete with fleas and mites. Does that hold the same appeal?”
Rather than reply, I allow my foot to slip out of my shoe and slip it between his legs. “If that’s the case, I’ll give it a chance.”
His brows lift and his eyes widen as my foot nudges his cock, rubbing along the length. I’m surprised at my own audacity, so it’s no wonder he is. “Really? Want me, want my cardboard box?”
Slowly, I nod and let my foot move away. The sensitive flesh of the sole tingles with sensory memory of that hardness against my flesh. Christ, I’m wet already. By the time he does anything in any way sexual with me, I’ll be a pile of molten goo.
And you know what? I’m not entirely averse to that thought.
With his hand still in mine, he stands and tugs me up and on to my feet. Before I can do anything, he pulls out three ten dollar bills from his pocket, places them on the table underneath a sweating glass of soda, and pulls me out of the booth before I can do more than squeak in complaint.
I only get a chance to glare at him, when we’re outside and sitting in a taxi.
“You did it again.” I whine. Despite myself, I can’t help it. I’m charmed. Not every southern boy is a gent, just like not every southern girl is a lady. Chivalry is a dying trait, even down south, but still, that Zane had been taught it, gets to me like wildfire. Being treated with respect is thrilling. After years of marriage to a man who didn’t give a damn about me or my wants, to come face to face with someone who does is heady stuff.
I’ll willingly pay my way. It’s not like I can afford it, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll do it. Going Dutch, at a minimum, is only fair. And I’m nothing if not fair.
Didn’t I, the only spouse who brought any income into the household, who paid for everything from eggcups to a TV set, agree to go halves with all our worldly possessions when Dan and I got divorced?
You can’t say fairer than that, can you?
Either that or I’m a moron.
Could be that makes more sense.
“I’ll pay for something,” I promise him, the words a warning.
He merely smiles. “How about breakfast in bed, tomorrow?” In the shadowed cab of the taxi, I can see the gleam of his white teeth as his grin widens. “Did that sound as corny as it sounded to me?”
“Yeah,” I admit with a chuckle. “It did. But I’ll pay for breakfast in bed, with pleasure.”
There’s a huge smile on my face as I turn to look out of the window. As my head turns, my eyes are caught by the taxi driver’s in the rear-view mirror. It’s only then that I realize the driver is a woman and that she’s looking at me with an amused, envious, damn-I-wish-I’d-seen-him-first look. My smile merely increases in power and the strange woman winks at me in congratulations.
That moment of female camaraderie was most peculiar, but it was confirmation that this man is a sex god. And I’m about to have him in my bed. Or should I say his? Aagh.
New York is as manic as ever, even at two AM and the drive seems to be taking an age. There are cars everywhere. The exhaust fumes never stop, even in the midst of a heat wave when the gases feel even weightier, making the atmosphere as heavy as lead. And even though it’s early morning, the temperatures are constricting.
In the car, with the windows open, the air is hot and sweaty. Clammy. My dress, my expensive silk dress, has wilted and clings to my flesh. I know that the only way I’ll be able to salvage it is if I have it sent to the dry cleaners. As soon as I think that, I reprimand myself, I’m with the hottest man I’ve seen in a lifetime. I shouldn’t be thinking about the dry cleaners and the bill I can’t afford.
With an inner tut, I stop all useless thought processes and turn to look out of the windshield. Spying the Kensington Park straight ahead, I mutter inconsequentially, “We’re almost there.”
I can’t help the fact that there’s a gleeful note to my voice. Any woman in their right mind would share my satisfaction. Either that or they’d envy me. Just as the cabdriver does. I’ve never been envied before. It’s not something I’d want to repeat, but it’s a pretty cool novelty. Eventually though, I guess I’d feel inadequate. Not up to fulfilling the job as this guy’s lover. Even if at this moment, I’d like to take on that role on a full time basis. I doubt I’d be enough for him.
But for one night only... hell, I’m up for the ride and I’ll give it my best goddamn shot.
Zane pays for the cab fare and this time, I let him. I’ll pay for breakfast tomorrow, even if it comes close to bankrupting me.
He helps me
out of the car and as we enter the hotel, he steps aside to let me walk through the door first. A doorman, dressed in a smart coat, holds it open for me and allows me to walk into the sumptuous ornateness of the reception.
The modern austerity of the furniture should clash with the exaggerated gilt cornices and royal reds and blues of the decorative palette. But it doesn’t. It somehow manages to look as though the entire hall belongs in a palace, where past and present are embraced and not engaged in battle.
Even in my expensive silk dress, I’m out of place here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the scenery. This place shrieks class and I’m nothing more than a cleaner/housekeeper, trying to survive in the city.
This is definitely my Cinderella moment.
I just try not to feel inadequate.
Yeah, that’s really working out for me.
After telling me to wait for him, I watch as Zane strides over to the reception desk to collect his key card. As he walks toward the receptionist, I take the opportunity to watch him and his butt. Yum. Yum. Two ‘sounds’ but they say it all.
I doubt I’m the only woman in the world to notice how men’s asses no longer fill their pants. And I don’t mean the baggy, round-the-hips-pants-that-show-all-the-underwear look. I mean chinos and jeans, for example. They’re like empty sacks. All material and no filling.
As the human race evolves, men seem to be losing something that women are gaining.
I can attest to that fact.
My butt is nowhere near as trim as it ought to be. Regardless of how many squats I do, or of how much sweat drips off me as I scrub floors and iron clothes.
Zane, on the other hand, is going some way to disproving my belief. That firm gluteus maximus of his fills his chinos to perfection. The muscles roll together in a tight circular motion that has my eyes mesmerized. I can’t wait to see it sans pants. I can see the delineated lines and know from that and the exposed length of his muscular forearms, where the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, how muscled he is.
He’s the only man I’ve ever met who probably has an eight-pack.
Christ, I’m drooling. And down below, I’m wet. Actually, wet. I can feel the moisture against my panties.
I fight the blush because there’s no one to chide me for sinful thoughts, no one to make me feel guilty. My parents aren’t here, they haven’t been a part of my life for a long time and they can no longer judge me. I am who I am. I’ve made myself into an independent woman. I might not be the richest—that’s for damned sure—but I can pay my bills and put food on the table. I’m autonomous.
If at times, that isn’t enough. If it at times I crave more, whatever more might be, then that’s just the way it is.
That’s life.
It will come with time, or it won’t. I’m used to disappointment, but not tonight. Every part of me is telling me that tonight will more than live up to any expectations I might have.
As he turns toward me, key card in hand, I notice a change in his features. An intensity, a hunger that wasn’t there before. It had only lingered in the very depths of his eyes, it hadn’t cast a shadow over his entire face. Now, however, it has overtaken him and that thrills me to the bone.
There’s an austerity to the harsh lines of his face, from the surprisingly full bottom lip to the taut firmness of his jaw. It’s lust. And I’m more excited than I’ve ever been.
The ride up to his room takes place in silence. I follow him into the elevator and travel to his floor without a word being shared between the pair of us. I don’t mind. The time for talking has passed and as thrilled as I am, as gleeful as I feel, I’m slightly nervous. How can I not be?
This man is a dream hunk and I feel like a teenager calling him that, but it’s the truth. He is, and I’m not a match for him at all. I’m his polar opposite, in fact. But I refuse to let nerves get the better of me and continue to follow in his wake as he moves out of the elevator and toward his room.
With no sound at all, we’re in his suite and it is a suite. Not a single room or a double. A suite with different rooms. A lounge, even.
Either the man has put a huge notch in his credit card or he can well afford this place. He’s obviously quite famous in his circles and I hate that I’m ignorant of his name. In this world, knowledge doesn’t cost a thing and I do my best to keep abreast of current events. But this man, this obviously successful writer, has slipped past my net.
Damn.
As soon as the door closes behind us, in such close quarters, we stand opposite each other in the short vestibule. Surrounded by expensive furnishings and antique furniture, I refuse to feel overwhelmed. He looks at me, and I at him. He swallows and I see the bob of his Adam’s apple. I know his eyes are following the heaving thrust of my breasts and I know my nipples have puckered in welcome. For a moment, we just stand there. In a weird kind of stasis. A beat pulses silently through the room, and then comes a click. A noiseless click that is somehow connected to the pair of us.
Instantly, we’re upon each other.
My fingers are at the buttons of his shirt, tugging and pulling at them, trying to free his body to my gaze with maximum speed. Each inch of bare flesh I lay open to my eyes, I caress with my fingertips, reveling in the silken touch of his skin and the harsh, crispy hair that rests there.
There’s little softness to the mating of our mouths. Because in the flurry of frenzied activity, I’m intent on getting his shirt off and getting to the good stuff. By the time I reach his belt and fly, his hands have gripped my waist and have come up to cup my breasts. All the while that I’m clawing at him, trying to devour him, his lips are on mine. His mouth suckles, while his tongue and teeth tug, pull, curl, and rub. Tomorrow, I know my lips will be as bruised as hell.
Bring it on.
His kiss is a full frontal attack and I’m more than ready to surrender.
The instant he thrusts, I parry by opening my mouth to accept his tongue. Mine curls about his, suckling, teasing. Inciting. I feel as though we’re almost eating each other with our intensity and I’m slowly reaching the point where I can’t think at all. The physical begins to take precedence over the emotional. Over the sensible, even.
With his shirt stripped off and his belt unfastened, my hands reach down to grip his cock. The minute I touch bare flesh, I groan against his mouth, realizing he isn’t wearing underwear. His slight chuckle seems to reverberate against my lips and vibrate through my body. My hands pull away and tug at my skirt, lifting it and dragging it over my thighs toward my waist, uncaring if the fabric is forever creased. This is worth it. This kiss. This simple kiss is more passion than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. It’s consuming me in its fire and I’m a willing victim to its power.
As soon as the silk has settled there, I lift a leg and cock it over his hip. His fingers grip the soft flesh of my thigh and he drags me closer and closer still. Within seconds, urging my other leg upwards, and settling me so that my entire body weight is being carried by him. Not for one minute do I wonder if he’ll drop me. Nor do I question if I’m too heavy for him. The size of the erection nudging me right where it counts tells me all I need to know.
I arch my hips, jerking my cloth-covered pussy against the ridge of his dick. His trousers are still a barrier, as are my panties, but for a few endless minutes, our hips jerk against each other. There’s no smooth seduction about this, nothing practiced or full of artifice. This is raw. Desperate. Needy. And I’m not alone. He feels the same, I can sense it and in a way, it helps me relax, because I don’t have to hide the way he makes me feel.
And the way I feel is incredible. With this little-known man, a relative stranger, I feel like a thousand fireworks have been ignited in my heart and the sparks are sizzling down through the labyrinth of my veins and arteries so that every part of me is affected.
With my mouth clasped to his, the whimpers and moans escaping me are barely audible. He swallows each and every one as he ravages my mouth, his tongue almost battling my own
as our sexes collide and ride along the other. With each bump of his cock against my pussy, I feel like my insides are imploding. My fingers claw, the nails digging into his now-bare shoulders and raking downwards as the pressure has me on the point of bursting. I want to scream, want his hand—or even my hand would suffice—down there, bringing me to release.
His mouth pulls free of my own and latches on to my throat, where he suckles the flesh and rakes it between his teeth. Finally able to speak, to voice my needs, I find myself unable to utter a word. Only sounds burst free from my throat and had this ravenous creature not overtaken me at some point, I think I’d have been embarrassed to hear the noises coming from me. The guttural grunts and broken mewls make me sound like a sex-mad harlot, but God help me, for this moment in time, that’s just what I am.
“Please. Please.” Eventually I find my voice and a low growl barks free from him, I’m pulled from the wall and even though I’m half out of my mind with the need to fuck, with the need to come, a part of me marvels at his strength. Not one grunt of ‘Shit, this bitch is heavy,’ escapes him. He carries me as though I’m as light as a bag of feathers and within seconds, I’m transported to the bedroom and being pressed on to the bed.
He breaks free from the tangled hold of my arms about his body and the lights suddenly blare on. I’ve never been a fan of sex in the light. I’ve too many imperfections to enjoy having them held under the spotlight, but with this guy, I don’t care. I feel like a sex goddess to his sex god and I’m going to enjoy every damn minute of it.
With his eyes on me, I arch my back and feel the looseness of my dress along my shoulders. Realizing he’s unzipped me without my really knowing it, I pull the thick straps down and bare my bra-fettered breasts to his gaze. Still with his eyes glued to me, I unhook the front clasp and release my breasts from the cups. The sound of his breathing is suddenly very loud in the room and I look up at him and notice his erection is pulsing a little bit stronger with his arousal. It’s playing peek-a-boo with his fly. Now I see it and now I don’t. But I’m obsessed with it. My eyes are glued to his dick and my body is silently preparing itself for such a massive intrusion.
Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Page 3
