Serving Pleasure (Pleasure Series Book 2)

by Alisha Rai

  He angled her hips, and eased inside. They both gasped; hers, a long shuddery sigh, and his, a sharp inhale of breath. He felt excessively thick. A pang of doubt assailed her as he pressed forward another inch, struggling to move even that much. Maybe she was too small and tender for this beast of a man.

  “Fuck,” he said between set teeth. “So tight.”

  Well, yeah. Because he was huge.

  “So wet. Are you always this wet?”

  She was wet, and the reminder of how much she wanted him made her relax. It was all for him, a result of the foreplay that had started months ago when she first spotted him. She ran her hand over his chest and around his neck, drawing him down so his lips hovered over hers. They hadn’t kissed, she realized. He’d licked her pussy like a starving man, but she hadn’t felt his tongue in her mouth. “If I said yes?”

  His lashes fell, and he drew away, creating an inch of space between their mouths. She hated that inch. “I’d say I don’t know how I’ll ever stop fucking you.”

  Ohhhh. They were sex words, designed to arouse. She knew that. Yet she couldn’t stop the small flutter in her heart. No, this is only for you. No, don’t leave me.

  He exhaled, the dusting of hair on his chest rasping her nipples, and he slowly pulled out, pushing forward again. It was easier this time, and she softened more, until his hips were pumping, working between her spread thighs, pistoning back and forth, driving rational thought from her head. He alternated his thrusts between deep and shallow, as if he couldn’t decide what to give her.

  The friction tightened the ball of lust between her legs, her toes curling. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging as his thrusts picked up a steady rhythm.

  Yes, she had missed this, the driving force, the knot of tension aching to explode.

  What she didn’t understand was how, since this was the first and only time they had been together, she could possibly feel like she had missed him.

  He moaned and dropped his head to her neck. The sound was helpless, lost. Responding to the distress in him, she moved her hands from his shoulders to his back, coasting them down his sweat-slick skin.

  He froze, a split-second she was only aware of because she was so concentrated on every move he was making. A heartbeat later, he exploded with a flurry of motion.

  He grasped and manacled her wrists above her head in one of his hands, and used the other one to clutch her thigh and shove her leg farther to the side, deepening his thrusts. She came with a shriek, all of her muscles contracting and releasing. She didn’t bother to muffle her cries. Damn it, she wasn’t going to censor a single moment of tonight.

  The sharp exhale of his breath came in puffs against her temple as she floated back to reality.

  Micah didn’t give her a second to recover before he rolled over onto his back, taking her with him. He was still inside her, hard as iron. She scrambled for purchase at his shoulders, but they were slick with sweat, and her motor skills were still weak. “Wait,” she managed. “I need to…”

  “Come,” he breathed, and thrust upward, hard. She gasped as the banked fire smoldered, instantly brought back to life by his body. “You get even tighter when you come. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever felt. Give it to me again.” He arched up, this time slower. Did he just intuitively know she needed the sensual tug and drag of flesh now instead of the rapid-fire fucking she’d wanted earlier?

  “But you didn’t come,” she tried to protest. It was a weak protest. Like she’d actually stop him. Magical amazing unicorn leprechaun man. Sigh.

  “We have two condoms. I intend to use them well.”

  Rana’s next words were lost when he rose and drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking lazily while his lower body fucked into her in easy, short strokes. She closed her eyes and arched her back. Really. Who was she to argue with this man?

  Chapter 7

  Micah didn’t want to stop. He had to, though.

  Rana’s dazed eyes had disappeared under a flutter of eyelashes. Her breathing was slow and regular, signaling a deeper sleep than the light dozing he had allowed her during the past several hours. How many orgasms had he given her now? Five? Six? He’d lost count.

  If he had more condoms, he would keep at her until neither of them could walk.

  He closed his eyes, practicing the meditation techniques they’d taught him after the incident. He’d originally learned the breathing exercises to recover from panic attacks, but they could surely work under circumstances like these, right? When his balls were drawn up tight, sexual frustration still clawing at his insides? Clear his mind, control his body.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  He winced. No, no. Bad choice of mental imagery.

  One, two, three. One, two, three. One…

  After several minutes of slow, measured breathing, he opened his eyes. His cock remained hard, but at least his mind was able to focus on something other than the demands of his body.

  What time was it? His phone was in his pants pocket, but the sky was lightening, a paler shade of blue streaming in through the huge picture window. From the bed, he could see into his empty, sterile home. The studio was silent and still. The huge fabric-draped couch was a lump in the corner.

  He’d bought the cheap couch at a discount store, more out of habit than anything else. His art had previously almost always focused on live models. His old studio had had couches and chairs and stools and all sorts of props.

  He turned his head away, suddenly hating his studio, his couch, his house. He didn’t want to go back in there.

  They’d kicked the blankets off the king-sized bed, but for the first time in a long time, he felt warm and comfortable. Part of the reason was because Rana seemed to have an affinity for a soothing, whimsical color palette in his favorite colors. The main reason, however, had nothing to do with the rich furnishings or blue and green decor, and everything to do with the woman lying next to him.

  If at any time during the night she’d indicated she was done with him, he would have backed off. On the contrary, each time he stroked her body, she stunned him with her enthusiastic response. He felt a little more like a god every time she contracted around his cock, her climaxes making her vagina squeeze him so tight he thought he’d die.

  The best sex of his life.

  He couldn’t lie and say he only thought that because he hadn’t had it in so long. His memory was as good as ever. Something about this woman was simply different.

  He shifted. She snuffled and rolled over, her body following the dip in the mattress made by his weight. He’d thought this was a big bed for a single woman, but her long body liked the space. She settled on her side, one leg bent, her breasts plumped. Her hand rested near her mouth, the fingers curled in. Her hair fell over her face, concealing most of it. He could spy her sleep-flushed cheeks and rosy lips through the strands.

  It was cheesy to stare at her face or stroke her hair while she was sleeping, but he had to touch the soft mass one last time. If he was a different man, one who had the luxury of entangling his life with a woman, he would spend the whole day petting her. She looked...sweet when she was sleeping. Less sex kitten, without her short dress and high heels. More kitten.

  He liked her either way.

  He wound her hair tighter around his finger and let it go, allowing it to fall back into place before smoothing it back. The light in the room had changed to a hazy blue-gray that signaled morning.

  The clock’s struck, Cinderella. Time to return to your hovel.

  His head spun as he sat up. Probably because all the blood in his body was still in his dick. A cold shower, he promised himself. The second he got home, he was going to blast himself with freezing water.

  You’ll be washing her away.

  He clenched his jaw against the vague melancholy that thought brought.

  He gathered his clothes as quietly as he could and dressed in his rumpled suit, not bothering to button his shirt. It was early enough no neighbors would
be outside to witness his creeping back to his own house. Not that he cared what the neighbors thought. He didn’t know any of them. He bet Rana did, though. She probably checked up on the elderly ones, made them laugh with her irreverent sense of humor.

  He couldn’t resist looking at her again. She hadn’t moved. Her ass gleamed in the shadowy dawn, the plush place between her legs obscured.

  He padded over to the bed and grabbed the comforter and pillows from the floor where they’d kicked them off. He couldn’t do much about the sheets, but he could make sure she was comfortable for however long she chose to sleep. He drew the blanket over her and clumsily tucked it around her shoulders. She stirred when he lifted her head slightly to push an embroidered pillow under it, her lashes fluttering open. Mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, the delicate skin looking bruised. “Whaa—?”

  “Shhh,” he whispered, hoping she would fall back asleep and let him tend to her.

  Her eyes were blurry and uncomprehending as she stared at him, but she gave a sleepy smile that shot straight to his battered soul.

  His ears still rung with her sobs and cries and moans. They would play in his mind on a never-ending loop for the indefinite future. It would have been nice if he could have gone at her with a little more finesse, less like a starving man facing a buffet of flesh, but he’d always been an earthy lover, and combined with his long celibacy…well, he was glad he’d managed to restrain himself as much as he had.

  She graced him with another sweet smile, and he almost covered her lips with his and mounted her again. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that she would most assuredly be sore when she woke up. Well, that and the growing light filling the room.

  So, instead, he stroked her hair with a touch that was dangerously possessive. She sniffed, and her eyes fell shut.

  He straightened and made his way to the door. Halfway there, his bare feet fell on something silky and soft. He crouched and picked up the pile of Rana’s purses, the small feminine bags far too frilly and inconsequential in his hands. Carefully, he placed them on top of her dresser, his fingers lingering on an emerald-green purse. The color would look good on her. He could visualize her spread out on a green silk sheet, her body kissed by moonlight.

  He wanted to see her naked form bathed in every light imaginable. The hazy blue of this predawn, the warmth of the sun, the pale gold of the moon, the bright fluorescent of his studio...

  No. No. Not his studio. Frowning, he shook his head, as if to dispel the image from his mind. He wouldn’t be painting her. He hadn’t had a live model since…

  Since.

  One night. That’s all I want.

  His lips turned down, and he placed the purse on the dresser with the others. He walked out and closed her bedroom door quietly behind him. He had agreed to her terms. Had said he wasn’t looking for anything permanent either. It wasn’t a lie. As much as he craved physical intimacy, as much as he wanted nothing more than to return to her bed, he knew he couldn’t have more. It wouldn’t be fair to her, not when she was a sweet, clever, generous woman, and he was…

  Well. Whatever he was.

  Chapter 8

  Rana glanced at her watch and walked quickly to the kitchen to tell Devi she was leaving. She only had about fourteen minutes to spare before her date.

  Since she was on a time crunch, it was natural that there would be some sort of crisis going on. She heard Devi swearing before she spotted her in the large, gleaming kitchen. Her youngest sister was soft, round, sweet, and most definitely not given to the foul language coming out of her mouth, which meant someone, somewhere, had fucked up.

  Moonwalk away.

  Too late. Devi popped up from behind a counter, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Rana. “Oh thank God. Grab an apron.”

  “Problem?” she asked. She didn’t have time for a problem, not really, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. Four other people were in the kitchen—sous-chefs, a prep cook and a dishwasher—but they were industriously avoiding drama by busying themselves at various tasks.

  Devi placed her hands on her rounded hips and glared at Rana. She looked so much like their mother, Rana automatically started racking her brain for any possible infractions she might have committed. “Leena was just here.”

  Oh, well, that sort of explained things. Their middle sister could be abrasive even when she wasn’t trying, and Devi’s personal life over the past year had definitely driven a wedge between the two of them. “Ah.”

  “Apparently, the Miramontes firm upped their order for their party tonight. In an hour.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “In one hour.” Devi flung her arms out. “I have a full dinner service. I don’t have time to make oodles more food on a whim.”

  “Yeah.” Rana nodded, hiding a smile. “What did they ask you to add?”

  “Everything needs to be increased.” She frowned. “Also, they want a platter of pigs in a blanket. Pigs in a blanket!”

  There it was. Devi didn’t play the temperamental chef card often, but when she did, it was hella funny. Rana dutifully played along. “Those assholes.”

  “Leena said they wanted food for people who didn’t eat Indian, and that’s fine.” Devi turned back to the counter and started hacking into a potato. “I can do any kind of dish they want. Puff pastries. Seared scallops. Chicken kebabs… But pigs in a blanket? Really? If Marcus didn’t work at this firm, I’d tell them to go stuff their pigs in a blanket up their asses…”

  Rana cleared her throat to hide her laughter. Even if one of Devi’s boyfriends didn’t work there, she couldn’t imagine her sweet sister saying such a thing to anyone’s face. “You should absolutely do that.”

  Devi swiped her arm over her forehead. “Why haven’t you put on an apron yet? I need a hand.”

  Rana immediately shook her head. “I can’t. I…”

  “Rana, this is important, and we’re short-staffed.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here at all. Tonight’s my night off, remember?” she said mildly. They were flexible on their rotating nights off, so Rana hadn’t much minded coming in, but she’d made it clear to Leena she’d have to leave when the dinner rush slowed.

  “Please?”

  Ah, she was such an easy mark when her baby sister used those puppy eyes. She sighed, fished her phone out of her pocket, and sent a quick text. I’m so sorry, I had a work emergency come up. I won’t be able to make it tonight. Rain check?

  The response came a heartbeat later. No problem. I didn’t know waitresses had emergencies! Haha.

  It was supposed to be funny. She was sure this guy meant it to be funny, and not a dig about how she was a waitress and he was a…what was he again? A sales rep of some sort. Maybe.

  She hadn’t asked too many questions. He’d been able to hold up his end of an email exchange, he used “you” instead of “u”, and he was employed, all of which put him in the top 85th percentile of men on online dating sites. She texted back, more slowly, Haha. Thanks for understanding, and placed the phone in her pocket. “What do you need me to do? The pigs in a blanket?”

  “Oh, God, no. Anyone can churn those out.” Devi winced and raised her voice, calling down the line. “I mean, anyone who’s as good as you are, Saranna.”

  Rana rolled her eyes. Always empathetic, their Devi.

  Saranna raised her head from where she was rolling out dough. “Huh? Oh, thanks.”

  Devi turned back to her. “The puran poli. No one can make it like we can.”

  This was true. Devi was the one who’d inherited the passion for cooking, but Rana had spent her fair share of time at their mother’s elbow, learning how to make the sweet.

  All three of the Malik sisters had, actually. They’d basically been raised here, playing quietly in the back office or the kitchen while their parents worked. The minute they’d been old enough, they’d helped wherever they could.

  Handy, since their father had passed away when Rana was nineteen. She’
d been able to seamlessly step in and help their mother run the place. Then Leena had graduated from college and Devi from cooking school, and the three of them had taken over. Over the years, they had naturally carved the business into thirds. Devi got the kitchens, Leena got the back-end operations, and Rana got the front. The best part, really, the front end. It was the part everyone got to see.

  Rana finished tying on the apron she’d fetched. “Are all the ingredients out?”

  “Yeah. I made the dough, so put the paste together and start cooking.”

  Rana walked over to the counter. The chana daal had already been cooked in the pressure cooker until it was soft, and had been drained and dried. Not bothering to measure, she added jaggary, cardamom, saffron, and nutmeg to the paste and started to mash it.

  “Who were you texting? I didn’t make you postpone a date, did I?”

  She shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “Oh no.” Devi froze. “I did, didn’t I? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because I told you, it’s no big deal.”

  “Aw. I feel bad enough Charlie didn’t work out. I didn’t mean to stand in the way of possible true love.”

  True love? She thought of the mild-mannered sales rep. At best, she could say he was not objectionable. That might change after the waitress crack. She wasn’t sure yet. “It’s not true love.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  No, she did. He seemed like a nice guy. Good-looking, fit. He’d posted a picture of him cuddling a puppy. She liked puppies.

  But he wasn’t, say, a beautiful, long-haired artist who could make her body weep with pleasure.

  Not that she was thinking about Micah at all. Nope. She’d barely thought of him in the past week, since she’d woken up all alone in her bed, her body aching in places she didn’t know it could ache. Micah who?

  Wow, you’re so convincing.

  Rana exhaled. Taking him to her bed had been a tactical error. Hard enough not to think about him when he was the stranger who lived next door. It became impossible when she was certain she could still smell him on her sheets after washing them twice.