“D0 you know what you're doing?” she whispered, as he dragged one hand up the curve of her spine and into her hair. Ever so slightly, she turned her head to fit into his palm, tilting her mouth to him. Her lips parted, so soft and full.
“Tell me to leave,” he said.
“Would you leave if I told you to?” she breathed.
“I don't know,” he answered truthfully. He hoped to hell he wouldn't have to find out. She pulled his head toward hers and kissed him square on the mouth. He felt a growl well up in his chest as he returned the favor, running his tongue across hers. She tightened her hold on him as he claimed her mouth. His mind was a black hole—he couldn't remember a time when he wasn't holding Annata, tasting her. She was all that he knew. His hands memorized the fullness of her ass, the curve of her spine.
She dropped one hand between them and began stroking him through his pants. He knew if she didn't stop, he was going to come in his Calvin Kleins, something he hadn't done since he was 15-years-old. Without thinking, he swept his hands across her desk, clearing it of the paperwork. He hauled her up by her ass and plopped her down in the center of the desk. The skirt she was wearing was too tight for her to open her legs for him. Impatient, he ran his hands up the wool skirt, wanting to rip it off of her.
Without a word, she grabbed her hem and yanked it up her thighs, pushing it up higher and higher. When he realized she was wearing a garter belt, he almost came undone. He snapped one of the straps against her thigh. “Christ.” He growled. “Are you serious?”
He thought he might have actually made her blush. She swept a braid off her shoulder. “What?” she asked, defensively.
“You are the sexiest woman in the whole goddamn world.” He declared, pulling her toward him by her knees as she let out a surprised laugh. He took every inch he could get in between her legs and pushed her onto her back. He ran his hands up her outer thighs, pushing the skirt higher and higher. She never took her golden-brown eyes off of his as she lifted her ass so he could bunch her skirt up around her waist. She bit her lip when she was basically naked from the waist down. He dipped one hand between her beautiful thighs and stroked the soaked satin of her black panties. She let out a low moan and arched her back. He smiled, fiendishly, and moving the thin fabric aside, slipped one finger inside her. She bucked against his hand, forcing his finger deeper inside of her slick warmth.
“Fuck!” she rasped into his ear. He slipped another finger inside easily, and then another. He began a slow pumping motion with his hand, fucking her with his fingers. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as he curled his fingers inside her.
“Do you like that?” he asked. She moaned in answer, seemingly unable to talk. He couldn't stop a laugh from escaping. She was under his control. He had her. And he wasn't going to let her go until he made her come. Until she was dripping wet and raw and unsteady on her feet. He extracted his fingers from her, slowly. She shook her head, not wanting the pleasure to stop.
“More,” she demanded, her eyes back on him. He put his fingers to his lips and licked them clean. She exhaled slowly as she watched him, propping herself up on her elbows.
“You taste amazing,” he said. She started untucking her blouse from the waistband of her skirt and he dropped his hands to his belt. They were almost racing to free themselves from their clothes. She sat up, tossing her blouse over her head. His attention was immediately drawn to her breasts, so large they were spilling out of her lacy black bra. He cupped them in his hands, feeling their delicious weight. She continued working to unbuckle his pants as he pressed his lips to her right breast. When she shoved her hand down his pants and cupped him in her palm, he yanked down her bra and freed one tight nipple. They moaned in unison when his mouth closed over her tit, suckling her as if his life depended on it. Her tits were soft and sweet and heavy. He didn't realize he was a breast man until that moment, when he had her in his mouth and in his hands. He could die right then and his life would be complete. He had seen perfection.
She finally freed him from his pants, and slowly slid her hand up and down his cock. If she didn't stop, he was going to come. He could feel it. He wanted to come inside her, with her pulsating and radiating around him. With an audible pop, he released her nipple. He grabbed her hips and pulled her toward him. He found the band of her panties and slid them over her hips. Again, she lifted her ass, and he slid them down her legs.
“Please tell me you have a condom,” she said, her voice hoarse. He nodded, finding his wallet and the little silver packet tucked in the back. Thank God he never left home without one. She snatched the packet from his hands and ripped it open. She slid the thin sheath down his length, slowly. So slowly. She smiled as he closed his eyes and moaned, clenching his jaw. He had to get inside her now. With a growl he ground his hips into hers. He felt himself holding his breath. He knew there was no going back. “Fuck me,” she whispered. That was all he needed. He pumped into her, once, twice—inch by heart-stopping inch. She was so tight and warm and wet. It was all he could do not to call out. She opened her legs wider, inviting him deeper. He slid into her up to the hilt. She let out a strangled cry, muffled as she pressed her face into his shoulder.
“Goddamn,” he groaned as she held him tightly inside of her. She flexed her intimate muscles around him and stars burst behind his eyelids, as if she'd slapped him again. She began moving her hips against him, pulling him deeper inside. He pushed her onto her back and began pumping in and out of her faster and faster. She snaked her arms around his waist and pressed her fingers into his ass. She drew her knees up to hold his torso. He fucked her hard and fast, and she kept up, moving with him, drawing him deeper and deeper. He slid a hand in between them and found her clit. He rubbed his thumb over the slick bud as she gritted her teeth and clamped her eyes shut. “Come for me. Come for me,” he chanted. He didn't know how much longer he could last. And he wanted her to come before he did. He needed her to come.
He felt her tighten up around him, her thighs clenching him. She lifted up off of the desk and drew her arms around his neck. She pressed her face against his shoulder again. He knew she was almost ready. He traced a figure-eight with his fingertip on her clit as he ground into her, giving her everything he had to give. Her muscles clenched; her walls tightened around him. She bit his shoulder and cried out again. Then her whole body relaxed. Her head dropped back and her arms drooped and he caught her, wrapping his arms around her. He held her tightly against his chest, sliding in and out of her until his own climax crashed over him like a wave. He thought for a moment he was going to pass out. The black hole was swallowing him. He felt her hands on either side of his face and opened his eyes. She was watching his release, a look of concentration on her face. God. She was so beautiful. He jerked into her twice more, letting her milk him dry.
They collapsed back onto the desk, breathing hard. He could feel her heart race against his chest. Or maybe that was his own heartbeat? He couldn't tell. After he caught his breath, he rose on his elbows. She rolled her head to look at him. He knew she was feeling the same way he was. They were in big trouble.
Present Day
Christophe watched Annata as she slept. He noticed she still had the glass in her hand. He swooped over and took her vodka tonic out of her hand before she dropped it. He set the glass on the table at the end of the row of seats. Then he sunk into the seat next to her, thinking about how young and stupid he was when he first met her. If he had been smart, he would have forced his way inside her life. He wouldn't have let her push him away. Instead, he'd walked away when she rejected him, all those years ago. He convinced himself it wasn't meant to be and there was nothing he could do about it. He hadn't fought for her.
But it didn't matter how many girls Christophe slept with, in how many different countries, or how many different ways. There was no one that held a candle to Annie. No one that made him feel as alive as he did when he was with her. She made him angry; she challenged him. Truth be told, she could be a tot
al bitch. But he was tired of everybody smiling at him, laughing at his jokes, and telling him what he wanted to hear. Annie would never do that. She would slap and push him away before she would smile at him. She didn't want his money. In fact, she loathed that he came from money. To her, it was despicable to not fight and struggle for every inch you gained.
He lifted the armrest that separated them and slid closer to her. Jostled, she moaned and opened her eyes. She tucked her feet under her in the seat and settled against him, her head dropping against his thigh. He slipped a strand of black hair behind her ear. His finger strayed lower and he traced the line of her jaw. With a deep sigh, she closed her eyes again.
He settled back in his chair, finally able to relax. It didn't matter that they would only be in Paris for three days. He would make the time count. He wanted her. It was his mission to get her want him in return. What better place to melt her coldness toward him than in the most romantic city in the world? A smile slipped across his lips. For the first time in his life, he was going to fight. And he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter 6
Annata and Christophe stepped together into the elevator at International Paris. They both leaned forward to press the button for floor 30. He got there first, and the button lit up in red. The elevator doors closed and they began ascending. Annata drew back first and unbuttoned her coat. Christophe rubbed his eyes, looking bone-tired. She wondered how much sleep he got on the plane. “We should have stopped for more coffee. You look like you need some.”
“Thanks.” He grumbled, sarcastically. “Jet lag is a bitch.” He sighed. She busied herself taking off her gloves. Then she reached up to smooth his necktie.
“The tie is overkill.”
“You think so?”
“This is Paris, not Rome.” She tightened his Windsor knot and patted his chest. “But you look smart.”
“And tired as hell.” He smiled down at her.
“Men can look tired. Women can't.” She dug into her purse and unearthed a tube of lipstick. She applied the mauve shade expertly in the her reflection in the brass door of the elevator. She smoothed her lips together, spreading the creamy lipstick evenly. She stole another glance of him in the reflection of brass door. Her thoughts drifted back to waking on the plane earlier. A swath of orange sunlight beamed through the windows as she sat up and realized he was next to her. When he rolled his head to look at her, the sunlight illuminated his blue eyes in an unearthly, ethereal way. Her heart had stopped in her chest. He was beautiful.
His eyes caught hers staring at him in the reflection. She cleared her throat and dropped her lipstick back into her bag. She turned her eyes upward as they passed the 28th floor. “My French is a little rusty,” she announced.
He shrugged and stepped close behind her. “Don't worry. It's like riding a bike,” he said, close to her ear. Her stomach did a flip-flop as the elevator slowed at the 30th floor. She savored the last few seconds of peace and quiet. If she was truthful with herself, she also savored being alone with Christophe. She was glad he was with her in Paris. Her eyes found his again in their reflection on the door. Then, with a loud ding, the doors opened to chaos.
***
The elevator doors rumbled closed behind them two days later. Annata and Christophe had spent the better part of their time in Paris putting out fires and getting the office running efficiently after the shock of Jean Pierre's heart attack. When her French failed, he would swoop in and continue her train of thought. When his French faltered, she would return the favor. She hated to admit it, but William was right. She and Christophe worked great as a team. She didn't want to imagine having to deal with this situation alone. However, if she'd had to, she would have. She jabbed the button for the lobby and the elevator began its descent.
She swept her hand across her forehead. Her brain felt like mush. Speaking in French the past two days had completely sapped her of her energy. The rush of taking control and being the boss had kept her high on adrenaline. Everyone came to her for answers and to know what to do. It was exhausting, but she loved it. She hadn't even stopped to eat all day, she realized. “Avez-vous faim?” she asked, continuing to speak in French. She turned to look at Christophe. He was leaning against the wall of the elevator, his eyes closed.
“I'm starving,” he said, not opening his eyes.
“You look like you're about to pass out,” she said, switching to English.
“We can go out, if you like,” he said, forcing himself up and blinking his eyes. Annata snorted out a laugh.
“If you don't get in a bed soon, you're going to be completely useless to me tomorrow.”
“You're absolutely right.” He smiled, his face lighting up. “Does it matter whose bed?” Annata narrowed her eyes at him, but couldn't suppress a smile of her own. The elevator doors whooshed open into the lobby and Annata stepped out, her heels clicking on the marble tiles. Christophe followed closely behind her as the doorman opened the large glass door for her.
She nodded at the smiling old man. “Merci beaucoup.” Christophe sidled up next to her, yanking on his tie to loosen it.
“I think I should try your bed and my bed, and see which one is more comfortable,” he said in her ear as they made their way to the black car waiting for them at the curb. She rolled her eyes.
“That sounds like sexual harassment, Van der Kind.” She nodded to the chauffeur as he opened the car door for her.
“Fatigue must be getting in the way of my better judgment.” Christophe said, smiling. Giving him a disbelieving look, she slid across the leather bench seat and dropped her briefcase next to her feet. Christophe slouched gracefully next to her. The car door slammed shut and, for a moment, they were alone. The silence was heavenly. Annata took a deep breath, feeling her body relax for the first time that day. She glanced at him. His eyes were already closed, his head against the back of the seat.
“You could have left early,” she said, softly.
“You stay, I stay,” he said, not opening his eyes.
“We're a team now?” she asked, sarcasm in her voice. He shrugged, opening his eyes to look at her.
“You're stuck with me, St. James.”
“For the next day or so,” she said. “And then you'll go off again, back to where you came from.”
“You can't wait to get rid of me,” he said. “Am I that bad?”
She snorted, and checked her manicure, avoiding his eyes. “Oh, no. You're good. You and I both know it.” She dropped her hand and turned to the window. “That's the problem.” The chauffeur began to drive. Through the tinted glass, the lights of Paris whirled past. “C'est une belle ville,” she murmured.
“Paris est la ville de lumieres, Madame,” the chauffeur responded, gliding the car through traffic. “You visit before?” He continued in broken English.
“Yes. But I never have time to explore. Je suis occupé.”
“Ah. You need French way of life. You are too American.” The chauffeur nodded vigorously.
“That's good advice.” Christophe replied, and she felt the weight of his hand on her thigh.
“I'll remember that,” she said, slapping his hand away. “I bet every day in Rio is one big vacation, right?”
“Well, I wake up around noon, go to the beach, get drunk, find a hot girl in a thong to take home, fuck until dawn. Press repeat.” He grinned.
“And somewhere in between all the fucking, you find a few minutes to ink a big buyout with a major merchandiser.” She batted her eyelashes. “Please teach me, business Buddha.” He laughed. “Teach me how to be lazy and still come out on top.”
“Lazy?” He scoffed, opening his eyes. “I take offense. It's a lot of work to get a hot girl to come home with you.” Now it was her turn to laugh.
“Right! I bet you crook your little finger and they come running.”
“If only it were that easy,” he said, sadly. “There's all the wining and dining—,” he trailed off, shaking his head. “And then I
have to maintain my stamina, which requires exercise.”
“Life is so hard.” She rolled her eyes.
“But the wonderful thing is, because of all the hours and hours of hard work, I've perfected my technique.” He leaned closer to her. “I can make a girl come—,” He held up too fingers and curled them, simulating the stimulation of the g-spot, “—with the crook of my finger.” He sat back, looking pleased with himself.
“You're disgusting.” Annata turned back to the window, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach. She remembered that day in her office seven years ago, when he roughly slid those fingers inside her and stroked her like that. He had driven her mad when he curled his fingers, deep inside. She bet he knew it too. The jerk. She snuck a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at her.
“Anything else you want to know?” he asked, his voice light, but his eyes darkening. She'd either made him mad or turned him on. Either possibility worked for her. The thought of him fucking a bevy of gorgeous women didn't anger her exactly. She wasn't jealous. And she wasn't disgusted. So what did she feel? She considered her choice of words carefully.
“What do you think about when you're fucking them?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the passing city outside of the window. “Are you thinking about your technique? Or how they're feeling? Or what you're going to eat for breakfast the next morning?”
“Nothing.” He didn't hesitate.
“Then what's the point?”
“It's fun.” He shrugged.
“You're going to have to grow up sometime, you know.”
“Why do you think I'm sitting next to you right now in Paris?” he said. “I'm ready to stand up and take what's mine.”
“So you do want to be CEO?” she shot back.
Kiss of Ice (St. James Family) Page 4
