by Alisha Rai
A thought occurred to him. “If you hear any gossip about Ms. Belikov, please let me know the source. And squash it.” He’d never sent up staff from the salon and the boutique to tend a woman in his penthouse, though they offered such personal services to their guests. The employees wouldn’t breathe a word about their clients’ identities, but he understood a deviation in their boss’s routine might titillate them.
No one would dare speak about Tatiana. Not if they valued their job. And yes, he would be this protective of any woman’s identity and reputation.
Liar.
A militant look entered his assistant's eyes. “Don't you worry, Wyatt. I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m going to take off a little early if that’s okay. Celia’s bringing the baby around.”
Esme doted on her granddaughter. The kid was cute, he supposed. He didn’t know much about children, except they were loud and looked vaguely smooshed for the first few months of their life. “Sure. Have a good night.”
“You too.” The older woman gave him another assessing look, a final pat, and left. Wyatt almost called her back. Her concern might be unwarranted, but at least it kept his brain from dwelling on what Tatiana might be doing right this minute.
Was she hot? Was it painful to keep her fingers away from her swollen sex? He regretted he hadn’t seen it yet, but he could hardly torture her without denying himself.
Besides, he knew what was waiting for him. A decade couldn’t dull the memory of the hot little pussy he’d explored for years with his cock, mouth, and hands. He could still visualize every puffy pink fold shining with her juices. It had been a privilege to be the first man inside that territory. Such a privilege, he’d waited to lose his own virginity far longer than most guys did. He hadn’t wanted to fuck just any girl. He’d wanted to fuck Tatiana.
It also hadn’t been such a hardship, since an adolescent’s idea of what constituted sex was far more fluid than an adult’s. The things they’d done…
He shifted, annoyed when he realized he still had a solid hour and twenty minutes left. Wyatt shoved back from his desk and raked his hands through his hair. His skin felt too sensitive, as if every inch of him was screaming for her touch. He needed her now.
He paced to the window and stood, clenching his hands behind his back. When he got her under him, he didn’t know if he’d be able to let her up to breathe for a while.
You only get a few hours.
That was good. It was better to have an expiration date on their time together. For this kind of sex, he’d be willing to toss everything else out the window, starting with his precious business.
And wasn’t that a scary thought.
Chapter Five
Tatiana lingered in the foyer for a while after she gained access to Wyatt’s penthouse, clutching her blazer tight to her throat like a nervous virgin.
Or like a harlot concealing sin.
Yes. Yes. She was a harlot, a daring and brave woman. And she would not be intimidated by the absurd display of wealth in front of her.
Tatiana tightened her lips and walked into the living room. Even after she had started earning regular commissions and paychecks, she had never seen the need to flaunt her money. She lived in the same small apartment with the same comfortable furniture and drove the same reliable car. Wyatt, however…oh, he flaunted it.
The suite matched the rest of the casino: large, luxurious, and expensive. She ran her hand over the cool black leather of the large couch, fingering the thick red blanket draped over its back. It was the sole homey touch to the otherwise sterile black-and-white décor. Did he live here primarily? Did he have some other place where he kept all his knickknacks and clutter?
Curious, she walked into the open kitchen. It looked like a chef’s wet dream, filled with granite and stainless steel. Unable to shake the feeling that she was snooping, she pulled open the fridge door. It wasn’t packed, but it was stocked with enough perishables to last a single person for the week. So odds were, yes, he did live here regularly.
She walked back out into the living room. Like Wyatt’s office, no personal effects decorated the walls or tables or bookshelves. There were some paintings, abstract paint splatters Tatiana hated on sight. The Wyatt she remembered would never have picked those out.
But then, you don’t know this Wyatt. Maybe he loved abstract art. And other things she hated with a passion. Like Brussels sprouts. Had there been Brussels sprouts in his fridge? What kind of monster liked Brussels sprouts? Tiny alien brains.
Don’t you dare talk yourself out of the fun now. She was having trouble reconciling this elegant place with the dingy apartments Wyatt had lived in when they were lovers, that was all. Hell, she couldn’t really reconcile this with anything in her reality. Her parents and most of her friends were still firmly middle-class.
But rich wouldn’t cow her. Money was paper, a way to buy things. She squared her shoulders and kicked off her boring, sensible heels. A hum of delight left her when her bare feet met the plush white carpet. She bent to scoop up her shoes.
First things first. She needed to clean up. The door to a half bath stood open in the foyer, but Tatiana assumed there was a full one somewhere.
The first door she wandered through was a bedroom. She knew even without prying through the closets or the drawers of the mahogany dresser that this was Wyatt’s room. It smelled like him, all warm and spicy.
The massive four-poster bed with rich black bedding dominated the room. A renewed pang of arousal went through Tatiana at the thought of Wyatt dominating her on it. Soon. Soon.
Her, on her hands and knees, his hands clenching her hips, serving her pussy up for his possession…
She clenched her hand on the doorframe and breathed deep. Maybe she should opt for a cold shower.
The bathroom was as decadent as the rest of the place, with gold-veined-shot chocolate marble decorating the floor, tub, and shower enclosure. She eyed the tub wistfully but feared if she sank into it, she'd never leave, not even when Wyatt came to the door.
He could join you.
Oh, that was a nice possibility. She’d table that, for later in the evening. If she waited for him in the tub, she’d likely be a prune by the time he got home.
The shower was the best type of consolation prize. Enclosed on three sides by glass, there were four waterfall showerheads and controls that looked like they had been designed by NASA scientists.
She made quick work of her clothes and stepped inside. After a couple of minutes, and a face blast of water, she figured out how to operate the damn thing and stood under perfectly angled sprays of water.
She tipped her head back, enjoying the experience. This. She could get behind this kind of indulgence. Pleasure-wise, this ranked up there with splurging on strappy gold sandals.
Slicking her hair back from her face, she glanced at the ledge that held soap and bottles of shampoo. Two of the bottles sported labels from high-end salons. She opened one of those pink bottles and sniffed, choking on the strong floral notes. No wonder it was full. No way would Wyatt choose to smell like this.
She put it back and picked up a vaguely familiar blue bottle. It was a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. Almost exclusively a man's shampoo, designed for no-fuss shoppers.
Her lips curved, remembering a long-ago evening and Wyatt’s annoyance when she bought him a separate shampoo and conditioner. Tatiana, who the hell cares if this will condition my hair better than my usual stuff?
He still used that three-dollar shampoo from a drugstore. Even when he could buy and sell a whole salon full of expensive men’s hair products.
She liked that. She liked it so much she used the two-in-one though the more girly products were probably meant for females like her who weaved in and out of his life.
She would rather smell like him than them.
Leaving the water was tough, but she needed time to ready herself and see about the clothes Wyatt had said he would send up. She dried off in the
steam-filled room, the rough terry of the towel turning her skin pinker.
When she was bundled in a robe, she stepped outside the bathroom, only to pull up short at the clear, brisk sound of feminine voices outside the bedroom door.
Hoping it wasn’t a trio of serial killers, Tatiana steadied the towel wrapped around her head, cinched her belt, and opened the door. The polished young women standing just outside turned as if they were one creature and smiled with professional distance.
“Ms. Belikov,” one of them said. “My name is Cher. We apologize for disturbing you, but Mr. Caine sent us up to take care of your needs.”
I’d like Wyatt to take care of my needs.
But for that, she would have to wait. She glanced at the rack of colorful clothes they'd brought with them, as well as the wheeled salon chair. “Ah, I see. I'm not certain what needs I have.”
The same girl spoke, studying her intently. “Waxing.”
Tatiana wanted to cover her eyebrows in shame. Yes, fine, they had been a little neglected lately.
“And we can do your hair and nails and makeup, of course. While we're doing that, Jean here…” she gestured to the blank-faced blonde standing next to her, “…can model the outfits for you until you find one that meets with your approval.”
Jean was the same size as her, roughly. Wow. There were people in the world too wealthy to even try their own clothes on?
In for a penny.
“That's fine,” she responded.
Cher nodded once, and that was apparently a signal to the other women to briskly go about their duties. “Come.” Cher gestured to the salon chair. “Katya here will be doing your nails. I will handle the waxing.”
Tatiana bravely blinked back tears when the torture on her eyebrows was completed. Cher moved around to face her. “Would you like anything else waxed? Legs, arms, bikini, Brazilian?”
Tatiana glanced up. “I, uh, just shaved my legs this morning.” Briefly, she entertained the possibility of a more intimate wax. Wyatt had never stated an opinion when they’d been dating, but then they'd both been young enough to care more about getting naked than grooming preferences. A shot of uncertainty ran through her. As he'd matured and refined his tastes, had he grown to dislike the natural look? Maybe he was one of those guys who wanted no obstacles in their way.
These ladies may know what Wyatt’s other lovers prefer.
As soon as the thought emerged, she shoved it aside. No. Thank you. She didn’t want to think of those women at all, let alone their vaginas.
“I'm not sure,” she admitted.
Cher was expressionless. “It's a matter of taste.”
“Do you think...do you think a waxed look is better?”
Katya, silent until now, paused in filing Tatiana’s nails and cleared her throat. For a second, Cher's professional mien slipped and amusement shone through, but she sobered in a blink. “I don't think it matters. It should be what you prefer. I will tell you, if it's your first time, the area might be sore for a couple of days afterward.”
Bless her, she was telling Tatiana in as subtle a way as possible that sex may not be the best activity to engage in after a waxing treatment. Besides, she thought, mildly annoyed with her brief moment of insecurity, it should totally be what she preferred. “I think I'll skip that then.”
“No problem.” Brisk, Cher unwound the towel around Tatiana’s hair. “Your hair's beautiful. We'll just give it some volume, hmm?”
“Sounds good.” Back on more familiar footing, she let them fuss and flutter around her. If such a thing were possible, they spoke even less. Tatiana preferred the lack of chatter. This way, her thoughts could linger on what Wyatt might be doing downstairs. Was he thinking of her? Was he counting the minutes, the way she was? Was he remembering what her body looked like, wondering how she’d changed?
Sex was so much more fun when anticipation was added to the mix.
Jean modeled one outfit after another. At first, Tatiana tried to be tactful, but after her second glass of champagne, she felt no compunction about sending the model off with a wrinkled nose. This is kinda fun.
While Jean was donning the final dress, Cher spoke to Katya, who was putting the finishing touches on Tatiana’s toenails. “Call down to the shop and tell them to send up another rack of dresses. These are no good.”
Tatiana grimaced. “Oh, no. No. I'll pick one of them.”
“Don't feel obligated. I agree, none of these would look right on you.”
Jean opened the bedroom door and came out to the living room, a small grin on her face. “I think you’ll like this one. I should have put it on first.”
Tatiana inhaled. Oh my, yes.
The dress was her favorite color, green. It was made of some floaty kind of chiffon, and was short, just covering the model’s ass and hitting the tops of her thighs. The skirt consisted of layers of vertical strips that flirted with her skin. The bodice was a halter, and it cupped the model’s small breasts, pushing them high. She turned around, and Tatiana had to restrain herself from drooling over the bare expanse of back that was revealed.
“This one,” she said definitively.
“Absolutely,” Cher agreed. She checked her watch. “We’ll help you dress and then bid you good night. Mr. Caine wanted you ready by six for dinner.”
Dinner, huh?
Tatiana glanced at the model, imagining the dress on her own body. Well. He was certainly going to eat her up. And she would absolutely let him.
Chapter Six
Wyatt paused outside the door of his suite, hesitation and a foreign emotion making him pause. She was inside. She was inside his home.
Déjà vu swamped him. They’d done this before. Back then, he’d come home to his apartment, his muscles and arms aching, and she’d be waiting for him. Oftentimes studying. Occasionally, she’d brought him some dinner, but really, all he’d ever wanted to nibble on was her.
He shook his head hard, trying to dislodge those memories. Do not mix up tonight with the past. This was different. Like an anonymous one-night stand. Just because he’d never had one of those before didn’t mean he didn’t know their rules.
He’d been so good lately, hadn't he? Guarding his image as an upscale businessman, someone who could run a discreet den of sin. People handed him their money and their secrets, trusted him. He had wealth, power, prestige. Respect tinged with a small amount of fear. What more could a man want?
Nothing. Except maybe a night between the thighs of the woman waiting inside his home.
He pressed his hand against the pad next to the door. The door beeped and admitted him.
He stepped inside, opening his mouth to call out something dry and witty. But then he saw her.
Fuck it all.
He was lightheaded. That’s what happened when every single drop of blood in your brain raced to your cock.
It was dim inside the suite—she hadn’t turned the lights on, and the sun was setting. She stood with her back to him across the expanse of plush white carpet, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She wore a dress, a scrap of green gauze the same color as her eyes. It skimmed over her round ass and brushed the tops of her thighs. Her back was bare, exposing the long, elegant line of her spine. Her skin was white there, a contrast to her sun-kissed face and arms.
He knew she was aware he was there. She was posing for him, no fool as to her effect on a man. Her eyes met his in the reflection of the glass.
Ever so slowly she turned, allowing him to process the rest of her. The skirt was a game of peek-a-boo, a bunch of strips held together by some miracle of modern dress design. The top he could easily rip away and bare the round, succulent breasts that were swelling up from the neckline.
She licked her lips. Her slick, glossy lips, painted a whore's red. She'd done something to her eyes to make them darker and more mysterious. Her cheeks were flushed, and he wasn't sure if that was makeup or arousal.
He should compliment her. Tell her she loo
ked stunning, as stunning now as she had a decade ago—no, even more stunning. Ask her if she wanted to order dinner here, or go out somewhere to eat. Feed her body, and then let her feed his hungers.
Instead, he heard himself speaking, sounding rough and foreign. “Have you changed your mind?”
She swallowed. Like a helpless puppet, he watched her throat bobbing.
He wanted to be in that throat when she swallowed. He could live in her mouth. He entertained a stray vision of chaining her to his desk and forcing her to give him blowjobs when he required. It would be a continuous, endless round of fellatio. A barbaric fantasy. But she liked him barbaric.
“No.” Her voice sounded no better than his, scratchy and thin.
It was difficult to follow her response, though he had been the one to ask the question. No, she hadn't changed her mind. Excellent. Thank God.
Oh yeah. He didn’t care anymore if this was a bad idea.
Time to take control. While he would be happy fucking her any which way he could get her, he wanted them both to get their rocks off.
He cleared his throat and deliberately made his tone hard, commanding. “Is this the way you learned to greet a man?”
Slowly. Oh so slowly, so he would be left in no doubt that she was obliging him because of her own needs and not his, she sank to her knees. The skirt of her dress billowed out around her creamy thighs. She glanced up at him from beneath her long eyelashes. “Good evening.”
“Good evening...?”
A corner of her mouth kicked up. “Do you like to be called Master now?”
He prowled closer, until he stood directly in front of her. His crotch was at her eye level, leaving her in no doubt of how aroused he was. She may as well have not sucked him off in his office a couple hours ago.
He felt like he was sixteen again. At least as far as his stamina went. He grabbed hold of her hair, which had been done in a fetching topknot, a look that made him want nothing more than to shove his hands in it and mess it up. Women and their sneaky tricks.
He pulled hard enough that she winced, and a glint of wariness entered her eyes.
