His Innocent Seduction

by Clare Connelly

  My eyes spark with hers. ‘And a few more nights won’t kill you...’

  She pulls a face, steps back from me and straightens her jeans. ‘I wouldn’t bank on that.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  THREE NIGHTS LATER we are back in his penthouse, and I can say with certainty that he was abso-fucking-lutely wrong about one important thing. Waiting has almost killed me. Waiting, longing, yearning.

  When he sent me home the other night, it was like I was a grenade with the pin pulled. I have been slowly exploding ever since, the slightest touch an agony. Bras are now my enemy and my salvation—the fabric against my nipples is a form of torture that I frankly love.

  But it’s not enough. I need Michael. I don’t want to fuck around with endless foreplay. I’m twenty-three and I want to have sex.

  The resolution I’ve formed since leaving his place the other night sits inside my chest like the first flash of a sparkler’s ignition. It hums and buzzes beneath my breast, fizzing life and light into my veins, demanding attention.

  I’m not letting him put an end to this again.

  I want him. He wants me. No more of this ‘be patient’ bullshit. This is the night I’m going to lose my virginity. He probably doesn’t realise that yet, though.

  He loads the balls into the pool triangle with precision and experience, as though it’s an action he’s undertaken thousands of times, and I watch him unashamedly. He’s dressed for work, except he’s shrugged out of his suit jacket at some point and rolled his shirtsleeves up to expose tanned, toned forearms that are doing funny things to my tummy. I’m not sure there’s anything hotter than Michael Brophy in a state of casual undress.

  He leans forward and his eyes flicker to mine. Something in his gaze arrests my breath and makes my head spin.

  ‘You’ve really never played?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You have missed out on a lot,’ he tsks, and my stomach clenches. He straightens, pushing away from the table and striding around to me slowly, almost sauntering, so I have a few moments to calm my fluttering pulse. It doesn’t help. Standing right in front of me, his eyes scan my face and then drop lower, to the hint of cleavage exposed by the silk camisole I slipped into. Teamed with jeans and stilettos, it felt like a good mix of casual and sexy when I left my house. I’m nothing like the women he usually takes home but he’s looking at me as though I’m the sexiest person he’s ever known.

  ‘You look...beautiful.’

  My pulse races, but I level a droll stare at him. ‘I told you, I don’t need compliments.’

  He runs his finger higher, to the base of my throat, his touch just a whisper where my pulse is raging. I want to pick up where we left off. I want him on his knees in front of me. And so much more.

  I suck in a shallow, rasping breath. We’re so close that if I lean forward, my nipples will brush his chest and suddenly I ache for that touch. I sway, just enough, and at the moment of contact, sharp bolts of electricity fire through me, hot and pulsing. His eyes show amusement when they meet mine.

  ‘You’re going to break.’ He reaches behind me and in doing so traps me in a prison of his arms. My breath snags in my throat.

  ‘Break what?’ I don’t recognise my own voice.

  He leans closer, dipping his head forward, buzzing his lips over my temple. I jerk with need. ‘The balls.’ He stands, his smile teasing.

  Frustration unfurls inside me. ‘Look, Michael.’ I take his lead, standing up straighter, my stare unflinching. ‘I get that you have a whole thing going on here, but you know I just want to go straight to bed, right?’

  His grin deepens; my stomach swoops. ‘You’re so impatient,’ he murmurs, appraising me.

  ‘So you’ve said,’ I murmur, then sigh. ‘It’s not like this is premature. I’m twenty-three. I’m curious.’

  ‘Naturally.’ He nods, but makes no effort to touch me. ‘I got this for you.’ He holds out a cue. It makes no sense.

  ‘Got what for me?’

  ‘A shorter cue. Mine are all for someone my height, which you’re not. This’ll be easier for you to play with.’

  ‘Oh.’ I frown, my forehead crinkling. ‘I don’t want to play pool.’

  His laugh is throaty. ‘Sure you do. What’ll you drink?’

  ‘I—’

  I’m on the brink of arguing, but he lifts a finger to my lips, staring at me as he holds it firmly in place.

  ‘Indulge me.’

  My heart lurches. ‘Fine,’ I sigh, momentarily conceding to him—even when I know I won’t, for long. ‘How do I “break”?’

  ‘You’ve no idea?’ He sounds so Irish. I want to lick him all up. And later, I think I will.

  ‘No, I mean, I’ve seen it in movies, but I have literally never held a pool cue in my life.’

  ‘Show me what you’ve seen.’

  I shoot him a look and then lean over the table, aiming the stick at the neat cluster of balls in the middle of the table. ‘And I’m aiming for the pockets?’

  ‘Sure.’ He nods, and then his body is close, his arm wrapped around me, his face right beside mine. ‘It’s hard to break and sink in one go. Really, you just want to scatter the balls as much as possible.’

  ‘Do I?’ I turn to face him and my lips are almost on his cheek. He doesn’t take his focus off the table.

  ‘So pull back the cue a little, like this, and stare straight down the length at the white ball.’

  He smells so freaking good up close. Butterflies have taken over my body and batter my insides to mush.

  ‘It takes practice to know how hard you need to hit a ball to get it to sink. You’ll learn that.’

  There is so much I want to learn.

  ‘Ready?’ And, out of nowhere, he looks at me. We’re so close. Our eyes lock and, at this distance, it’s with an intensity that seems to lurch me catastrophically sideways. Desire singes me.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  His arm guides mine backwards, and it’s with his help that I drive the cue forward. It connects with the white ball, making a satisfying ‘clonk’ noise. The white ball rushes forward, careening into the triangle. Order becomes disarray as striped and solid coloured balls riot across the dark green surface.

  Quite by accident, and to my utter surprise, a gleeful striped ball sprints towards a corner, dropping into a pocket with an unmistakable swoosh.

  ‘You’re going for stripes, then.’

  He lifts away from me; I feel his absence like a rush of cold air, but I cover it, straightening, smiling. ‘Was that good?’

  He nods slowly. ‘Very.’

  ‘Well—’ I lift a brow and curl my hand around the pool cue, as though I was born holding one ‘—I should warn you, I’m very competitive.’

  ‘I’m counting on it. Beer?’

  ‘Why not?’

  I stare at him as he walks away, as I’ve been wanting to do since I arrived at his apartment. His body is the work of angels. Firm, toned, muscular yet somehow neat. If I didn’t know him to be a renowned lawyer, I’d think he had an outdoor job, something that required him to be on his feet a lot, using his body’s strength.

  He returns with two beer bottles, holding them by the neck, and passes one to me when he’s close enough. ‘Your turn again.’

  ‘Sure.’ I sip the beer, its cool, familiar flavour welcome. I eye the table. ‘So I can only hit the white one?’

  He nods. ‘Don’t worry too much about that in this round. While you’re learning, we can relax the rules.’

  ‘What if I like rules?’ I enquire archly, sipping the beer again, this time slowly, savouring the feeling of my lips on the bottle top, and his attention on my face.

  ‘You’ll learn not to.’

  ‘Now, now, Mr Brophy. You can’t tell me you’re not a rule follower from way back?’

  ‘What
makes you say that?’

  ‘Your job, for one.’ I move around the table, eyeing the balls. I have no experience, but there doesn’t seem to be a single easy shot.

  ‘You don’t think being a defence barrister requires me to view rules with a level of flexibility?’

  ‘Sure.’ And flexibility is what I want. Flexibility with his rules, because I’m going to sleep with him tonight, to hell with whatever gradual seduction he’s got planned. I lean over the table, but knowing he’s watching me makes my fingers shake a little. I stand up straighter again. ‘Help me?’

  His eyes hold mine as he rests his beer bottle on the lip of the pool table and moves back to me. He frames my body once more but I don’t line the cue up. I stay as I am, breathing him in, revelling in his proximity and perfection.

  ‘Don’t forget you can use the table’s edge to your advantage.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bounce back. Look.’ Once more, he guides my hand and, with his help, I make the white ball connect with a striped ball. It flies across the table, hits the edge and comes close to rolling into the pocket. But not quite.

  I make a sound of disappointment, but in truth I don’t care.

  ‘My turn.’ When he stands up, he lets his hand run down my back, just lightly and quickly, so it’s a second or two at most, but I shiver at the contact, yearning for more.

  I don’t bother to hide my watchfulness as he crosses to the wall and pulls out a different length cue.

  He strikes the ball and sinks two of his own in the pockets. I pull a face. ‘You’re not going to go easy on me, huh?’

  He grins. ‘Would you want me to?’

  I shake my head. My pulse pounds through me.

  ‘You might be inexperienced, Millie, but something tells me you’re a quick learner.’

  My heart races at his double entendre. ‘Why do you say that?’

  He moves around the table and frames his next shot. ‘Am I wrong?’

  I watch as he leans forward, looking like a pro pool player. He taps the ball lightly this time and it saunters across the table top, convincing a solid colour to tip into the corner with a lazy nudge.

  ‘No.’

  He smiles at me, and then comes around to my side. ‘Want to play my next shot?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Which ball would you aim for?’

  Two of his are near pockets. I choose one at random.

  ‘Let’s try it.’ He waits for me to take up a place on the edge of the table then hands me his cue. His body wraps around mine and we lean forward. The angle is difficult and, in order to get close, I have to flatten myself across the table. He matches me, his chest against my back, the pool table hard beneath me.

  His weight on me is a pleasure and a distraction.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ The sound emerges as a thick whisper.

  ‘Good.’ His hand curves around my butt cheek. ‘Just spread your legs a bit wider.’

  I shoot him a look over my shoulder; he’s watching me intently.

  ‘It gives you better stability.’

  I arch a brow.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Okay.’ I do as he suggested, stepping my feet out. His hand, on my butt, curves around to my front. I hold my breath, the cue unsteady in my fingertips now. He finds the top of my jeans and begins to unzip them, slowly.

  I bite down on my lower lip, frozen where I am. He flicks the button of the jeans next and they open. I can hardly breathe, let alone think. Just like in the lift, all of my nerve endings vibrate; all I can feel is this.

  ‘The important thing is to commit to your shot,’ he murmurs in my ear, as his fingers brush my clit.

  I jerk, so unexpected and unfamiliar is the contact. ‘Michael—’ His name is jagged in my mouth. ‘God, Michael...’

  ‘Play your shot.’

  I moan. I can’t. I can’t think about pool. I can’t think, full stop.

  ‘Your problem, Millie, is that you think sex is just sex.’

  I’m shaking all over. Pleasure and warmth spread through me like wildfire.

  ‘I...don’t...know what I’m meant to...think...’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ From behind me, he grinds his hips against me so I feel his hardness at my back and his fingers move faster, so that my body presses forwards in a silent, instinctive invitation. A plea.

  ‘There are lots of ways to feel pleasure.’ He drops his mouth, kissing me at the back of my neck. ‘Even when you’re playing pool.’

  But pleasure is building, wave upon wave inside me, making me ache for a burst of relief, a release I know from experience will fill me with its intensity.

  I groan, wiggling my hips, and he moves his other hand to hold me still as his fingers move against me, driving me to the edge of sanity and reason, just like he did in the lift. And, as with then, it’s too much. I’m pressed to the pool table and, with my head tilted to the side, I see the colourful balls and, in the reflection, us. I see him behind me, watching me, touching me, and the image is so provocative and intense that my pleasure becomes almost unbearable.

  ‘Michael,’ I whisper, and then again and again. I reach out, scattering pool balls in the process. I am in agony and ecstasy; I am in heaven.

  He thrusts his hips forward again and I am alive with need. For this, and more.

  And then I am exploding—a refraction of every light I’ve ever absorbed in my life. It all comes out of me as his fingers strum my clit and I fall apart completely, crying out incoherently as my first ever orgasm shows me how much I’ve been missing out on. I hear myself say his name, I swear, and then I am still, save for my rasping breathing as I lie where I have been all along, pressed against the pool table.

  ‘You’re a quick learner,’ he says gruffly, pulling his hand away, but staying close so I can’t easily get up. I don’t want to, anyway. I don’t ever want to move.

  * * *

  I’m harder than granite. I watch her as she regains her breath, her cheeks pink, her eyes closed, her lips parted as breath wars with her lungs. I told myself tonight would be a tease. I told myself I would drive her mad with proximity and the promise of sex, so that she could learn what every teenager in the world experiences at some point or another. There’s nothing hotter than wanting and not getting. At least, for a time.

  Apparently, I don’t have any forbearance, though, because wanting her is a drug and I’m high on it, so high.

  I stand up, keeping a hand on her hip, reluctant to relinquish all contact yet. Her skin is warm. Fuck, she’s hot.

  ‘There are lots of things outside of sex that can be part of your education.’

  She shifts sideways, out of my touch, propping up on one arm. If I leaned forward, I could press her backwards and then she’d be lying on my pool table. I’d like to fuck her right there, just like that.

  My dick strains hard against my pants—I deserve a medal for not doing exactly that. But a woman who’s so behind in sexual experiences deserves more than a wham, bam, thank you ma’am fucking.

  ‘I had no idea pool could be so sexy,’ she says, the words light and airy even, her breath still tortured inside her. ‘But that was very, very sexy.’

  She swallows, her throat moving visibly as she stands up a little unsteadily. She reaches for her beer and sips it; I can’t take my eyes off her. The fragile shift of her mouth and neck, the way her pale fingers curve elegantly around the bottle’s neck.

  ‘I think you could make anything sexy,’ I admit, the words a little hoarse.

  She laughs; I’m not expecting it. ‘That was nothing to do with me and everything to do with you.’ She reaches for her jeans. Her fingertips quiver a little as she moves to button them together. I catch just a glimpse of red silk underwear before she dresses.

  Great.

&n
bsp; Red silk lace.

  I thought I was hard before.

  ‘So is this a standard pool teaching technique?’ she asks as she moves around the table, grabbing for her cue and eyeing the table.

  I laugh. ‘Not approved, I think, but effective.’

  She smiles. ‘Definitely effective.’

  Her cheeks are still flushed. I love that. Proof of her desire is an aphrodisiac of which I want more.

  She leans over the table and now I catch more than a glimpse of her cleavage. I can’t look away, especially not when I see a tiny curl of red lace in her bra. I’m assaulted by recollections of her stripping down to her bra the other night and suddenly I need to see her again.

  ‘What do you say,’ I murmur, reaching for my own beer and sucking it back before cradling it in my hand, ‘we make this more interesting?’

  ‘More interesting than that?’ she returns deadpan. ‘I’d say you can try but I’m not sure you’ll succeed.’

  My ego soars.

  ‘What’ve you got in mind, Mr Brophy?’

  ‘How about for every ball you sink, I take off an item of my clothing.’ I move around the table, closer to her. ‘And for every ball I sink...’

  Her laugh is breathy. ‘I think I can see where this is going.’

  I grin.

  ‘Seriously? Strip pool?’

  I lift a brow, silently challenging her.

  ‘By my count, I’ve already sunk two balls,’ she says with an impish smile. ‘Allow me.’ She reaches for my shirt and, with a slowness that may well be the end of me, begins to unbutton it. I watch as she moves downward, piece by piece, until thank fuck she finally gets there. Her fingers push at the shirt almost clinically, as though removing it is the sole object of the game. There is no lingering touch, no exploration.

  But then, with the shirt discarded, she stares at me, her eyes devouring my naked chest in a way that strokes my ego even more.

  ‘I think you’ve got a bit of drool there,’ I joke, reaching out and touching the side of her mouth.

  She blushes to the roots of her hair and then I feel kind of like an ass, but seriously—a girl who blushes like this?