Читать книгу The Dare Collection November 2019 - Anne Marsh - Страница 18

Cam

I LOOSEN THE bow tie around my throat and roll up my shirtsleeves. I went all out tonight with the full tux. For Orla. I reserved the M Club box at the Zurich Opera House, and just as I predicted she looked sensational in the green beaded gown, so I felt compelled to play my part, even if it meant dressing like a trussed-up penguin.

I pour a glass of chilled white wine and loosen the top few buttons of my shirt, tempted to strip off completely and join her in the bath. But she looks beat. Perhaps I’m pushing the after-work agenda too hard. Now I understand why she’s as driven as she is, everything makes sense. She pushes herself, almost as if she still has something to prove to her traditional father and perhaps even her ex-husband. Neither of whom seem to have any concept of her true worth.

She made light of it but she’s proud. I understand the emotion. Her failed marriage bothers her, not for the man himself, but in the sense that she sees it as a black mark on her track record, perhaps even uses it as a reason to avoid getting involved in another relationship.

Not that I should care outside of the fact some asshole might have hurt her, although it seems I need look no further than her own father to find the source of that damage. Who behaves that way in this day and age? Fuck, I thought my father was bad, but at least he simply took off. At least he didn’t stick around to inflict daily damage on my self-esteem. At least I don’t have to prove a damn thing to the man.

Of course she’s driven by success, of course she needs the success. Somehow it’s all tied up in her self-validation. But to what degree? Could she loosen the reins, live a more balanced life and still be herself?

I scrub a hand through my hair, gutted that my instincts about her, about our differences, were spot-on the money. I proved myself correct at the dog sanctuary. I’d expected her to be more delighted. Of course, she embraced the visit, even hefting in a sack of dog food like it weighed no more than the designer handbags she loves. But I spied the sneaky looks at her phone, the way she checked her watch as if she had somewhere else to be. She couldn’t relax, couldn’t take off her CEO hat for even a couple of hours.

Not that it should matter. I should focus on the end game, focus on the trip we’re taking together, focus on having a good time at my father’s expense. Isn’t that why I agreed to come along for the ride?

But my aimless bender no longer holds the same appeal, not now I’ve met Orla.

I snag a beer for myself and return to the bathroom with her glass of wine, my own personal dilemmas tucked neatly away behind my smile. Orla looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, and I suffer a sharp pang of regret at how hard I pushed her to divulge personal details earlier, especially when I’m such a closed book, literally changing the subject every time she probes a bit too close.

I place the glass on the side of the bath and pull up a chair, taking a long draw of my ice-cold beer.

‘Cam, stop spoiling me. I might get used to it and chain you to my bedpost.’

I grin—I wouldn’t put it past her. At least we work sexually. No problems on that score.

‘I wouldn’t complain, as long as I get to see this sensational body naked every day.’

Without moving from her relaxed wallow, she holds out her hand for my beer. I hand it over, my eyebrows raised in mock censure. She’s taken to stealing a sip every time I open a bottle.

‘What?’ she asks, tilting the bottle to her pursed lips for a swallow. ‘I’m just trying them out until I find one I love. Don’t be stingy.’ She takes a second swallow and hands the beer back with a contented sigh.

I grin, my insides on fire for her and the way she makes me feel, like the best version of myself. ‘I don’t care. You can drink all my beer. It’s just…funny.’ Funny, sexy, comfortable. ‘Who’d have thought when we met in that casino that the stunning, classy woman drinking single malt alone would like a regular old beer in the bath?’

‘You should never judge a book by its cover, Cam. Haven’t I proved there’s more to me than the uptight princess I know you had me pegged for the first time we met?’

I laugh, heat for her burning out of control. She gets me as much as I get her. I want to be a better man when I’m around her. I want us to fit outside the bedroom. But could we? Seriously?

I place the beer bottle on the floor. ‘Drink your wine, princess.’ I wink, trailing one hand along her soapy thigh, down her slender calf. At her soft sigh, I lift her foot from below the surface of the water so I can press my thumbs into the sole of her foot, one after another in a slow, rhythmic massage, because I want to touch her. All the time.

Her head lolls back on the edge of the bath, and her toes curl. ‘Mmm…you are so good at that—another skill to add to the list. Is there nothing you can’t do?’ she says without opening her eyes.

‘I feel the same way about you.’ Having her by my side, persuading her to travel in style and play hard, and the way she’s embracing the sexual adventure too—we understand each other. Just her presence makes me feel like I’ll figure out my own dilemma over the money. Like it’s not as big a deal as I’d fanned it up to be. Like anything is possible.

The pretty constant resentment and bitterness I’ve had since the summons to the solicitor’s office back in Sydney wanes. If only I could bottle the Orla feeling.

‘A good foot massage will help you sleep,’ I say, my mouth twitching because I know as soon as she leaves this bath I’m getting lucky, despite her long day. When we returned from the dog shelter she was visibly deflated to find all the purchases I’d made, including the intimate M Club gift, cleared away, out of sight. She mentioned twice at the opera that I’d promised her a reward for her patience. She’s so fully embracing her sexually adventurous side; I wanted to strip her there and then. But I promised her a night at the opera and a relaxing bath, and I’m a man of my word.

She looks up, her eyelids heavy but in that turned-on way that tells me she has other plans before sleep. ‘What if I’m not tired? What if I feel like squeezing a little more enjoyment out of the day?’

I hide my smile. I’ve created a monster.

‘I thought you’d rescheduled your meeting for seven a.m. I don’t want you to be too exhausted to enjoy the slopes tomorrow.’

‘Cam…’ Her eyes stray closed as if she’s enjoying my foot massage, but there’s a hint of warning in her voice. ‘You’ll be using that vibrator on me before we sleep. No getting out of it. Or I’ll use it myself and force you to watch.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I say. ‘Such hardships I have to endure as your plaything…’ I release her foot and lift the other one from the water, subjecting it to the same treatment.

After a few seconds she reopens her eyes, which had fluttered closed on a contented moan the minute I pressed my thumbs to her instep.

‘Cam?’

‘Yes, Orla.’

‘Have you ever been in a serious relationship?’ She takes a sip of wine and watches my face from over the rim of her glass. This is payback for my bout of curiosity earlier. But I couldn’t stay silent any longer. She works practically twenty-four-seven. Her travel schedule is punishing—I know she’s allowed me to add a few days here and there for extras, but what’s the point of visiting all these countries if you’re too busy to enjoy what they have to offer? What’s the point of earning the kind of money she makes when she’s never in one place long enough to spend any of it?

I allow her foot to sink back below the surface of the water and reach for a sponge and a bottle of body wash. ‘Not really. I’ve had girlfriends off and on. But I’m in no hurry to settle down.’

‘So you’ve never been in love, then? Never met your perfect woman?’ With any other woman I’d assume she was fishing. But not Orla. She’s made it clear she’s done the marriage thing. Done it and failed. Effectively crossed it off her list.

‘Not sure I believe in love—I watched it all but destroy my mother, so, like you, I’m pretty sceptical.’

Her smile is small, her eyes searching. ‘See—I told you we’re perfect for each other.’

Yeah, perfect but temporary. The clock is ticking on our arrangement. By the time we reach Sydney I need to have some sort of definitive plan outside of using our sexual relationship to help me forget, because going back to pretending the inheritance doesn’t exist isn’t an option and spending it will take three lifetimes…

Orla sobers, her eyes searching. ‘What happened with your parents?’ Her voice is low, whispered, as if I’m already giving off an injured-animal vibe.

I suck in a deep breath and stand, moving behind her to slide the soapy sponge over her shoulders and the back of her neck, which is exposed, her hair piled up in a messy topknot.

I’m literally hiding, but I need cover. Talking about my mother, the grief and anger when I think about how she pined for my father, still tightens my throat so I feel like I can’t breathe.

‘My father left her for greener pastures. I was three.’

I hear her gasp, but I ignore it and slide the sponge around first to her clavicle and the top of her breast, and then I sweep it down one arm.

When I reach the back of her hand with the sponge she grips my fingers, squeezing. She’s silent for a beat or two and I think I’m out of the woods. No such luck.

‘That must have been really hard on her. And you.’

‘Not really. I don’t remember him ever being there.’

She releases my hand, as if she can sense my discomfort. It’s hard to feel her touch, something I associate only with pleasure, and think about the worst parts of my past in the same heartbeat.

‘Was it another woman?’ she asks.

I really want to distract her, to drag her from the bath and make her forget her inquisitiveness, pleasure her into silence. But she’s relaxed, and she deserves some answers after my days of vagueness, hedging and changing the subject.

‘No—he remarried eventually, but money was his mistress. He bought a tech company at the right time, invested heavily and got lucky, making lots of what he loved—money. And, as you know, money makes money.’ I sigh, my anguish over his last will and testament undoing what an evening with Orla had accomplished. ‘At the end of the day he loved money more than he loved his wife and kid.’

‘Did your mother remarry? Did you have a stepfather? You talked about how the drumming helping you through your teens.’

‘No. It was just the two of us.’ My answer sounds harsh, echoing around the tiled room. But further explanation sticks in my throat. Does she really want details? Is she truly longing to hear that my mother worked two jobs to make sure I was fed? That she pawned her wedding ring to buy me my first bike? That she never stopped loving a man who chose the pursuit of wealth over her, so much so that she never once chased him for a single cent towards raising me?

As if sensing the rage building inside me, coiling my muscles to snapping point, she doesn’t press for more details. ‘Well, she raised a fine man in you. Are you still close to her?’

‘She died a year ago. Cancer.’ I deflate. What is the point of harbouring hatred for a man when they’re both gone? What’s the point of my regret? It won’t bring either of them back—him so I can toss his damned money back in his face and her so I can try to convince her he wasn’t worth her love.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Orla.

I’ve stopped washing her, too caught up in useless emotions. I move around to the other side of the bath, performing the same moves with the sponge down the opposite arm. But now she’s probed, the words come a little easier. ‘To that day I think she still loved him. That’s why I can never forgive him.’

‘I don’t blame you—it must have been very hard for you to watch. Hard for you to grow up without a father. I’m so sorry to hear about your mother, Cam.’ This time when she grips my hand she tugs me forward and sits up in the bath, so I have to slap on a mask to hide the resurgence of resentment from my face.

‘You know, it’s not the same, but my father was pretty absent too. He worked long hours, and even when he was home he never seemed interested in me, what I’d done at school or that I’d passed a piano exam or joined the school choir.’ She laughs, a humourless snort. ‘He always made time for my brother’s sporting events though. Funny, that.’

We stare, fragile threads of memories and the emotions they bring connecting us.

‘Have you told your father that you feel that he wasn’t there for you growing up?’ she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Every muscle in my body tightens. Even if I could reach out, there’s no room in me for forgiveness. Not for what he did to my mother, or for how he tried to control me from the grave with his beloved money.

‘Have you told yours?’ I say, the venom in my voice shocking us both.

She looks down and I swear under my breath, tilting her chin back up so she can see the sincerity of my apology. ‘I’m sorry. Look… I… I never really cared that he wasn’t around for myself. If my mother had been happy, I doubt I’d have given him a second thought.’

Ah, the lies we tell ourselves…

I focus my anger. ‘He treated my mother worse. And anyway, it’s all in the past. He’s dead too. Six months after her—ironic, right?’ I take a deep breath, too close to every feeling I’ve battled to contain these past six months—my entire adult life, if I’m being honest. And, despite her relationship with her own emotionally distant father, we’re different enough without my tales of woe, my sad little poor-boy-turned-billionaire sob-story.

Her intelligent eyes latch on to mine. ‘Is the inheritance from—’

I cover her mouth with my fingers. ‘Enough.’ Of course she would make the leap. She’s smart. But I don’t want to talk about my father’s legacy. The legacy I’m working day and night to forget because of what it represents.

‘I thought we were keeping the details out of this—just sex…?’ The words taste jagged because I’m a hypocrite. I care about her—why else would I take her to see rescue dogs, worry about her burning herself out with work and lavish her with gifts? Because I like the way she looks in green? Because I enjoy seeing her sensational figure clothed in everything from a simple T-shirt to the sexiest lingerie?

But caring isn’t allowed. More than sex is a fool’s game. She knows that and so do I.

My own reminder of our boundaries helps me back to safety. This is sex. No matter how she makes me feel, or how much I enjoy her company outside of the bedroom. No matter how her stare seems to penetrate, her intelligent eyes stripping me bare. I’m here for one reason only—enjoyment. Well, two if you count my own personal goal to spend as much money as I can, a goal on which I should refocus my attention and forget about crazy ideas like testing Orla’s suitability as a potential partner. Because she’s not mine. She’s not interested in anything beyond the good time we have together.

It’s a dream scenario for any guy…

‘Ready to get out?’ I ask, because she wants this to be about sex—on-tap sex—and right now that’s the only thing that will chase away my demons.

At her nod, I tug her hand and she rises from the water, rivulets of foam sliding over her perfect skin. She meets my eyes and I see empathy in the depths of her stare. She knows I’m hiding something bigger than me. She knows I’m a coward, but she sticks to our nothing-personal rule and offers me an out clause.

My hand still holds the sponge. She guides me to wash her breasts and her stomach, only releasing my hand when she’s pressed it between her legs so she can grip both my shoulders while she rides my hand and the sponge with undulations of her hips.

‘Cam,’ she whispers, her eyes on mine. ‘Let’s get lost together.’

I don’t need a second invitation. I toss the sponge and lift her from the bath, snagging a towel on my way out of the bathroom. In the bedroom I deposit her on her feet and slide the towel over every inch of her skin until she’s dry, by which time my erection is painfully hard and straining behind my fly. But I don’t touch her, nor do I give her my mouth, which is what she wants, her head lifting to mine every time I move close, her lips seeking the kisses that make her moan.

I hold my own body taut to prevent me from swaying her way. I’ve got this. I’m here for the sex. I can control the sex. She likes being nudged to explore her sexual boundaries, but beyond that…

There is no beyond.

‘Go to the wardrobe and get the M Club box,’ I say, my voice tight with longing. Yes, the urge to be close to her, to be buried inside, to kiss her into silence, is as strong as ever, but there’s a new driving force in me tonight. A dangerous force—to be more to her than her sex toy. To gain her trust, to hear her acknowledgement that I’m not like the men of her past, men who’ve betrayed her, underestimated her, overlooked her. That I’m different.

I swallow hard. It’s just sex. That’s all she wants from me.

Her eyes flare with excitement and she sashays to the wardrobe, loosening her hair from its messy bun as she goes. I’m momentarily lost in the sight of the sway of her heart-shaped ass, but then she’s back before me, a sexy smile of challenge on her face. ‘Now what?’

I take the box. ‘Lie on the bed.’

She obeys, her movements slow and sensual as if she wants to put on a show for my eyes only. As if she knows she’s driving me mad, pushing me every inch as far as I push her. Because she’s right. Maybe we do both need to get lost, and this is the best way.

With hands that could tremble from the adrenaline surging in me, if I wasn’t wound so tightly, I deposit the box beside her feet and strip my shirt overhead, tossing it onto a nearby chair. Her teeth scrape over her bottom lip and her eyes follow my every move. I retrieve a bottle of lube, watching every subtle nuance of her reaction when she sees what it is.

She’s excited, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and like the impatient, self-sufficient woman she is, not content to wait, she slips her hand between her thighs to touch herself.

I place the lube next to the box and take off my dress trousers and boxers, my eyes glued to her hand working her clit. ‘Don’t come. Not yet.’ I stand over her, scooping her head up from the bed by the back of her neck so I can angle her mouth up to mine. I kiss her until we’re both panting and then I break free.

‘Fuck, you’re so sexy. I want to take you to a place no one else has. I want you to remember me, just like, when this is over, I’ll never forget you.’

I have no idea where that comes from, but I accept its truth. It’s too late to take it back anyway.

‘Yes. Cam, yes.’

So she feels it too, that we’re skirting dangerous territory. That, if we’re not careful, our feelings could become all snared up in this thing we’ve started. But neither of us has room in our lives for that complication.

I flip the box open and reach inside for the vibrator. ‘Tell me to stop if this gets too intense, okay?’ I flick the hidden switch so the device emits a barely audible hum. ‘Lie back.’

She listens, abandoning pleasuring herself to sprawl back on the satin bedspread with her arms slung casually over her head.

Perfect.

Splayed out for our pleasure.

I lean over and kiss her, my tongue duelling with the push and slide of hers until she’s panting and writhing once more. Then I touch the tip of the vibrator to one of her nipples. She arches off the bed, a ragged moan torn from her throat. I break free from the kiss to watch my handiwork, sliding the toy to the other nipple in order to drag out another whimper.

‘Open your mouth.’ I trail the black phallus over the curve of her breast and along her breastbone. Her lips part and I slide the tip past to her waiting tongue, which she laves seductively over the toy before wrapping her mouth around the shaft.

The sight is so erotic, I take my cock in my free hand, offering it a few lazy tugs in appeasement for the torture I’m putting us through. Orla watches me, her eyes widening, but then she abandons the toy and reaches for my hips, tugging me forward and over her so she can take the head of my cock into her mouth in place of the vibrator.

I grit my teeth, grunt a few unintelligible curses and then slide the now wet toy back to her nipple. But I’m done teasing us. With a groan of protest I pull back and position myself between her thighs. I lap at her clit, sliding the vibrating toy up and down her inner thigh as I do to stimulate as many nerves as I can.

Orla grips my head, her fingers twisting and tugging. I keep the suction on her clit slow and subtle while I work the head of the sex toy inside her tight pussy, plunging and mimicking what my own body is desperate to do. But not yet. I have plans. Plans I hope will lead us one step closer to our end goal.

While I keep up the tonguing of her clit, I discard the vibrator and reach for the lube and butt plug.

Sensing my movements, Orla lifts her head from the bed and looks down.

I pull back, needing to hear her confirmation. ‘Do you still want this?’

‘Yes.’ No hesitation, just a blaze of challenge burning through the desire in her beautiful green eyes.

‘Do you trust me?’ I’m a fool, I know, but her answer matters more than just physical oblivion.

‘Yes, oh, Cam, yes.’

I slide my tongue over her opening back to the tight bud while I slather the plug with lube. But Orla’s not content to lie back and simply feel. She settles on her elbows and watches me, her mewls and moans of encouragement a guide to her pleasure.

When her hips begin to buck and her hands grow greedy, tugging on my hair as she rides my face, I press the tip of the plug to her rear. It’s small and she’s so close, it slides in with minimal resistance, but her moans grow to cries of pleasure and my beautiful, sexy Orla starts to chant my name like a prayer, filling my head and my chest and the parts of me that want more than her body with euphoria.

I keep up the suction on her clit, adding slow twists of the plug, while I watch her face with rapt attention, seeing every streak of pleasure. That she trusts me with her body, with her act of sexual exploration, resets my priorities. I can be myself with her; like this we’re just a man and a woman enjoying our near violent chemistry.

No amount of money, extravagant spending or working can re-create this feeling. This is real.

She may have had her fingers burnt in the past, she may not want a relationship, but now she’s embracing her sexy side. Hell, I’ve lost count of who’s challenging whom here, because she’s almost more woman than I can handle.

With one last twist, one last flick of her clit, she comes, her neck arched back on a long cry that I’m worried will cause complaints. But then I’m past caring because she collapses back onto the bed, tugging me down on top of her and spreading her legs wide to accommodate my hips. She holds my face between both palms, pressing kisses to my mouth as I hold my weight on my arms, braced over her.

‘Thank you.’

I smile. ‘What for?’

‘You know what for. That was…oh…incredible.’

My ego inflates. I press a gentle kiss on her lips, overcome by tenderness for this dauntless, exceptional woman. She lifts her legs and crosses her ankles in the small of my back, her eyes widening with renewed sensations as she moves with the plug in situ.

The tip of my cock slides between her lips and I wince at the sharp burst of pleasure. ‘Want me to take it out?’

She shakes her head and tilts her hips so I’m engulfed in her heat. ‘No. I want you, Cam, now.’

I roll my hips forward, working my way inside, the tightness enough to make my eyes roll back, but I find her slick, swollen clit with my thumb and rub out any discomfort she might feel at the dual penetration.

‘You okay?’ I bite out, taking it as slowly as humanly possible. And I am only human, never more so than when I’m with this woman, who makes me feel exposed, and vulnerable, and ten feet tall all in the same heartbeat.

‘Yes, better than okay. You?’

I groan against the side of her neck, placing a tender kiss there where her skin smells fantastic—pure Orla. ‘You have no idea.’

She presses her mouth to mine, a strange intensity on her face, and she doesn’t stop kissing me until we come, me seconds after her, wondering how in the world I’m ever going to get enough of Orla Hendricks.