Читать книгу The Dare Collection: February 2018 - Anne Marsh - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

HE’D NEVER KNOW how he managed the walk from the bar and across the hotel foyer with his steely hard-on, but he caught up with Libby in two strides. He deliberately didn’t touch her. Hadn’t touched her all evening, although it had almost killed him. But she’d touched him.

Her handprint still burned his thigh, scorched clean though the denim and spoke directly to his cock. The brush of her bare knees, the scent wafting up from her thick, luxuriant hair… He groaned, digging into deep reserves for discipline over his body.

She walked close. Her arm brushed his and the sway of that long, lustrous ponytail tapped his shoulder in time with the clack of her heels across the marble tiles.

They reached the lifts. He pressed the call button, dragging her light floral scent into his lungs until the head rush made him close his eyes for a split second. Fuck. He needed to pull himself together, to grapple back some semblance of mastery. At least over his libido.

He mimicked her, staring straight ahead, his eyes trained on the digital display as the numbers fell, heralding the lift’s arrival.

His mouth burned to kiss her. To see if her plump, pouty lips tasted as good as they’d looked when she whispered the word fucking. On the surface she oozed cool, untouchable sophistication. Not a glorious hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight. But the deal she’d brokered—bold, assertive, knowing what she wanted—what a turn-on. Perhaps it was an American thing. Perhaps it was pure Olivia.

Quid pro quo.

That should have raised his hackles, but he was keen to discover her brand of give and take.

Perhaps he was losing his mind. But, oh, how he’d love to mess her up—to tug out that hair tie and slide his hands through those long, silky tresses, to feel them slither over his face, his chest, his abdomen while she kissed him… How would that austere exterior crack at the height of passion? With her full lips swollen by his kisses, her luminous eyes glazed and punch-drunk? Her smoky voice calling his name with that native New York accent of hers?

At this rate, he’d need a cold shower just to remain in her company. What did she have planned for him? Would he be able to keep it together?

The lift arrived. As the doors opened he saw the car was empty. He cast a glance sideways. He waited, hand out, inviting her to step inside first, all the while battling the urge to push her up against the wall and fuck her right there in the elegant foyer of the Windsor Hotel, Park Lane.

You won’t get your own way all the time.

Right now, he’d gladly take ten per cent. Used to controlling every aspect of his life, especially his sex life, he knew this game he’d agreed to would test every ounce of his willpower.

As if she knew the direction of his thoughts, she poked her tongue out, sliding it along her lower lip, flooding his groin with fresh heat. She stepped inside and he followed, his hands forming fists by his sides to stop himself from touching her.

Doomed. He was so doomed.

If she looked down she’d see the effect this negotiation had had on him. The effect she had on him. He longed to readjust himself in his jeans, but he couldn’t break the spell she’d wound around him as surely as if he was already tangled up in a cloud of that glorious hair. What would she look like naked? With that silky, decadent ponytail liberated until it covered her bare shoulders, the tips brushing her breasts?

She stepped in front of him, leaning over to press the button for her floor. The arch of her long, graceful neck called to him. The phantom taste of her skin lingered on his lips as if he’d already indulged.

He sucked in a breath through flared nostrils, turning to stare at her. Fuck, she was irresistible. Sassy, smart, sexy as hell and completely unimpressed by him. Most women he dated suffocated him with their cloying need to please. To be exactly what they thought he wanted. Olivia Noble didn’t care what he wanted, and good for her. She called the shots. She spoke plainly. He’d never met a woman like her.

She stared back with a momentary flash of hesitancy and a series of blinks of those long lashes over rounded eyes. His chest pinched at this tiny hint of her vulnerability. But he wouldn’t let her off the hook. She’d started this, raised the stakes. And he’d agreed to play give and take—not his usual style—instinct telling him she needed to stay in control at all times.

Why? He’d have to flex his patience if he wanted the answer to that secret.

His body strained, every muscle primed to close the deal. To put them both out of their misery and taste her. But he knew the prize on her terms would be worth the wait, the sacrifice.

She heard his prayer.

Stepping up to him, her bottom lip trapped beneath her teeth, she slowly tunnelled her fingers into his hair. The bite of pain tingled over his scalp as she twisted the strands and angled his head. Her dark stare bewitched him. She reached up on tiptoes and slid her mouth over his, eyes open. Bold, demanding—and so fucking arousing he almost embarrassed himself, almost sagged to his knees.

And then he kissed her back, maintaining eye contact, his fists tightly clenched at his sides to stop himself from taking what he wanted more than his next breath. The kick of satisfaction he got from torturing them both and withholding his touch tightened his balls, ramping up his need until he feared he’d have to break his word and gorge on her like a greedy, selfish addict. Here. Now.

When she pushed her tongue into his mouth, whimpering her frustration and pressing her body against the length of his, he gave up the fight with a groan of both frustration and surrender. His fingers gripped the soft cheeks of her arse, lifting her and pressing her where he needed to feel friction. So close, but not close enough.

He spun her around, pressing her into the mirrored wall of the lift and crushing his steel-hard erection into the flat of her belly.

She deepened the kiss, her mouth voracious, as if she hadn’t been kissed in a very long time. A travesty, if it were true. She deserved to be kissed every second of every day.

He snaked one hand towards the hem of her skirt, now regretting that it hugged her curves so tightly. He’d have to work to peel it up her legs, raise it high enough to part her thighs, hoist her above the gleaming chrome handrail that ran around the lift at waist height. Need raged through him, weakening his knees and making his hands rough, impatient. He tempered the roar of hormones spiking his blood with deep breaths.

Slow. Savour.

The lift pinged, announcing their arrival. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to break the searing kiss that had left their chests rising and falling in unison. Alex used every ounce of strength he possessed to pull back, pushing her skirt down just before the door slid open.

The corridor was deserted.

Without a backward glance, although looking a little flustered, Libby led the way to her room. Alex swiped the card she’d given him in the bar. Her eyes—huge dark pools in the dim lighting of the corridor—beguiled him. His blind confidence wavered. He was used to commanding every aspect of his life, and this power exchange, while exciting, left him adrift. Would he be able to concede to her wishes, whatever they were? For more of her, he’d certainly die trying.

But curiosity won.

‘What do you want?’

He’d promised her a compromise, give and take, control. He’d do everything in his power to give her what she needed.

She pushed inside the room, flipping on lights and kicking of her heels, revealing toes painted with deep red nail polish.

As the door snicked closed behind him she turned.

He’d been right. Their kisses had left her mouth gloriously swollen, and the slight flush of beard burn marked her chin and cheeks. She was more beautiful than ever, and his fingers itched to complete the transformation—to undo her hair, currently featuring in all his filthy fantasies, and strip her of her prim clothes, expose the soft, feminine curves he guessed lurked beneath.

When she finally found her voice, it was so smoky he expected it to trigger the fire alarms.

‘What do you want?’

That was easy to answer. A dream come true. ‘I want to touch you. All of you.’ He curled his fingers into his palms, his breath trapped behind his tight throat.

She nodded, eyes heavy, the tip of her tongue touching her top lip. ‘I want you to sit there.’ She indicated an armchair in the corner by the windows.

He nodded, but his feet seemed cemented to the carpet while his mind played catch-up. He’d showed his hand too eagerly. She planned to deny him. Could he handle this? He burned for her, and the chair she’d indicated might as well be some sort of medieval torture device or wired to the mains.

She swallowed, her colour high. But it was not the flush of embarrassment, rather the glow of arousal.

‘I want you to watch me.’

Fuck. She was trying to kill him. He was about to become a statistic. His throat closed tighter, his heart beating itself an escape path between his ribs.

‘I want that too.’ His voice was seriously strangled.

Get a grip, man.

He shrugged off his blazer and tossed it on the desk. His jeans were too tight, constricting his manhood, but he’d do what she asked, what he’d agreed to, in order to earn her trust. Olivia—enchanting, provocative, intriguing—was the ultimate reward and certainly worth the discomfort.

He settled, sinking back into the upholstery, thighs spread as wide as the chair would allow. His hard-on was a stiff rod, pressing at the fly of his jeans. He forced his fingers to uncurl, resting them on the arms of the chair as he tried to slow his excited breaths. Whatever she was about to do would slay him. But he’d die trying to maintain the boundaries she’d demanded.

His compliance was quickly rewarded. She undid the top few buttons of her silky blouse, revealing the spill of perfect breasts over the top of a lacy, pale peach bra. His eyes fought not to roll back in his head. He wouldn’t miss one second of the vision before him.

Her chest rose and fell in cadence with his own. At least they were in this together. Suffering together.

Staring him down, she hoisted up her skirt, bunching the fabric around her waist until her matching panties came into view at the juncture of her long, shapely legs. Her hands trembled slightly. If he hadn’t been watching her every move with almost frantic eyes, desperate to see everything, he might have missed that revelation.

Was she nervous? Excited? Having second thoughts?

Pain lanced his chest.

Please don’t regret this. Please don’t stop.

Fuck, she was a wet dream come true. Somehow this tease was twice as hot as if she’d stripped naked.

But he didn’t have to wait long to see more of her. With a small sigh, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of those panties and peeled them down her legs, dropping them without ceremony and settling on the edge of the bed.

She faced him, vulnerable but still in control. Breathtaking, but still composed. Time slowed, stretching to infinity while he watched and waited and breathed.

‘Don’t move or I’ll stop,’ she whispered.

A nod. He was incapable of speech.

Just when he thought he’d shatter if he didn’t kiss her, touch her soon, she slid her thighs open. He tried to keep his stare fixed on hers, but he wasn’t the man he prided himself on being, because with a hissed ‘Fuck…’ he capitulated to his body’s needs, his eyes zeroing in on the patch of dark curls and her glistening sex.

She was wet. Soaked.

Two or three feet. That was all that separated them. In one stride he’d be there, touching her slick heat, kissing her gasps away, feeling the scrape of her nails as he worked her to orgasm.

His own nails, blunt and useless, dug into the chair’s fabric, his knuckles tight with the force of staying put. His breath see-sawed through flared nostrils, and his mouth pressed into a grim line as he lifted desperate eyes to hers once more.

She’d clearly decided he would comply, because with an aching slowness that tested every scrap of his substantial self-control she moved her hand between her legs, her fingers sliding into place over her clit.

A slug of lust punched him in the chest.

She gasped, her head falling back as if she was as close as him to slamming over the edge. She licked her lower lip, sultry eyes on him, and shifted, bent one leg up on the bed and braced the other on the floor, opening up the view to him.

His cock strained, begging for release. He gripped the armrests tighter, clinging to prevent himself from ripping open his fly and joining her in self-pleasure. But she’d told him to sit, to watch, and this was the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed.

His breathing, now perilously fast, echoed around the room.

She moved her hand slowly at first, tentatively, as if she’d forgotten the rhythm of pleasuring herself. Or perhaps she’d never done this before. Perhaps she was as blown away by her bold, uninhibited display as he was. Fuck. The thought of some other lucky bastard being treated to this show forced icy shards through his chest and he bit his tongue, the pain reminding him to stay seated when every nerve in his body relayed messages to his brain to move. To go to her.

As her fingers picked up speed he lost his grip on sanity, his stare darting wildly between her pleasure-drunk face and her frantically circling fingers. She dropped back on her elbow, the edges of her blouse slipping open, revealing more of the lacy concoction concealing her breasts.

He gritted his teeth. He resented her clothing now. It blocked what he instinctively knew would be a sublime body from his view. He made fists, the urge to tear the fabric from her curves so overwhelming his legs shifted, restless with inactivity.

Her whimpers drew his gaze to her face, but his eyes flew back between her legs in time to see her slide a finger inside herself before returning to her clit. He’d been right. She was soaked. The quiet noise of slippery skin on slippery skin echoed inside his skull and her scent, rich and erotic, reached his nostrils across the small space separating them.

He was losing it. His brain was shutting down. Not enough oxygen. Too much stimulation. Testosterone overload.

She stared at him, her moans growing increasingly erratic. Breath catching. Lips parting. Thighs jerking.

She was close.

He was done.

With a powerful lurch he flew from the chair, his whole body rejoicing, joining his addled mind until his head filled with triumphant screams. He fell to his knees between her thighs, his focus zeroed in on her sex.

He’d assumed she’d stop. That was her rule. But clearly she was as gone as him—well past the point of no return. Well past reason.

He looked up…a moment’s hesitation.

She whimpered. Gave a single nod. Desperation in her eyes.

Batting her still moving hand aside, he slammed his mouth over her slick folds with a grunt, glorying in the euphoria of touching her at last.

She yelled—a cry of ecstasy—twisting her fingers in his hair.

He groaned out his pent-up frustration. Her taste coated his lips, his tongue, the back of his throat. He located the hard, swollen nub of nerves, flicking wildly with the tip of his tongue before sucking down on her—hard.

He stared up from between her legs. Her head thrashed from side to side as she watched him, her cries growing louder, more primitive. He managed to push a single finger inside her tight warmth just before she exploded, her internal muscles a contracting wave around his finger and her thighs trembling against the sides of his face. He kept his mouth glued in place, wringing the last spasms from her, while the uneasy swirl of triumph and failure stole his high.

With a final gasp she twisted away, pushing at his head when only seconds ago she’d been pulling.

He released her, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and staggering to his feet. His cock was harder than ever. She lay on the bed, boneless, her beautiful face flushed with the aftermath of intense pleasure, but her eyes were wide and wary, as if she was uncertain what he’d do next.

Fuck. He’d failed. She’d set him a test and he’d bombed spectacularly. Now he wished she’d tied him to that chair—although he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t have torn the building down, trying to get to her. The sight of her had been too much for the mere mortal he’d proved to be.

He held out his hands, their fine tremors matching the adrenaline jitters pounding the rest of his body. For a second he thought she’d refuse. Tell him to get out. But she struggled into a sitting position, put her hands in his, allowing him to pull her up so that he stood between her knees where she sat on the edge of the bed, dishevelled and breathtaking.

Slowly, as though coaxing a frightened animal, he cupped her face. Her hair, still in its ponytail, was less than immaculate, with freed wisps clinging to her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had lost their unfocussed haze, and pleasure was draining away to be replaced by a wariness that shrank his balls.

This hadn’t been part of the game—wasn’t in the rulebook. He’d messed up.

He released a sigh—slow, controlled, careful not to expel all his frustration in one explosive blast. He bent over her, eyes fixed on hers, and placed a single, firm, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. The effort of withdrawing almost buckled his knees, but he dropped her face and stepped back.

She’d been perfect. Given him everything she’d said she would. Given him an experience that he’d remember on his deathbed. And he’d failed her. At the first hurdle.

Without a word he turned away, his back on fire, urging him to look at her again. But as the heavy hotel door closed behind him and he made his way to the lift on legs with the potential to let him down at any second, he congratulated himself. He might have fallen short, let her down. But he was damn proud of the hidden strength that allowed him to walk away.