Читать книгу The Dare Collection December 2019 - Clare Connelly - Страница 21

‘THE ORVILLE-GREENS ARE COMING, and the Weissinghams too.’

My father lists two families who have daughters a few years younger than I am. ‘The Sinclairs, Morialtos, Lyons.’

I grip the phone more tightly, telling myself not to react.

I’ve been expecting this.

‘It’s going to be a New Year to remember. A new beginning.’

I expel a harsh breath, reaching for my coffee. It’s a bleak, grey day, and I have more to do than I can put into words.

‘Anyway, we can go over the details at Christmas. You’re still planning to be home for Christmas?’

I hear the apprehension in his voice and a fissure of sympathy opens up inside my impatient chest. Because at the root of all his bluster, my dad is worried. He’s worried about the family’s future, he’s worried about the fact they’re getting older and have no grandchildren, and he’s worried about me—that I’m going to waste my life with a string of different women, never doing the ‘responsible’ thing and taking up the reins of the Rothsmore estate.

‘Great.’ It’s too curt. I soften it slightly. ‘Yeah, I’ll be there. How’s Mother?’

‘Planning the party, you know.’ My father’s tone is a little weary. ‘In her element.’

It’s true. My mother is never happier than when she has a social event looming, particularly in the grounds of Becksworth Hall. I can just picture it, strung with fairy lights, marquees set up with braziers of fire to keep guests warm; an orchestra serenading people as they arrive; a field given over to cars and helicopters; the guest rooms full to the brim.

And this time, a bevy of eligible women for me to choose a bride.

The thought bothers me more than it should. I’ve known this was coming. I’m almost thirty—how long did I expect I could put this off for?

Out of nowhere, I think of Saffron, of how against our union I was at the start, how much I resented being set up and pushed into a relationship by my parents. It had felt wrong at the start, but we’d been well matched. They’d been right.

Well, half-right.

Saffy hadn’t seen the appeal, evidently.

That was five years ago and I’m different now. I have no intention of getting involved with anyone I don’t feel I’m compatible with. I’m not looking for love this time. That’s where I went wrong with Saffron; I see it clearly now. I bought into a fairy tale, a myth, where I should have simply seen it as a dynastic union, just as Imogen said.

Imogen.

Out of nowhere, my storm clouds lift and I’m smiling, my eyes sweeping shut so all I can see is her pale blonde head descending on my cock, feel the sweeping warmth of her mouth around my flesh, the flicker of her tongue, impatient and hungry, teasing me to a desperate release.

‘Dad, I have to go.’

‘But—’

‘Later.’

I disconnect the call and surrender to the memory, pushing back in my leather chair, staring at the ceiling of my office, my body harder than black diamonds. Imogen is everywhere—my memory, my mind, my senses, my soul.

The blow job in the cockpit was just the beginning. Neither of us was sated by that release, as fucking amazing as it was. I reach for my phone on autopilot, flicking open our chat window.

I can’t stop thinking about you and your extraordinarily talented mouth.

I smile as I send the message.

A minute later, she responds.

My mouth and I are glad to hear it.

My smile stretches. I drink my coffee, but half an hour later I send her another message on the spur of the moment.

Busy later?

I see three little dots appear as she starts to type, then they disappear.

It’s a few hours before she messages back.

What do you have in mind?

My gut kicks. Dating. We’re dating. Not just fucking, though that’s a given.

I’ll pick you up at seven?

Another surprise?

Great question. What shall we do? I look towards the windows, which frame a panoramic view of Wall Street. The sky is woolly. It’s freezing too. I can think of one surefire way to stave off coldness.

Dating, idiot. Dating.

I open up a browser and type in a few questions. Five entries down, the search engine has provided the perfect solution for me. I type a message.

Yes. Bring a bikini.

;) Have you looked outside?

Trust me.

She doesn’t reply.

I click on the link and open the booking form, then place my phone down, thoughts of Imogen and the night ahead already making the idea of an afternoon’s work damned near impossible.

Seven o’clock can’t come soon enough.

I love to swim. I was on my college team, and it’s one of the few activities I regularly make time for. There’s something about it I find meditative and calming, and I find being underwater, away from noise and other people, is also an excellent opportunity for deep thinking. I have at least three quarters of my ideas while submerged in my apartment complex’s huge swimming pool.

Usually, I wear a one-piece, a habit that’s a hangover from my college team days.

But for tonight, I’ve chosen a barely there string bikini, bright red. It felt bizarre pulling it out of the drawer given the weather—we’re in the midst of a cold snap that feels as if it’ll never end.

But his premise has intrigued me.

More than I wanted it to. I had a huge afternoon with some investors in the charity and I had to concentrate—almost impossible with my phone buzzing in my pocket and the memories of a few nights ago shifting against me.

I’m wearing the bikini beneath a black jersey dress and a floor-length trench coat, with a pair of gold stilettos. My hair is pinned into a bun high on my head, loose and casual.

The buzzer sounds and I move towards it. ‘I’ll be right down.’

‘Okay.’ Even that single word made up of two syllables, spoken through telephone cabling at a distance of forty odd floors of concrete, has the power to double the speed of my pulse.

I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, moving quickly to the elevator.

Mr Silverstein looks at me thoughtfully as I click my way across the marbled lobby.

‘Good evening, Miss Carmichael.’

‘Hi, Mr Silverstein. Keeping warm?’ I nod to the inclement weather—it’s dark now, but the glass has a frost to it showing that the temperature is arctic.

‘As warm as can be, ma’am. Out again?’

I nod, my eyes darting to the revolving door. I see his dark car parked right outside. My heart soars. ‘Yeah.’

‘Take care, miss.’

I smile, because for the first time in years, I’m doing exactly that. Taking care of myself. My needs. My wants. Things I hadn’t even realised I felt or needed to tend to. And, sure, in three weeks there’ll be the Christmas gala ball and this will end, and my time with Nicholas Rothsmore will be like an island in my life, girt by water and isolation on all sides, but it will still be there—a month of hazy, heady sex, of total indulgence and hedonism, a secret, joyous letting down of my hair.

‘Goodnight.’

He opens the door for me and I don’t look back.

Nicholas steps out of the car as soon as I appear on the pavement, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of his smile. ‘Did you bring your swimming costume?’

‘Did you expect me to be wearing only a swimsuit?’ I tease. ‘It’s kind of cold, or hadn’t you noticed?’

He pulls me to him abruptly, suddenly, jerking my body to his and wrapping his arms around my midsection so I’m tight to his hardness, contoured perfectly. ‘Is it?’

Heat belies my statement. I feel it as surely as if the sun had burst out from the other side of the earth, channelling the heat of a few weeks ago, in Sydney.

He releases me just as abruptly, but not before he’s placed a quick kiss on my forehead—just enough to send need lurching through me.

‘You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

He opens the back door to his limo and I step in, noting there’s a small box of my favourite champagne truffles on the back seat.

Once we’re in and the car is moving, he hands them over.

‘For me?’

He grins. ‘Second date.’

‘Ah.’ I take them, dipping my head forward with a smile. ‘Perfect.’

‘Never date a guy who doesn’t bring you truffles.’

‘Duly noted.’

‘How are you?’

His question, so simple—just a basic function of civility and etiquette—etches through me because of the way in which he asks it. As if he really cares about the answer.

‘Good. Busy day. You?’

‘Less busy than it should have been, thanks to some very distracting fantasies I struggled to ignore.’

My ego bursts, higher than an eagle. ‘Lovely.’

‘Yes, just what I was thinking.’

‘Are you wearing trunks as well?’

He nods.

‘So we’re going swimming?’

‘Later.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yep.’

I laugh. ‘International Man of Mystery?’

‘Something like that.’

Curiosity grows. Even when the car slows to a stop, I have no idea where we are or where we’re going. The door is opened by a driver, Edward, I think Nicholas had said his name was.

‘Thanks.’ I look around for any kind of clue. There’s nothing.

‘This way.’ Nicholas puts a hand in the small of my back and leads me to a black door in a brick wall.

‘I feel like you’re taking me to some kind of Mafia hideout.’

His laugh dances across my spine like tiny little needles. ‘More fun, less chance of death.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

The door opens as we approach; presumably there’s a security camera monitoring activity.

A woman wearing a sleek black dress greets us. ‘Mr Rothsmore?’

He nods.

‘Welcome to Uden Syn.’ She pronounces the name with an accent, but even if she hadn’t, the words would still have meant nothing to me.

‘Miss Carmichael?’ She holds a hand out for my coat. Nicholas’s hands are at my shoulders, helping me out of it. A frisson of anticipation warms my belly.

In fact, I’m warm all over, and while that might have something to do with Nicholas, it’s also this place. We’re in a small corridor, dimly lit, but very, very warm. The heating must be switched to full.

‘Do you have your phone?’

Nicholas offers his and she waves it over a device in her pocket. ‘Your phone will now open the door to your room. Take your clothes off and leave them in the locker provided, then head in.’

Alarm has me jolting my eyes to Nicholas’s. I did give him a blow job in the cockpit of the helicopter, and we did sleep together in the Intimate Rooms of the Sydney club, but that’s a far cry from engaging in some kind of public orgy.

‘Is this some kind of sex club?’ I demand in a low whisper as he guides me down the corridor.

When we reach a door with the number eleven on it, he shoots me a look before swiping his phone.

‘I’m serious, Nicholas,’ I whisper despite the fact we’re now alone in an elegant if somewhat utilitarian room. It’s big enough for a chair, a wardrobe, and, as with the corridor, it’s dimly lit and super warm.

‘Do you think I’d bring you to a sex club?’ he prompts with a lifted brow, shifting out of his shirt. The subtle lighting casts his handsome face in shadow, highlighting the planes and angles there.

‘I don’t know.’

He kicks out of his shoes. ‘Public sex isn’t really my thing.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘Well, public sex with you could be,’ he says with a slow wink. ‘But not sharing you with other people. This isn’t an orgy.’

I’m relieved, though, ultimately, not surprised. He wouldn’t bring me somewhere like that. Not without talking to me first. I don’t know what came over me.

I smile, relaxing and surrendering to this once more.

It takes us a minute to get undressed. His trunks are black briefs that perfectly cup and display his impressive cock, his tight ass. I can’t help but stare, and he clearly notices, if his grin is anything to go by.

‘Let’s go.’ He takes my hand in his and I fight an urge to tell him I’d rather stay. Right here. The chair looks sturdy enough to take us both.

When we push into the next room, it takes my eyes a second to adjust, and then to compute what they’re seeing. We’re not alone, but it’s not some weird sex club thing—put your keys in the bowl. There’s low, throbbing music surrounding us, and about twelve other people are dotted through the room, paired off, and painting each other. The only light in here is a black light, and the paint comes up as neon, glow-in-the-dark, on their bodies. And they’re painted all over.

I’m bowled over. This looks fun. And different.

‘Welcome, Mr Rothsmore. Here’s your station, this way.’ Someone appears wearing a bright outfit so they’re visible, their teeth gleaming bright blue. He guides us across the room to a table with a shining line around it to delineate it is set up with paints. Each has an iridescent dot for accessibility.

‘This is seriously cool,’ I say appreciatively, after the waiter has gone through the rules and explained how it all works. A minute later, a bright bottle of wine is brought and two glasses, etched with paint so we can see them clearly in the room.

‘Who first?’ Nicholas teases.

‘You.’ I smile, and he returns it—I can tell because his teeth almost blind me.

I reach for one of the brushes and some paint, staring slowly, putting some paint on his cheek.

‘How does it feel?’ My eyes dart to his.

‘Cold and mushy.’

I grin. ‘It was your idea.’

‘I may need to rethink it.’

‘No, don’t. I like it.’ I smile again, dotting some paint over his shoulder. In just my bikini, my breasts are tingling, straining against the insufficient material. I work my way across his back, swirling paint—different colours throw different lights in here—and then lower, to the expanse of flesh just above the waistband of his bathers. I feel his breath grow shallow, and I can’t resist curving my hand around to his front, feeling his cock, secure in the anonymity the darkness of the room affords.

He’s hard, and I’m not surprised. Being this close, touching without touching, is seriously hot. There’s even something about the paint, its wetness, the sound of it against his body, the gentle persistence of colouring his skin, that has me aching for him.

I slip my hand inside his trunks and I feel his breath snag. ‘I thought you weren’t into public sex,’ he observes, sotto voce.

‘So did I.’ But I pull my hand out of his pants, snaking it over his chest, to a just-painted nipple. I tweak it and then pull away, laughing softly at the paint on my fingertips.

‘Caught, red-handed,’ I quip.

He grabs my hand in his and holds it towards my chest, running my fingers down my abdomen, towards my own bikini briefs. At the elastic, he steps closer, and drops his head so he can whisper in my ear, ‘Later tonight, I want to watch you get yourself off.’

Pleasure vibrates through my gut.

‘I… I haven’t ever done that before.’ I’m glad he can’t see the mad flush in my cheeks. ‘In front of someone else, I mean.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there to lend you a hand if you need it,’ he promises, and I want to go, I want to have him, now.

But he’s intent on torturing me, clearly, because when he starts to paint my body, he’s so much better, slower, more devastatingly sensual than I was with him. He drags the paintbrush but with a feather-light touch, so I want to beg him to press harder. He trails a hint of colour over my shoulders, my arms, then back up to under my arms and the flesh at the side of my breast, so I make a soft whimpering sound. I see his smile, but it’s just a flash, then he’s back to concentrating.

I reach for a glass of wine while he works, needing to do something to steady my fluttering nerves.

He kneels at my feet, his mouth so close to my clit that I ache to push forward, to feel him there, his lips against me—knowing that it will come tonight. Later. Soon.

He drags the brush higher, lightly, over my calves, to my knees, the backs of my knees, my inner thighs, and as he paints with one hand, in the cover of the room’s darkness, he uses his other to push aside the Lycra of my briefs and slide a finger inside my wet, pulsing heat. I gasp, loudly, so he freezes, looking up at me.

‘Not. A. Sound.’

The words ring with a quiet authority I don’t think of ignoring. I don’t want to. I nod, gripping the wine glass and taking another fortifying sip before assuming a position that I hope seems normal.

As he moves the paintbrush over my legs, he moves his finger inside me, and I resist an urge—just—to buck back and forth. This isn’t designed to get me off. He’s teasing me—again. Torturing me. He knows how close I am to exploding and yet he’s pulling away, his touch too light, too brief.

‘Nicholas…’ His name comes from my lips like a snatch of need. I hear my desperation and am unable to care.

‘Yes, Imogen?’ His smile shifts over his face.

‘Please.’ Just a simple word, but it means everything because I need him in a way that had bowled me over. I thought one night would be enough. I thought once would be enough, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

‘You want this?’ he murmurs, moving his finger back inside me. No, two fingers now, and it’s instantly more fulfilling, more promising, but still…

I nod, running my hands through his hair. He draws the brush around my back, kneeling higher now, blocking me more from sight, so I do what I’d wanted earlier and move my hips to get greater purchase, to feel more of him.

‘You have to be patient,’ he teases, except I can hear his own urgency and I get it. He wants me as badly as I want him.

‘That’s physically impossible.’

His laugh is low and husky. ‘Then I probably shouldn’t tell you that I plan to take you home and fuck you until your voice is hoarse?’

‘Oh, God.’ The promise is so erotic. ‘What else?’

‘How I’m going to run my tongue along here…’ he draws his fingers out and in ‘…to taste you as you come? How I’m going to make you come again and again and I’m going to watch you, listen to you begging me for more, begging me until you can’t think straight.’

‘I’m already there,’ I promise throatily.

His laugh is a dismissal. ‘You only think you are, Imogen. Believe me, it gets worse.’

He is right.

We stay for another hour, and by the time we leave, my body is in a state of sensual torture. There’s no helicopter waiting for us tonight. We take his car, and I don’t sit too close because I feel as if one touch, now we’re alone, will result in a complete explosion, and a short car ride isn’t the place to satisfy that. I sit on the edge of my seat, staring out of the window at New York, the invisible paint we’d used in the black-lit room dry now and any hint of it concealed by the clothes we’ve put back on.

But not being able to see something doesn’t remove the evidence of it and I feel every brush stroke in the fibres of my soul.

The driver brings the car into a basement garage and I expel a sigh of relief that Nicholas clearly hears, if his soft laugh is anything to go by.

But I’m not amused.

I’m alive with feelings that are new to me and seriously intense.

I am fuelled by a hunger that I insist on owning.

Edward opens the doors and we step out, my smile polite, my mind elsewhere.

We reach the elevator and the doors open after only a second. I contemplate jumping him but for the same reason I resisted in the car, I keep my distance now, aware that he’s watching me, trying to decode me.

He has no idea what he’s unleashed.

But he’s about to find out.

The doors ping open into his apartment and the details I recall from last time flitter in my mind once more—the triple-height ceilings, a wall of pure glass, a balcony overlooking Central Park with a swimming pool and a hot tub. I know from the tour he gave me last time that there’s an indoor squash court down the corridor, a yoga studio he’s converted into a gym, four bedrooms, five bathrooms and two separate staff rooms, which he has vacant.

‘I don’t like living with other people, even if they’re at the end of the corridor.’

I get his point. I hate it too. I have a cleaner who comes once a fortnight and that suits me just fine.

As soon as the front door clicks shut, I turn around to face him, my breath dragged from my lungs, the rasping sound filling the elegant Jeffersonian lobby.

‘Didn’t you say you were going to fuck me so hard I couldn’t speak?’ I demand, crossing my arms over my chest.

His expression shows surprise but only for a moment, then he’s sweeping across the tiles, scooping me up over one shoulder as if I weigh nothing and carrying me to my heaven, my desperation, the sweetest torture I’ve ever known—his bedroom.