Читать книгу The Deal / Turn Me On - Clare Connelly, Dylan Rose - Страница 17

WHAT THE HECK just happened?

I press my overheated forehead to the glass, staring down—way down—at Manhattan. My office is on the ninety-second floor of this glass and steel monolith. Believe me, I’d have preferred to cut costs and rent something cheaper, but my parents own two floors of this building and gave me a great deal on rent—besides which, my clients expect a certain air of wealth and prestige. The whole Billionaires’ Club is predicated on the idea of unattainable wealth and prestige, so I can’t exactly have my office headquarters in some three-storey brick walk-up in Brooklyn.

His breathing is ragged, just like my own. I stay right where I am, pleasure like fireworks just beneath my skin, exploding fast at my pulse points. I stare down at the snow-covered city, thinking of the time I went to visit Meemaw and Pa. I’d heard about them, but had barely spent more than an hour in their company. My mother worked hard to distance herself from her working-class roots. She’d married Hollywood royalty, she was a theatre queen and she wasn’t going to have the fact that she came from an ordinary family in the south do anything to harm her carefully cultivated image. I didn’t have those hang-ups, and right after Abbey died, I just felt as if I needed to see my grandparents, to spend time with them. I wanted the authenticity their life offered; I wanted to be as far from my parents and their set as possible.

So I went to Meemaw’s, and only a day or two after I arrived, a tornado crossed town. It was loud and fierce and so fast. It must have lasted only two or three minutes before it moved away again and the most surreal, unnatural silence followed.

That’s what’s happening now.

Silence, but weird and unnatural and, contrasted with our earlier passion, it is freakishly quiet in my office.

And I have no idea what to say, which makes me even more freaked out because I pride myself on being able to fill difficult silences and cover awkwardness with a quip or a joke.

Now, I’ve got nothing.

I’m just a tangle of nerves and excitement. My whole body feels as if it’s been stretched in a thousand directions, stretched by the speed with which my blood has terrorised it.

His hands on my back are gentle now, inquisitive, returning me to the here and now with a slow, sweet touch. He curves his palms over my shoulders and turns me around to face him.

It makes it so much harder to kick my brain into gear because one look at his face and I’m melting. What the heck is wrong with me? I don’t do rich guys. I find all that money off-putting and there’s no mistaking Nicholas Rothsmore’s background of privilege and wealth. It is in the strength of his spine, the confident tilt of his chin, the sophistication of his eyes, the dimple of his chin that for some reason screams aristocracy.

But there’s also something hard-worn about him, something broken and devil-may-care. Something that tells me he’s a risk-taker and an adventurer, that he might have been born to fit the mould of a privileged aristocrat but that he’s worked hard to fight his way free of it.

That alone keeps me rooted to the spot, unable to look away from a face that I have been seeing in my dreams since we snatched an hour together in Sydney.

‘I’m…’

He lifts a finger and presses it to my lips, his dark brows knitting together as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ I say against his finger. When he doesn’t move it, I dart my tongue out and flick it. His eyes flare wide and power rushes through my body.

This is bigger than me, bigger than him.

‘You made pretty sure of that.’

‘Not quite.’ I bite the soft flesh of his finger now, and he presses it to my lips, so I roll my tongue over it and feel his cock jerk against me.

He’s like the Energizer Bunny of sex. Then again, apparently I am too, because desire ignites inside me, and I wish we were anywhere but my office.

My office!

‘Oh, crap.’ I press my hand to his chest and push him back, everything forgotten except the fact Emily and I have an extremely casual relationship and she walks in whenever she needs anything. Not to mention I’ve just been screaming like a banshee at the top of my lungs.

I sidestep him and move away as if he’s explosive dynamite and I’m right in its trajectory. I need space. Space to think and I definitely absolutely need to get dressed.

‘That was…completely unprofessional.’ I lift a hand and smooth my hair over one shoulder, my fingers grazing my nipples by accident, so I have to spin away or risk him seeing my instant physical reaction to the simple touch.

‘It was also completely fucking great.’

A smile curves my lips. There’s a bathroom across my office—I work long hours and frequently have to attend Billionaires’ Club events, which I go to directly from here. Fortunately for me, there’s also a wardrobe and it’s always stocked with an array of outfits. I pull out a black pantsuit and a silk camisole, trying not to think about what Emily will say when she notices the obvious change of clothes, pulling the silk top on quickly to dispense with the whole nakedness thing.

I spin around to find him watching me with an expression I can only describe as indolent. He’s like some kind of crack cocaine to me—I’m high on him and already craving my next fix.

I stare across at him—he’s pulled his boxers back on but there’s still an expanse of toned abs and tanned skin—and my mouth goes dry, my stomach loops and my fingers tingle.

‘I don’t do this.’

He lifts a thick, dark brow, his expression quirking with curiosity. ‘Do what?’

‘This.’ I gesture from him to me. ‘Sleep with clients. Sleep with anyone.’

He laughs, the sound bouncing around my office. My pulse trembles. ‘You weren’t a virgin.’

I jerk my head. ‘Yeah, but…’

He begins to prowl towards me.

‘It had been a while.’

I told him that in Sydney. There’s no point in denying it.

‘What’s “a while”?’

I swallow, my throat bone dry. I wave my hand in the air in what I hope passes as some kind of descriptor of time. He catches it in his, lacing our fingers together and holding it at my side.

Up close, I look at him—really look at him—in a way I haven’t had the luxury of doing yet. I notice things that previously passed me by. Not because they didn’t warrant notice, but because there’s so much of him that demands attention: his square jaw; his perfectly sculpted lips; the little indent above his mouth, forming a bridge to his nose; a nose that is straight and strong—patrician, appropriately, given his pedigree—but that has a bump halfway down, as if it’s been broken at some point. His lashes are thick and dark and clumpy, and close up it almost looks as if he’s wearing eyeliner. He’s not, but that’s the effect the weight of his lashes combines to create. He has a silvery scar near his hairline—a single, trembling line about an inch long, very faint and, going by the shimmery paleness of it, earned long ago, perhaps even as a boy.

My tummy swoops. ‘Oh, you know, years.’

‘Years?’ The word is like a curse, and his brow dips as if he can’t even comprehend this concept. I can’t really blame him—standing here in a post-orgasm glow, I have no idea why I’ve denied myself this for as long as I have.

I go to pull away but his hand squeezes mine. ‘Years?’ Softer, gentler, less shocked, more wondering.

‘Yeah.’ I don’t meet his eyes. I hate feeling like this. Most people look at me with awe and it’s pushed my vulnerabilities deep inside me. But suddenly, I feel gauche and insecure; I feel like the gangly, solitary teen I was after Abbey died and I realised I had no one who really knew me.

I make an effort to straighten and transform into Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur, philanthropist.

‘It’s not a big deal, okay?’

‘I beg to differ. Are you some kind of masochist? Or nun?’

‘Clearly not the latter.’

‘So why the hell have you been single so long?’

I square my shoulders but make no effort to pull my hand away from his. I like touching him. That should set alarm bells off inside my brain. Maybe it does. I ignore them, though, staying right where I am, his naked torso with that cursive script tattoo inked over his heart calling to me.

‘I’ve been busy,’ I point out, waving my free hand around the office.

‘But sex is…’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ I roll my eyes. ‘To you, sex is like breathing. I get it.’

‘I was going to say,’ he interrupts, a little gruffly, ‘that it’s an instinct. And it’s more than sex, it’s companionship. It’s falling asleep in someone’s arms, it’s having someone to laugh with.’

‘Says you, Mr Manhattan Playboy?’

He lifts his defined shoulders. ‘So? A varied sex life doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy those perks.’

It’s an admission I didn’t expect. Our eyes connect and something electrifies my pulse. ‘With a different woman every night, right?’

His eyes hold mine unflinchingly and I admire him for his lack of apology. Why should he apologise? He’s a renowned bachelor; he lives as he preaches. Everyone who sleeps with him knows what they’re getting.

Great sex.

Lots of it.

But just for a night or so.

I knew that—it’s why I approached him, specifically, in the forums. I didn’t want the complication of a guy who might want more from me.

Which somewhat begs the question as to why he’s here.

And why I don’t feel more annoyed about it.

‘You like sex,’ he says, as if I’m a puzzle he wants to work out.

My cheeks flush. Because up until a week ago, I didn’t know how much I like sex. I’ve only been with two guys. My college boyfriend, who it turns out was using me to access my mother’s production company connections, and Jackson, who was ‘great on paper’ but a complete dud in real life. It’s a shame it took me six months to work that one out.

In any event, the sex with both was…nice. At best.

‘Apparently,’ I murmur, scanning his face.

I had no idea it could be so completely mind-blowing. I mean, I’ve read my fair share of romance novels and watched movies where the women just have to be kissed on the nose to go into a full-blown orgasm, and I’ve always thought it was a stupid fantasy.

Not so much now.

‘You came looking for sex,’ he prompts, and I get a glimpse of the determination that’s made Nicholas Rothsmore such a success in business, away from his family’s prestigious standing in society. He has a needle-sharp focus and he’s using it to sift through my soul.

‘Yes.’ I jut my chin out unapologetically.

‘Why?’

I open my mouth to answer and then shake my head. ‘I told you, it’s been a while.’

‘So why now?’ he persists.

My eyes drop away from his, skimming the walls of my office. This place is my home away from home and yet it’s nothing like the real me. Elegant Scandinavian furniture, obvious signs of wealth and success. It’s what my clients expect.

‘I guess…’ I search for an answer. The truth is, it wasn’t one thing or another. People in the club have been pairing off lately. There’ve been engagements and rumoured weddings, and I guess it’s made me realise how far I am from that. It’s the knowledge that I’m approaching thirty and that happy couple life is nowhere near being on my horizon. But mostly, it was desire. Curiosity. Loneliness—the kind that permeates me on a cellular level, so I could no longer ignore it.

He squeezes my hand so I jerk my attention back to his face.

‘I just wanted to get laid.’ The admission is bare-faced, if only a fraction of the complex knot of emotions that led me into the Intimate Room. ‘And then get on with my life.’

‘Ah.’ He grins, just a flash, but I have the strangest—and most unpleasant—sensation that he’s laughing at me. ‘Sex isn’t a part of your real life?’

I shake my head. ‘This is…’ I wave around the office. ‘My business. The club. The charity. That takes pretty much all my time and energy. It’s hard to meet anyone, but—’

‘But?’ he prompts, when I don’t finish the sentence.

My teeth press into my lower lip as I think that through. ‘But, I’m twenty-nine and I have barely been in a relationship. I mean, a couple of guys but nothing serious, nothing that could ever go anywhere.’

He’s quiet, listening attentively.

‘And suddenly, everyone seems to be pairing off, like the club has become its own kind of Noah’s Ark or something.’

He laughs gruffly.

‘I’m almost thirty and I have no social life to speak of.’ I grimace. ‘I haven’t dated in four years. The guy I have the most frequent conversations with is my doorman, Mr Silverstein, and he’s seventy-five years old and very happily married. My parents won’t get off my back about being single. It doesn’t matter that I’ve built all this, they really only care about me getting married and having babies—not so many that I ruin my figure, mind you.’ I pause to roll my eyes, making the mental excuses for my mother that I always bring to the fore when I’m frustrated with her. How she’s an aging Hollywood starlet who sees youth and beauty as her greatest assets—and both are shifting away from how she wants them to be. ‘But more than that, I’m…getting used to being alone.’ I swallow, the raw truth of the confession surprising me.

‘It’s not that I want a relationship.’ The very idea fills me with panic. ‘There’s no way I could fit one in. I barely have time to workout in the day. I have to get a manicurist to come to the office if I need my nails done.’ I shake my head, hating how entitled that sounds, resisting an urge to explain it’s part of the whole image thing my clients expect me to project.

‘So our night in Sydney was…what? Your sexual equivalent to an in-office manicure?’ he teases.

Heat blooms in my cheeks.

‘Dial-a-Fuck?’ he pushes, and I laugh, shaking my head.

‘Honestly? I was seriously starting to worry I might have forgotten how to even do sex.’ I laugh, and am relieved when he does too.

‘So… Dial-a-Fuck meets sex refresher course?’

‘Sex for Beginners,’ I agree with a wink.

‘Well, Miss Carmichael, I’m delighted to say you passed, with flying colours.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Silence hums around us, buzzing like paparazzi at fashion week. I hold my breath and wait, though I have no idea what I’m waiting for.

‘Why did you come here?’

His brows lift, just a little. ‘I was looking for you.’

Heat spreads through my body.

‘Why?’

His hands lift to my hair, flicking it between his fingers. ‘You suit blonde.’ His smile is somehow self-deprecating. ‘Then again, you also suit pink.’

I laugh. ‘Did you come here to discuss my hair?’

‘No.’ His eyes pierce mine. ‘I came here to find Miss Anonymous.’

‘Why?’

‘Because last week was the best sex I’ve ever had, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I want more. More of her, you, this. And I think you do too.’

My jaw drops, my heart stops, my pulse cracks like a frozen river.

‘Nicholas—’

His name rushes from my lips, too much air, too much feeling. It’s too much. If sex were a college degree, this guy would hold several PhDs. He really thinks I’m the best? The best he’s ever had? Pride soars in my chest, and, more than that, the addiction centres of my brain are going into overdrive because he’s damned right. I do want more of this.

But… ‘We agreed it would just be one night.’

‘That was before.’ He shrugs away the objection, as though it doesn’t matter.

‘But you’re not… Neither of us wants… I mean, what are you saying?’

‘I’m glad you asked,’ he says teasingly, pulling me closer, wrapping his arms behind my back so our bodies are cleaved together in a way that is both sexy and intimate. ‘I came here wanting to fuck Miss Anonymous again, and I did. And still I want more. And now, I think I can see a way for both of us to get what we want.’

‘What’s that?’ I sound as if I’ve run a marathon.

‘Go out with me.’

Panic spirals through me and I shake my head on instinct. ‘I don’t date, Nicholas. I didn’t mean to imply that I want that…’

‘Relax.’ He grins, and something fizzes in my gut. ‘I don’t mean for real.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You haven’t dated in a long time, and that seems like a waste. So date me. Play with me. Fuck me.’ He says the last in a voice that is so deep it rumbles right through my bones. ‘I’m moving home in a month and, suddenly, I can’t think of any way I’d rather spend what remains of my time in New York than with you.’

His voice whips against me, seductive and intense. But I hold onto Chance, to what I owe Abbey, to the single-minded focus this business takes to run. ‘I can’t.’ My tone is clipped, strange-sounding in the midst of our conversation and what we’ve just done. ‘I don’t have time to date.’

‘That’s a cop-out.’ His words are a little mocking.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but it’s the truth. I work really hard, and I can’t spare the time to fill your last few weeks here in New York.’

‘You’re saying you’d rather work than do more of this?’ He lifts a brow and, damn it, he is so hot, and I want him, and he knows it. He knows what he’s doing to me. I swallow, frustration biting into my belly.

‘Look, Nicholas, I appreciate the offer.’ I wince, knowing it sounds like some kind of real-estate merger. ‘But this was only meant to be one night. I hadn’t—’

‘Had sex in a really long time,’ he supplies, a smile on his lips, as if he’s teasing me, and a smile twitches on my own lips in response.

‘I haven’t had a life in a really long time. No friends, no boyfriend, I barely see my family—though I can’t say that’s a bad thing, actually—but I got… I know it’s kind of sad to admit this, I got lonely, okay? I just wanted one night to be like a regular woman in her twenties. And it was great. You were great. But that’s all it can be between us. I can’t afford to get distracted.’

‘Great. I don’t want to distract you.’ He wiggles his brows. ‘At least, not beyond this month.’

‘Nicholas,’ I groan, lifting my hands to my face and covering my eyes. ‘I can’t do it. This all means too much to me—’

‘I get it.’ I remove my hands to find him watching me. ‘Your work is important to you. But you just said you haven’t had a life in a really long time. So why not give yourself one? Just for a few weeks.’

His words catch in my chest. I frown.

‘I’m not talking about a relationship, and I’m not talking about long-term. I’m literally talking about you and me, doing more of this.’ He gestures towards my desk and the window that still bears my handprints. ‘Dating for a few weeks, having fun, all kinds of fun, until it’s time for me to leave.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then, I go back to my life, and you can go back to working twenty-two hours a day and pretending you’re not a red-blooded woman.’

It’s crazy. But what’s craziest of all is that it makes sense. It’s everything I wanted and never thought I could have. A relationship with clear boundaries, limits on what we get from one another and a stop point that would make it impossible for this to overshadow my real life in any way. It’s exactly the kind of relationship I would create, if I thought there was any likelihood I’d find a guy to go along with it.

It feels almost too good to be true. ‘You want to date me?’

‘Well, I want to fuck you,’ he says with a devilish grin that takes any impertinence out of his correction. ‘But you should be dated. And I’m pretty good at the whole dating thing.’

My heart kicks up a notch. ‘And not at all arrogant with it, right?’

‘It’s not arrogant if it’s true.’

I roll my eyes again but stifle a laugh. ‘I suppose you have a point.’

‘So? Four weeks of debauched fun. What say you, Miss Carmichael?’

My body unequivocally and enthusiastically says ‘yes’. A thousand times over, yes. But I have to think this through. I’m not someone who jumps off the deep end without looking at every angle first. ‘I don’t date clients.’

‘Ever?’ Then, before I can answer, ‘Right, you’re a date virgin.’

‘I am not!’ I splutter, laughing. ‘I have dated.’

‘A millennium ago.’

‘Shut up.’ I punch his shoulder playfully but his eyes flare in a way that promises it could very quickly go from playful to something else entirely if I’m not careful.

‘No one has to know about this.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Could we actually keep this a secret? Is that remotely feasible?

‘What? You’re planning on taking out a full-page ad?’

‘No, but, you’re kind of recognisable, and so am I.’ Temptation is dragging me towards the line of acceptance, though. ‘Why don’t we just, you know, sleep together? My apartment has a basement garage, you can come and go and no one needs to know…’

‘No.’ He lifts a hand, curving it around my cheek, his eyes flaring with mine. ‘It’s obvious you’re a total novice and need a first-rate education. I’m going to take you out.’

‘Wine and dine me?’

‘Yes.’

Heat soars in my chest.

‘It wouldn’t work. I can’t have people talking. This matters too much to me.’ Once more, I wave my hand around my office, indicating the club.

‘I respect that.’ He studies me for a beat. ‘I promise I won’t do anything that could damage your reputation in the club. Scout’s honour.’

I laugh, because he is far from a Scout. ‘Dating you would do that though.’ And it would. Not just because I’m me, but because he’s Nicholas Rothsmore and his reputation would be enough to drag me towards scandal—just the kind of scandal I promise my members the club will help them avoid.

‘So we’ll keep it secret.’ He says it as if it’s simple.

Before I can ask him exactly how he proposes to do that, he pulls me closer, tighter, so our bodies meld and thought becomes a little harder.

‘I saw something on the forums about the Christmas gala,’ he murmurs, his eyes sweeping my face.

‘That we’re looking for donations of time?’

He nods, then drops his head so his lips buzz mine so lightly it’s a form of torture. I push up on my tiptoes without meaning to, so my face is closer, wanting an actual kiss.

He pulls back, just a little, teasing me, tempting me. Frustration kicks in my abdomen.

‘So?’

‘So,’ he murmurs, buzzing my lips again, then sliding a hand between my legs so I sway forward and exhale softly. ‘If anyone runs into us, we’ll tell them I’m helping with the Christmas gala.’ His fingers brush my clit and I dig my fingers into his shoulder, holding on for dear life as he stirs my body to a new fever pitch.

It’s so plausible. Members with certain expertise often volunteer their time or resources when it comes to organising events. Ellie Little recently provided a heap of supercars for a member event. This isn’t unprecedented.

People would believe it.

Probably.

He slides a single finger inside my core and my knees threaten to buckle. His arm clamps around my back as if he knows somehow.

‘Think about it,’ he murmurs in my ear before sucking my lobe into his mouth, teasing it between his teeth. ‘How else will you know what really…’ he moves his finger deeper, brushing his thumb over my clit; my breath hurts ‘…really…’ he bites his teeth down on my earlobe and I make a sound of total surrender ‘…great dating feels like?’

I hold him as he moves faster and pleasure is like a tidal wave swirling around me. I’m not sure I care about dating so much as sex, and sex specifically with Nicholas, but at the same time I’m completely intrigued.

Pleasure is making thought almost impossible, so I ask the first thing that occurs to me before I lose myself utterly in this moment. ‘Why would you do this?’

‘Beyond the fact the sex with you is fucking fantastic?’

I nod, tilting my head back, staring at my ceiling as everything explodes in my chest.

‘Because in a month I will become the man who’s going to be Lord Rothsmore and any kind of social life will be a distant memory.’ I cling on tighter as my eyes fill with stars. ‘This month with you will be like my very own goodbye party to my real life.’

If I weren’t cresting over a wave of sublime release, I might almost have felt sorry for him, I might have paid more attention to the heaviness in his voice. But I cannot think properly, I cannot act as I normally would. I cry out his name and tip over the edge, my eyes blinking open to find him watching me with an intensity that takes my breath away.

‘Say yes,’ he prompts, a smile flickering across his lips, as though he knows I’ll agree—how can I not?

My throat is parched, my body awash with a shock of feelings, but I nod, jerkily. In that moment, I would have agreed to give him my soul; I would have agreed to anything he asked of me. We have thirty days, not one thousand and one, and yet sex, I think, has become my Scheherazade’s tale, and he is the master storyteller, intriguing me more and more with each and every encounter…