Читать книгу The Deal - Clare Connelly - Страница 12

OH, MY GOD. Oh, my God, Oh, my God. There’s an ancient grandfather clock against the far wall and it ticks loudly, but I can barely hear it over the desperate rushing of blood in my ears. Am I really going to do this?

The intimate rooms are perfectly climate controlled—it’s cool in here but that’s not why my skin is marked with delicate goose bumps. I run my hands over my naked legs, waxed and oiled so they’re smooth and soft in honour of this assignation.

It’s not too late to change your mind, my brain shouts at me.

But I don’t really want to change my mind. I made the decision to do this months ago, meticulously planning every detail in order to give myself one night of passion. To give myself a life—even just for one night. It’s been too long since I’ve had anything even remotely resembling a life. Too long since I’ve let go and enjoyed myself.

I still have too much to do, too much to achieve and, despite the tremendous growth and success of the charity, I want more. I need more. Faster, bigger. My charity is my all, and I’m happy with that.

But my body. Oh, my body. Lately, something seems to have awoken in me, a curiosity, a need I no longer seem able to deny. I want to get laid. No, I want to have sex. Really fantastic sex, and then I want to change back into my signature gown, swan out of this room and become, once more, the woman the world expects me to be.

I flick my gaze to the clock across the room. There are three minutes to go. Three minutes until Nicholas Rothsmore the Third arrives to seduce me.

My heart bounces against my ribs. I swallow. I need more champagne. No. No more champagne. I only had two sips at the party—I know better than to get drunk at something like this.

It’s work for me, not play—though I have perfected the art of looking as if I’m playing when I’m not.

But this? Being here in Room Six, the sumptuous décor the last word in elegance and sophistication, dressed only in lingerie, waiting for a man I know solely through the club’s exclusive, private online forum?

My pulse notches up a gear.

I’m waiting to have sex with a stranger.

Not just a stranger.

I lie back against the bed, my eyes sweeping shut as I picture the man in question. Nicholas Rothsmore the Third isn’t just a man. He’s unbelievably sexy, all tousled hair and rock-hard abs, and a firmly committed playboy. Who better to have one delicious sexual encounter with, no questions asked, before going back to my real life?

I lift a hand to check the bright pink wig is firmly in place, tucked all around the hairline as my stylist showed me, so there’s no risk of movement. It’s soft and silky, the hair falling in waves to my shoulders. My mask is bright silver and covers not just my eyes, but lower on my face as well, stopping just above my lips, in keeping with the masquerade ball theme downstairs. Of course, I have a separate mask stashed in the wardrobe across the room, as well as my distinctive couture gown, to avoid any likelihood that Nicholas recognises me, after.

After.

Such a delicious word loaded with promise. After this. After sex.

My heart is hammering so hard now I’m surprised it hasn’t beaten a hole through the wall of my chest.

I can’t have anyone know I’m doing this.

I never get involved with clients, and Nicholas is one of the club’s most prominent members. The last thing I want is to do anything to undermine the club or my charity. Chance is the reason for all of this.

I doubt anyone has any idea how hard I work behind the scenes. On the surface, I’m Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur and socialite—my mother’s daughter. But behind closed doors, when other people my age are falling in love, getting married, having babies, or even just getting wasted and falling in and out of God knows whose bed, I’m working. I’m working on Chance, I’m working on it, for it, every waking minute, and there’s still so much more to do. We’re nationwide now, but I want more—there are children all over the world who need what we offer. I’ve been toying with the idea of opening a London branch for over six months now but I know it’s going to take a lot of my time and spread me kind of thin.

That’s my focus. That’s my life.

It’s why this night is perfect for me. It’s one night, and with a guy I know to be as interested in serious relationships as I am. Which is to say, not at all. He’s perfect one-night stand material, and excitement is shifting through me.

How long has it been since I was with a guy, anyway?

My lips tug downward as I consider that. At least three years. No! Nearly four. Jackson and I broke up just before Christmas.

Yes, it’s been a long time and, at nearly thirty, if I don’t take control of this, I’m going to grow my virginity back. That’s a thing, right? I’m sure I read it in one of those glossy magazines at the airport lounge a while ago. Okay, maybe nothing that drastic, but I am in danger of forgetting what it’s like to be touched, kissed, driven wild with pleasure.

And I miss sex. I don’t want a relationship, though God knows there are times when I wish I had someone I could talk to, someone I could bounce ideas off. But I don’t have the headspace for a boyfriend. Where would I even fit a relationship into my life? And what would that do to Chance?

One day, maybe. When the charity is big enough to run without me, when we’re fully established—and not just in America, around the world—maybe then I’ll open myself up to something more. But I’m a long way from that, and I’m not going to do anything that might risk what I’ve spent my life building. I owe it to Abbey to keep my focus, to make this a true success.

The quietest noise sounds, but it might as well have been the tolling of a bell. I’m hyperaware of everything in that moment and I sit up, then push to standing, the stilettos I kicked off by the bed waiting for me. I slip them on and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.

Holy crap.

I look…like sex on legs. I look like someone who does this all the time. The corset is firm at my back and pushes my breasts up, like two pale orbs, and my legs are curvy and slim. The wig completes the look and the mask adds an element of decadence that is just perfect for The Billionaires’ Club.

‘Knock, knock.’ His cultured British tone would be haughty if it weren’t for the permanent husk that thickens his words. ‘Is there a Miss Anonymous in there?’ My tummy squeezes at his sexy, teasing voice.

‘Yeah.’ My own voice comes out high-pitched. I suck in a deep breath, cross the plush carpet to the door and grip the handle. It’s cold beneath my touch. I count to ten slowly, a trick I learned in school, when my nerves used to get away from me.

Slowly, I draw the door inward, my heart unbearably loud and urgent now.

And at the sight of him, it skids to a stop.

A bead of anxiety runs through me. We planned this secretly on the forum, and my only condition was anonymity. He isn’t to know who I am—in fact, I went out of my way to create the impression that I’m some bored housewife just looking to get my rocks off. Naturally, he had no objections to that—if I know one thing for certain about Nicholas it’s that he doesn’t do commitment or serious.

Which makes him perfect for this. For tonight.

‘Come in,’ I invite, waving my hand towards the room. These Intimate Rooms were designed with seduction in mind and they have everything a couple could need for a sensual encounter. The bed is bigger than a king, laid with thousand-thread-count sheets. There’s a fridge stocked with the finest French champagne money can’t buy, a luxurious en suite bathroom with a spa bath and fragrant oils, and members are invited to request a bespoke ‘toy chest’ if their tastes run in that direction.

Nicholas requested handcuffs and seeing that on the booking sheet two days earlier made my body break out in a sweat. A good sweat. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

He swaggers into the room, his navy-blue suit slim-fitting and flattering to his trim and toned frame. His eyes take in the room, though I’m sure he’s been here before. He crosses to the window—the thick black velvet blinds are drawn for privacy. He flicks the blinds open a little, showing a slice of Sydney Harbour, the unique Opera House right outside the window.

I’m nervous.

Beyond nervous.

I’m full of doubts and desire in equal measure.

I have literally never done anything like this in my entire life.

My tummy loops into a billion knots.

‘So.’ He turns to face me, his lips flicking in the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. My insides burst a little. ‘What shall I call you?’

‘Miss Anonymous is fine.’ My voice sounds so prudish and disapproving. I force a smile.

‘Anon for short?’ he quips, moving to the fridge as he discards his jacket over the back of the black velvet armchair.

I nod quickly. ‘Whatever.’ My name doesn’t matter.

‘You seem nervous.’

Crap. So much for seeming cool and in control. My lips curve into a small smile; his eyes drop to them. My throat goes dry. ‘I am, a little.’ When all else is lost, go for honesty.

‘Why?’

He lifts the top off the champagne expertly and pours two generous glasses. He turns to me, his eyes dragging down from the tip of my head and performing the slowest, most sensual inspection I can imagine. As his eyes shift over my body, I feel as though he’s touching me even when he’s on the other side of the room.

Slowly, so slowly, he lingers on the generous curves of my breasts, my nipped-in, corseted waist, my hips and lower, so heat flushes my cheeks and I’m grateful for the face mask I wear.

Lower, lower, over my legs, until, at my ankles, he grins. ‘Nice shoes.’

I lift a foot, to dislodge one, but he shakes his head, his eyes flying to mine. ‘Leave them on. For now.’

My pulse races. Anyone who knows me—who knows me as I really am—knows I’m not one to be told what to do. But for some reason, the idea of momentarily relinquishing control is kind of empowering and very appealing. I do as he says, leaving the shoes in place. He lifts a finger and bends it, signalling silently for me to join him.

I walk across to him with what I hope passes for a seductive stroll, a feline smile on my lips the closer I get. Here, just a foot or so away from him, I breathe in and taste the masculine fragrance he wears—woody and alpine and intoxicatingly sensual. His shirt is crisp white and at the cuffs he wears shining black cufflinks, which I have every reason to suspect are diamonds.

When someone applies to join The Billionaires’ Club, we run a detailed background check to maintain our exclusivity and privacy. I mean, membership comes with an annual fee of a million dollars, plus the buy-in, so I know the members can get their hands on serious cash, but we need to know more than that. Criminal records, credit history, scandals, everything.

So I know Nicholas Rothsmore’s background, probably better than most who just presume he’s a playboy bachelor living off his family’s considerable wealth. Sure, he was born with the proverbial silver spoon but he’s also smart as all get out and a crazy hard worker. Five years ago he arrived in New York to take over his family’s American branch of the Rothsmore Group and in that time he’s trebled their revenue and expanded beyond a blue-chip investment portfolio to a remarkable presence in the tech world.

Even without his family, he’s a formidable and impressive entrepreneur. Then again, his silver-spoon start in life probably didn’t hurt.

‘Your eyes,’ he murmurs, scanning my face thoughtfully, and my heart rate kicks up a gear, so that I doubt my veins are going to be able to hold the blood in place. ‘They’re so…’

Instinctively, I blink, shuttering my eyes from him. They’re a very dark blue, the colour of the sky at dusk, and I know it’s unusual. I don’t want him to recognise me. ‘No cheating,’ I say, taking the champagne flute he offers, lifting it to my lips. ‘This is secret.’

‘Right.’ His grin is pure devilish heat and his expression is one of amusement. ‘Well, Miss Anonymous, what’s your thing?’

‘My thing?’

‘Yeah. What are you into?’

I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t have a lot of spare time. I guess, reading…’

‘Fascinating.’ His laugh is a slow vibration that travels around the room before landing at the base of my spine, sending little shards of awareness through my nerve endings. ‘But I meant, in bed.’ He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his fingers lifting to curl the edges of the wig, teasing the flossy pink strands between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Right.’ I slap my forehead exaggeratedly and my smile holds a silent apology. So much for acting as if I do this all the time. ‘I’m…a little out of practice.’

‘Are you?’ His gaze flicks to my cleavage again, lingering there for so long a faint murmur escapes my lips. Heat travels along my body as though he’s touched me.

All I can do is nod.

‘Why is that?’

We’d agreed not to discuss anything personal. I think of how to answer in a way that won’t give me away. ‘I’ve been single awhile.’

His smile is just a lazy flicker of those sculpted lips, framed by a squared jaw and a brush of stubble. I like the stubble. I itch to feel it and rather than denying myself that impulse, I surrender to it, lifting my hand to his face so I can run my fingertips over his jaw.

It shouldn’t be so sensual, but just the act of touching him like this is so illicit and sinful that I make a low, husky sound, my body trembling with the first flush of desire.

‘So you are nervous?’ He comes closer, so our bodies brush, and then he moves behind me, so close I can feel his nearness, his warmth, even though he doesn’t quite touch me.

He dips his head forward, something I only realise when I feel his breath on my shoulder, warm and smelling of champagne.

My knees tremble.

‘Look.’ He lifts his hands to my shoulders and angles me slightly so I can see us in the mirror. The sight of myself in this costume—so different from my usual appearance—and Nicholas Rothsmore at my back, his long, tanned fingers curved over my pale shoulders, fills me with a need that demands indulgence.

‘Tonight, we’re just two people.’ He speaks slowly, the words buzzing right against my ear. ‘Who came here to fuck.’

I swallow, my throat moving convulsively. His coarse description sends a frisson of awareness down my back, because he’s right. This is physical, primal, animalistic. ‘Right.’ I went into the forum looking for this. I don’t know why I’m panicking at the eleventh hour. I draw in a deep breath and smile slowly, calming my nerves.

‘That’s what you want?’

‘Count on it.’

His hands move to my back, where a delicate lace ribbon holds the corset together. He loops a finger beneath the bow, watching me with a hint of mockery as he pulls on one loop, loosening it appreciably.

‘You can stop this at any time, if you change your mind,’ he murmurs, pulling on the other loop.

My breath snags in my throat. I shake my head slowly from side to side. No way on earth am I going to put a stop to this.

‘Good,’ he growls, easing the corset down so my breasts spill over the top. He stops moving and stares at me in the mirror, his eyes hot and possessive, glued to my body as though I’m the first woman he’s ever seen.

Strangely, I don’t feel at all self-conscious now, despite the fact I haven’t been naked in front of anyone in a really long time. I’m someone who wears underwear even at the gym or the spa; when other women seem perfectly happy to strip down completely in the sauna or whatever, I’m buttoned up in the corner, sweating into my cotton.

I just don’t really do the naked thing.

But here, in the privacy of this intimate room, wearing a mask, with a prearranged lover loosening my lingerie, I have no reluctance; not even a hint of hesitation. This is what we’re here for. It’s just a transaction.

Convenient, satisfying sex.

At least, I hope it’s satisfying. His reputation sure as heck precedes him, but then, sometimes the myth is bigger than the man.

I don’t chase that thought down; I don’t have time to think about that. His hands are running up my sides, his eyes on mine in the mirror as he brings his hands around front to cup my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples and tweaking them so I let out a low growl, the pleasure from such a simple touch totally overwhelming.

‘I don’t want to stop it.’ The words are squeezed from my throat, breathing and speaking almost completely beyond me.

‘Good.’ Another husky admission before his fingers are sliding into the corset, pushing it even lower until it hits my hips and then falls apart completely, leaving me standing in just a scrap of elastic and lace. His eyes hold mine as he slips a finger into the waistband of my thong and then flicks it. I jump a little, and laugh, the sting unexpected, and unexpectedly sensual. Especially when his hands caress the area almost instantly, soothing the flesh.

My pulse is trembling like a fire in my veins and heat is rushing my insides. He moves his hands around my hips; still watching me intently in the mirror, he slides one hand into the front of my thong. I’m so glad I waxed there too.

His fingers brush my flesh, finding my clit with expert precision, moving over it slowly at first, so I gasp because the touch is unfamiliar and for a second I fight an urge to ask him to stop, because I haven’t been touched here in a really, really long time. And never like this. He is some kind of maestro because the very idea of objecting disappears from my mind almost instantly as I succumb to the blinding heat of this pleasure, this possession. It’s just the lightest touch but flame explodes to molten lava and I’m burning up, heat in every cell of my body, every nerve ending.

His mouth drops to my shoulder, kissing my flesh there, moving closer to the nape of my neck. His breath is cool, his kiss warm, his touch perfect and suddenly pleasure is like a lightning rod, forking through me, so I have to bite down on my lip to stop from crying out.

‘Don’t be quiet,’ he urges, and I blink, finding his eyes in the mirror. He’s watching me with an intensity that robs me of breath, his steady grey gaze fascinating and intelligent and somehow all-seeing, so I feel as if beyond my arousal he must be comprehending so much more about me right now. As if he might be seeing into my buttoned-up soul, might be seeing all of my usual tensions and removing them from me.

And I don’t care.

‘Look,’ he prompts, lifting one hand to my breast and cupping it, while his fingers work faster until I’m tumbling so close to the edge of a ravine that I can only exhale in short, shallow rasps. There’s nothing to grab onto; nothing to save me from falling.

‘Watch yourself,’ he says more insistently, though it takes me several seconds to process his words because my brain is no longer firing on all cylinders. All of my blood is busy being pleasured inside my body, being lit on fire by his intensely skilled ministrations.

‘Oh, my God.’ The words tumble from my lips and then I’m groaning, tilting my head back but doing exactly as he said—watching me, us, this. Watching as he moves his hand and pleasure makes me blush and my nipples hard and then I can’t watch any longer because I’m scrunching my face up and giving myself over completely to the total subjugation of sense and reason in place of white-hot desire.

I am falling, I am falling too fast to stop, and yet somehow I’m also flying, all the way to heaven.

I dig my nails into my palms and, because I am secret and he is not, I cry his name as I tumble over the edge. ‘Nicholas,’ I moan into the glamorous bedroom. ‘Oh, God, Nicholas.’

It is a wave that won’t stop, as if the last four years of celibacy have left me with a hyper-charged sex drive. How did I not realise that until now?

‘Oh, this is going to be fun,’ he drawls, his British so very sexy, so husky, so hot, and I laugh, because I’ve already had more pleasure than I bargained for. I can’t imagine what else he can do with those clever, clever hands. And that mouth…my eyes drop to it in the mirror and it lifts into a knowing smirk.

‘Oh, yes, that’ll be fun too.’

My eyes jerk to his. He’s watching me with what I think is amusement.

Normally, I might feel embarrassed at having been so completely lost to that amazing feeling, but I’m not. Because firstly, there’s nothing wrong with sexual pleasure—and this is the man to know that. And secondly, he has no idea who I am! This is totally anonymous, totally secret, totally no-consequences, no-holds-barred sex.

That knowledge is empowering, so I spin where I’m standing and look up at him. Even though I’m tall, there’s a height differential between us that means I have to look up.

‘How come you’re wearing clothes?’ I murmur.

His shrug is pure indolent heat. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Let’s do something about that, shall we?’

His nostrils flare at the challenge in my words. My fingertips tremble a little as I begin to undo his buttons, concentrating hard on the task so afterwards I think I probably could have moved a little more seductively. Not that I can muster much energy to care, because now I’m eye height with his naked chest and it is a sight to behold.

The first thing I notice is a tattoo that runs above his left pec, near his heart. It reads, in a strong cursive script, I am my own. I trace it with my eyes, imagining what would lead someone to have that written over their heart. I don’t ask. We’re not here for that kind of inquisition.

‘Holy crap.’ It’s just a whisper, so soft and hoarse in the silence of the room, with only the grandfather clock’s metronomic beat for company, but he hears and he grins.

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Now it’s my turn to look a little mocking when I turn to face him. ‘Like you don’t already know.’

Because how could he not? While he’s slim, he’s also insanely toned, a buff chest loaded with muscles, eight firmly defined ridges calling out to be touched. I lift my fingers and trace over the pectoral definition, lingering on his own hair-roughened nipples, surprising myself when I flick one, just as he did with the elastic in my underpants, and he lets out a growl.

‘Retaliation,’ I simper, grinning as I move to the other.

His hand catches my wrist, his eyes flaring. ‘Careful, Miss Anonymous.’

‘Oh?’ My fingertips tingle. With his hand clamped around my wrist, his eyes watching me, I blink—a study in wide-eyed innocence. ‘Why is that?’

‘You’re baiting me,’ he points out.

‘Yep.’ And I flick his other nipple, so he tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple moving beneath his stubble. More than that, through the confines of his trousers, I feel his cock jerk and power rushes my veins. Power, desire and a surge of sheer, desperate attraction.

I drag my fingertips lower over his body, moving them in teasing circles over his washboard abs then out to his hips, up a little, and lower, to the soft leather belt that’s threaded through his trousers.

Now my lack of speed is deliberate. I can tell it’s driving him crazy and, hell, I love that. I loosen the clasp and pull on the edge of the belt, watching him as I slide it out of his belt loops. I drop it to the ground beside us then concentrate on the button and zipper, easing it down, pushing the sides apart.

Suddenly, and out of nowhere, I’m uncertain. He understands and takes over, kicking his shoes off and stepping out of his trousers at the same time. Only his dark grey boxer briefs remain.

‘My turn,’ he murmurs, and I don’t understand what he means until he kneels at my feet, looking up at me as he slides my lace thong lower. I watch, the pink wig swishing against my shoulders as he uses my techniques against me, moving too, too slowly. Frustration gnaws at me. I don’t want slow. I want to be naked and possessed by him.

I go to step out of my thong but his hands are firm around my thighs, holding me where I am. He makes a tsking noise in response to my silent expression of inquiry, and then he’s slowly pushing the lace lower, so I have to stand there and wait until finally my thong is at my ankles and I can kick out of it.

I keep the shoes on and he makes no effort to remove them.

I can’t think about my shoes though. He’s kneeling before me and now his mouth is moving to my clit, and the pleasure I’ve been surfing since he walked in the room is dragging me away again, swallowing me into its midst, so I’m dropping off the edge of the earth, just pure sensation and feeling.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but the last thing I think before I come—this time against his mouth—is that wild, anonymous sex might be the hottest thing ever.