Читать книгу Gold Diggers - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 12

‘Oh God, oh God, you’re too sexy! I’m not sure I can make it to the bedroom,’ panted Harry Levin, his tongue licking Molly’s neck like a hungry wolf. They had only just burst in through the front door and already Harry’s hand had plunged down Molly’s halterneck to grab at her hard brown nipples. His free hand was undoing the belt of his trousers and he had slipped off his shoes, rendering him at least three inches shorter. Insoles, sighed Molly, trying not to flinch as his teeth bit the tips of her breasts like a randy teenager.

She had picked up her latest paramour – cosmetic surgeon to the stars, no less – at the end of the Stop Global Warming benefit, when it was so late that the waiters had begun stacking up tables. To Molly’s great annoyance, Adam Gold had left halfway through the jazz band’s set, before she had even had time to introduce herself. There hadn’t been a great number of other single men at the party, although she had counted four ex-lovers, all married, all with their wives and all who had chosen to ignore her. She didn’t want to waste the night, not when she looked so hot. Her Cavalli dress was cut so low at the back you could see the dark tip where her spine met her ass. So when Harry Levin was pointed out to her as Harley Street’s premier tit man, she knew that she’d go home with him.

‘Spank me,’ growled Harry, when they had made their way up his sweeping staircase, tearing at each other’s clothes as they reached his bedroom. Welcoming the opportunity to inspect his five-storey Hampstead home further, she let him bend over the mahogany sleigh bed, slapping his skinny white arse while she looked around the room.

‘You’ve been a very bad boy,’ she purred theatrically, noting the walnut-panelled walls and fifty-inch plasma television over the exquisite marble fireplace.

‘Harder!’ groaned Harry, clutching his dove-grey duvet in pleasure. Mmm, that bed linen was definitely Pratesi, noted Molly as she smacked him harder, observing the tell-tale scalloped edges of the pillowcase. She also spotted a Picasso sketch on the wall above the bed and the many silver-framed photographs of Harry: Harry skiing, Harry on a yacht, Harry looking tanned, happy and rich. This one was definitely promising.

He rolled over to face Molly, his dextrous fingers pulling down Molly’s tiny chiffon thong in one movement. His eyes widened when he saw her totally bald bush; Molly had waxed it off earlier that day after discovering some tufts of grey.

‘I fucking love that,’ he mumbled, sinking his face between her thighs. She got onto the bed, long hair splayed across the pillow, one leg artfully bent at the knee, her arms thrown back over her head as if she was posing for a Playboy spread. His hands were all over her, and after a couple of minutes of licking her nipples, leaving her breasts cold and wet, he fumbled around with a condom as he prepared to enter her. His cock was small, but he thrust himself in so hard it was like a bullet. She ran her long fingers down his back, but Harry was beyond subtleties: his ass was bobbing up and down like a cork at sea.

She shut her eyes and thought of Adam Gold, but not even that could make this sexual encounter more enjoyable. Christ, let’s get this over with, she thought, making a few half-hearted groans and digging her nails into his thrusting arse as she prepared to fake orgasm.

‘Now! Now!’ he shouted before collapsing onto her, his head on Molly’s chest.

‘Incredible,’ he whispered, ‘just fucking incredible.’

Molly lay motionless, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as she tried to work out whether it was a Lalique or a Murano light-fixture above the bed.

She stroked her hand across the top of his head, wondering if she could get Harry Levin to cough up for that five hundred acres of Mozambique rainforest she’d won at the auction and not yet paid for. At the very least, she was sure he would give her a good price for that tummy tuck she’d been meaning to get.