The Dare Collection: April 2018. Stefanie London
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at least this first time, was all about her.
‘Come.’ He nudged her forward in the direction of the bedroom, his hand clasping hers to ensure she stayed with him. When he’d lit the bedside lamps, casting the masculine space into warmth, he dropped her hand and loosened his tie and the top buttons of his shirt.
‘Show me how you plan to torment me for my clumsy comments earlier—I know you’re hiding something under there.’ His gaze flicked down the swathe of rose-coloured silk to the toes of the sexy, peep-toe heels he’d glimpsed when she’d stepped from his car.
He hadn’t intended to question her dress sense earlier, merely fuel his own fantasies with visions of her draped in some figure-hugging garment or other.
What kind of a man would make her doubt, for one second, a single iota of her true worth as a human being, a woman?
And what kind of man seduced someone for some sort of twisted revenge?
Breathing hard, he focussed on Harley. The night he had planned. For her pleasure and his. Questioning himself only led to doubt—and he didn’t do doubt.
She lifted her chin, passion and sass warring for control of her expressive eyes.
‘Why would I bother to dress for you? You either want me or you don’t.’ Her pupils narrowed, the hint of vulnerability dimming the flecks of gold in her irises.
‘Well, that’s not in question.’ He clasped her hand, pressing it to the front of his pants, over the steely erection he’d sported most of the evening. ‘You’re a sexual woman. A woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to get it. Whatever is under that dress—your creamy skin, a hint of rose in all the right places, or the most provocative lingerie—will torture me until I can get my hands and mouth on you.’ He dropped said hands to his sides and curled them into loose fists, waiting. Biding his time.
With a small sigh and a look that made his balls tingle, she lowered the side zip on her dress and shimmied it down until it pooled at her feet.
He’d been right.
Pure torture.
Her toned body, curves generous enough to scream one hundred per cent woman, was scantily clad in the same rose pink, almost translucent underwear he’d fingered at her store this afternoon. Her rosy nipples, visible through the lace of her strapless bra, seemed to strain towards him. His mouth watered, reminding him of other tasty parts of her.
The narrow strip of blond hair was just visible through the sheer panties, and when she turned to place her dress on a nearby chair, her glorious ass came into view, the high-cut thong framing the creamy cheeks and disappearing into the crack between them.
‘Wait.’
He shucked his jacket and took the dress from her, placing both on the ottoman at the foot of his bed. ‘Why don’t you sit there?’ He indicated the chair, which was decadently upholstered, wide and incredibly comfortable. Perfect for what he had in mind.
She smiled, tilted her head and reached up to remove the pins from her up-do until her hair fell around her shoulders and kissed her pert breasts, which lifted with her arms like an offering to the gods.
He was so fucked.
Jack bit back a groan. His cock strained at the front of his dress pants and he removed the belt and loosened the button at his waist. He made light work of his shirt and took the hairgrips from Harley, placing them on the dresser with his cufflinks.
When he turned around, she’d settled into the chair, her luminous eyes watchful and her cheeks flushed the same colour as her nipples and her sex.
Jack heeled off his shoes and removed his socks, impatience clawing at him. But she was worth the wait. He should know. He’d had another taste, the nine years since they’d fooled around as kids, the ultimate in delayed gratification. Sprawled under him on her own console table, coming around him while she’d tweaked her own nipples, she’d been any man’s fantasy.
But, as usual, he was firmly in control of his needs and about to test the limits of Harley’s. How badly did she want him? How far would she go for her orgasm? Only time would tell.
He dropped to his knees. With his hands, he spread her thighs, a punch of lust winding him when he met no resistance. He lifted first one foot, removing first one shoe, before kissing her delicate anklebone, and then the other. She watched his every move. Her eyes lit from within. Her chest rose and fell with her shallow pants, her nipples twice the size as when she’d removed the dress. Dark and ripe.
Saliva pooled in his mouth. ‘Lift your hips, chérie. Let’s see if my memory of your taste is as good as the reality.’
Fuck, he loved the flush of her skin when he talked bluntly. And her compliance—that she was momentarily outraged or flustered but went along with it anyway—exquisite.
Harley gripped the arms of the chair, her pink polished nails digging into the fabric as she lay back and granted his wishes.
He peeled the wispy garment down her thighs, the slight flicker rippling down her muscles telling him the ferocious, all-consuming need pounding through him was likely matched in her.
When he’d freed the lace from her pretty feet, he held it aloft, dangling the wisp from one finger. The scent of her arousal hit him square in the chest. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to rush this, finish it too quickly for his intended plan. Her pleasure.
‘You ruined these.’ He tutted and she shrugged, her eyes flicking to the scrap of pale lace.
More colour rushed up her neck.
‘It’s your fault.’
He nodded, a slug of triumph straightening his spine.
‘Apologies. I’ll replace them.’ He tossed the panties, his gaze raking over the slick pink flesh between her legs. He licked his lips, his stare settling on hers as he lifted first one leg and then the other over the wide, cushioned arms of the chair, splaying her open for his flagrant perusal.
In twenty minutes, she’d either hate his guts, or be begging him for a replay. His blood pounded with renewed force. Resolve strengthening.
‘That is a beautiful sight.’ He let his stare linger, slowly, almost reluctantly meeting her sultry stare. ‘Your pussy is exquisite.’
She gasped, whether from the coarse term or the lightest swipe of his finger over her clit, he couldn’t tell, but some Neanderthal part of him enjoyed shocking her. ‘Perhaps you prefer the French, la chatte.’ Another swipe.
Her eyes grew heavy. ‘You’re completely filthy.’
He shrugged. ‘Oui. And I’m going to enjoy every second of this.’ He leaned down to kiss first one pale thigh and then the other, holding her stare throughout. ‘I hope you will too.’
Waiting was over, anticipation played out. He gripped her thighs with both hands. If he didn’t taste the delights before him soon, he’d lose his mind.
And then he did lose it, because before he could get to her Harley slipped one hand down her belly, her perfectly manicured fingers forming an inverted V over her sex. She spread them open, parting herself to his stare, her mouth slack on a ragged sigh.
An offer and an invitation.
Fuck. He almost came in his pants at the sexiest sight he’d ever seen. This woman was made for sex. Sheer, uninhibited perfection.
With a groan that gave away his desperation, he dived for her, batting her hand away as he sank between her thighs and covered her glistening sex with his mouth. Her taste hit him, filling his senses with her essence. His cock lurched, and his hands gripped her thighs, holding her open as she acclimatised to his tongue on her most sensitive flesh.
This angle, her sprawled in the armchair, afforded him a view of her reactions—every broken cry, every glorious gasp, every streak of ecstasy across her beautiful face.
Her