The Deal. Clare Connelly
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‘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.
JESUS CHRIST, SHE is unbelievably responsive. I lift her up easily, carrying her across to the bed. Her breasts are soft against my chest and I’m searching for her lips, kissing her, tasting her sweetness as I bring her to the edge of the bed and drop her onto it.
She laughs, a sound so sexy that I swear it writes itself into my mind as though it were chiselled from stone. There’s something about it, husky, sweet, laced with promise and heat. I don’t give her a second to recover; my mouth chases hers and pushes her backwards, my body coming to lie over hers even as she scrambles higher up the bed so she’s lying fully on it.
I trap her wrists with one of my hands, pinning them above her head so her beautiful round breasts are high and firm and then I bring my mouth down to one, sucking on a nipple, rolling it with my tongue, flipping it, my body weight holding her still as she writhes with pleasure. I smile against her pale skin and then move to her other breast, my spare hand plucking the nipple I just released, and I grind my hips so my rock-hard dick—that is giving me no end of grief right now, desperately needing to bury itself deep inside her—throbs and begs for release.
Soon.
We agreed to fuck, once. She was very specific about this. She wanted to get laid.
I can’t be away from the party for long. It has to be efficient.
A quickie? It feels as if it should have been outlawed, given how damned sexy she is. This is not a woman who should ever be made love to quickly, unless it is a desperate preamble to a long, slow seduction.
She deserves to be explored and tasted and delighted until she is hoarse from crying out in pleasure.
As if my thoughts have conjured her voice, she spills my name into the air over and over, arching her back, begging me to take her.
I don’t want to, though. I want to prolong this; I want to lose myself in her.
These rooms were built for privacy—not even a hint of the party downstairs reaches us, and I’m glad. I kind of hope she’s forgotten that a thousand of the world’s most well-heeled individuals are just a hundred or so metres away.
‘Please,’ she whimpers, but in a way that makes it clear it has nothing to do with her desire to re-join the party, or her worry that she might be missed. It’s more than that. She needs me.
I push up on my elbows, staring down at her, but I want to see more. I want to watch her come. More than just her expressive eyes and pouting lips, I want to see her whole face. I move my hand to the mask and begin to shift it but she jerks away and, from what I can see, her expression sobers instantly.
‘No.’ The word is deadly serious. ‘It stays on.’
Shit. I forgot. Anonymity is part of the deal.
‘Sorry.’ I grimace. ‘I just wanted to see you.’
Her smile is laced with pleasure. ‘You can see enough.’
I arch a brow but inwardly I disagree. Still, it’s better than nothing, and sure as hell better than I expected when I agreed to this.
I’m no stranger to random hook-ups, but something about this woman’s approach fascinated me. Her desire for anonymity, and the fact she is new to the club—I haven’t seen her profile on any of the forums before and thanks to networking I’m pretty familiar with most of the members.
So she is new. Someone who has just come into money?
No. I can’t say how, but I can tell she’s old money. Cultured. She has a certain air about her, a way of speaking that’s instinctively familiar.
‘You do realise we’re here to sleep together?’ she prompts, her brows lifting above the edge of the mask.
My laugh is immediate. ‘Are you complaining?’
‘Nope.’ She digs her white teeth into the pillow of her lower lip and need rushes through me. Fuck, she’s hot. So hot. I drop my head and pull her lower lip between my teeth, my whole body mashed to hers, her nakedness its own kind of torture, so close to me, so close and yet there’s still a scrap of cotton between my cock and her sweet warmth and suddenly I’m done being patient and I’m done with the idea of making this last.
Sex is sex. She wants a wild time, and that’s what I’m going to give her.
I push up onto my elbows. ‘Stay here.’
There’s a box of condoms in the bedside table. I pull it out and cross back to the bed. She’s watching me in a way that fills me with a torrent of needs and I intend to indulge each and every one of them.
There’s something about not knowing who she is that makes this even sexier. Except…
Ridiculously, for the first time, I wonder about her life outside this, outside this room and our agreement. ‘You’re not married?’ I prompt, staring down at her as my lungs work overtime trying to suck in enough air to keep me alive.
‘Married? I told you, I haven’t done this in a long time.’
My smirk is to hide my cynicism. It doesn’t work. ‘I don’t think celibacy and marriage are necessarily oxymoronic.’
She grins, and I hold my breath, needing her to tell me she’s single. I like sex. I fucking love it, unapologetically, but there are some lines I will never cross,