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I almost can’t bear the perfection of that moment. The haunting rightness.
He lets out a long, slow grunt and his fingers dig into my hips. He holds me down, low on his length, and he throbs, pulses. I feel every jerk of his desire deep inside me. I hold my breath, chewing on my lip as my nerve-endings quiver in response. His cock is whispering secrets within me and my body is listening intently.
It’s but a moment. A magical moment. And then he’s moving, holding my hips low as he thrusts, his abs rippling with each movement. I drop lower, my mouth chasing each ridge of his chest, my tongue flicking his hair-roughened nipples, my body pressed against his.
His fingers roam my flesh again, like an object, like he owns me, and I love the feeling of being owned by him. I roll my hips and he swears, moving his hands to hold my face, dragging me up to his mouth, to kiss me. And he pushes up, flipping me onto my back while barely breaking the kiss.
Oh, God. It’s bone-meltingly perfect. Like this, he is deep, so deep, and he thrusts harder and faster and his tongue echoes the movements. I lift my legs and his hands grab my ankles, pushing them higher, moving them over his shoulders so that he has complete access to me. It breaks the kiss but I don’t care, because now his lips are moving over my leg, and every thrust is waving me on, nearer to explosive release.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders and there it is!
I cry out as the orgasm shreds me, my hand lifting to his chest to still him, to implore him to wait, so that I am able to feel every tremor of the earthquake he’s created. He knows. He waits. He is patient. The only sound in the room is that of his breathing, loud and hoarse, his control almost at breaking point. But he watches me, watches the effect of pleasure on my face, my skin, and then, when he knows—because he knows me—that I can take it again, he moves once more, slowly at first, letting new sensations build up, before he drops my legs back to the bed and brings his mouth to my mouth, kissing me, making me groan under the weight of the rightness of that moment.
The next time I come it’s with him. We are both on the edge of the cliff, stepping off it together. My fingers seek his and I lace them together again, and that act of intimacy means everything and nothing as our bodies sing in unison.
We are entwined. Him, me, and the luxury of the Park View Suite. I fear that I am lost. Or is that I’m found?
CHAPTER FOUR (#ue713a764-20c5-501c-a0ed-19d3d1854161)
IN AND OUT. In and out. I breathe slowly, trying to calm my racing pulse, my raging nervous system, but still my body is part electrical current, part hurricane.
‘Okay,’ I murmur softly, more to myself than anything else. I’m processing it. Or trying to.
What just happened?
He pushes up onto one elbow so that he can look down into my eyes and I spy the galaxy in his.
‘Okay.’ He grins. ‘That was...’
‘Perfect,’ I supply, lazily tracing a drop of sweat as it runs down his chest. He leans forward to kiss my fingertip and his dick, still strong inside me, makes me groan anew.
So far as exorcisms go, I think we might have nailed it.
‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘It was.’
He kisses me again, but this time it’s slow. Gentle. A kiss of curiosity that I welcome. Damn it. I’m back at those paths, looking at each of them, wondering, wondering, and uncertainty is making my knees weak.
Do I want his curiosity? Do I welcome it? Or does it speak too strongly of wanting other things than this bed, this man, this night?
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Hungry?’ I blink, the question not at all what I expected.
He nods against my lips, then braces his forehead against mine. ‘Yeah. You know, that thing people get? It generally involves needing food. Eating. Maybe conversation.’
‘I’m familiar with the concept.’
My own little divot forges between my brows and his eyes lift to it. His grins, and that makes me smile, erasing the similarity.
He rolls his hips luxuriantly, slowly throbbing warmth through me, and desire surges like a wave at high tide, rolling inwards towards the shore. I lift my hips to meet it, to welcome it.
‘Room Service,’ he murmurs. ‘Definitely Room Service.’
Still inside me, he stretches, reaching for the phone on the bedside table, and my whole body stretches with his, reluctant to relinquish even a hint of connection.
He brings his mouth back to mine, the phone hooked casually under one ear.
‘Ethan Ash,’ he says, and my eyes lift to his, surprised until I realise he’s speaking to someone else.
That surprise, though, is nothing compared to what shoots through me when he pulls out of me, leaving me instantly bereft, before inserting a finger deep into my core. I can’t help the moan that escapes my mouth. It falls out like a waterfall, slumberous and urgent at the same time.
His finger swirls around already-over-sensitised nerve-endings and I arch my back as he brings his mouth to my breast at the same time.
‘Two crab linguine. Some fruit.’
‘A peach,’ I whisper.
‘A peach,’ he repeats, then drags his mouth across my chest, his stubbled jaw making the raw, aching, sensitive flesh tremble beneath him.
His mouth is an instant relief. And as he rolls my nipple with his tongue he speaks into the phone. The words are husky against me. I feel his voice a baritone on my skin. And he feels me inside.feels my heart and my core.
‘Definitely champagne. Lots of champagne.’ He draws his lips lower, to my navel, and then, still with the phone under his chin, to my clit.
‘Oh, my God!’ I squawk as his tongue finds the cluster of nerves and flicks it punishingly.
‘Ice cream,’ he adds, his fingers curling around my ankles and pushing my legs apart on the bed.
There is a tiny part of me that is embarrassed by this intimacy—but only a tiny part. The rest of me is way up on cloud nine, wondering if any woman has ever felt this good. If any person has ever known this pleasure.
I presume he’s done ordering, because he drops the phone to the ground. The cord is still stretched across the bed but I don’t ask him to hang up. Nor do I attempt to do so. I’m not moving, and I’m not going to encourage him to do anything that might bring an end to this sweet, sensual invasion.
‘A peach, huh?’ he murmurs against me.
I dig my nails into the bed, trying to breathe, trying not to fall apart.
‘Yeah.’
‘A favourite?’
‘Mmm, yes...’ I don’t think I’m talking about fruit any more.
‘You taste fucking amazing.’
Even that doesn’t embarrass me. I groan in response, reaching above me for a pillow, which I drag down, holding it over my face as I cry out and he continues to run his tongue over me with the kind of skill that should win him a gold medal. Seriously. If oral sex were a competitive sport then this guy could hang up his microphone. He’s that good.
His hands lift up, finding my breasts, and he knows what I love already. He’s learned fast. He tweaks my nipples and palms the roundness of my flesh, and his mouth lifts me up and carries me away until I can stand it no longer, and I give in to the euphoric relief that has been building and bursting.
I feel it drop over me and whimper into the pillow. Which is no help, actually, because it smells intoxicatingly like him. So like him that I want to take it with me. Uh-oh. Another road opens up before me. I resolutely shut all paths out and surrender to the sensations of this. This very, very, very delightful everything.
He slows down as he feels me come apart, still touching me, tasting me, but no longer driving me to insane heights. I have exploded and now I am recovering. I am trying to catch my breath. He stays close and I’m comforted by his closeness—until he pulls back and stands in one fluid moment.
He’s still wearing the condom—but not for long. He rolls it off and wraps it in a tissue, tossing it carelessly into a wastepaper basket before reaching for the phone and replacing it on the cradle. Then, hands on hips, gloriously naked, he stares down at me, where I’m hiding behind an organic Italian cotton pillow.
‘Alicia?’
I can’t speak. Maybe not ever again. It is quite possible that he’s erased my voice, like some kind of kinky Little Mermaid scenario.
‘Come here.’
I can’t speak, but I can move, and I will move as he demands because he’s offering me a whole new world of pleasure and I am anxious to enjoy it, and with it to erase Jeremy’s significance in my life.
I stand. My legs shake and my skin is raw—pale pink, I see, as I look down at my breasts. The sight of his marks on my body makes me soar. An ancient feminine power rocks me to the core. He did this to me. His passion did it to both of us. And the passion was bigger than either of us could control.
‘You never answered my question.’
‘What question?’
He links his fingers through mine and pulls me gently away from the bed. For the first moment since entering the suite I notice the view.
‘Holy shit.’ I stand completely still—naked, uncaring. ‘Wow...’
Manhattan glistens before me. It is high-rises and high dreams, lights and lives, lows and loves.
‘Yeah.’
His voice is hoarse and it draws my attention. I stare at his profile again, and it’s so different now. I see all his lines and marks and strengths, and somehow I feel that I know him so much better than even an hour ago.
‘I’ve always loved the contradictions of New York,’ I say.
I am drawn to the view and step towards the window, relinquishing his hand without realising it. I press my palm to the glass. It is darkly tinted and I am confident in the privacy it affords.
‘So much beauty...so much despair.’ My smile is crooked as our eyes latch on to each other in the reflection. ‘Nowhere in the world can you find such wealth and poverty in the same city block.’
‘It’s a unique place,’ he agrees. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Wisconsin, originally. I moved here five years ago—right out of college.’
‘What did you study?’
‘Fine art and art history.’
I’ve surprised him. I see the way he nods, but it’s speculative. Funny, because I’m well-known and well-respected in my field, and it’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone who doesn’t know what I do.
‘You’re an artist?’
‘I wish...’ I sigh wistfully, turning to face him with mock sadness on my face. ‘I always wanted to be. My mom says I spent so much time clutching paintbrushes I practically deformed my fingers.’
I lift my hand up and we both stare at it in the silence of the room. They’re normal to look at now, but I remember the claw-like grip they manifested after days and days spent hunched at a canvas.
‘But...?’
‘Can’t paint to save my life.’ I grimace. ‘I’m a buyer now. And an appraiser by appointment.’
‘So you take other people’s cash to choose fashionable art?’
I shrug. ‘Fashionable, abstract, classic. I spend a lot of time with my clients and in the spaces the art will inhabit, making sure it’s going to work.’
‘That’s a job?’
‘Hell, yeah.’ I gesture to the room we’re standing in. ‘This whole hotel is fitted with contemporary American masterpieces—testaments to the modernist movement. You look around and you see the art and maybe you don’t realise the effect it creates. But we’re standing in a movement, Ethan!’
I hear the enthusiasm and passion in my own voice and wince. I adore my job. That’s a good thing, but it can be a bit bizarre to people who don’t feel the same way.
‘I know what you mean.’
I exhale. ‘You do?’
‘Well, not exactly...’
He turns and cuts through the suite, disappearing through a door. I follow.
‘But the first time I recorded at Abbey Road I just about shit myself. I mean...’ He shakes his head as he reaches for the faucet and turns on the water. The bath is around the corner, half hidden by a dark wood-panelled wall. ‘The history is thick in the air at that place. The microphones, the carpet, the pictures. Legends—so many, a list as long as my arm. Not just the Beatles—though that’s everything. But all the bands, musicians, songwriters. It’s impossible to explain—except I guess it’s like you just said. I was in the middle of something so much bigger than me. It took me three tracks to get the jitters out of my voice.’
‘The jitters?’
Oh, no. There goes my heart, flopping just like my tummy has been all night, squeezing with something a lot like affection at the sweetness of that word. Jitters. Twenty-eight, sexy as sin, and a gold medallist at pleasure-giving and he uses words like ‘jitters’. He gives me the jitters.
‘Yeah. You know. The heebie-jeebies.’
‘Stop.’ I burst out laughing and hold a hand up at the same time. ‘You need to stop using language like that.’
‘Like heebie-jeebies?’
‘Yeah. It’s too...’ Cute. Adorable. Sweet. Lovely.
‘I’m sorry, Ally, there’s no other word for it. I had medically diagnosed heebie-jeebies.’
But he grabs the hand I’ve held out and pulls it—and me—towards him. Our bodies meld together and his eyes lock to mine. Breath snags in my throat like a piece of thread that won’t give. I stare up at him, waiting, transfixed, my heart throbbing.
He kisses my forehead lightly, softly, gently, and a moan is trapped in my throat. Yes. This. All of this. The paths are back in my mind, opening up and inviting me to choose one.
There’s a sound from outside and he reaches for a towel, breaking the sense of magic that was enveloping me. ‘Hop in. I’ll join you in a minute.’
‘The bath?’
‘Why not?’
He wraps a towel around his waist, low-slung so that—if it’s possible—he looks even sexier than when he was all gloriously golden and butt-naked.
