REMOVING THE BLINDFOLD

I woke up slowly, gradually, and intermittently. My first sensation was one of warmth, and then of the kind of drowsy, all-consuming, cocoon-like comfort that makes you never want to move again, except to burrow deeper into the blankets. My next sensation was one of…I wasn’t even sure. Something…off. Some strange and unfamiliar sensation. I tried to suss it out without opening my eyes, without really moving or altering my breathing. What was it? It was connected to my sense of soul-deep comfort. The warmth, the softness. I burrowed into the blankets, seeking to go deeper, back to sleep, and that was when I realized what it was: skin. Muscle. A faint thumpthump….thumpthump under my ear. I wasn’t lying on a pillow. I was naked, and I was tangled up in sheets and blankets and arms and legs and flesh.

Roth.

In bed.

With me.

I didn’t have my blindfold on.

I tried not to freak out. What was going on? Had he fallen asleep by accident? That didn’t seem like him.

“You don’t have to pretend to be asleep, Kyrie. I knew the moment you woke up.” His voice was in my ear, sleep-thick and muzzy.

“You’re in bed with me.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not wearing the blindfold.”

“No.” A pause. Then his massive paw-like hand cupped my cheek. “Open your eyes, Kyrie. It’s time.”

I blinked my eyes open. His chest was tanned gold, scattered with a smattering of blond hair. The sheets were rucked around his hips, and I saw a hint of an Armani Exchange logo peeking out. I took a breath, shifted slightly. His hand was on my back, his arm wrapped under my head.

We were…cuddling.

I had never, not ever once, cuddled with a guy, during, before, or after sex. Not on the couch while watching a movie, not in a car, not in a movie theater, not in bed, not standing up or sitting down. I didn’t cuddle. Guys didn’t try. Even Steven, who I’d been the most serious about, who I’d dated for the longest amount of time, hadn’t really cuddled with me. We’d never spooned, never spent the night together. We did what we did together, and then he left, or I did.

Now, here I was, cuddling with Roth.

This, more than any other moment so far, had me terrified of what was developing between us.

The fear came from the fact that I’d never felt safer, never felt more comfortable, more at peace. I liked cuddling. I liked feeling his arm around me. Feeling his chest under my ear, against my cheek. His leg thrown over mine.

I was delaying. Roth, however, was still and quiet, simply waiting.

I tilted my head up, pulled back slightly so I could take him in.

Holy shit. He was nothing short of male perfection. Sharp, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, luscious, kissable lips curved in a faint smile, eyes the color of a clear winter morning sky, palest blue. Blond hair sweeping over his forehead and across his temple, messy and effortlessly gorgeous. As we lay face to face, my toes barely brushed his knees. I could run my big toe over his shin, if I stretched.

I felt my heart swell and crack. Of course he was the most ruggedly, powerfully beautiful man I’d ever seen. Of course he would be. Of course he would stare at me with eyes so understanding and expressive and intelligent that I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare look away. I licked my lips, feeling a driving need to bolt, to run into the bathroom and lock the door and have a breakdown sitting on the closed toilet seat.

“You’re beautiful,” I blurted.

“Thank you.” He ran his thumb over my cheekbone. “Speak your fears, Kyrie.”

“This. Us. Everything. You. You scare me. Because you’re…amazing. I didn’t want you to be…so incredible. I wanted you to be a rich arrogant asshole. I wanted you to force yourself on me as repayment so I could hate you. I wanted you to be ugly and cruel so I could walk away.” Where were these brutally honest words coming from? Somewhere deep inside me, where truth resides. “But you’re not. You’re compelling and confident and understanding and smart and fucking gorgeous. You look like some kind of…Viking warrior. A Norse king. Is that stupid? It is. It’s stupid.” I blushed, my cheeks hot, and squeezed my eyes shut, tilted my head down, and buried my face against his chest.

“It’s not. Nothing you say is stupid.” His voice was raw and close, an intimate murmur that had such power over me. “I’m glad you find me attractive, Kyrie. I wouldn’t want this to be one-sided.”

“One-sided?” I risked a peek up at him. His blue gaze was hot, open. Searing.

“Yes, Kyrie. I’ve known a thousand women. All of them beautiful, intelligent, willing. Some of them were famous, some not.” Why was he telling me this? I didn’t want to know how many women he’d fucked. Of course a man of his skill with a woman’s body would have had to learn it somehow, but I didn’t want to think about it. “None of them, Kyrie, were as breathtaking as you are. You are so beautiful it makes it literally difficult for me to breathe sometimes. You make it impossible for me to keep my hands off you, to keep from kissing you. A while back you asked why you. That’s why.”

“I—really?”

“Yes, Kyrie. I am not a man prone to exaggeration, or flattery. When I look at you…I become weak. Yet the strength I see in you makes me want to hold you and protect you so you don’t have to be so strong. And…I have this need to possess you. To own you.” He shifted, rolling toward me, leaning over me slightly, weight on one elbow, his hand still holding the side of my face. “Do you have any idea how hard these last few days have been? How badly I’ve wanted to just…rip all your clothes from you and bury my cock inside you? Watching you come, feeling your pussy clench around my fingers…that has been such sweet torture. Watching your lovely face as you come for me and not being able to feel you around my cock…that has been an ecstasy of agony. I need you, Kyrie. You’re mine. You belong to me. Waiting…it has been all but impossible.”

“Why have you waited? You said it yourself: You own me. So why not take what is yours?” I watched his eyes, his expression, as he thought about his answer.

“Because you deserve better than that. I’ve had a lifetime of meaningless sex. So have you. I want more for you, and from you. I can take a thousand orgasms from you. I can kiss you and touch you and tear your clothes off you, and I don’t need and won’t ask for your permission. But for that? To bring this between us to the next level? I want you to give that to me of your own will. I want to own you completely. I want you to give that last bit of yourself to me because you want to be owned by me. And I will wait for that day to come.”

“What if I never can, never do? What if that day never comes?” I stared up at him, feeling his presence like a sheltering mountain, and knew the question was little more than me playing devil’s advocate.

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. “Do not toy with me, Kyrie.” Abruptly, he softened. His free hand slid down my arm, came to rest casually and possessively on my hip. “You’ve already given in to me. Do you remember last night? Do you remember what you not only let me do, but asked me to do? Were those the actions of a woman holding herself back?”

I gulped a deep breath. “No. I remember. But that’s…that was different.”

“Oh? How so?” He roamed down my thigh with his palm, then back up to my waist. “I don’t think it is. I put my finger in your asshole, Kyrie. You don’t get more vulnerable than that. You’re telling me you’d let me do that to you, but you wouldn’t let me make love to you? You’re telling me you don’t want that?”

“I’m not saying that—”

“Then what are you saying, Kyrie? Say what you mean.”

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

“You’re afraid of what you’re feeling.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

He let out a soft breath and then dipped down, pressed his lips to mine, gently, so gently. “I’ll give you time.” He pushed away, slid out of the bed, stood up. “But be honest with yourself. Sort out what you’re feeling, and why you’re afraid of it. When you have that figured out, talk to me about it. In the meantime, shower and get dressed. Eliza will have breakfast ready in forty-five minutes.”

I watched Roth as he gathered his clothes. My mouth was dry, and my body tensed. He was around six-four, and he was lean, toned, muscular. His body was honed, artfully sculpted. I licked my lips, unable and unwilling to look away as he slid thick, long, powerful legs into a pair of distressed jeans, watched his rippling six-pack abs shift as he turned his plain black T-shirt inside-right, lifted it over his head. The sleeves stretched around his biceps and pecs, clung to his sides. He was barefoot, and for some reason the sight of his bare feet with the jeans made me tingle and shiver. It was intimate somehow.

He stuffed his hands in his hip pockets, leaned against the frame of the open door leading to the living room. His eyes were hooded, sleepy still, and his hair was sexily mussed, looking just-fucked. I wanted to climb out of the bed, tear the clothes off him, and lick him all over, run my fingers through the grooves of his abs and trace the indent of his V-cut, slide my thighs over his and ride him until he couldn’t move. I was hungry for him. Now that I’d seen him, I knew what I’d been missing. His powerful, virile body and angular, masculine beauty only increased his control over me, only made his impossibly potent effect on me that much more irresistible.

“Keep looking at me like that, Kyrie, and we’ll miss breakfast, and you won’t get a shower.” He withdrew his hands from his pockets, backed out the door but then stopped, gripping the frame in his brutally strong hands. “Tempt me, my sexy little vixen, and I can’t be held responsible for what I do to you.”

I realized I was posing. The sheet was pooled around my thighs, leaving my upper body bare, breasts heavy and nipples peaked, thighs pressed together to give a teasing glimpse at my core. My hands were tangled in my hair, as if frozen in the act of running my fingers through my locks. My lips were parted, my eyes heavy-lidded, and I was breathing deeply, each breath swelling my chest. It wasn’t an intentional pose, but now that I was aware of it, I held it.

And then I decided to see how far my own control over him went.

I ran my tongue over my lower lip, arched my spine to thrust my tits out, tilted my head back, and combed my fingers through my tangled hair. Let my hands drift down over my chest, paused to caress my nipples, then down to my stomach. I watched him through lowered lashes, my lower lip caught between my teeth. He squeezed the doorframe until I heard wood creak, and he lowered his body as if bracing himself, as if about to fling himself forward. I slid my hand down under the sheet, between my thighs.

“You’re teasing me, Kyrie. Testing me.” He glared at me, head tilted down, jaw hard, looking primal and dangerous. “It’s not smart.”

I lifted one knee, and the sheet fell away; Roth growled. I ran my middle finger up the seam of my core. Roth’s growl turned feral.

“Last warning, Kyrie.”

I didn’t need the warning. He was a man on the edge. I was playing with fire, and I knew it. But I was aching. Unsatisfied. For all that I’d come hard last night…three times? Four?…I was unsatisfied. I’d made do with my own fingers and battery-operated toys for a long time before Roth sent for me, and it just didn’t do the trick. I could get off, but that wasn’t enough. Merely achieving orgasm wasn’t enough. Even with Roth’s hands and fingers making me come, it wasn’t enough. I needed the connection. I needed to be filled. Held. Touched. Wanted. Loved.

And Roth knew it.

I still ached, deep inside where his tongue and fingers couldn’t reach. An ache that no amount of skillful cunnilingus could sate. I needed the man. Especially now that I’d seen his face, seen the heated glare in his eyes, seen the slight tremble of need in his hands.

I dipped my finger inside me, withdrew it.

“Fuck.” Roth’s curse was an angry rumble. He straightened, let go of the doorframe, and then, faster than my eyes could track, he was lunging forward, crawling across the bed. Hovering over me. Eyes inches from mine. “Don’t fuck with me, Kyrie. If you want to do this right now, we’ll do it right now. I’m barely holding back. The fact that I have an enormous amount of self-control is all that’s protecting you from your own foolishness.”

“Foolishness?” I breathed. “I thought this was what you wanted?”

“What? Games? Teasing? No. I want honesty. I want your desire, and I want to know what you’re thinking. What I don’t want is power-play games.” He grabbed my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head. “You want to know the power you have over me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then ask me a question. Anything.”

“What is your first name?”

His eyes went hard. “Valentine. My name is Valentine.”

“Valentine Roth.” It fit him so perfectly.

“Yes.” His grip on my wrists was tight, iron-hard, and almost painful. His knees were between my thighs, forcing them apart. “Now. What else?”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

Ten years older than me. Should I be worried about that? I knew, instinctively, that I didn’t give a shit how old he was. I just wanted to know if he’d tell me.

He was breathing hard, as if revealing so much about himself was physically difficult, even painful. I saw actual pain in his eyes, perhaps even fear. As if he’d exposed himself to me and was now waiting for the repercussions.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice small and quiet.

“For what?” He seemed honestly confused.

“Letting me see you. Telling me your name.” I think he expected me to struggle against his hold on my wrists, but I didn’t.

Instead, I lifted up and kissed him, sucked his lower lip between my teeth. I devoured his leonine rumble of surprise and pleasure and kept kissing him. His tongue slid between my teeth, his weight lowered so our bodies touched, and I felt his jeans rough against my skin, felt the bulge behind his zipper scraping on my lower belly.

“I want you, Valentine.” I flicked my eyes open and met his own. “Make love to me. Touch me. Come inside me. Do anything you want.” I couldn’t resist my desire anymore.

I didn’t know what this meant, where it was going, but I didn’t care. This was the last vestige of my control over my own life, over myself, and I’d just given it to him.

“Anything I want?”

“Yeah, anything.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to offer a man like me.”

“I know.”

“And still you offer it?”

I nodded, not taking my eyes off his. “I do. Make love to me, your way.” I was shaking all over, nervous, scared, excited.

Being Roth, he did the last thing I expected. He pulled away, slid off the bed. “Then I choose to wait. I will have you, Kyrie, and I will have you soon. But not here. Not now. I want you in my bed. I’m going to make you scream, and weep, and beg me for me. And I’m going to do it where no one has ever been: my bed.”

I watched him back away yet again, jeans strained from the erection behind his zipper. This time, I didn’t let him get away. I followed him, scooting off the bed and catching him by the belt loops before he got too far. “I like the sound of that.” I looked up at him. “But I want to see…this. I want to feel you first.” I tugged at the button of his jeans.

His eyes met mine, and he nodded. “As you wish.”

I lowered his zipper, then pulled his jeans down around his thighs. I breathed in, let it out. I tore my gaze from his and curled my fingers under the pale gray elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs. Hesitated. And then I tugged the elastic away from his body and pulled his underwear down, baring him to me.

I knew he was big. Of course he’d be big. But…holy shit on a shingle. I didn’t expect him to be that big. His cock was long and standing straight up, the tip rising past his navel. So thick. He was so hard it looked painful, his balls tight against him. He’d stretch me, that was for sure. For now, though, all I wanted was to feel him in my hands, to make him come, to give him relief.

I wrapped one hand around him, and he was so thick my thumb and middle finger couldn’t meet around his girth. Jesus. Sweet baby Jesus. I slid my fist down his length and back up, my hand barely brushing his flesh. He breathed out through his nose, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. I cupped my other hand around his taut sac, sliding my fist down and twisting gently, watching his expression as I touched him. He licked his lips and blinked several times, breathing hard, eyes fixed on me.

“Don’t start what you won’t finish, Kyrie.”

I let my lips curve up in a grin. “I would never do that, Valentine.”

His brows lowered, jaw squaring as he clenched his teeth. As gently as I could, I squeezed his balls, a caressing pressure. Slid my middle finger onto his taint and applied pressure. He rumbled in his chest, fists clenched at his sides. I kept my eyes locked on his as I stroked his considerable length ever so slowly, then leaned in, closer, closer, opened my mouth as wide as it would go. Curled my lips in over my teeth and took his broad head into my mouth. I closed my lips around him, just beneath the groove at the base of his tip. He made a sound that was suspiciously close to a moan as I lowered my mouth around him, still stroking slowly at the root of his cock. I could only take a few inches of him before I felt him at the back of my throat, and then I drew away. I let my saliva coat his flesh, returning my gaze to his as I rubbed my palm over his head, smearing my spit over him, making him slick and slippery. I fisted his length, replacing my lips around his thick, soft, springy head, tasting pre-come on my tongue. I drew off again, licked the pre-come away with a fat swipe of my tongue, twisting and plunging my fist around him, squeezing his sac in time with my sliding fist, pressing up against his taint.

Roth’s thighs trembled, and I felt his knees dip. He threaded both hands into my hair, gripping handfuls and tugging firmly. He didn’t push me onto him or try to force me to do anything, he just tugged my hair in his fists. A reminder of his strength, of his control, a reminder that he was allowing me to do this.

There was no desire in me to play for control, to play games. I only wanted to feel him come.

I mouthed him again, taking him deep, letting his tip nudge the back of my throat and then backing away, pumping at his root with ever-increasing speed. I loved the way the increase of my tempo around his cock made his knees bend and dip, and I loved, too, the way his fists in my hair tightened involuntarily as he neared his climax.

I bobbed on him, sucking hard, feeling his sac tense and tighten, feeling his gloriously thick cock throb, and I knew he was close. I prepared myself for the gush of his release against my throat, but it never came.

Instead, I felt myself pushed backward, felt him above me, heard his breath in scraping gasps, felt his entire body trembling as he held back. “No. Not like that, not the first time.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how I want it.”

“Did I…do something wrong?”

“No, Kyrie. No. Not at all. I love the feel of your sweet mouth on my cock. But I don’t want to come in your mouth just yet.”

I still had a firm grip on his cock, and I slid my fist down his length, staring up at him. “Okay. Like this, then.”

He ducked his head, gathering himself. “You really want this?”

I nodded. “Yes. I want to feel you come. You’ve made me come so many times now, and it’s my turn.”

“Where?” He slid his shins beneath his body, sitting up, staring down at my naked body as I lay beneath him. “Tell me where you want me to come.”

“Anywhere you want.”

He straddled me, sliding forward. I leaned up, took him in my mouth, tasted him, then lay back down. “On my stomach?” I said. “On my tits? You tell me where you want to come. I want to know what you want.”

I moved my fist around him, feeling him tense and jerk, and stroked him even faster.

Roth’s breathing grated past his clenched teeth. “I want to come inside you, Kyrie. Not this.”

“Then put your cock inside me,” I said.

He shook his head. “No. Not yet. In my bed. Only there.”

“Then take me there.” He growled and then wrenched himself away, backing up against the wall, his chest heaving. I followed, wrapped both hands around him, and stroked him gently. Pressed my lips to his and kissed him, demanding, needing. “Please come, Valentine. Come for me.”

He sighed into my mouth and then pressed his forehead to mine. I watched my hands moving on his thick, straining cock, stroking, twisting, plunging. “Kyrie…I’m close.”

“Good,” I whispered. “Give it to me.”

He groaned, thrusting his hips, driving his cock into my grip. I wrapped my hand around his head and stroked his length with my other hand.

“God…Kyrie…I’m coming, right now.” I felt wet warmth fill my palm, and I kept caressing his length, slowly, gently, milking him.

“Kyrie….” His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. When he was softening in my hands, I let go of him, lifted up on my toes, and kissed him once more. He watched me with glazed, hooded eyes. “You do something to me, Kyrie. You make me lose control.” He put a hand to my face, gripped my chin between finger and thumb.

I held his come in my hand, feeling it drip between my fingers. “Well…maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

He sighed. “In my life, it is.” He shook his head, dismissing the topic. “You are amazing, Kyrie. Go wash up and get dressed. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

He leaned in, kissed me on the lips swiftly, and then backed away, zipping and buttoning his jeans. I waited until I heard the door latch behind him, and then I washed my hands in the bathroom sink before turning on the shower. I washed, shaved myself from armpits to ankles, and let my mind wander.

Valentine Roth. What a name. And what a man. So fucking gorgeous. He could be a superstar actor with his looks. An A-list actor, or a rock star. But he wasn’t. He was a reclusive businessman, über-rich, successful, and intensively, reclusively private.

Something else niggled at me about Roth. He looked familiar; I just couldn’t figure out where I’d seen him.

As soon as I was done in the shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and another around my hair, then perched on the edge of my bed with my phone, typing his name into Google. Nothing. Not a single photograph, no Wikipedia entry, not a single scrap of publicly available information. That, to me, smacked of interference. I mean, I was a nobody, but if you typed my name into Google, you’d find, if you scrolled far enough, at least a Facebook profile, the thumbnail-sized selfie photograph of me, taken on a weekend trip to Chicago with Layla. You could find at least basic info on me, just by a few searches and clicks, and I was no one at all, public-wise. Yet there was nothing at all on Valentine Roth, who had to be in a microscopically small percentage of the population in terms of wealth. Something told me he had paid an exorbitant amount of money to keep himself out of the public eye, to hide any photographs or the like.

So it wasn’t that. I’d never seen him in any gossip rags or on TMZ. But I had seen him before. I knew it. But where? I couldn’t figure it out, no matter how hard I tried to remember.

Eventually, I gave up and got dressed.

I put on a pink-and-black lace push-up bra and a pair of black underwear. Over it, I put on a simple but flattering black sundress and a pair of strappy sandals. I didn’t spend a lot of time on my hair or makeup, just brushing my hair until it shone and fell in golden waves around my shoulders. I snapped a ponytail elastic on my wrist, and applied some light mascara, blush, and lip stain. He said we’d have a busy day, so I wanted to be ready for anything.

Especially the kind of anything that would lead to seeing Valentine Roth totally naked.

8

PRIVATE QUARTERS

I found Roth sipping from a china cup, holding a dainty saucer in his hand. The cup and saucer were so small and delicate-looking that it was almost a comical image. I mean, I knew all too well the strength in his hands; he could crush the cup and saucer with ease if he wanted, yet somehow he looked totally natural, at ease. He was sitting at the breakfast nook, staring out at the Manhattan skyline as the sun rose to shed golden light on the high-rises. He had one calf crossed over his knee, flaxen hair wet and slicked back to one side. He wore a pair of dark jeans with a white T-shirt beneath a slate-gray blazer, Tommy Bahama boat shoes on his feet. The sleeves of the blazer were pulled up just beneath his elbows, his muscular forearms keeping the sleeves in place. The effect was one of casual godliness. I had to remind myself to keep breathing as I slid into the chair next to him.

“Hi,” I breathed, and immediately hated myself for sounding so pathetic. I’d sounded breathy, flirty. Like I should be some air-headed bimbo with one name. Veronica. Bambi, with a heart over the “I.”

“Good morning, Kyrie. Feeling refreshed?” He smiled at me, warm and friendly, yet his eyes betrayed amusement, promise, memory of what I’d done to him less than an hour earlier.

“Yes, thanks.” I leaned over to peek into his cup. “Tea? Or coffee?”

He swirled the khaki liquid in his cup. “Tea. Earl Grey, with a touch of milk.” He lifted the cup and saucer toward me. “Care for a cup?”

The fact that he was a tea drinker served as a reminder that he was actually from England. It was easy to forget, so faint was his accent. I’d never tried tea English-style. “Can I try a sip of yours? I’ve never had tea before. Not the way you’re drinking it, at least.”

He placed the cup on the saucer and held it out to me. “Old habits die hard. I’ve never been able to get into drinking coffee in the morning. I don’t really do the whole ‘afternoon tea’ bit anymore, but I’ve got to have a cup of Earl Grey to start the day.”

I sipped at his tea, surprised by how much I liked it. “Mmmm. That’s pretty good, actually. I’ll try a cup, the way you have it.” I gave him his tea back, expecting him to summon Eliza to make mine. “I forget you’re from England sometimes. You don’t really sound like it, most of the time.”

“That’s intentional. I worked rather hard to eradicate my accent.” He rose and went into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and withdrew a cup and saucer like his, took a quart of half-and-half from the fridge, tipped a tiny bit into the teacup, and then poured tea from a pot sitting on the stove. “Here you are,” he said, setting it front of me.

“Thanks,” I said, a bit mystified. I hadn’t expected him to get my tea himself. “I could have done that, you know. I thought—”

Roth spoke over me. “Eliza is not my personal servant, Kyrie. I only have her serve meals on special occasions. Usually she just leaves food out for me, since I work long and erratic hours. I fend for myself most of the time. Just because I’m rich doesn’t mean I’m unable to do things for myself, you know.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Roth.” I sipped at my tea. It was good, but I didn’t think it would ever replace my need for coffee. “Anyway. You said we had a busy day today. What are we doing?”

He grinned at me. “Well, since we’ve discarded the blindfold, I thought we’d do something fun together. Have you ever been sailing?”

I shook my head, feeling excitement thrill through me. “No, I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to, though.”

Roth’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful! This should be an enjoyable time, then.” He eyed my outfit. “That should be fine for sailing, and I have a bathing suit for you on the boat. Some breakfast, then, and we’ll head out. What would you like to eat?”

I shrugged. “A bagel? I don’t eat much in the mornings.”

I slipped off my chair, but Roth waved me back down. “Sit, Kyrie,” he ordered. “What kind of bagel? We have a variety.”

“Sesame?”

“Toasted? Cream cheese?”

I nodded, and watched him as he cut two thick bagels in half, then stuck the halves in a four-slot toaster. “Why are you making my breakfast for me?”

He leaned back against the counter, sipping at his tea. “Because I can. And because I want to.” He looked past me, out the window. “This house has been empty but for Eliza and me. Having you here is a wonderful change.”

“Eliza said something very similar.”

Roth looked surprised. “She did?”

“Yeah. She said she was lonely a lot, and having me around was nice. I like her. I think we could be friends.”

“That’s surprising. Eliza is…very private and reserved. Much like me. That’s why we get along so well, I think.” He gestured at me with his cup and saucer. “That she seems to like you is a good sign. I trust her judgment in many things, especially people.”

The bagels popped up at that moment, and he smeared cream cheese on each of the halves with a spoon and then returned to the table, setting the plate between us. We each took a half and ate in silence. It was supremely strange, to be having breakfast with this man, sharing such an intimate, domestic thing as a bagel and cream cheese. It felt natural, as if we’d always done this. Again, I felt a bolt of fear at how much I liked this feeling, this easy comfort with a man I barely knew.

When we were finished, Roth cleaned up for us both and then took my hand. “Ready to go?” I nodded. “Do you need anything? A purse?”

I shrugged. “Not really.”

Roth seemed surprised at this. “All right, then. Let’s go.” He brought me to the door to his private quarters, held his finger to the plate, and then shoved the door open.

Beyond was a wide hallway with high ceilings, thick cream carpet, and dark wood-paneled walls, which were lined with black-and-white photographs. I paused to examine the photos. They were amazing, artistic, vividly focused. The subjects ranged from portraits to landscapes, most of them taken in Asia. There was a photo of an old Chinese woman, a scarf covering her head, wisps of gray hair sticking out around her ears, her toothless mouth grinning, eyes crinkled. There was a tall, curved-roof pagoda, a rice paddy, an ox with shaggy fur and baleful eyes, and then several more portraits. It wasn’t until I realized that Roth was watching me examine the photos with a blank expression that I thought to look at the bottom right corner. There, written in white marker or pen, was the same scribbled “VR” signature from the checks.

“You took these?” I asked.

He nodded. “A hobby, you could say. Something I haven’t had much time for lately, much to my regret.”

“They’re amazing,” I told him, sincerely impressed. “That first one, the old woman, it’s like something you’d see in National Geographic. It’s really good, Roth.”

He smiled at me. “Thank you, Kyrie.” He took my hand and pulled me forward, and I followed him, although there were several more photographs I wanted to see.

Later, perhaps. If I was lucky. We passed a few open doorways, one leading to a half-bath, another to what looked like a security room, monitors showing security camera views of the foyer, the kitchens, the library, the main garage, two elevators, another garage, and the roof. No surveillance of my rooms, though, but there were blacked-out monitors, so it was hard to say.

Roth followed my gaze to the security room. “There are no cameras in your quarters, I promise you. You have your privacy there.”

I only shrugged. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he watched me on a camera while I slept, and I wondered at myself, at the fact that I wouldn’t have been too pissed off had there been cameras in my rooms. I mean, if he’d watched me pee, that would be a bit weird, but I didn’t expect it from him. He was security-paranoid, not creepy.

Another door showed a large office, the same thick cream carpeting, a huge dark desk with a massive iMac, and a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows. There was an exercise room, a hallway dead-ending at a doorway and, opposite that, a pair of French doors, beyond which was Roth’s room. I caught a glimpse of it in passing, and realized it was probably the most impressive room in the house. It was a corner room, so two entire walls were glass, with a balcony at the apex of the corner. The bed, from what I saw, was huge, dark, and built into a platform. I didn’t see much more than that before Roth guided me down the dead-end hallway to the door.

“I’ll give you a tour of my rooms later,” Roth told me, his voice buzzing in my ear.

I turned, halfway out the door. “Promise?”

His eyes narrowed, flicked down to my cleavage and back up. “Yes, Kyrie. You will become very well-acquainted with my bedroom.”

I shivered, felt my nipples harden. “Sailing can wait, don’t you think?”

Roth’s grin was predatory. “Eager suddenly, are you?” His hand curled around my waist, and he jerked me against him. My breath left me in a whoosh. I was assaulted by the familiar spicy scent of his cologne, the hard breadth of his chest. “Are you tempting me? Trying to get control of this situation?”

“Eager….” I breathed, barely able to stutter out the word.

His eyes were intense, pale hot blue, his hand splayed on my waist and the swell of my ass, crushing me to him. “Eager, hmmm?”

“Yes,” I answered, looking up at him, my eyes wide, my breath shallow and short.

His other hand brushed my hair away from my eyes, then slid down my back. Found the zipper of my dress. “I think you’re trying to prove something.”

“I’m not.”

“The power of your seductive beauty is undeniable, Kyrie.” His fingers drew the zipper down, the rough pad of his fingertip tracing up my now-bare spine. “You make me lose control when I start touching you. When you put your hands on me, I forget myself.” He brushed the sleeves off, and the dress billowed to the floor, pooled around my feet. “But don’t think you can control me that way, Kyrie. I let you have your moment this morning. It had been a long time since I’d felt a woman’s touch. I’d been saving myself for you. But don’t think you can manipulate me with your body.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Tell me the truth, Kyrie.”

I swallowed. “Maybe I was, just…trying to see what effect I had on you. That’s all. Not control, just…assessing.” The heat in his eyes, the thinly veiled anger frightened me. He wouldn’t hurt me, but what would he do?

“Assessing.” He flicked open my bra, pulled it off. Set it aside. Hooked a finger in the elastic of my panties at my hip, tugged them down around my thighs. “Off. I want you naked.”

I stepped out of them, stood before him totally naked. Breathless, waiting. He shut the door, pivoted behind me, and pushed me across the hallway and into his room. Positioned in the middle of the room, I was bathed in a square of brilliant midmorning sunlight. I stood still, back straight, forcing my breathing to be even, to seem confident, unafraid.

“So now you’re just eager?” Roth moved around behind me, not touching, but close. So close. Too close, yet too far, too clothed. “Who is in control, Kyrie?”

I felt rebellion surge up in my gut. I clenched my teeth together. I wasn’t going to play this game. Not this one.

“Seeking punishment, are you?” His voice rumbled in my ear. “I’ll ask once more. Who is control? Who controls you, Kyrie? Answer me.”

You. That was the answer. I knew it. He knew it. But I refused to say it. Rebellion, or curiosity? Both, maybe. Equal parts defiance and desire.

“Not going to respond?” I heard a smile in his voice. “I was kind of hoping you’d refuse.”

His foot slid between mine and knocked at my feet so I was suddenly and unwillingly standing with my feet shoulder-width apart. Another nudge, and my stance widened a bit more. Unnatural, uncomfortable, vulnerable. I bit my lip and forced myself to remain calm. I’d asked for this, after all.

“At any time, answer my question, and we’ll go sailing. That really was my intention, you know. But you’ve sidetracked us.” He slid his hand over my hip, curled his palm over my belly, pulled my ass against his crotch so I felt his erection. “You’re not getting what you wanted, you know. I’m not going to alter my plans. Right now I’m going to torture you, just a bit. Nothing painful, mind you. Just a bit of…teasing.”

He pulled away, took a handful of my hair, gripping at my nape, and shoved my head down so I was bent over double.

“Hands on your knees.” I needed to brace myself for balance, so I had no choice but to do as he’d told me. “Now, I’ll ask you again, Kyrie. Who is in control?”

I remained silent.

He laughed, and trailed a finger down the knobs of my spine, between the globes of my buttocks, over the bud of muscle. He hesitated there. “No answer?” His fingertip touched me, and I flinched, tensed. “I wonder if I could make you come, just by touching you here? Let’s find out, shall we?”

A pause, and I heard him spit. Wetness touched me; the pressure increased slightly. I felt the knot give just a bit, and his lubricated fingertip slid in. I bit back a gasp, forced my hips to remain still. He would get no help from me, not this time. Roth’s fingertip wiggled, and I felt a tension in my core, heat building. I squeezed my eyes shut, bit my lip, tried to hold back the thrill of pleasure at his touch. I shouldn’t like this. But I did. I couldn’t let him know, though.

He withdrew his finger a bit, so there was only the very smallest edge left in me. His other hand released my hair and reached down to cup my boob, squeezing, holding, and then letting go to pinch my nipple. I felt the heat and pressure rise at his touch, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he got what he wanted from me. I’d come, but I wouldn’t admit what he wanted.

Roth pushed his finger in deeper, and a gasp was torn from me. I felt full, felt his thick finger penetrating me, creating a boiling well of fiery pressure at my core. A faint tinge of desperation touched me. He flicked my nipple, pulled his finger back, and my stomach muscles contracted, my hips rolling of their own accord. Another push, deeper now. Most of his finger had to be inside me now. I gritted my teeth to hold back the gasps and moans that threatened at my lips. He withdrew almost all the way, and then slid in again, repeating the motion, and I had to exert every ounce of will to stop myself from moving with him. His finger fucked my asshole in smooth, slow strokes, and his hand caressed and kneaded and pinched at my breast and nipples, and I was growing needy, feeling frantic. I needed more than this. I needed him. I needed him to put his fingers in my pussy, I needed his cock, I needed his mouth, I needed something. What I got, though, was desperation flooding through me, his finger in my ass bringing me to the verge of a dark and primal climax.

And then…he stopped. Pulled his finger out of me, left me bent over in the middle of his bedroom. I straightened and pulled my feet back together, gasping, frantic and angry with need and frustration and shame, aching, and watched him go through a door, where I heard water running as he washed his hands.

I shook all over, hair messed up, lip throbbing where I’d nearly bit through it. I tried to gather myself, to compose myself, but it was a vain effort. Roth sauntered back toward me, a slight grin curving his lips. He stopped in front of me. Waited, eyes searching me.

“Anything to say?” he asked. I could only shake my head. “No?”

I needed him to finish me, but he wouldn’t, and I knew it. That was his ploy. I was pissed off, too, feeling degraded. Bent over in the middle of his room, finger-fucked in the ass, all to get me to admit he was in control? Left hanging? Doucheknob.

I turned away from him, knelt to gather my clothes.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I heard Roth say behind me. “You don’t get away that easily.”

He wrapped an arm under my middle, lifted me bodily, scooped his other arm under my knees, and flipped me to my back, catching my head with the crook of his arm. I writhed in his grip, pissed off at his behavior and now at his brazen manhandling of me.

I stilled, realized struggling was futile, settling instead for glaring at him, spitting fire from my eyes. He only grinned at me, carrying me to his bed. He tossed me like a doll, and I bounced on the soft mattress. Before I could so much as blink, he was on top of me. I caught my breath as his mouth crashed down on mine. I forgot to struggle as the surprising heat and tenderness of the kiss caught me off guard. My hands stole up to his back, grabbed at him, but he pulled away and caught both my wrists in one hand, held my hands over my head, and then resumed the kiss.

“Is this where you wanted to be, Kyrie? Naked, beneath me, in my bed?” He whispered, his lips moving against mine. “Well, here you are. A few moves, and I’d be inside you.”

My mouth quivered against his. “Yes….” Fucking stupid desperate ho, I chastised myself. I was exactly where I wanted to be, and exactly where he wanted me. Flushed, aroused, desperate, naked. But it had happened on his terms, and he was winning.

“If I let one of your wrists go, will you do what I tell you?” I nodded, and he released one of my hands. “Good. Unzip me.”

I undid his pants, reached into his underwear, and freed his heavy cock. I almost came just from the feel of his thick shaft in my hand, knowing he was inches from my core, seconds from satisfying me the way I needed.

“Push my pants down.” I did so, shoving his pants and underwear down around his thighs.

I held my breath as he lowered his hips, touched the broad head of his cock to my entrance. I bit my lip, watching his expression tighten, harden, eyes narrow, and then he pushed in. I wanted to weep. It was just the tip, but it spread me apart, filled me already. I gasped in relief, threading my hand between our bodies to grasp his erection by the root, my knuckles against his body, holding him, pulling him toward me.

“Kyrie….” he growled. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Valentine…God…more.”

He growled again, a wordless rumble in his chest. He grabbed my hand and pulled it away, caught both of my hands in one of his again. And then pulled out of me, sitting back on his haunches.

I did cry out then. “NO! Valentine, please—” I bit off my words, realizing his game.

“Say it, Kyrie.”

I closed my eyes. I ached. I’d had him inside me, and that brief moment of fullness had been glorious, a fragmentary glimpse of what it would be like with him inside me. I wanted it. I needed it. I felt something inside me give way, capitulating. “You, Valentine. You are in control.”

He leaned over me, kissed me. “Good. Don’t forget it.” And then he was rolling off the bed, tugging his pants back in place.

“Wait! I thought—”

He turned to face me. “Not yet, Kyrie. Not that, not yet.” He put his hand in his pocket and adjusted himself. “I’m torturing myself just as much, you know. But do you remember what I told you when you first met me?”

I closed my eyes. “That I’d beg you for it.” I opened my eyes and pinned him with an angry glare. “I did, Roth. Just now. Last night. I asked. I told you I wanted it. I’ve played your game. If you knew me at all, you’d know how hard that was for me. But you’re still playing goddamn games.”

He took a step toward the bed. “You tried to make it happen on your terms, love. That’s not how this works.” His eyes roved over my naked body. “You’re frustrated, aren’t you?”

I nodded, pressing my thighs together. “You know I am.”

“You have two choices, in this moment. You can ask me to make you come, right now, with my hand. Or you can wait until I’m ready. Tonight, if all goes well.” He moved to sit on the bed beside me.

I sat up, pressing my knees together and folding my legs to one side, using my arm as a bra. “Why tonight? What’s so special about tonight?”

“Nothing in particular.” He shrugged, tracing the line of my leg from heel to hip with a finger. “I’ve dreamed of that moment, Kyrie. The moment when I take you. Would you like to hear the dream?”

I nodded. “Yes. Tell me, please.”

He let out a long breath. “It’s at night. This room is dark, lit by candles. You have lingerie on. Something red and silky. I’ve got you tied up. Not tight, just a scrap of lace around your wrists. You’re lying here, right where you are, and you’re looking at me with those soft blue eyes of yours. You’re so bloody beautiful, Kyrie. All wrapped up like a gift. Just begging me with your eyes to tear the clothes off you. You can’t hold still, because you want me. I make you wait, though. And when you can’t take it anymore, you open those sweet plump lips and speak, and your musical voice fills my room. You ask me to make love to you. You don’t beg, because that’s beneath you. You merely…ask. And you reach for me. Your quick, soft little hands peel my clothes off me and you pull me down to you, and you kiss me. And when I slide my cock into your tight wet cunt” —his voice lowers, rasps, and I gasp at the way he emphasizes that dirty, unexpected word “—you make such sweet little sounds. You wrap yourself around me with your arms and legs, and you don’t let go until I’m buried deep inside you.”

I shook all over, eyes closed, imagining the scene he’s setting with his words. I pressed my thighs tight together, seeking pressure, seeking relief, hot and wet from his teasing, and now made all the more desperate by his sexy, expressive voice murmuring in my ear, describing exactly what I’ve envisioned myself.

“You’re so tight, Kyrie. I can almost feel you, clenched around my cock. You’ll feel so good, Kyrie. So tight. Almost too tight. You can barely take me, but you do, and it drives both of us mad.” His voice is barely audible, and his accent seems a bit thicker, more noticeable. “I’ve had this dream a thousand times, Kyrie, love. I’ve imagined feeling your tight little cunt around my cock and…feeling it just then, I know it’ll be even more perfect than dreams could ever show. You tempt me, Kyrie. Sitting there, naked, so composed. I want you right now. Bare, skin to skin. I was just inside you. I had you. But…I want to make that dream come true. I want to see the moonlight on your skin. I want to tear that lingerie off your body. I want to lick every sweet curve of your body until you’re mad with desire. That’s why I’m waiting, Kyrie.”

I was tensed, on the verge of coming just from his words. I was there, right there, just from the sound of his voice, the promise, the scene he’d set in my mind. If he were to touch me, slip one finger inside me, I’d explode.

I pushed away my pride and rebellious streak, reached out to grab his hand. Rolled to my back, let my legs fall apart. Brought his hand to my soaked folds. “Please….”

He groaned. “Kyrie…you tempt me. You make me so crazy.” He, unconsciously it seemed, stroked my cleft with a finger. “If I touch you, I’ll not be able to stop.” He backed several steps away from me, ran his hands through his hair. “I want you desperate, Kyrie.” He eyed me, chest heaving. “Don’t think this is easy for me. It’s not.”

I slid off the bed and gathered my clothes, tossed them on the bed. Getting dressed again only took a moment. When my dress was zipped and I felt somewhat composed, I turned to him. “Let’s go sailing, Valentine.” I held my hand out to him, threaded my fingers through his. But I pulled him back when he started walking, met his eyes. “You’d better follow through.”

“What do you mean?”

I gestured at his bed. “What you described just now? You’d better give me that.”

He pulled me against him. “I promise you. That…and then some.”

9

THE DATE

Roth’s private elevator took us down to an underground garage. It was a cavernous space, well lit, eight-foot ceilings, shiny blue epoxy floor, whitewashed walls lined with ’20s and ’30s-style vintage posters depicting a day at the beach, race cars, cruise liners, now-defunct cigarette brands and Italian wine companies. There were rows of red and silver Craftsman tool cabinets, several racks full of yet more tools, a work bench scattered with greasy parts and disassembled engine bones.

I counted nine vehicles: a Maybach, a boxy Mercedes-Benz SUV, a Maserati, a Tesla, a Bentley convertible, two different kind of motorcycle—a crotch rocket and a chopper—a civilian-model military Hummer, and an older-model black BMW, the last the car his father had given him, I assumed. It was an impressive array of vehicles, and I didn’t even want to contemplate how much it was all worth.

On the wall beside the tool chests was a small metal cabinet with a fingerprint-scan locking mechanism. Roth put his thumb to the pad and opened the cabinet when the lock beeped, revealing two sets of keys for each vehicle hanging from hooks. He glanced at me. “Which car do you want to take?”

I was a fairly typical girl in that to me, for the most part, a car was a car. I knew enough to know that these were supremely expensive, top-of-the-line cars, but yet there weren’t any of the usual rich-guy sports cars. No Ferraris or Lamborghinis or Corvettes in this garage, which I found interesting. Those cars didn’t suit him, though, I realized when I thought about it. He was wealthy, but not showy or flashy.

I shrugged and pointed at the convertible. “That one looks fun.”

Roth grinned. “Good choice.”

The elevator door opened behind us, revealing Eliza carrying an insulated cooler. “The lunch you requested, Mr. Roth.”

“Thank you, Eliza.”

“My pleasure, sir. Shall I expect you for dinner?”

Roth shook his head, taking the cooler from Eliza and setting it in the back seat of the Bentley. “No, I think we’ll find something in the city. You can go, if you like.”

“Thank you, sir. Tomorrow, then.” She smiled at me and let the elevator door close in front of her.

A few moments later, Roth was guiding the quiet, powerful car up a ramp and out into the brilliant late morning sunlight. Roth pulled a pair of Ray-Bans from the inside pocket of his coat, pointing with them at the glove box. “I think there’s another pair in there.”

I opened the glove compartment and found a spare pair of sunglasses, slipped them on, and tied my hair back with the ponytail elastic I had on my wrist. The drive through Manhattan to the marina was brief but pleasant, the wind in my face, sun bright and warm, Roth beside me, holding my hand.

When Roth had said “go sailing,” I’d envisioned a little boat just big enough for the two of us. I should have known better. The boat Roth owned was long and low, a sleek and sexy thing, all gleaming silver and polished wood, masculine lines and smooth curves. I knew less about sailboats than I did about cars but, knowing Roth, it had to be the most expensive and highest-quality sailboat money could buy. Roth carried the cooler by the strap over one shoulder, never letting go of my hand.

He helped me from the dock onto the boat, pointing at a seat beside the steering wheel. “Sit.”

I sat, watching him untie ropes and coil them neatly on the deck. He sat down, started the engine, and backed us out of the slip and pointed the bow toward open water. When we were clear of the marina, he cut the engine and unfurled the sail, tied the line, and then did the same to the smaller triangular sail in the front of the boat.

“Can I help?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’ve got it.”

“I’d like to, if I could. I didn’t come to just sit here and do nothing.”

Roth nodded, ducking under the horizontal bar of the big sail and taking the wheel. The wind was stiff, blowing at us at an angle, making the sails flap. “All right. First, a quick lesson. The small sail in front is called the jib. The big one is the mainsail. The big bar is called the boom. The ropes are called ‘lines.’ The next thing is to know that modern sailboats don’t travel in a straight line, and they don’t work with the wind coming from directly behind. You sail in a zigzag pattern, which is called ‘tacking,’ keeping the wind at an angle. So when I tell you we’re ‘coming about,’ the boom, the big bar holding the bottom of the mainsail, is going to swing around. You have to pay attention and make sure the boom doesn’t knock you overboard when we’re coming about. I’ll warn you before I bring us about, but just be aware, all right, love?” He gestured at the line leading to the mainsail. “Untie that, then pull the line until the sail is taut.”

We were moving slightly, the sail flapping, the bow angled toward the New Jersey shoreline. We were heading south, away from Manhattan and toward Staten Island. I loosened the line he’d indicated, wrapped both hands around it, and pulled hard. As I pulled, the mainsail tightened, and the line grew taut, becoming harder and harder to pull as the wind caught it. A gust of wind blasted the sail, nearly jerking the line from me and pulling me off-balance. I pulled again, but another gust hit, this one pulling me clear off my feet. I wrapped the line around my fists, braced one foot against the side of the boat, and pulled as hard as I could, then wrapped the line around the tie-off bracket thing. The sail was bellied out but firm, not flapping in the wind anymore, and I felt the sailboat pick up speed immediately. I glanced at Roth who gave me a bright grin and a thumbs-up.

“Perfect!” He patted the seat beside his own, and I sat down.

“When did you learn to sail?” I asked.

“I’ve been sailing my whole life. I grew up summering in Greece, and spent nearly every day during the summers sailing with Dad or with my friends when I got older. After I left home at eighteen, I ended up working on a fishing boat in the Aegean for a while. It was fun. Hard work, but fun. That was my first business. I bought that boat, hired the same crew that had taught me the business. Eventually, I bought a second boat, and then a third. I still own several boats in the Mediterranean, actually. Some are commercial fishing boats, some are private charters. Coming about.” He loosened the mainsail line, held on to it with one hand, and spun the wheel with the other, bringing the bow around, and then he re-tied the line again. He made it look easy, but I remembered how hard the wind had pulled at the sail, and thus the line, nearly jerking me off my feet, yet he’d held it in place with one hand while operating the wheel. “No matter how busy I get, I make time to sail. It’s my one real escape.”

I watched Roth as he spoke. He seemed relaxed, the lines of tension and stress on his face smoothing away, his posture at ease. The wind ruffled his hair and snapped the edges of his blazer and the white cotton T-shirt underneath it, molding the fabric to his rock-hard body. He had one hand on the wheel, the other stretched out to grip the back of my chair, his knuckles brushing my shoulder blade.

We were silent for a long time, watching the sun rise higher in the sky, watching the cityscape to either side pass by and the open water in the distance grow closer. Eventually, we breasted the opening of the bay and left land behind. I could see why he loved this. The sense of freedom, the salt spray of the water on my face, the wind carrying us away from everything…I’d never felt anything like it. He seemed content to just sail without talking, and so was I. We chatted here and there, mostly me prompting him to tell me stories about himself. I learned he’d sold his fishing business for a profit and gotten into the import-export industry, and then eventually sold that business for an even bigger profit, which had led him, at the age of twenty-one, to Asia, where he’d gotten into real estate and urban development. I got a sense for Roth the man, how he’d made his way in the world by himself. He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t trust anyone, having survived more than one betrayal in the business world. He’d learned to be ruthless and untrusting, depending on no one but himself, keeping his businesses small, with as few employees as possible. Eventually, he’d moved to New York and tried his hand at several business ventures, building his wealth bit by bit. I couldn’t glean from him what his primary business currently was, despite several leading questions.

I, in turn, told him about growing up in suburban Detroit, summers spent at a cabin on Lake Michigan, trips with Mom to Chicago. The fun and pleasant stories in my life all stopped cold when Dad was killed. We lapsed into silence when my stories reached that threshold, and Roth seemed content to let the silence stretch.

After a few hours, Roth loosened the mainsail and let us slow to a stop, then furled the sails and let down an anchor. We were in sight of land, but it was a ways out, providing a hazy and beautiful backdrop for a lunch at sea. Eliza had packed us cold cuts, cheese, fresh-baked bread, a bottle of wine, some Perrier, and fresh fruit. Roth assembled a sandwich for me, poured white wine into glasses, and then held out his glass for a toast.

“To a pleasant day and a long night.”

I smiled at him and clinked his glass with mine. “I’ll drink to that.”

Lunch finished, we lounged on the deck and soaked up the sun. It was oddly comfortable, hanging out with Roth. We didn’t need to fill every moment with idle chatter, both us seeming to be content to let silences stretch for long periods of time, enjoying the moment, enjoying each other’s company. Conversation would come and go, questions directed and answered, ebbing and flowing easily.

I was lying on my back on the deck, letting the sun bathe me, when I felt Roth rise to his feet beside me. I cracked one eye, watching him. He stared down at me as he shed his blazer, then his T-shirt, then his shoes. I sat up and felt my heart race when he set his sunglasses aside and reached for the zipper of his pants. “Time to swim,” he said.

I shoved my sunglasses up on my head. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

He grinned. “Neither did I.” He dropped his pants and underwear, standing naked in front of me.

I swallowed hard, heart pounding, desire swelling. Roth naked was a sinfully glorious sight. My nipples hardened and my thighs tensed, my core going damp just looking at him. Six-pack abs leading to a sharp V-cut, a thick, proudly jutting erection, powerful thighs, broad, firm chest smattered with golden hair, bulging, toned arms. Holy shit. That man wants me. Me. His body, those hands, those abs, that cock…for me.

He winked at me, then turned and dove into the water, slicing the blue waves neatly. “Get naked and get in here, Kyrie.”

I stood up on shaky knees, set my sunglasses aside, unzipped my dress, and let it fall to the deck around my feet. I glanced around, but the sea was empty. We’d cut east once we hit open water, and I suspected the hazy-gray land in the distance was Long Beach. There was a ship way out at sea, a long, low tanker of some sort, but it was far enough out that even with binoculars I doubted they could see us clearly. And…I didn’t care.

I watched Roth’s reaction as I unhooked my bra and stepped out of my underwear. He was treading water, watching me intently, eyes hot and hooded. “Is the water cold?”

He shrugged. “A bit.” A hungry grin curled his lips. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll keep you warm.”

That was all I needed to hear. With a deep breath, I dove in. I came up spluttering. “A bit?” I screeched. “It’s f-f-f-freezing, you l-lunatic!”

He only laughed. “It’s the Atlantic Ocean, Kyrie, what’d you expect? Bathwater?” He did a breaststroke, pulling easily toward me. “Come here, you.”

I let him wrap his arms around me, feeling the hot, hard rod of his erection between our bodies. My arms went around his neck, my legs around his waist, and he flipped so he was floating on his back, spine arched to float, one hand caressing the length of my body, the other moving us through the water, legs kicking with powerful strokes.

“I’m not gonna drown you like this, am I?”

He gripped my ass in one kneading hand. “No way, love. You’re light as a feather.”

I shifted my hips, his erection nudging at my thigh. “You’re sure?”

He only smirked. “I’ve got you. No worries.”

“You’ve got me, huh?”

His gaze went serious. “Don’t I, though?”

A roll of my hips, and he’d be inside me. “Yeah. You do.” I kept still, at great effort.

Roth brought us around the boat, circling widely, kicking us through the frigid Atlantic water with easy grace. Eventually I rolled off him, and we swam beside each other. He was the first to make for the boat, and I followed him, shivering. He held on to the ladder at the stern of the boat and pushed rather unnecessarily at my butt to help me up. Scrambling up after me, he led me down into the cabin, wrapped a thick white towel around my shoulders, and rubbed me dry with it. I stood and let him dry me, then tucked the towel in place under my arms and used a clean towel to dry him. Roth was still hard, flinching slightly when I dried him there.

Locking my eyes on his, I ran a finger up his length. “This looks painful.”

“A bit.”

“You should let me take care of it for you.”

“No.”

“Just no?” I wrapped my fingers around him, but he caught my wrist and pulled my hand away.

“Just no.” He leaned in and kissed me, moving out of my reach. “I’ll let you do that as much as you wish…later. For now, I want to wait. I want to be inside you when I come next. If you touch me now, I’ll lose all control. I’ll throw you onto that bed there and be inside you before you could blink twice. And Kyrie, I made you a promise. I always keep my promises.”

“Then you better put some clothes on, because if you keep flaunting that big beautiful cock in front of me, I can’t be held responsible for what I do to it.”

“I’m not flaunting. I can’t help getting hard just looking at you.” He wrapped his towel around his waist, the front tented.

“Just by looking, huh?”

He shrugged. “There’s no such thing as just looking, Kyrie. Not with you. Not when I’ve got you naked. Even fully dressed, one look is all it takes. I see those lush tits of yours, barely hidden by the dress, and I fantasize about squeezing them together and fucking them.” His voice goes deep, growling and rasping. “I see that sweet round ass of yours moving under your dress, and I think of burying my cock into it. I watch your mouth move as you talk, and I think about your lips wrapping around me, taking me down your throat. So, no. Not just by looking. I take one look at you, and I think about all the things I’m going to do to you.”

I had to shut my eyes and clench my fists to keep from jumping him right then and there. “You need to either shut the fuck up or do some of that right now.”

He growled, closing the inches left between us. “Yeah? Why? Are you wet, Kyrie? Is your tight little pussy dripping for me? Aching for me?”

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 764