Belinda’s jaw drops. I’m not surprised. It’s too much, even for me.
‘I—’
‘Now.’ I turn my attention to the paper but the throbbing in my cock makes it impossible to concentrate.
* * *
I laugh. Belinda looks like she’s about to pass out. ‘Just don’t go out there again,’ I say quietly.
‘I don’t get it. What’s going on?’
‘I just think it won’t do him any harm to wait, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not the one he’s threatening to throw out of the airplane.’
I grin, flipping the page of my magazine, pretending to read whilst stilling my beating heart.
* * *
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
I tap my fingers on the armrest, watching as she walks towards me so slowly it’s a form of torture in and of itself. She blinks her huge caramel eyes, her lashes long, her smile a master class in enigma even the Mona Lisa could learn a thing or two from.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Like hell you don’t.’ I stand out of the seat, moving towards her, stopping just short of touching her. ‘Why didn’t you come in here?’ The words emerge as a petulant growl.
‘I’m on a break.’ She lifts her shoulders, her eyes fixing on mine. ‘In fact, I’ve been working all night and now I need to have a rest.’
‘A rest?’ I repeat, completely confounded.
She nods slowly, a single finger lifting to the top button of my shirt and flicking it. ‘Know somewhere I could lie down?’
Relief pours through me. Whatever game she was playing before, she’s stopped.
‘Yes.’ I lace my fingers through hers and pull her after me, through the cabin, past the boardroom, into one of the bedrooms. I drag her into my arms as I kick the door shut, kissing her again—apparently I’ve forgotten that I don’t ordinarily kiss. ‘Will this do?’
She doesn’t break the kiss, nor does she look around the room. ‘Perfectly.’
‘Great.’ I push at the blazer she wears, angry with it for no reason I can think of, needing it off her body, needing everything off her body except for me. There is a compulsion driving me, a literal need, as though without her I will expire. She is my breath and my all in that moment, just for this moment, for the next hour or so.
I drop the blazer at our feet and push her forward at the same time, my fingers fumbling for the buttons of her shirt. When I can’t open them quickly I growl and push at the fabric so it’s fisted in my hands and a couple of buttons pop off.
‘Jesus...’ She laughs, a husky sound that draws across my throat. I don’t even notice. She’s wearing a cotton shirt over her bra but I can see the fabric, I can see the indented valley of her breasts and I rage with a need to feel her in the palms of my hands, just as I have since almost the first moment I saw her—really saw her.
I push at her shirt, my hands expressing my desperate need, so she laughs and shakes her head at the same time. ‘What’s your rush?’ But she lifts her hands over her head, her lips parted, so I feel her own hunger is as powerful as mine.
I discard the shirt and then unhook her bra, making an audible groan of relief when it’s dispensed with and her beautiful, full breasts are before me, so round and pale, the dusky aureoles calling to me.
‘Fuck me,’ I mutter, my eyes almost accusing as they flick to hers before I give the full force of my attention back to her breasts. I lift my hands, savouring this moment, warm and full in my hands, my fingers finding her nipples, running over those sensitive points until her breath catches and her hips sway forward, my fingers moving a little harder, tracing circles at first and then squeezing her nipples until she pants my name, pushing her hips forward, seeking more, needing more relief than this. So I drop my head, pulling one of her nipples between my teeth, stretching it then rolling it with my tongue before sucking on it until she’s crying out and I can barely take another moment.
I’ve always been good at this. Sex. Fucking. I’ve had a lot of practice—since the first time I lost myself in a woman. I was fifteen, she was eighteen, and I was less than spectacular. Fortunately, she let me practice that whole summer and by the end I knew I was good. And I like it. But not just because coming is the closest thing to whole I’ve ever felt. I like making women come. I like watching their faces. I love pleasuring them and hearing a goddamned woman like Cora screaming my name is pretty much what I live for.
Sometimes I rush it. Sometimes fast, and once, is more than enough. I can do the job in ten minutes. But I don’t like to. And with Cora what I’d really like to do is draw this out. I don’t know why but she spurs something in my gut that makes me want to tease her and torment her. She made me wait before, when I was horny as fuck, and now I want to make her wait.
I reach for her pants, pulling them down her legs, holding them as she steps out of them, but leaving her underpants in place. It’s a simple black thong, hardly the last word in sophisticated seduction, but it gets my heart galloping inside of me anyway, or maybe that’s what the thong’s concealing, what it’s doing to her thighs, her butt. I need to hold that too. I reach around, curving my hands over her rear, feeling her roundness, drawing her towards me and burying my head in the curve of her neck, breathing in her soft hair, letting my tongue shift forwards to lick her flesh, to taste her, to savour her.
‘Enough preamble.’ Her words are throaty. ‘I came in here to sleep with you.’