Chapter Five. Rich, sexy, and powerful no longer seems an adequate description
Rich, sexy, and powerful no longer seems an adequate description.
Liam Stone is, per Wikipedia, a reclusive billionaire and philanthropist who
lost both of his parents at a young age and was taken in by one of the most
famous architects who ever lived. Liam inherited his mentor’s extreme
wealth and apparently, his skill. At the young age of thirty-one (apparently
most architects are older when, and if, they become established) Liam is
the highest-paid living architect, and is considered an architectural prodigy.
Setting the iPad aside, I press my fingers to my throbbing temples.
It’s almost comical that I actually thought Liam could be my handler. He has
far more to occupy himself with than little ol’ me, and I really don’t know
why he’s hovering around me at this point. Well, except maybe he just
wants to have sex. I’m not above admitting it’s on my mind. Heck, maybe I
should just embrace a potential one-night stand and let Liam take me away
for a few hours. Whatever awaits me tomorrow will still await me
tomorrow. It might even stop me from melting down. So why do I feel so
let down that this thing with him isn’t more? I can’t have more. There is
no “more” for me. I went to the door to get rid of him. When he comes
back I should pretend I’m not here.
A knock sounds and I discard the idea of not seeing Liam again,
jumping to my feet and rushing past the kitchen. Afraid I might talk sense
into myself, I waste no time opening the door, and then almost swallow my
tongue with the impact Liam Stone has on me standing there. He might be
a billionaire, able to afford the finest of fine, but the man does a pair of
faded Levi’s and a t-shirt as right as they can be done. And he does it while
looking at me like I’m the dinner and he’s going to lick me off the plate.
“Done with your research?” he queries.
“Yes. I read your Wiki page.”
“And?”
“You’re rich, talented, and why are you at my door again?” And why
am I not sending you away?
“Because you haven’t invited me in yet.”
“You sure don’t seem like a recluse to me.”
His lips quirk and he straightens, and before I can blink he’s advanced
on me, his hands coming down on my shoulders, his big body crowding into
the apartment. “Liam,” I object. Sort of. Actually, I’m not sure I object at all.
“Amy,” he counters.
My nerves prickle. “Don’t do that.”
He kicks the door shut, pressing me against the wall, his powerful
thighs encasing mine.
“Do what, baby?”
The endearment does funny things to my stomach and so does the
solid wall of his chest beneath my fingers. “Mock me when I say your
name.”
“Ah, now, little Amy, I assure you I am not mocking you. I already told
you how hot it makes me when you say my name.”
I am so not skilled at this flirtatious word game he is playing, so I
resort to what I do well. “I didn’t invite you in.”
“No?” he asks, his eyes alight with sexy amusement.
“No,” I reply and while I am nervous, out of my league with a man
this experienced, this incredibly sexy, his playfulness somehow takes the
edge off.
“Yes, well,” he says, his voice holding a hint of evil mischief, “I prefer
privacy when I kiss you. We recluses are like that.”
My nerves shoot to the sky. Kiss me. He wants to kiss me. I want him
to kiss me. “You’re no recluse,” I accuse, wondering how the Wiki got that
so very wrong.
His eyes darken, narrow. “Then how would you describe me, Amy?”
he asks, his voice low, gravelly. Affected. By me. The idea is exciting and
frightening all at once.
“Demanding,” I say, and I sound as breathless as I feel.
His fingers curve around my neck, tugging my mouth near his, teasing
me with the promise of a kiss. “You have no idea just how demanding I can
be.” And with that erotic promise, his tongue slices into my mouth, a silky,
hot caress that seems to touch every inch of my now tingling body. The
taste of him, of hot passion and desire, sizzles through my senses, and my
fingers splay on the hard wall of his chest.
A low groan escapes his throat and his hand caresses over my hip and
palms my backside, pulling my hip flush with his, his thick erection pressing
into my belly. “I’ve wanted to taste you since the moment I saw you in the
terminal,” he murmurs, and his breath is warm, a wicked seduction against
my mouth.
“Feel free to do it again,” I whisper, and I am surprised at the
boldness of my words. But then, I’ve never had anyone as tantalizingly male
as Liam Stone to inspire me.
“I’m going to do a whole lot more than kiss you, baby,” he promises,
and his mouth covers mine, his tongue once again pressing past my lips,
and I feel the lick between my thighs, in the deep throb of my sex. I have
never wanted like this and I like it far too much to let inexperience, or a
note on a bathroom mirror, interfere. This is one night for me. One night.
Where that concept had bothered me before, it feels remarkably
liberating now.
My nerves have nothing on my desire to lose myself in this amazing
man, who is like no one I have ever known, who I will probably never see
again. Determined to enjoy every minute with him, and every inch of him
while I’m at it, I sink into the kiss, my tongue caressing his, drinking him in.
Boldly, I slip my hands under his shirt, my palms flattening on hard muscle
beneath warm, taut skin. Touching him is wonderful, addictive. I am
trembling inside, aroused in a way no man has ever made me feel.
Confidence builds inside me and my hand strokes a path down his
zipper. His hand goes to mine and he tears his mouth from mine, his fingers
move from my neck, tangling in my hair, tugging me backwards with a
gentle, erotic force. “How old are you?”
The questions shatters a little part of me not even fully realized. This
is not a reaction a girl wants when touching a man. “Why does that
matter?”
“How old, Amy?”
“Twenty-four.” I don’t even know why I answer. I shouldn’t have
answered.
“How many men have you fucked?”
I gasp. “You can’t ask me that.”
“I just did. How many?”
I don’t like where this has gone. I don’t like how I suddenly don’t
know if he thinks I’m a virgin for my limited experience or a hussy for my
fast actions. Either way, this is not an escape anymore. I try to shove away
from him, but his grip in my hair doesn’t loosen. “Let go,” I hiss.
“This was a mistake. I don’t know you. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
Great. Now he thinks I’m a virgin. I can’t get this right. “I mean, I do. No. I
don’t. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
“It’s quite clear you do not do this kind of thing,” he says, releasing
me, and I hate how much I wish he had not, after what he has made me
feel. Or how relieved I am when he plants his hands by my head, caging me
as if he doesn’t want me to escape. “But I do, Amy. I do this kind of thing. I
have short, quick, well-protected affairs with women who get that I’m not
going to be around tomorrow. Women who do not care enough about who
I am to find out my name or how much money I have.”
My defenses flare, verging on anger. What is he accusing me of?
Being a virgin, a slut, or a money-grubber? “I didn’t try to find out about
you. You made me read the Wiki page. You made me.”
“I know. I wanted you to know me and to trust me. I still do.”
I soften, confused. I stay confused with this man. “I don’t understand.
You just said…and I know and…why are you, and I and…” My God, I’m an
educated woman and I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
“The same reason I showed you my design on the plane.”
“Which is why?”
“Because against every rule I have ever set, I wanted to.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Then let me be more clear.” His cheek slides over mine, his whiskers
scraping erotically over my delicate skin, his lips pressing to my ear. “You’re
a beautiful woman who deserves to be properly fucked, which I conclude
from both your actions and answers to my questions, that you have not
been. I want to be the man to remedy that. I want it very much.” His arm
wraps my waist, shackling me to him as if he fears I will get away, his free
hand stroking down my hair, as he huskily adds, “Probably too much.” He
moves then, his intense blue eyes staring down at me, searching my eyes. “I
don’t know what you’re running from, but I know you’re running.”
My heart jackhammers. “No, I’m not. I’m not.”
He brushes his lips over mine. “And I’m not asking you to tell me
why,” he says, rejecting my denial. “But just know that I have every
intention of making you forget everything but what it feels like to have my
tongue and my cock buried inside you.”
My lashes lower and heat pools low in my belly, then settles hard
between my thighs.
I’ve never even had a man use the word “fuck” with me before, let
alone promise to fuck me properly, but I fear he will make me forget why
my silence is golden. “I don’t—”
“Look at me, Amy.” There is a command in his voice and for reasons I
cannot explain, I am compelled to comply. My gaze lifts to his. “I do,” he
promises. “And I like the idea that I am the man who’ll make sure you do,
too.”
He’ll make sure I know. This is exactly everything I need to hear. He’s
promised to be demanding and to take me to unknown territory, but that I
won’t be there in the dark. I am so very tired of being in the dark. I wrap my
arms around his neck and make sure he knows how important this is to me.
“I want to know. I need to know.”
Approval seeps into his eyes, heat simmering in their depths, and one
of his strong hands cradles my face, and then his mouth is lowering to
mine. His tongue licks into mine, tasting me, and he is different now, we are
different now. The kiss is hotter, wilder, passion unleashed, and I have a
sense of being claimed. Like I am his to take and I want to be taken by this
man. I want it very much.
Still kissing me, as if he too cannot get enough of me as I cannot of
him, he lifts me off the ground, his hands cradling my backside. My legs
wrap around his waist, and one of my shoes falls to the ground, so I kick the
other one free. “Where’s the bedroom?” he asks, a gravelly urgency to his
voice that mirrors what I feel.
“I don’t know. The right, I think.” I sound urgent. I am urgent.
He starts walking and I bury my head in his neck, inhaling his scent,
and tiny splinters of memory begin to pierce the fog of desire. I shove them
away, refusing to be consumed by the past when I have this man to do it
for me.
I resolve to lose myself in kissing every inch of Liam’s neck, but as
soon as I make a move, he curses under his breath. I struggled to see
behind me. “What? What is it?”
“No sheets, pillows, or blankets,” he informs me, and he’s already
retraced his steps until we’ve re-entered the hallway. “Your boss should
have made sure this was handled.”
“I’m sure he didn’t think—”
“Exactly,” he concludes. “I’m taking you to my hotel, where I can lick
you from head to toe on proper bedding.”
“What? Liam. No.” He shifts my weight and reaches for the door.
“Stop!”
He straightens and he does not look pleased. “Stop why?”
My mind races for an answer, for one of the many lies I live to tell.
“My apartment is directly across from the hotel. I’ll see the staff around the
neighborhood. I don’t want them thinking of me as the floozy some rich guy
brought to his bed for a night every time I walk by.”
He arches a brow. “Rich guy? Floozy?”
“That’s what it will seem like, Liam.”
He scowls and lowers me to the ground, pressing me against the
door, his hands settling possessively on my waist. “You aren’t a floozy. You
know that, right?”
I hate the excuse I’ve made, the lie that is my life, and the idea that it
might push him out the door, that he might not ever touch me again, is
unbearable enough to give me courage. “If you want to fuck me, it’s here
and now. Otherwise, goodnight, Liam. Thanks for the ride.”
He leans back and rests his hands on his hips, no longer touching me,
and I am shaken by how much the loss of the connection with him affects
me. I am used to being alone. I am used to not being touched. “This is crazy,
Amy. Your apartment isn’t ready to be lived in.”
My apartment. This place is not and never will be my apartment. It
isn’t mine. It will never be mine but he can never know that. “I need to stay
here tonight,” I say, and I am not pleased with the way my voice cracks.
Liam notices, too. I see it in the slight flicker of his eyes. “You need to
be here?”
“Yes.” And my voice is no stronger now than moments before, damn
it. “I need to be here.”
He leans in, one hand on the wall by my face his big body close but
still not touching me.
Why do I need him to touch me this badly? “Then I need to be here
tonight,” he declares. “We will be here tonight.”
We. I know the word really means nothing. This is a night. That’s
what I want. He’s made it clear that is what he wants. But I like the idea of
being “we” right now. And I desperately want to get back to forgetting
everything but him. I push to my toes and press my lips to his.
His arm wraps my waist again and he pulls me close, his body a
warm, welcome shelter from the nightmare I’ve left outside this door. “I’m
not going anywhere you aren’t tonight,” he promises.
Tonight. It’s enough. It has to be enough. It will be enough. “Good. I
don’t want you to.”
I’ve barely said the words, when he turns me to face the door. “What
are you doing?” I demand, catching my weight on the door with my palms.
He steps closer, his hips framing mine, the thick ridge of his erection
pressed to my backside. “Preparing you.”
“Preparing me?” I gasp. “What does that mean?”
He tugs my jacket down my shoulders and I expect him to pull it free,
but instead he tangles it around my arms and turns me around to face him.
“You can free your hands, but don’t.”
“No. No.” I knew he’d ask for too much. I knew. “I can’t do this. I
can’t—”
He cups my cheeks. “Deep breath, baby. I know you’re on unfamiliar
ground and I know you barely know me, but I’m just going to make you
come. Pure pleasure, nothing more. I know when things feel out of control
you think you need control. But sometimes, having a safe place to give it
away is the best way to block everything else out. I’m asking you to let me
show you I’m that safe place.”
But he’ll be gone tomorrow and where will I be? What place will my
mind have traveled, and will I get back to where I was before? “Do you ever
give away control?”
“No. That’s not what works for me.”
“But you think it will work for me.” It’s not a question. It’s clear what
he thinks. I just want…more. More understanding. More…him.
“It will work for you. Let me teach you, Amy.”
Teach me. This is what he’d been talking about on the plane and this
is so far into new territory, I don’t know which direction to go. I crave what
he will show me but I fear what I will show him.
“Do you have things you need to block out, Liam?” I ask, and I am on
tenterhooks, waiting on an answer that feels important to me, when I do
not even know what I expect—or want—it to be.
“Yeah, baby,” he surprises me by saying, “I do. Knowing you need the
escape and admitting it, if only to yourself, is control.” I am shocked by his
admission, by his willingness to share something so personal with me. I am
beyond aroused by this man and when his finger traces the skin at the top
of my blouse, I feel the touch in every part of my body. “I did.” He starts
unbuttoning my blouse. “And now I’m going to show you how we escape
together.”
Together. I like how that sounds, but…
“Right here in the hallway?” I ask, and my blouse begins to gape,
exposing the thin lace covering my breasts.
“Right here in the hallway,” he agrees, his hot gaze raking the swell
of my breasts, his deft fingers finishing the buttons and quickly popping
open the front clasp of my bra. He covers my breasts with his hands, and
nuzzles my neck at the same time, and the mix of erotic and tender ignites
my senses and soothes my nerves. “You smell like sunflowers.”
“My perfume,” I whisper, and unbidden, my mind my goes to New
York, to my apartment where it, and everything else I own, and no longer
have, are located.
“It’s perfect,” he approves, tugging my nipples, and the unexpected,
bittersweet ache leaves room for none of the burn for what is behind me.
There is only the burn for now, for him, for the escape he has promised me.
My lashes flutter and just that quickly he is on his knees, inching my skirt
upward, and there is only the emptiness that is my ache to feel him inside
me. I am in a haze of desire, and my skirt is somehow at my waist, his
tongue tracing the top of one of my thigh-highs, then traveling up and
down my leg. The urge to tug my hands free, to tunnel my finger into his
thick, dark hair, and force his mouth where I want it, is almost too much to
bear.
“I want to touch you,” I pant. “I need to touch you.”
His eyes meet mine, and they are hot with desire and dark with
command. “Not yet,” he orders, and with no warning, he wraps his fingers
around the thin strips at my hips and tugs my panties down to my feet. I
step out of them. Or I think I do. I don’t know. Everything is a haze of
nerves, and desire, and need. But they are gone and Liam’s fingers are
exploring the slick, wet center of my body, and his mouth is on my upper
thigh, teasing me with where it might go, where it hasn’t gone and I soon
hope it will be.
He slips two fingers deep inside me and there are panting, moaning
sounds filling the air that I barely recognize as coming from me, and I try to
control myself, but I cannot. I’m not sure I’m really trying. I am so wet and
so aroused, I am certain I will come ridiculously quickly. The idea is
embarrassing and I try to will my body to calm. I try to resist the pleasure
building low in my belly and spiraling into my sex, but it is growing,
consuming me like a black hole where nothing but pleasure exists. It
reaches out to me and drags me deep into the center of spiraling, delicious
sensations. They overcome me, he overcomes me, and my sex clenches so
intensely that I jerk and my knees go weak.
Liam’s arms wrap around my lower body, holding me up and his
tongue laps at me, fast and hard and then slowing as I soften, as my
muscles ease, and I relax. He tears my jacket from my wrists and I wrap my
arms around him for stability and bury my face in his neck. He drags me
with him, until he is sitting against the door and I am straddling him and all I
can think is how embarrassed I am. How long did I last? One minute? Two?
Please let it have been at least five.
“Amy,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
“No. I can’t.”
“You can,” he says firmly, and his hand goes to my head, tilting my
face to his. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
Now I’m embarrassed that I am embarrassed. “I can’t help it.” My
voice shakes. I’m not sure it’s just my voice. I have never felt this exposed.
Not since…not ever. Not like this. “I was—”
“Beautiful.” His hand moves to cup my cheek. “Absolutely beautiful
and sexy.”
My hand covers his. “No.” I laugh and it’s a choked, horrible sound. “I
was fast. Really embarrassingly fast.”
“I like that I can turn you on that easily.” He caresses my shirt and bra
from my shoulders, and I let them fall away and my mind is mush all over
again. And when he leans in and tenderly kisses my shoulder, his hot stare
raking over my naked torso, my breasts are instantly heavy, and my nipples
tight. “And I like,” he adds, his eyes lifting to mine, “that you like it when I
look at you.” His finger lightly teases my nipple and a shiver of pure
pleasure slides down my back. His lips curve. “And that you react when I
touch you.”
A pinching sensation begins to form in my chest. I’m overwhelmed
emotionally when I should simply be aroused and nothing more. I barely
know this man and somehow he digs deep into my soul and speaks to me
like no one else ever has. It’s today’s events. It’s not him.
I cut my gaze, trying to pull myself together, but he does not allow
me an escape, not one he has not created, or offered in perfect orgasmic
pleasure. His finger slides under my chin, tilts it up, forcing my eyes back to
his. “Don’t hide what you feel. See, baby, that’s the thing about fucking
properly, it’s raw and honest. There’s no time limit, or embarrassment, or
nerves, which should exist. It’s just us fucking. Us feeling. Us being us
together. We leave everything else at the door.” He smiles a sexy, easy
smile and his hands slide up my back, his forehead resting against mine.
“Well. In our case, on the other side of the door. Don’t ever be
embarrassed with me.”
My fingers curl on his cheek, the soft rasp of his newly formed
whispers teasing my skin, the tension of moments before fading into the
seduction promise of his words. “I’m trying. This is…” My voice trails off,
and I am uncertain what I was going to say, uncertain what I really feel.
“I’ll help you.” He drags a finger down my cheek. “The only reason I
wanted to go next door was that I want this to be good for you. And I think
you need to be pampered tonight.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, and the two words, so telling, so honest, are out
before I can stop them.
He leans back and I am naked beyond my blouse, exposed beneath
his too-keen inspection. And I think he can see what I heard in my voice. My
desire to escape into his world and run from mine, if only for a little while.
My fear for him if I were to do so. My fear now that I have let him see too
much.
Steeling myself for whatever questions he will ask, I wait for him to
break the silence, hating that my passionate escape with this man will now
be washed in the lies the rest of my life is drowning in. But there is only
silence, and in that silence, understanding. He seems to know where he can
push me and where he cannot, and I do not understand how a man who
was a complete stranger yesterday knows me this well today.
Holding my stare, he reaches behind him and tugs his shirt over his
head, and the anticipation of seeing him naked, of being naked with him,
drums wildly through my body, but that moment doesn’t come.
Immediately, he puts his shirt over my head, the spicy scent of his cologne
teasing my nostrils, mingling with my confusion. “What are you doing?” I
ask, reluctantly shoving my arms through the sleeves.
“Making sure you know I’m here to stay. I’ll be here with you tonight.
I’ll be here with you in the morning. And you’ll still be wearing my shirt
because we both know you have no clothes in your suitcase.”