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His teeth grazed my earlobe, the skin of my neck. “Relax,” he whispered back, as if he didn’t want the neighbors to hear either. His palms were warm and sure as they moved up the smooth flesh of my inner thighs. “I know you, Ava. More than anyone.”
My thighs relaxed like jelly under Dane’s touch, then pressed wider to accommodate him. He was right: he knew me. His hands knew every contour of my skin, and his breath against my neck matched mine. He had kissed me last night, then pulled away. That taste of him had made me crazy, made me want to crawl out of my skin every time I looked at him. But now being in my skin was the best thing that had ever happened to me. If he stopped, I would lose my mind.
“I’m not going to stop,” Dane said, and I realized I’d said that last part out loud. Then his teeth grazed the skin of my neck, and his fingers moved under my panties and between my legs.
I bit my lip and pressed onto him, seeking the sensation. My body wasn’t reluctant, and there was no reason to pretend it was. Besides, I didn’t have the energy to pretend. I was too focused on how fast he could make me come.
I was soaked and slick, and his fingertips moved easily over my flesh, dipping inside me and rubbing, making me ache. I gasped and moved my hips, trying to get him where I wanted him, and his free hand gripped my thigh, holding me in place. Then, slowly, his torturing fingers moved out of me, up to my clit, circling it, then giving it a slow, luxurious rub. Because Dane Scotland knew everything about what made my body scream. Everything.
My hand gripped his forearm, my nails digging into him through his sleeve. I closed my eyes and became nothing but a swirl of sensation, spiraling up into the sky like smoke. Dane rubbed me just like I liked it, circling my clit and then brushing lightly over it, following that with a gentle press of his thumb. Again, and then again. One more time.
The orgasm shivered up from deep in my belly, tensing my thighs as it shook me. I bit back a cry and rode the wave, my body hungry for every drop of pleasure. After a long minute I let out a breath and sagged back against Dane as his hand reluctantly left my throbbing skin and pulled down my dress.
For a second, I was euphoric. There was no other word for it. I didn’t care where we were, that Dane and I had broken up a long time ago. I just felt so freaking good. I put my hand on his thigh, started to slide it upward. “What about you?” I asked, whispering as a soft conversation went on in the next room.
Dane’s arm came around my waist and a growl came from his throat. He’d never made that sound before—possessive, primal, male. I shivered at the sound of it.
But his free hand came down over mine, stopping its progress. “You know what I want,” he said roughly, his voice low. “You, in a bed. All mine. No one around and no time limits. So I can do anything to you I want, for as long as I want.” He let go of me, slid back, his heat leaving me. “Nothing else will ever fucking do.”
And with that, Dane stood and silently left the room.
Thirteen
Ava
* * *
The beds at the Langham hotel were huge and as deep as a swimming pool. The bedding was heaven. I could have married the pillows. And there was a bathrobe in the bathroom—thick, pristine white, soft as a kitten’s fur. I was wearing it now as I sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Dinner had been delicious. After giving me that unexpected orgasm, Dane had returned to the dining room ten minutes later, taking his seat at the table again. He’d given me a look that was quietly hot and humorous at the same time. I had to wash my hands, he said. And then we ate sushi.
We’d behaved. While we ate, we’d actually talked. About the other Tower VC partners and how they were. About other people we’d both known and where they’d ended up. We’d speculated about the more obscure things the restaurant put in front of us, sometimes Googling to figure out what they were.
It should have been awkward, considering we’d just had almost-sex right there in almost-public. But this was Dane. It was easy to talk to Dane, even after that wild little episode. And he was right—I’d been wound up too tight. The orgasm had relaxed me in its weird way. We’d gotten the sex out of the way, so we could finally get down to business.
We’d parted like two normal people—no fights, no hot makeout sessions on my bed. After behaving like the opposite of a gentleman, Dane had been respectful, even sweet. Nothing like his normal self at all.
No, that wasn’t true. Dane’s normal self was respectful and sweet. He just didn’t usually bother to show it. And yet tonight, when he’d basically gotten to fourth base and almost all the way home, he’d been sweet to me.
I closed my eyes. I should be embarrassed about that, embarrassed about what I’d let him do to me, but I wasn’t. It had felt good. He had felt good. Better than any other guy in the years since Dane had last put his hands on me. I’d die rather than admit it, but there it was.
At least it had been…well, one-sided. I may have been embarrassingly easy when it came to Dane Scotland, but he’d had to eat dinner while suffering from blue balls. I had that much to say for my dignity.
So why did I feel so unfulfilled?
My phone rang, and for a second I was sure it was Dane. He could probably read my mind. But no, it was Jared, one of the agents at a stylists’ agency back home in Brooklyn. Like a lot of stylists, I worked freelance and I also took agency bookings when they came along. It gave me the best chance of getting steady work.
It wasn’t like Jared, or any agency, to call this late. “Hi Jared, what’s up?” I asked when I answered the phone.
“Ava, honey. Thank God you answered,” Jared said, sounding like I’d just saved him from certain death. When you worked in the fashion business, you worked with a lot of people who loved to sound dramatic. “I have an emergency for tomorrow. We have a Bergdorf shoot happening and the stylist cancelled. Something about a colonic gone wrong.”
When you worked in fashion, you also got used to a lot of TMI. “A Bergdorf shoot?” I asked, skipping over the colonic part. “What Bergdorf shoot?”
“For the winter collection,” Jared said. “It’s at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge. Lots of coats and scarves. Looking out over the water, a moody feel. You know the idea. You could do it in your sleep, honey.”
I sat up. Jared was right—I could do a shoot like that in my sleep. Because I’d done at least a dozen shoots for Bergdorf, including the one six months ago for the summer collection. “Bergdorf is shooting the winter collection without me?” I asked.
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line that was almost awkward. It was the sound of Jared realizing he’d asked me to fill in on a shoot I wasn’t called for in the first place. “They’re trying some new ideas, some new directions,” he said. “There’s a new creative director, and he’s shaking things up.”
