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“Fuck me,” she insisted. “Harder. Oh, God, Michael. Fuck my pussy. Make me come.”
Her fingers uncoiled from the ledge. One of her palms flattened on the desk at her hip. The other gripped his forearm as it was locked around her leg that was draped over his shoulder. She used the leverage to pull him closer to her, rolled her hips with his enticing erratic movements, and felt all the insanity and electricity arcing between them and humming through her coalesce and erupt.
She cried his name as the orgasm slammed into her. Little white and gold orbs burst behind her closed lids. Every fiber of her being ignited. And just when she thought she couldn’t lose herself any further in the moment, he thrust into her once more, his body convulsed, and then she felt his hot seed flood her pussy.
“Yes!” she shrieked. “That is so good!”
“Scarlet!” He pushed as far as he could, his cock buried to the hilt. “Oh, fuck!” Violent shudders rocked him. His breath came in heavy pulls, every exhale caressing the inner swells of her breasts.
Scarlet kept her eyes closed, knowing they’d just dance crazily in their sockets if she opened them anyway. She fought for more than just razor-thin slices of air. She’d never been so winded before. Nor had her body ever tingled so vibrantly. From her nose to her toes and every erogenous zone in between.
She was still buzzing from the release when Michael straightened and took her by the hand. He gently hauled her up. He withdrew from her and, with a little shifting, had her legs and arms coiled around him. She was limp and boneless, but he held her tightly and carried her across the vast penthouse to his master suite. Balancing her with one hand, he yanked back the covers in the large bed and set her there. Then he worked the zipper of one boot and removed it, rolled down her black stocking, and repeated the process with the other.
“Damn sexy,” he said. “You in the boots. You out of the boots.”
His gaze roved her naked body and she didn’t miss that his cock twitched.
“Get comfortable,” he told her.
Not in a million years would she have expected Michael Vandenberg to assume she’d stay over or invite her to do so. She didn’t take him for the type to embrace afterglow cuddling. And maybe he wasn’t, so she scooted to the opposite side of the mattress while he ducked into the bathroom to tidy up.
When he joined her, he said, “We like the same side.” He climbed in behind her and she moved to accommodate him. “Don’t go too far.” His arms wound around her as he spooned her.
Scarlet’s heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t used to the wild and wicked sex; that was a given. But this soft and tender affection from the Wolf of Wall Street?
What the fuck? flashed in her head.
He held her tightly, possessively. His body curled around hers, another perfect fit.
He said, “I hadn’t realized I needed a jump start until I laid eyes on you earlier this evening. I am forever a fan of your persistence.”
Something twisted inside of Scarlet. Not necessarily in a bad way. She wiggled slightly so that he gave way to her and she turned to face him.
“Michael.” She gazed at him with little more than the flicker of the lights from the unadorned windows to faintly illuminate his steely features. “If you tell me again that you’re innocent, I’ll believe you.”
She worked off intuition, after all. And it was speaking loud and clear to her.
But she had to hear him say the words at this moment, at this point in time. Following the highly charged evening they’d had and the way he was so in tune to her needs, to her desires … She felt a connection she’d never experienced before—and trusted it heart and soul.
She just needed to hear the conviction in his tone.
He swept away strands of hair from her temple and told her, “I assure you I was exactly where I said I was when the collection was stolen. And I wouldn’t have benefited from plotting or participating in the robbery. The paintings were bought by my father, yes. But they were gifted to my stepmother. A belated wedding present, because he waited until he had all the pieces before he gave them to her. So that insurance check was handed directly to her.”
Scarlet’s brow knitted. “It was made out to him.”
“Yes, because he was the one to purchase the collection and pay the premium on it. The money was transferred into her account. Hers to do with what she pleased.”
Scarlet’s mind whirled. “Did she buy new artwork?”
“No. She claimed the paintings my father had selected for her originally meant too much for her to randomly go out and replace them.”
“She started taking art history classes at NYU after she married your father, Michael. There’d be nothing random about her selections—”
“It’s sentimentality that holds her back. How do you substitute a gift that was so thoughtfully assembled for you?”
Scarlet considered this. He had a point, of course. Yet … “I looked into her finances, too. Her net worth didn’t improve, individually. Of course, she’s linked to your father’s fortune, but where’d the insurance money go?”
Michael placed a finger over her lips. “Scarlet. You can talk about this until the sun comes up. I can’t help you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to that collection. And to be damn honest with you, I don’t give a rip. Do you understand?”
