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Twisting to look at him, I purred, “That better?”
“Much better. Picture perfect,” he replied, and his hand was back on his cock again.
I gulped at the sight, because I had to agree. His cock, his hand around it, much better than even the Vermeer.
My heart stuttered at the thought, and though I teased him by sliding a hand between my legs and rubbing my clit before slipping a finger inside, I watched his eyes darken at the sight.
Declan was masterful in bed. He’d been careful with me, but over the many nights I’d been rutted on by useless lovers, I’d recognized the skill in him.
He’d been preparing me.
From the very start, he’d been giving me what I wanted, teaching me all along what he wanted me to know.
He was dominant in bed. Rough. He’downedme.
I hadn’t figured that out until too late though. I hadn’t realized that until someone else had fucked me and it had been like eating frozen yogurt with fresh fruit instead of Cherry Garcia.
“One day, I’m going to fuck you like that,” he grated out. “And I’m going to take you to my box at the opera, and I’m going to fuck you there, and at the ballet—”
A moan escaped me.
How was my rough lover so deeply into the arts that he had a box at the goddamn opera?
I closed my eyes, unable to look at him, unable to think of anything but my fingers on my pussy.
“If I could get out of this goddamn bed, I’d spank you for taunting me,” he rasped, making heat shiver up and down my spine.
“You’d have to catch me first,” I whispered, arching up onto tiptoe as pleasure whirred through me. Not just at my caresses, but at his words. Which, to be fair, were far more incendiary. My pussy and my right hand were best friends… His dirty talk had been sorely missed for nearly fifteen years.
That thought made everything hit home though.
What the hell was I doing over here, taunting him, when I could finally have an orgasm that wasn’t totally self-administered and that rocked my goddamn world?
Why was I over here when he was way over there?
Because I recognized I was insane, I straightened up, and then he murmured, “Go to the window.”
Surprised, my hair whipped my cheeks as I twisted to look at him.
“Go to the window,” he repeated calmly. “Look in the last jade box.”
I did as he asked, heading for the window seat. Staring out onto Manhattan was heady stuff, especially when I was naked and I had two hundred million dollars’ worth of stolen art at my back.
Talk about a sweet ‘fuck you’ to the city I’d been born and raised in.
I bent over, smiling when he groaned, and let my fingers trail over the jade box. As I tugged it open, I asked, “What’s with the jade?” The apartment was Japanese in style. Not Chinese.
“The apartment’s Japanese, I know, but I have a thing for most Asian things.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. I just love the complicated simplicity of it all. The paradox pleases me.”
Well, those were wet dream-inspiring words.
Declan, back when I was young, had been rough around the edges. Never in a million years, without knowing him like I had, would anyone have known he had a fetish for the arts. Of course, he’d been scared of Aidan Sr. back then. Which, I figured, made sense.
It wasn’t like the patriarch of the line was in any way normal.
