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“Wow, indeed.”
She holds me close, arms around my neck and hips rubbing against me. Her kiss is soft and sweet, but it builds. Becomes harder, more demanding. I need to be inside her. I reach down and grab my cock with one hand and angle it toward her, dragging the tip through the slick moisture, rubbing back and forth in a way that makes her mewl.
“You’re so wet.”
“I am,” she breathes, her chest rising and falling with choppy breath.
I reach behind her and cup her backside, guiding her toward me. She feels like heaven, like silk and fire and saviour. I pull one of her legs up over my hip so that I can reach her entrance more easily.
“I want to hold you,” I say, and she nods. “I want to feel every little bit until I’m in as far as you can take me.”
“Yes.” The word is a hiss.
I hoist her up and she locks her ankles behind my back, arms clinging to my neck. She’s light enough for me to carry, light enough that I don’t even have to brace her against the wall. I push into her and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. Holy shit, does she feel amazing. She bears down and takes me all the way, so tight I have to grit my teeth, otherwise I’ll lose it.
But damn, she’s made for me. Perfectly made for me.
I fill my hands with her, lifting her up so I can tease her for one more minute before bringing her back down. So I can see the plea in her face, hear the desperation in her breath.
“You feel so good.” I thrust up into her, driving deep.
Her mouth is on me, ravenous, and her body is soft in my hands, letting me take the lead. Letting me control our pleasure. I slide her up and down my cock, flexing my hips with each stroke so I bottom out.
“Yes, that spot.” She bows in my arms, arching her back and closing her eyes. “That’s it.”
I walk Emery to the couch and lower her down so that I’m on top of her. She keeps her legs behind my back and her heels dig into me. I take her face between my hands and kiss her, grinding my hips into hers. I’ve got no hope of hanging on now. She’s like a live wire beneath me. A firework. I hold her tight, pounding into her over and over as we chase release.
“Yes,” she gasps into my ear. “I want to feel you come.”
She’s ruined me. Marked me. This prickly woman has lost her spikes and I’m never going to be the same.
I lose myself in the smell of her, the subtle saltiness on her skin. And the feel of her—hot, wet, tight. Hands clawing. Grabbing. Owning.
I go deep one last time and tip over the edge, my cock pulsing inside her as I come. Hard. It’s that moment that she tips over, too, shaking beneath me. Lips calling my name. It’s the sound of heaven and a warning.
Contract or not, I’m not going to forget this.
The following night, we take two of my biggest clients to dinner. Marina and Peter Diamandis have been coming to the gallery since my mother was alive, and they spend. They have several homes—a mansion in Brighton, a beach house in Portsea, a villa in the south of France and an apartment in both London and San Francisco—which they like to redecorate often. But, more importantly, they have a wide social circle and have often brought their friends to our shows. It’s in my best interest to make them feel special by doing things I don’t do with other clients—like introducing them to my artists.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me to dress up more.” Emery glares at me, smoothing her hands down the front of her skinny black pants, which she wears with a blue top and ballet flats. “As it was, I had to borrow this top from Presley.”
We’re sitting in a taxi, trudging through traffic and Emery is getting increasingly nervous. Neither one of us has mentioned last night. She came past my office this afternoon and signed the contract, stiffly shaking my hand and then vanishing like a poof of smoke the second it was all over...which means this is strictly business.
And she’s back to her prickly self.
“I told you to dress like you were going on a date.” I skim my eyes over her. Sure, the outfit isn’t fancy, but I think she looks great. I love that she’s unabashedly herself. Somehow, though, I feel like saying that will only make things more awkward.
“I don’t dress up for dates,” she huffs. “Why turn up to a date pretending to be anyone but yourself?”
I drum my fingers on my knee. “Whenwasyour last date?”
“Uh, I think it was the twentieth of not-your-fucking business.”
Oh, yeah, the spikes are out. There’s a little part of me that enjoys the antagonism, and I try not to think too hard about what that means.
“I mean, I know you were seeing...that suit. What was his name?”
“Patrick.” Emery says the name like it tastes bad in her mouth.
