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Yes.
How could it not be?
But the real turn on, the thing that always gets me going?
Mercer.
I imagine us doing all of those things. Together. In public. Alone.
I don’t care, as long as it’s me and him.
“We’re here.” His voice hums against my ear, teeth biting down hard on my lobe.
He straightens my clothes to cover me and we walk into his building. From covert side eyes of the few people around, it’s clear we look like what we are, two people a few breaths away from the naughtiest sex.
In the private elevator, he pushes me against the back wall and slides one hand up under my dress to cup my ass. I melt into him as his mouth devours mine, the taste of whiskey dancing on the tip of his tongue.
The elevator dings, opening to his floor. He untangles himself from me. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
That’s my master speaking to me. I hear it in his voice. Along with the delicious promises of carnal delights to come.
This is it. The moment where we do that very last act, the thing I want most from him. Everything else I’ll do again and again. I love him everywhere, even my ass, although he hasn’t gone there again. But I want him in my pussy. I need to be filled.
I could say it’s a way to wipe out the image of Mr. Trenton from my mind but it’s not.
Yeah, seeing him bothered me, threw me off balance, but Mercer rescued me from the toxic memory of my past trauma. He didn’t push to stay, he just rushed me out of there. And Mercer isn’t a man whom Jon Trenton would ever mess with.
He knew what I needed at that moment and gave it to me.
“Ivy.”
One word and the trembling starts all over for a different reason.
This isn’t Mercer from the club or the car or the elevator. This is Master Mercer. Cool, soft-toned, because he’s in control.
One word. My name. And it’s a command. I instinctively fold my hands behind my back and lift my gaze to him.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Come.” He turns, that detached tone doing things to me inside, making me throb and vibrate and ache.
Mercer heads up the stairs, his footsteps steady, measured. I follow, my heels clacking on the polished wood floor.
He’s changed clothes. Black pants, soft black sweater, boots. When we get to the third floor, he guides me past my room and toward that final set of stairs that leads to his room. My pulse hammers harder against my neck with every step.
Excitement thickens the air. Then he crosses through to a door I’ve never noticed before and opens it.
There’s a window against the far wall, floor to ceiling with city views below, a desk piled with papers that’s clearly used often, and a couple of floor lamps in two corners of the room. Mercer switches on the one closest to the desk. A pool of light hits the bottle of rum he drank from the other night, the line of liquid still near the top. A thick glass tumbler sits next to it.
I look around. I know there’s a desk downstairs, too, in the study he uses most of the time. I almost ask who needs two studies, but I don’t. I can see the appeal when he wants to work late, or can’t sleep, and…whatever, he’s rich.
But this place is different. It’s got a different aura.
I scour the rest of the room. There’s a wall of books. A sofa. A bare wall. There’s also what looks like a support pillar near the open wall.
A low, rolling frisson of excitement hits my bones.
I don’t think all the things in here, other than the desk, are what they might seem.
