One Week Later
If Courtney had a dream, it was Ian. From the time she had first thrown herself into his arms at age ten, ignoring his stiff surprise, his uncomfortable reaction, she had known no one else would do for her.
At first, the dream had been simple. Ian laughing with her, having a tea at her dainty little iron table, smiling at her with that crooked smile that made her feel as though he truly wasn’t certain why he was amused by her.
As she grew older, her needs had grown with her. The boys of her age lacked excitement, they lacked sophistication.
They weren’t Ian.
She had continued with her girlish crush, though the dreams had grown hotter, more erotic as she grew older and developed her own unique, individual personality. Wild and reckless, she had fallen into an older crowd of friends and learned the facts of life much sooner than she imagined her father could have ever guessed.
By the time she was seventeen, she knew of most every sex act and had seen many of them performed. And she fantasized of Ian. His lips covering a nipple, drawing on it hungrily, or buried between her thighs, his tongue licking her with ravenous greed. His cock… She closed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat as she pushed the sheet from her, her fingers trailing to the center of her body and the swollen heat of her pu**y.
On his last visit to her father’s estate, she had caught sight of that perfect stalk of flesh. Thick and heavily veined, the crest a dark purple, tapered and glistening with cream as he bored into the housemaid who had shared his bed that night. The small sucking sounds created from the act had her clenching her thighs as her own juices began to flow.
Now, her fingers slid through the thick, syrupy proof of her lust, circling the swollen bud of her cl*t as she imagined him touching her as he had the maid, f**king her with hard, deep strokes that would surely have her screaming from the tight fit of his erection inside her snug pu**y.
She whispered a moan at the thought of him there, between her thighs, tempting her, teasing her, making her beg. And more. So much more. He would push every sexual boundary known to man and most women. He would make her body sing with pleasure, make her blood boil with the heat and desire that had simmered within her for years. He would give her the freedom, the courage to allow the wildness inside her free. To give the tempting fantasies life as the heat flamed through her. He would do more than allow her to be the sexual being she knew she was. He would encourage it.
She bit her lip, the sudden vision of her body, slim and delicate, sandwiched between him and one of the men she had seen going into the back entrance of the house. He would hold her tight, his hands clenched on her h*ps as he filled her pu**y, holding her still as another touched her, pulled her bu**ocks apart, slid his erection along the crease of her ass until his c**k was buried in the small hole there.
She bucked to her own touch, gasping at the fantasy of his expression. Seeing the pleasure, the wildness in his blue eyes, the flushed, eager lust on his face as she cried out for him.
Her pu**y gushed, cream flowing to her thighs as her fingers pressed inside her weeping vagina, her palm rasping against her cl*t as her h*ps bucked involuntarily.
More. She pressed two fingers inside the hungry tunnel, tossed her head and began to thrust mindlessly. She needed… She ached to the point that she wondered if she could survive the arousal without release soon.
Frustration echoed in her guttural moan as the elusive cl**ax teased her, just out of reach. So close… She was so close. She lifted her other hand to her swollen breast, her fingers pinching at her nipple, pulling at it roughly as the small streak of pain shot from her nipple to her clit, making it throb with impossible desperation. How was she to survive this?
Her fingers were moving harshly inside the clenching depths of her cunt, her palm grinding against her clit, yet still, to no avail. The hunger grew, striking with devastating need through every cell of her body, while fulfillment remained just out of reach.
A wild, needy groan tore from her throat as she collapsed against the bed in exhaustion long minutes later. The cream frothed between her thighs, so wickedly hot she felt each bone and muscle was on fire from the longing inside her. Yet, she lay there, frustrated, unable to cl**ax, and burning with anger.
“Damn man.” She pushed herself from the bed, grimacing at the untidy state of the silk sheets she had slept between.
She kicked the comforter out of her way as she stalked to the closet and opened it furiously. She was tired of waiting. She had played nice for a week now. The perfect little houseguest, never overstepping her boundaries, flirting to no avail, and wandering about the huge mansion in complete boredom as he made himself scarce.
She pouted as she pulled a short skirt from the closet and matched it with a small top. The stark white, barely decent skirt flared from the low hip band, covering the curves of her ass and swishing sensually along her upper thighs. It bared the flesh of her stomach from the snug, high hem of her white Grecian-style top to only inches above the throbbing, swollen tissue of her clit.
The emerald belly ring winked wickedly at her navel, a glittering earthy teardrop against her dark flesh. She shook her head, running her fingers through the wavy length of her long, dark hair before flipping it over her shoulder, a small shiver chasing up her spine as the curling ends caressed her lower back.
She felt decadent, sexy and wild. And she looked it.
“Take that, Mr. Sinclair,” she whispered with a sensual little smile as she pushed her feet into the white stiletto heels.
She was tired of trying to be good. Of feeling her way among the strangers he introduced her to, yet paying close attention to those he steered her away from. She knew the women he would prefer she not associate with. Tally Conover, Kimberly Raddington especially, and Tessa Andrews and her mother Ella Wyman. Wives of now married Trojans, she had been told by one chatty little guest at the latest party she had attended. The Trojans, of course, being the nickname given to the men who frequented The Club.
Ivy, the daughter of Ian’s housemaid, had been at first hesitant to discuss The Club, its members or their wives. It had taken a vow of utmost secrecy and several drinks to get the information out of the woman. That those wives Ian steered her away from were considered the most adventurous, daring women to have ever married one of the men.
They were habitually tormenting Ian by sneaking into the club, attempting their matchmaking wiles on the single members and generally causing havoc whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was Ivy’s opinion they did so merely to tempt the overly dominant personalities of their husbands.