She called out his name, gripping his shoulder and clawing her nails into his skin as her climax rocketed through her.
When she finally could focus again, he spoke first. “I fucking love watching you come. I love what I do to you.”
“Me too,” she said, and for some reason it felt like an intensely vulnerable admission. As if there was more going on than him showing her pleasure. It was as if he needed to do this to her after their brief conversation. He’d revealed the tiniest bit of himself minutes before, and that was probably hard for him. So he’d needed to chase that with sex, mix it with pleasure, so he could watch her give in to his hand, to his toys, to his tricks.
She gladly gave into him. He made her feel so many things.
It was her turn to make him feel. To keep up her end of the deal. She wasn’t going to enact her morning-after solo fantasy right now. That might be too intimate for where they were. But she had no problem dropping to her knees, freeing his erection, and taking him deep into her throat until her name became some kind of chant as he lost control, just the way she wanted him to.
A few minutes later, after they’d both straightened up, she grabbed her purse to leave.
With a hand on her back—he always seemed to place a hand on her back, a possessive gesture and one she enjoyed—they walked down the plush carpeted hallway from his penthouse apartment to the elevators.
“Do you have a busy day tomorrow?” he asked.
She nodded. “Always. You?”
He laughed lightly. “Yes. The same. Meeting after meeting, including far too many about politics.”
“Politics? In your line of work?” she asked curiously.
He shook his head, a look of disdain flashing across his cool blue eyes. “I hate politics. What’s on your agenda?”
“Oh, you know, just planning my trip to Paris to keynote a conference. That’s all,” she said, giving him a saucy sashay of her hips. His palm landed hard on her ass as he pressed the down button to the elevator.
Her eyes widened, inviting more slapping.
“If you tempt me like that, beautiful, I will insist on you staying the night so I can spend more time with you and your gorgeous ass,” he said, back to his playful self.
“I better not tempt you then, since we’re both so busy.”
“How ever will you fit me in tomorrow?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as they stepped into the lift.
Reaching for the collar of his shirt, she tugged him close, and lowered her voice to its sexiest purr. “The same way I fit you in this week. All that wetness,” she said, grabbing his hand, and placing it between her legs as she lifted up her skirt, savoring the reaction her words elicited from him. Another groan. Another press of his body against her. She removed his hand as the elevator shot down. “But I’d hate to tempt you anymore.”
“I’d hate it if you didn’t tempt me,” he growled, and then lifted her up against the elevator wall, wrapped her legs around his hips, and gave her a tease of what would likely happen the next night.
She expected him to continue on like this for the whole ride down, but instead he gently lowered her to the floor, and leaned in to her neck, whispering in her ear. “I’m having a great time with you. I can’t wait to see you again.”
Instinct told her to toss out a witty comeback, to say, Presumptuous, are you? But tomorrow sounded damn good to her. So she simply said, “Me too.”
When they reached the lobby, he took her hand. As his fingers laced through hers, she felt a rush of something else entirely. Not the heat that had been spreading through her body all week, but a softness, a sweetness that this man seemed to possess. He held her hand as they crossed the marble floor and passed the doorman, out onto Fifth Avenue. A town car idled. A chauffeur in a black cap popped out, and opened the door.
“Your chariot,” Jack said, with a grin.
The first night he’d done this she’d said, “You didn’t have to. I would have been fine with a cab,” because she was used to taking care of herself. Now she was used to the service from him. She liked all the services he provided, come to think of it.
“By the way, do you like the symphony?”
“I haven’t been in ages.”
“Would you like to rectify that on Saturday night?”
The symphony sounded less like thirty nights of sex and more like a path to romance. Even so, she said yes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Surface Scratching
Kana crossed her legs, waiting for him to answer the question of why he was annoyed today.
Because the regret was suffocating. He was tired of regret. Because he was tired of thinking he deserved to not feel regret. Absolution wasn’t coming through therapy. How could it? Jack’s world was eminently logical, and he believed in one plus one equaling two. How could he see anything but the mathematical relationship between the events?
One, he told Aubrey he didn’t want to marry her, and two, twenty minutes later, she died.
Aubrey didn’t crash into trees. Aubrey flew down the slopes, but she did it with control.
Except for that time.
He was the trigger. His lack of love the loaded gun. An impossible choice. He’d picked wrong. Hadn’t he?
“This woman I’m seeing asked me about impossible choices,” he offered as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“And how did that make you feel?” Kana asked during their third session; this one had been moved to late morning because he had a lunch meeting. Jack wasn’t sure if they were making progress. He didn’t know what progress would look or feel like. Or how he was supposed to feel.