Sinful Desire Page 20

  He opened the sliding glass door to his deck and stood on the threshold, stopping to drink in the gorgeous sight before him.

  Sophie wore a white bikini and huge black sunglasses as she stretched out on a lounge chair by his pool, reading her iPad under a big yellow umbrella. Her skin was so fair, he doubted she was a sun worshipper. But even so, she looked stunning with the rays casting their glow on her legs. Late-afternoon shadows fell across his yard, along with a quiet hush.

  The stillness of the moment—both the silence and her beauty—felt like a dream. But the image was too sharp, too crisp to be anything but real.

  His real life. His real chance. A real change.

  Okay, some things hadn’t changed. He couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  After a pit stop at her condo, since she’d insisted on picking up clothes, he drove her to his house once he’d ensured his family was already gone. He wanted Sophie to meet them, but he didn’t have the patience for a get-to-know-you session when he simply had to have her. They’d christened the hallway the second the door had closed. He took her against the wall, with Johnny Cash hiding his snout under a pillow on the couch as if he couldn’t bear to watch. Now, his mutt was sprawled on the cool grass under a tree, back legs sticking out behind him like Superdog.

  But the woman.

  Oh, the woman.

  Sophie was all his for the next twenty-four hours. No dropping her off at midnight. No final kiss in front of her building. And no bumping into her brother.

  He struck all thoughts of her brother from his brain as he walked across the deck, down the wooden steps, over the soft grass, and onto the tile edging the oval blue lagoon in the middle of his yard. He had two drinks with him, and when he arrived by her side, she lowered her shades to the bridge of her nose, looking exactly like a glamorous movie star on vacation.

  “Are you playing my waiter today?”

  “Maybe I’m the pool boy,” he said as he handed her a mojito.

  She laughed. “I don’t have pool-boy fantasies, I assure you.”

  He sat at the end of her chair with his Macallan on ice. “What fantasies do you have?”

  She raised an eyebrow as she took a sip of the drink. “I fantasize about a man who can make a drink like this. This is divine. How did you know I like mojitos by the pool?”

  He shrugged, quirking up the corner of his lips. “Lucky guess.”

  She shot him a skeptical glance as she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. “I’m not so sure that’s just luck. I suspect it’s more of your military intelligence training.”

  “You think they teach us how to identify a woman’s drink of choice?”

  “No, but I think you have a supremely analytical mind and like to piece clues together, and somehow you decided that a woman like me drinks mojitos.”

  “And what are the traits that would suggest mojito drinking?” he asked, enjoying the banter as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

  “You tell me,” she said, crossing her ankles. Her toenails were painted violet. He wasn’t a man who cared about polished fingers or toes, but somehow this little detail seemed so very Sophie.

  “Gorgeous, confident, smart, fun…and likes to enjoy things that taste good.”

  She made some sort of sexy humming sound in her throat. “You taste good,” she said.

  His dick leapt to attention, ready to give her a full salute. He dropped a hand to her leg, wrapping it around her calf and squeezing. “Everything you say and do makes me hard. It’s like you have a remote control to my dick.”

  She laughed as heat poured down from the sky. “I actually ordered that remote last week. They sell them at Sharper Image. Can’t wait for it to arrive.”

  Loud peals of laughter ripped through him, and this was a moment he would savor for a long time—the easy way she had with him, how she teased him, and toyed with him, and never backed down. He caressed her warm calf, kissed by the sun, as he tipped his forehead toward the iPad. “What were you reading?”

  “A biography of Tommy Lee from Mötley Crüe. I have a thing for rock-star biographies.”

  “Interesting. Anything to that?”

  She pursed her lips together, as if considering the answer. “I think because the lifestyle is so extravagant and extreme. I read them for fun back in college, with a sort of wide-eyed awe, and these people seemed so foreign but so fascinating. They still are—the hours rock stars keep, the crazy things they do, the excess, the conquests, the dangers. It’s like a vicarious thrill ride into a world I’d never want to be in but adore watching unfold.”

  “Are you a voyeur?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

  “Ha. Hardly. I just like to see the curtain pulled back,” she said, taking a quick drink. Then she set down her glass on the small table next to her lounge chair. “What do you like to read?”

  “Business strategy books to stay sharp. Thrillers to keep the heart rate up. And international news to stay educated. That probably sounds terribly prosaic.”

  She shook her head. “No. Not at all. I love your reasons, too. They tell me more about what matters to you,” she said with a sweet smile. “Plus, I think whatever anybody’s reading is a good thing. Truth be told, I was actually switching back and forth between reading the Tommy Lee book, and this email exchange with my contact in Rüsselsheim.”

  His ears pricked. “Your Bugatti?”

  A grin stretched across her features, like a very satisfied cat. “I’m going there to check it out in ten days.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Are you bringing it back?”

  “An import service will. But I want to touch it and feel it and drive it myself before the final sign-off.”

  An image of Sophie running her hands along the sleek body of a high-end sports car played before his eyes. “What milestone is this one? You said you reward yourself for hitting milestones in giving.”

  “I like numbers, especially the big fat ones with lots of zeroes, so I decided that since I sold my company for a hundred million dollars that when I hit that goal in money raised for others, I’d get this car.”

  He whistled in admiration. “To say I’m impressed is an understatement. Both with the sale, but also with what you’ve raised.”

  “Thank you. Though that’s not all from my pocket. I do give a lot to every cause I raise money for, but my bigger job is simply asking others to open their wallets. I’m lucky to know many generous people I can call on,” she added, as if that somehow lessened the accomplishment.

  He tapped her knee lightly with his fingertips. “And you convinced them to part with their money for a good cause. It’s amazing, however you slice it. Why did you decide to go into philanthropy?”

  She reached for her glass and took a long drink. “Because I could.”

  He brushed his fingers along her thigh, loving the simplicity of her answer. She’d chosen to do good because she was in the rare position of being able to. She could have done anything with her time, her money, and her access, and she’d opted to donate the hours in her day to help others. The choice was a deliberate one, and it said so much about her, in his view, that she’d picked this particular path. “Beautiful answer. I love that. I respect that. Did you ever think about starting another company? So many other entrepreneurs launch additional businesses.”

  “I had no interest in being a serial entrepreneur,” she said, shaking her head. “I know I’m lucky to have had the successful run I had with my company—to start it when I did and sell it when I did. And now I’m lucky enough to use all my business skills to help with things that matter more in the world. I’ve raised money for animal charities, for sick children, for cancer research, for kids in need, for troubled kids, and so on. I’d much rather devote my time to doing that.” Then added, almost apologetically, “Even if it can be just as much work and take just as much management as running my own company.”

  “I hear you on that. It must be consuming at times. Everyone needing and wanting things,” he said,
flashing back to the gala and the way the two ladies there practically hunted Sophie down to make their own cases for the children’s wing.

  “That’s true. Which is why it’ll be all the more fun to go for a joyride in my new car,” she said with a glint in her eye.

  Though Ryan could jet off to Europe with her and hole up in a five-star resort on his dime, she could do all those things for herself, too, and then some. Ryan did well for himself, but he wasn’t in a position to drop that kind of cash on a car, and she was. Perhaps for the first time he was keenly aware that while he was successful, Sophie was in another class. It didn’t annoy him and didn’t make him feel any less of a man. But he wanted to make sure she was fine with everything. “There’s not much I can give you materially that you can’t get on your own,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Does that bother you?”

  She laughed loudly. “Not in the least,” she said then reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. Her smile was gentle and tender. “You don’t have to shower me with expensive gifts. You don’t have to give me presents at all if you don’t want to. I loved the peach tulips, and the pinot grigio, and I am in some kind of mad love with the dress you had your sister track down for me. It’s beautiful, and it’s perfect for me, and I didn’t have one like it, and I’ve been coveting one. So thank you,” she said with a squeeze of his hand, then added softly, “Besides, the things I want from you don’t cost money.”

  He tensed for a moment, shoulders tightening and chest burning. He wasn’t ready to have a more serious talk about commitment. Letting her in and talking more was all he could handle. “Such as?”

  She took her time answering, trailing her fingers along his bare arm. “What I want is for you to take me for a ride in my new car someday.”

  A groan rumbled through his chest, escaping his lips. My God, she was so fucking giving. He’d struck gold when he met her. She was precious and rare. “Pretty sure I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

  “So that means you’d like to get behind the wheel?”

  “There’s only one thing I want to do in that car more than drive it,” he said in a low voice, raking his eyes over her gorgeous figure.

  She tapped her index finger against her lips and peered skyward. “Hmmm. You mean you want to see how far back the passenger seat goes?”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly the kind of test drive I want to give you in your new car.”

  She gestured to her iPad. “What if I told you I had pictures of it?”

  He made a show it to me now gesture with his fingers. “I want to see that car,” he said then ran his palms up and down her calves, his way of imploring her. She murmured softly, a sound that said she was enjoying his touch. He took advantage of it, digging his thumbs into her ankles, and working his way up her legs, stopping to kiss her calves along the way.

  She reached for her iPad, swiped a finger across the screen and then called up the email. “Are you ready to be dazzled by its beauty? Can you handle it?”

  “If I can handle how gorgeous you are, this car won’t be a problem, because I’m sure it can’t hold a candle. But show it to me anyway.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She turned the iPad around and showed him the photo. His heart skipped a beat. The auto was a thing of beauty. A gorgeous, gleaming, emerald-green sports car that stirred up every desire in him to hug the curves on a downhill, to hear the purr of the engine, to stomp on the accelerator in this sleek ride. He actually pressed his fingertips to the screen and stroked the photo.

  She tossed her head back and laughed throatily. “Do you want me to wipe the drool from your chin now or later?”

  He snapped her iPad case closed and set it down on the table. Reaching behind her, he lowered the lounge chair, then crawled over her, pinning her with his body. “You think I’m just going to let that impudent comment slide?”

  The look in her eyes changed as she moved from that confident, saucy woman to the vulnerable, submissive one. “Are you going to punish me?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m not going to punish you. I’m going to make you work for it.”

  “How?” she asked, and in that one word he heard the thrill of anticipation. Her own desire to be led like this was her drug.

  He clasped her hands, threading his fingers through hers, watching every move she made—the way her lips parted, how her eyes followed his, how her chest rose and fell. He stretched her arms over her head, and gently pushed her hands beneath one of the wood slats at the top of the lounge chair.

  “Hold onto the chair the whole time,” he said then moved off her to reach for an ice cube from his drink. He held it above her chest, as the first bead of liquid fell from the cube and landed between her lush breasts. Her nipples pebbled through the fabric of her bikini.

  He lowered the ice cube closer to her skin. “Are you hot?”

  She bit her lip and answered, “Very.”

  “I had a feeling you might be.” He brushed it through her cleavage, and she shivered, gasping out loud at the first contact with the cold. “Does that make you feel better?”

  “Yes,” she said on a feathery gasp. He ran the ice under her breasts, down her belly, and to the top of her bikini bottoms, picturing the treasure that lay beneath the white fabric—her wet, hot pussy. His dick throbbed in his swim shorts. His need to have her intensified.

  He travelled to her sides with the ice, and she squirmed, writhing under his touch. She was a live wire. At every touch, she sparked. She ignited, responding to his words, his voice, his hands, and his body. It was intoxicating. It was addictive. He bent his neck to her, licking the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue. She moaned softly, whispering his name in a barely audible voice.

  It sounded like a plea.

  His shorts made a tent now, pitched high. “Do you want me to touch you?

  “Yes.”

  “My yard is big. My neighbors aren’t around today,” he said as he travelled up her body with the ice cube, watching her shiver as it left a wet path across her hot skin. He reached the hollow of her throat, making circles, watching the ice melt some. He leaned in and kissed the water away. Then he pulled back and said firmly, “Put it between your teeth.”

  She opened her mouth, and waited for him to insert the cube. She held it in place with her teeth as he ran the back of his fingertips down her arm. “I could untie your bikini straps right now. Take off the top and tie you up with it. Flip you over onto your hands and knees and fuck you from behind on this chair,” he said, not looking at her, but instead reaching for his glass, and finishing off his drink.

  He returned his focus to her, and the look in her eyes was already glossy, on the path to red-hot desire. “Would you like that?”

  She nodded.

  Starting at her collarbone, he brushed his finger to the top of her chest, then through the valley of those gorgeous tits, on a fast track to her legs. He danced his fingers along the waistband of her bathing suit, taunting her. “Or I could take these off right now and feel how wet you are. Since you’re all nice and slippery, right?”

  She bucked upwards, giving her yes. A drop of liquid drizzled from the cube down her chin. He kissed it away. “Don’t let go of the ice,” he instructed. “Hold on ’til it melts between your lips.”

  He moved his hands down her legs, placing his palms on the insides of her thighs. He spread them apart, and stared at her bikini bottom. “Or maybe I’ll just torture you by brushing one finger against this wet spot I love so much. Just play with your hot pussy through this bikini until you’re moaning, crying, and begging me to take it off.”

  Her eyes floated closed momentarily, and she lifted her hips.

  Desire tore through him, twisting and curling like a wildfire. He was desperate to quench it and bring her to orgasm. But he had to fight that urge and restrain all of his lust for her.

  Waiting made everything better.

  With her hands stretched above her head, hooked in the slats of
the lounge chair, she was bound to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Every single answer was a resounding yes.

  She was so wet, so turned on, so slippery, and all she wanted was his touch. She had no idea how long this torture would last. She could bite down on this ice cube now, but that would only prolong the waiting. He’d find a new way to draw out his touch if she defied him. She wanted him fiercely, with an intensity that bordered on criminal.

  Lust and desire ricocheted through her body as she gripped the slats above her and writhed her hips on the lounge chair, baking under the hot sun.

  Soon. He had to touch her soon.

  Mercifully, he looped his hands around her neck and untied her bikini, then unsnapped the hook at her spine. Her first taste of freedom came as he lowered the straps along her arms, taking off the top. His breath stilled as he took in her breasts.

  She willed him to lower his mouth to her nipples and suck, bite, and taste. Maybe she could send a telepathic message telling him to touch her; she tried valiantly by arching her back, lifting her breasts closer to him.

  He got the message. Oh hell, did he get it. He reached for her mojito. “Let’s check how this tastes,” he said as he poured some of the drink down her chest. She drew a sharp breath, even with the ice cube melting in her mouth. He buried his face between her breasts, lapping up the liquid. She wanted to moan, to cry out, to shout yes to the sun and moon and stars. This was her taste of heaven—his mouth on her skin.

  He looked up and ran his finger along the cube in her teeth. “You want this so badly, don’t you?” he asked.

  She nodded. She didn’t even know what he was offering. Whatever it was, she’d take it.

  “It doesn’t matter what I do, does it? You just want me to make you come?”

  Yes. So much yes.

  She arched her hips, seeking him out. His eyes roamed over her bikini bottom. She was soaked. Surely, he could see the evidence of her desire through the fabric.

  He stood up and ran his hands over the thick bulge in his shorts. Killing her. He was fucking killing her. “You like that, don’t you? When I touch myself?”