Billionaire Alpha Romance: The Proposal (Mature Gentlemen Book 2) (271 page)

His mouth followed down her neck to the vee of her sweater, and then when he nodded, pressed her sweater up to pepper kisses over her belly. He pushed the sweater up higher and licked at the space between her breasts. Through her bra, he kissed her nipples, and she heard a soft cursing whimper that she was surprised to realize was coming from her.

It was lovely, but it wasn't what she wanted.

"Your mouth," she murmured, running her fingers over his soft, close-cut curls. "Can I have your mouth?"

He leaned up and looked down at her, that laughing sparkle back in his eyes. "And where do you want my mouth?"

She blushed furiously. "You know where."

"I'm pretty sure," he said, and his hips rocked against her, setting up a slow and steady burn deep inside of her. "But what if I'm wrong? I could hurt your feelings. Or offend you! I don't want to do that. I need to be sure I'm not making a mistake."

His fingers slid between them, brushing along the opening of her, and she gasped in shock at the flurry of sensations. She hadn't been completely uninterested in sex, and she'd still enjoyed an occasional, luxurious bath, and she had been born in a time when girls were encouraged, at least a little, to explore their bodies and figure out what felt good. She'd cut her teeth on
Our Bodies, Our Selves
, after all.

But she'd forgotten the difference between touching herself and being touched. Even with her panties and her leggings between them, the sensation of another human hand touching her was heady enough on its own. "My pussy," she gasped out, suddenly not caring how profane she was, "I want your mouth on my pussy."

He moved fast, cupping her with his mouth without wasting time taking off her clothes. The heat of his breath burned through her and she cried out, her hands gasping for anything, something to anchor her to the present, to keep her from shattering into tiny shards and vanishing into some magical other world.

"Like that?" He asked. His tone was conversational, but his breath was far too tight for her to even pretend to believe him.

"More," she said. She suspected it was the only world she knew.

He tugged at the waistband of her leggings, and she lifted her hips. The wood of the table was cold on her ass, and it had been a very long time since she'd felt cold air on her body unless she was in a doctor's office. Before that thought could take hold, though, how undelicate she was right now, splayed across the table like a side of meat, he came down to her again, his breath leading the way.

When he latched onto her clitoris, the world all but ended. She drew in a breath so great and sudden that she thought she would rear off the table, fly up into the air, and bring him with her. He was murmuring against her skin, his fingers tracing delicate little patterns over her hips, and it was the most amazing thing she'd felt in ages and ages. It was more than just the feeling of sexual pleasure. It was the feeling of another body this close, another person paying such careful attention to her.

He lapped at her gently, swirling the hot flat of his tongue over her, focusing on the small bud of nerves for a moment, then touching her more broadly, then circling in again. She'd never had a man touch her this way without feeling like he was just waiting for her to spasm so that he could get his own release; this felt entirely different. Entirely amazing.

"More," she whispered, and she would have sworn he caught fire in that moment. He let out a tortured groan. She felt his fingers shift from holding her lower lips open to pressing delicately at her center. She flinched for a moment, sure that pain would follow – that was why she'd been grateful when this stopped being a concern before, honestly – but his motion was so slow, and frankly, she was so wet from his attention, that it was fine. It was better than fine. He twisted one finger delicately into her, and she had to grab for the edges of the table again. He moved slowly, his rhythm matching that of his tongue, and she felt the heat that she'd almost forgotten beginning to gather in the cradle of her hips. She began to move, her body a little less than under her control, and he kept pace with her, devouring her, adding a second finger to her body when she was ready for him. She heard the noises sliding out of her mouth, soft and eager and needy and almost kittenish. She couldn't form the word "more" but she said it with her body, her breath, her almost desperate need.

When the orgasm came, it came slowly, almost hesitantly, rolling over her body in careless waves that stole her breath and flushed her skin and made her heave and writhe against Jackson. Her mouth was open, her throat tight, and whatever sounds she made were eclipsed by his groans of encouragement against her heated body.

As it passed, she sagged back onto the table. He left her gently, kissing back up her body until he could press a soft kiss against her mouth. It was odd, the spicy-sweet taste of her body on his skin. She liked it, but it was odd.

Faith reached back down between them to cup the iron bar that she could feel pressed against his thigh, but he moved carefully out of her reach. "This is going to sound funny," he said, his voice careful, "but if we're going to go further than this, I'd much rather take you out to dinner first."

She lifted an eyebrow and casually cast her glaze around at the disaster they'd made of her dining room. "This doesn't count?"

He laughed with her as he leaned back and lifted her up to sitting. "Yes and no, I suppose," he said, and then he was quiet for a long moment. "You and Roger – was there ever anyone else for you?"

She tried not to let her lips tighten. "Not intimately, no."

Jackson nodded. "I find you intriguing, Faith, I have since I first saw you. But I'd be a bastard of a man if I slid right into the spot he left. You deserve a chance to explore. To see what you might like, what you might want. It might not be me, after all."

It was strange, a man protesting that he might not be the right choice for you when his chin was still damp with fluid from devouring your pussy while you writhed. "So what do we do, then?" She asked, keeping her voice as quiet and neutral as she could. He wasn't rejecting her; she was sure that would sound very different. If anything, he was accepting her, exactly as she was. Which was both a kind and somehow a sad thing.

"You go about your days. You get that sad sack of a husband out of your life, and you do whatever you choose to do about him. And maybe I take you out on a date. Maybe we get some dinner. Maybe we come back here, and we – come up with all sorts of ways to enjoy each other. But at the same time, you don't tie yourself down to me. Maybe you should explore those dating sites Roger was so fond of. Maybe you go out to a bar and meet someone new. Maybe you – god, I don't know how women do it, Faith, but I know you deserve a chance to figure that out."

"So selfless," she said, pushing her voice to sound like a purr, and watching his reaction as she slid her hand down past his waist. He didn't shift away this time, but he didn't lean into her. Just touching him left her feeling – not light-headed, not like she was going to faint, but a little bit delirious. She'd never been this woman before, this brave and courageous and wanting woman.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice far more level than she thought she would have managed in his position. "I want to give you a week. A week to see whatever you want to. After a week, call me. If this is something you still want?" He took her hand away from his cock and brought it up to his mouth, planting soft kisses on each of her fingers, and then on the center of her palm. "Then I'll give you everything I have."

He kissed her once more, delicately, and then he showed himself out.

She sat where he'd left her, bare ass on the dining room table, pussy still wet from his attentions, and thought about what to do next. She glanced at Roger's laptop, still open next to her, and for the first time since she'd opened it, her heart didn't clench at the image of the secret life he'd chosen to live without her. It had been his choice, after all. Now it was time for her to make hers.

She pulled her leggings back on, then went to find her phone. It was far too embarrassing to make this phone call, but conveniently, her primary doctor was far more tech savvy than Faith herself, and had told Faith plenty of times that if she had any questions or concerns that were easier to address through email, to just send a message. For a minute, she thought her cheeks would burst into flame, but then she remembered how it had felt to have Jackson's mouth on her, and how much she wanted more.

I'm ready to talk about the cream,
she typed out. Meredith had brought it up at every appointment for five years; she'd know exactly what Faith was talking about.

Chapter Three

Faith sat in the corner of the booth at the bar across the street from her office and tried to remember the last time she'd been out at a place like this. Everything was very gently dingy, though not dirty – just worn. The brass rail at the bar needed to be polished, there were patches on the booth cushions, and the glass tabletops had been turned upside down to avoid making chips or scratches worse.

But when she'd asked the bartender for a whiskey sour, he'd given her a small smile and poured it without glancing pointedly at the wines. She wasn't even sure they had wines. Besides, it wasn't like she was going back to any of their usual spots. It was becoming painfully clear that she would be keeping the money, and Roger would be keeping their friends, when the divorce was eventually settled. Of course, given how many of them had known that he was cheating and hadn't bothered to say anything to her, that was probably for the best.

She had to sigh. If he'd told her what was wrong, that he wanted more sex, or any sex at all, she would have made the appointment with her doctor much earlier. If he'd told her that he was a typical sexist man who only wanted a pair of tits if they still stood up on their own – well, she probably would have given him her blessing, if he'd only told her. But the sneaking around, cuckolding her in front of all of their "friends" - that was what she couldn't forgive him for. That, and assuming that she was a bloodless ice sculpture, just because her needs had changed.

She'd spoken to Jackson every night since their escapade in the dining room. Sometimes they just talked, about movies or TV or books or dinner. Sometimes she listened to him touch himself; sometimes she let him direct her hands. She'd never masturbated as a girl; despite her own mother's insistence that bodies were healthy and exploring them only led to more satisfaction, something about it had always seemed vaguely dirty.

Tonight was the last day in Jackson's self-imposed week of exile. He'd given her instructions for tonight, and just listening to them had left her feeling squirmy and interested on the phone.
Go to the bar. Find someone to bring you home. Don't even ask their name. Just tell them that I sent you. That I want them to make you feel good for me.

If it was dirty, it was the very best kind of dirty. The kind that felt sweet and sexy and amazing.

The only problem was that the bar she'd chosen was not, apparently, the kind of place where a woman in her 50s could go to get picked up. Is that what people did now? She'd spent most of her week on the internet, exploring photography and stories and videos and learning all the things she wished she'd explored so long ago. The whiskey sour that the bartender had made was amazing, however, so she didn't really want to leave.

Whiskey was one of the many things she was discovering she'd given up for no reason.

When she finished the first, she went up to the bar to request another. Everything was quiet, and the bartender smiled at her again. "You look like you're waiting for someone," he said as he rimmed the glass.

"I suppose I am," she said, and then figured – why not just tell him. Maybe he'd have a suggestion on who was a safe bet to fulfil her mission. Jackson had told her that she'd be rewarded if she completed it; the threat had been implicit. "But I'm not waiting for a specific person so much as I'm waiting for a type."

He lifted an eyebrow as he poured the whiskey into her glass. "Are you looking for suggestions on who might meet your type?" His tone was neutral, and it made her look at him a little bit more closely. He wasn't particularly tall. She'd put him somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties; he had lost the softness around his cheekbones and jaw that so many men carried into their twenties, but hadn't yet started accumulating smile lines. His skin was a very light brown, and his blond hair was pulled back from his face into a French braid. His eyes were a warm shade of emerald green that she liked quite a lot.

"Promise not to laugh," she said, and realized she was flirting.

"No," he said, and she liked his smile as much as she liked his eyes.

"I am here on an assignment," she said, leaning over the bar a little to make it seem more conspiratorial. "From a guy I'm kind of seeing."

"The plot thickens," he said, leaning forward to match her. She'd chosen a bright blue sweater with a subtle vee neck, and she suspected that, from the angle he'd chosen, he could catch a glance of her breasts in their bright red pushup bra. Well, let him look. Maybe her tits didn't stand up on their own anymore, but they were still firm enough, and their tips were tight and small. Her skin had begun to thin, and her veins were a bit more visible than they had been when she was young, but she was still proud of her body. Proud of her brain bag, as some people had started to call it.

"I'm supposed to find someone who will bring me home and make me feel good. I'm supposed to tell them that it's just for tonight, just to see how it feels. I'm not even supposed to find out his last name. But – in case you hadn't guessed – it's been a while since I was out and about like this, and I'd love any suggestions on who might be, I don't know, amenable to such a suggestion."

He made a show of glancing around the bar, eyeing one patron after another, shaking his head delicately after one person or another caught his eye. "Nope," he said, after a little bit. "Nope, there's no one here who would do."

"No one at all?" Faith asked. She let her lower lip drop out just a little bit. She was pretty sure that a full pout would look ridiculous on her, but she'd always been able to do incredible sad-eyes. "Oh no. I don't know what I'll do."

"It is a dilemma," he said, and the gaze he turned back to her was half laughter and half heat. He'd caught onto her game, and he was playing along. Oh, that was delicious, the most delicious thing ever. "I'm guessing that this is all playing into some sort of punishment or reward scenario?"

"The thread was implicit, but yes, I believe so."

He full on grinned. "Well, then, I guess the question is whether or not you want the punishment."

Her skin shivered, each and every hair standing up at attention. She felt the first swirl of warmth low in her body, and she shifted on her feet, pressing her thighs together to release just a little bit of pressure. "I want his reward," she said, carefully not entirely answering the question.

"And what do you want from me?" He asked, pushing her drink across the bar. She left it on the boards for now.

"Depends on what you want to give me," Faith said. "I'm open to possibilities."

"Name's Leo," he said, reaching out his hand. She took it, and shook it firmly. "I live in the apartment upstairs. If you want, I'll show you up. I'm off in half an hour."

"I'll wait," she said, "if that's okay." It didn't feel like the spirit of the deal to be alone in his apartment, waiting. "I'm Faith."

His smile turned a comment that should have been smarmy and awful into something that touched on worship, but stayed away from creepy. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, you are."

She took her second whiskey sour and went back to the booth to wait for him.