Never Understand Part One ( Johnthen Trent Adult Romance 1) (8 page)

Up close he smells wonderful, and I feel myself nestled up to his torso, a slab of hard muscle, and his biceps are like big steel balls under the silk suit. I am obliged to hold on with a hand round his shoulder, holding his neck. His black hair plays over his collar and on my bare forearm, soft and thick. An erotic sensitivity reverberates in the pit of my stomach and my sex. I resist the urge to run my fingers through his hair. It’s a sensual maelstrom of champagne, his scent and his sheer animal power.

I want to fight, I want to wriggle – but it would be undignified, and pointless. I also want to lay back and let him take me.

‘Put me down. Now.’ It’s all I can manage, and it’s feeble. Unsurprisingly, he’s not listening. He calmly carries me to the top and walks languidly over to a leather-covered bench on the empty mezzanine floor, before gently placing me down in his own time.

‘How dare you, you arrogant…’ That was weak, and we both know it. I scoot myself up so my back is against the cool of the white concrete wall, and my legs in front of me on the leather bench.

‘Come on, lighten up. I’m just trying to make an effort. Doing sweet things like other guys,’ he says, mockingly, then puts one, beautiful, lightly tanned hand down on the leather bench. It’s next to my knee, which is covered only in the sheerest, silky, hold-up stocking. There’s even something sexy about the smell of the leather bench. He leans over until his deep golden eyes are inches from mine. I feel like I’m hypnotized, like a small creature staring into the eyes. ‘And besides,’ he says in his quiet, deep voice, so sexy and intimate close up. ‘I’m going to do something I should have done a while ago,’ he says. I know what you want right now. More than anything. And you’re going to get it.’

I try my best to make my eyes blaze defiantly back, but there’s a clenching inside my sex and my heart is starting to thump thump thump.

Chapter 9: Battery Park, New York City, Tuesday 9 May

I feel cornered, my back to the cool concrete wall of the mezzanine gallery of the Saul Hankow. There’s no one around up here. I shouldn’t be doing this, but he makes me feel oddly warm and cared for. I feel safe, in fact, as well as incredibly turned on. I can get up and go whenever I want; I ought to go, but of course I don’t want to go. I want to see what he’s going to do.

Johnthen sits down on the bench dangerously close to me, but I scoot back out of the way once more, keeping my knees demurely together. Without saying anything, he takes the champagne from me and places the glass on the floor. Then takes the calf of my left leg firmly in his hands. I try to pull it back, but he won’t let me. His hands feel cool on my legs through sheer fabric of my stay-ups. His fingers are long and masculine. Long, strong, very male – but somehow artistic. Which just about sums the guy up.

Those fingers calmly slip off my killer heels, left foot and then right foot. His hands are so cooling on my burning feet, and his fingers feel wonderful straightaway. I make a small gasp.

‘Good?’ he asks, arching an eyebrow over his deep golden gaze. He knows the answer.

‘Yes, good. Ooh… So this is what you think I need?’ I breathe.

‘No. I said it’s what you want,’ he says, beginning a firm massage of my feet that has me open-mouthed with bliss. ‘What you
need
is for me to put you over my knee right here and now, for the way you behaved. But I’m too much of a gentleman for that.’

My mouth gapes – is it in shock at what this rude, arrogant SOB has just said? Or am I gasping at the orgasmic pleasure on my feet? And why the hell does the idea of being spanked by him over this leather bench make my heart go thum-patta-thump like this?

‘The way
I
behaved? You arrogant son of a bitch! Who are you to…’

‘You flagrantly pinched my ass in front of all those people,’ he says. ‘Then you had the nerve to blame
me
for embarrassing Andrea.’ He states it simply, and there is no answer. Which wouldn’t stop me coming back at him, but what his hands are doing to my feet is just taking over my senses here, robbing me of speech.

I can’t even be angry. It’s erased my mind and I find my whole attention is on my feet, and I realize I’ve put both my hands above my head, in an unconscious “take-me” pose. Absolutely brazen body language. I shift my arms and pull down the hem of my skirt toward my knees in a pathetic effort at modesty. I am sure he can still see the stocking tops.

I really ought to stop him, right now.

What the hell?
What is he doing to my feet? I try to pull them away but he holds them firmly, one in each hand, doing the same massage on each foot with his thumbs. Ahh, feels, so, gooood. What is he, a masseur? I’ve heard reflexology can stimulate other parts of the body from the feet. Is that what this is? The point he’s firmly kneading is going straight to the bottom of my spine. And also… honestly,
my pussy
. He has got me wet in my panties: those thin, sheer, silky things I put on. And he’s stroking, fondling and firmly pressing, getting a new reaction each time, but using less pressure each time. I feel my sex softening and opening.

‘No, don’t,’ I say, hopefully. ‘You mustn’t.’

‘Yes,’ he replies assertively, ‘Oh, yes.’ He’s circling his thumbs on the double G spots of my feet. I feel my panties drenched in the gusset, and I try to stop my thighs from parting. I’m going to have a whole body orgasm if I don’t stop him.

I look down. He’s intent, those dark gold eyes studying the soles of my feet, circling, pressing and caressing. God, does he ever know what he’s doing! It’s like he’s drugged me, mesmerized me through my feet. His face is serious, almost severe, but he’s fascinated by the effect he is having on my feet. He must be some lover, a real devoted artist in the sack. I have a hint of what he meant by “creative” back there. If I was in any doubt about whether he’d be good in bed, it’s just evaporated. With all that intensity and power, and the fine skills of an artist he’s playing me like one of his musical instruments. I can’t help noticing a healthy erection has sprung up in his trousers, too. Really healthy, by the look of it. Disgracefully, I ache to touch his hardness through the fabric, but I’m too far away. I bite my lip and moan.

The perfectionist artist in him shows every sign of bringing me to a full body orgasm here on the mezzanine level of the Saul Hankow Gallery. By touching only my feet.

But fuck it, I know what he’s doing, and there’s nothing artistic about it. It’s a seduction, a play for sex, a play he thinks I won’t be able to resist. Oh my God, he’s right! I won’t resist. Can’t he just sweep me up again, carry me to his car, then to his place, my place, a hotel – anywhere? My panties are wet through, and he’s so close, and my breathing is all over the place. He must be able to see the tops of my legs, and the stockings, even my panties. This is sooo bad. But what do I care? I could be stark naked on this bench for all the difference it makes. He is a bad man. Such a bad, bad man.

Just take me out of here, give me the one-night stand with this sexual predator and get it done. God knows he’s worked hard enough for it.

Just then there’s a voice. Back in reality-land. ‘Jana, Jana? Are you up here with that guy, you bad girl?’ Phoebe. On the stairs. And another heavier pair of feet stepping up there behind her. Joshua!

Chapter 10: Battery Park, New York City Tuesday 9 May

Johnthen has heard the voices before me. He takes my feet, puts them together, and swings my legs out from the bench and down onto the concrete floor. He places my feet neatly by my shoes at the side of the leather bench, as if he were tidying away a pair of shoes. Then he hands me the champagne.

I look as demure as is possible by the time Phoebe and Joshua make their way over to us. As demure as any girl can look when she shows all the sign of an urgently impending orgasm. Flushed throat, eyes, breathing – and heaven knows what my hair looks like.

Johnthen answers for me, not for the first time tonight. ‘Jana’s resting her feet. She’s been boring me about Chomsky and what he’s gone through – but I ask you, what did he suffer, compared to Aung San Suu Kyi? Or Mandela?’

Josh looks blank.

‘And what did Aung San Suu Kyi suffer, compared to these shoes?’ I quip. That’s the second time tonight I’ve found the right line with Joshua Lake looming over me. Maybe he’s not such a bad influence after all.

I’m fast coming out of the orgasmic haze (you would, wouldn’t you?) and it’s just dawning on me how cool it is for Joshua Lake to catch me up here, in possible
flagrante
, with a hot guy like JT. Josh is looking at JT with a kind of teenage, fuck-you insolence - which Johnthen returns with an almost pitying expression, like the king of the pride to a junior lion, putting him in his place. Alpha male Josh Lake has just been comprehensively out-alpha’d, with no more than a look from Johnthen. JT for all his sophistication is from a very tough background and I’d guess he takes no shit whatsoever from Joshua Lake and his kind.

Phoebe, for her part, is looking Johnthen up and down with big eyes. She looks like she’s about to take off her pants and throw them at him in homage. It is a joyful situation for me, and let’s face it my life has been very sparse when it comes to joyful situations for some time. Johnthen’s not going to stay around, but it’s worth putting up with the arrogant beast for the look on Phoebe’s face.

Enjoy it while it lasts; which isn’t long. The spell has been broken for Johnthen Trent and me. After a taster of the steamy, passionate lover deploying his wicked arts upon my body, I see that the natural cool of Deep and Dangerous is back.

I am putting my shoes back on, and JT leans down to me and speaks with a resonant, sexy whisper in my ear. ‘To be continued. Sorry we were so rudely interrupted.’

‘I think it might have been you who was being rude, Mr Gamble,’ I whisper back. ‘That was another low trick.’

‘Sure,’ he says, as if he’s already got me. Maybe he has, but I’m not the pushover he thinks. ‘I’ll contact you, Jana,’ says JT, his expensive, spicy scent enveloping me. I can’t help but look into those deep gold-green eyes, burning directly into the still pulsating core of my sexual being. ‘And next time, it’ll be more than a foot rub, Jana Kidd. Give my regards to Andrea, and thank her for me. I’m sure you’ll have a good evening.’

He’s going to walk out, just like that?

‘Like hell you’ll “contact me” John!’ I hiss, accusingly. ‘You don’t even have my number!’

‘Ha!’ he laughs again, placing his fingers lightly on my shoulder. ‘I practically became your stalker to find you tonight. What makes you think I don’t have your number? I’ll be in touch. Count on it.’

Do I believe that? I hate being gamed, and he’s gaming me. I hate even more that he stalked me. He’s pretty cool for a stalker, however, walking slowly away, hands in pockets, and off down the stairs. What the hell is it with this guy? He’s got me practically climaxing in a public art gallery, and next thing he’s off down the stairs and away. Am I his plaything, his amusement for the evening?

After Josh, I told myself I deserved more than sex. Maybe just the beginnings of emotional engagement, the faint signs of a scintilla of commitment that may, possibly, if things went well, be on the future horizon. A little joy and laughter brought into my life - as well as just sex. Was that too much to ask?

Instead, I find a guy who, although undeniably hot, makes Josh Lake look like he was getting down on his knees and pledging eternal devotion. It’s not like I’ve never had no-strings sex. I have had some pretty good one-night stands. I’ve had relationships that were about sex and nothing else (Josh for a start). But this guy doesn’t even want to go that far. He’s getting cold feet at the prospect of driving me to his place and jumping my bones – and how could he possibly say that that wasn’t on offer?

Besides, he was totally seducing me back there, and succeeding spectacularly. It was a mean, mean thing to do to walk off like that. Especially in front of Josh and Phoebe. To make matters worse, I peer over the mezzanine balcony to check that he’s actually leaving, and not preying on some other female below. He is indeed leaving the party, but with his “assistant”, the immaculate blondness herself, Carmen Blacker.

OOOOO

Whatever. There are some moments in life where a girl’s gotta give the right impression, and this is one. I stand up, marshaling the residual sexual magnetism I feel from Golden Eyes into an irresistible aura of my own. I need to get my shit together, drink whatever free champagne is still on offer and put in some solid rehearsal time for the role of Jana Kidd, irresistible party queen. Right now I’ve got it, and I am gonna
shake it
!

I have to bar JT Gamble from my spinning mind and put my game face on. I need the ladies room for running repairs. I am trying to hypnotize myself by murmuring that JT is just another jerk guy, maybe
the
Jerk Guy, the Jerk of all Jerks, the uber-Jerk, when Josh calls out, ‘Who is that guy? What a jerk!’ Which automatically makes me think the opposite. If Josh thinks he’s a jerk, he can’t be all bad.

Anyhow: visit the ladies room, deal with my make up, and re-join the party below. And hopefully persuade Phoebe to ditch Josh for the evening and join the real party in the bars of Tribeca. I’ve had enough of what the Saul Hankow Gallery has to offer for one evening.

It’s barely nine-thirty and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste my night off from work by going home. To be followed closely by Phoebe and Josh, in the mood for more noisy party games. No. That’s not my idea of a party. I’ll stay here and see who I can recruit to escort me away from this place. And if either Josh Lake or Johnthen Trent Gamble are anywhere within twenty blocks of here, I will NOT be seen leaving alone.

Chapter 11: Battery Park, New York City, Tuesday 9 May

Here’s the deal. I am determined not to leave the Saul Hankow Gallery on my own. But I am no longer in the mood for men, so I tell myself I don’t have to leave with a guy either. I really have no more appetite for the game of hot guy hunt, despite the fact that, miraculously, half the guys in here are checking me out all of a sudden. JT’s foot rub has given me that glint in the eye, that sparkle that attracts both sexes. Or was it just being seen with him that has put me on a whole new status level? I’d have to tell you, girls, that being seen with a rich, superhot guy and having a limitless supply of champagne at your disposal… well, it gives you a certain buzz. Even if I am never going to see that arrogant jerk again, I may as well enjoy the afterglow.