Play With Me (5 page)

“Uh-uh, honey. This is my show. My body to use how I want. Isn't it?”

She nodded around the cock in her mouth, the body he'd spoken of firing up and heating. 

“I'm going to fuck this pretty little face. And you're going to kneel there and take it. And if you do a very good job, maybe I'll let you come.”

God, she needed that, wanted it. She nodded more furiously. 

He set an unpredictable pace, never allowing her a chance to get comfortable in the depth and speed. His taste, his moves, they were both different and curiously nostalgic. He’d been forceful back then, but it had been fueled partially by the eagerness of a boy desperate to get off.  Now, the force was tempered by a man who knew exactly how much pressure to exert. A man who had an intimate knowledge of female bodies and what they could take. What they needed. What she needed.

Her hands teased the parts of his shaft she couldn’t swallow, spreading her saliva all over him until the wet rhythm accompanied his increasingly heavy breathing. She marked the instant his need became too urgent to control. His hips became more frantic, his balls tapping against her chin with each drive. She was nothing more than a receptacle for his lust, an object for him to play with.

It should have angered her. 

It should have disgusted her. 

Instead it freed her. 

Freed her to admit she loved this, more than anything. 

Wyatt had unlocked her brand of kink when she'd barely been old enough to know what it meant. It was only right he see how proficient she was in this role now. 

He grunted above her and thrust deep, coming in thick pulses on her tongue. He withdrew while still coming, letting the semen mark her chin. He grabbed his cock and milked it, aiming the final spurts at her neck and chest, the neckline of her practical dress wetting under the evidence of his lust. 

Her chest rose and fell as he stumbled back a step. He recovered his cool faster than she would have hoped, tucking his cock inside and buttoning and zipping his trousers up. “Not bad. Your technique has improved over the years.”

Bitch, please. It had been better than not bad. She had his release staining her clothes to prove that.  He was staying in character, however, and she would appreciate that the second she got hers.  She fisted her hands on her thighs, ready to rip her own clothes off if he wasn’t quick enough about it. “What about me?”

That black eyebrow rose. “What about you?”

The pout forming on her face wasn’t faked. “You said you would let me come.” 

“I said maybe I would let you come.” 

Yes, yes, yes. Her toes curled. Having an orgasm was fun. But the anticipation of waiting for it, teased with it? That was bliss.

“Then, again,” he was saying. “I suppose it would be cruel to make you—”

“You bastard,” she interrupted smoothly and slipped her hand up his thigh. “I need it so bad.” 

He barely missed a beat. “I know exactly what you need. You need to wait, until this evening. It'll make things even more explosive, don't you think? After all, now that you've taken the edge off for me, I won't be in any hurry.” 

A slow Wyatt was dangerous. Her pussy clenched.  

He gave her his hand, and she rose to her feet, conscious of his sticky release on her chin and neck. “Tell me you have a shower hidden away in a secret panel somewhere?”

He studied her, satisfaction in his gaze. “No. Though that sounds like something I should have.” One large finger swiped at the mess on her chin, bringing it to her lips. Hungry for the taste of him, ready to take any chance she could to tease him, she greedily licked him clean. He pressed his finger deeper, until he was inside her to the knuckle. The digit felt too small after the huge thickness of his cock, her mouth swollen and sensitive. 

Wyatt withdrew his touch all too soon. “My suite isn’t far. You can shower there.”

A jolt of surprise ran through her. She hadn't quite expected that he'd be raring to head to a hotel room right away. A civilized assignation would allow her time to go to the lodgings she’d booked elsewhere, get dressed properly for the night, pamper herself. “Are you done working for the day?”

“No. But if you think I'll let you step foot off these premises and give you a chance to change your mind, you're mad. You'll wait for me in my home. It’s right upstairs.”

The logistics of his directive were troubling. “You expect me to walk out there...”

“And into the hallway and into the elevator, where you will obviously be going to my bed.” 

She rolled her eyes. Men. “I need a Kleenex. A towel. Something.” 

His gaze dropped to her chest. “Ah. Yes.” He leaned away and pulled a handful of tissues from the box on her desk. Batting away her hands, he cleaned her off, buttoned up her blazer, and dropped a kiss on her nose. “There. No one will even know you took a bath in my come.” He dropped his voice. “Though that might be fun, too. For people to see what a dirty little slut you are?”

That
would
be fun. She imagined what his employees, his guests, might think if they saw her all messed up, clearly heading up to his bed. 

“You like that.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Maybe.”  

He smirked. “Duly noted.” He pulled a key card from his pocket. “Take this. You’ll need to swipe it in the elevator, and again at the door for penthouse access. Feel free to make yourself at home.”

“I need clothes, since you destroyed mine. My suitcase is in my car.”  

“Forget your suitcase. I'll send up someone from the spa and a selection from the clothing shop downstairs.”

A lifetime of paying her own way prompted her to frown. “I don’t want you buying things for me.” 

He surveyed her lazily. “But that’s part of the fantasy. I want to pamper you. I want you to prepare yourself for me from the skin out. I want to know I put every piece of clothing on you, so I won’t feel bad when I tear it off.” 

Tatiana wouldn’t be a female if those words didn’t give her a thrill of guilty pleasure. “Maybe just this once…” 

Done with conversation, Wyatt checked his watch. “You have two hours, approximately, before I'll expect your time to be my own.”

A shiver of delight ran down her spine. She couldn’t resist a final teasing parry as he guided her to the door. “You’re so presumptuous. I could have had things to do before our night.”

He smiled and leaned down to whisper in her ear as she exited. “Ah, but, pet, the only thing you'll be doing for the indefinite future is...me.” 

Chapter Four

Two hours. 

Somehow, he had to wait two hours to see Tatiana again. 

That was going to be hard, no pun intended.

Wyatt rubbed his forehead and stared at the computer screen. He had no idea what document he had open, or what it was about. No, there were numbers on it. So it was related to numbers. Probably had something to do with the business he’d spent years slaving over. His baby. Until not too long ago, the sole focus of his existence. No big.

“Jesus Christ.” He buried his face in his hands.
It’s always been
more.
Yes, some indefinable
more
that he’d never captured with any other woman, no matter how much he liked or cared for them. 

When he was young, he could remember playing at his mother’s feet with a mechanical toy she’d treasured from her own childhood. After it was wound up, a pair of skaters would dance around the perimeter of the circular surface, come together for a brief moment for the crescendo of the song, and then skate off again for the chorus.

When he and Tatiana had called it quits, part of him had hoped they’d never meet again. The pain of the breakup was that excruciating. Another part of him—a secret, hidden part—had wondered if they were like that mechanical couple. Crashing together, twirling around, maybe drifting off. But always returning. 

Even though he’d been half-waiting for her to come back into his life for what seemed like forever, seeing her again had been a punch to the gut. The gray and boring real world had disappeared, leaving only the two of them and all the things they knew they could do to each other. A buffet of Technicolor fantasy. 

Their crashing together was inevitable. She’d twitched her tail at him, and he’d started counting down the minutes to locking his lips with hers. Lips and…other things.

Forget work. Forget his schedule. Forget everything else in the world. All that mattered was her. 

Wyatt pinched the bridge of his nose. There were no words to explain how hard he’d had to restrain himself from escorting her to his rooms. If he had, he would have stayed. For that matter, he was vibrating with the urge to head upstairs this very minute, to make sure she had actually gone to his home instead of taking the elevator in the opposite direction. No. He pushed that possibility out of his mind. Of course she had stayed. He couldn’t possibly be the only one who was this worked up.

Maybe she was showering, or better yet, ensconced in the bathtub he’d chosen for its luxurious decadence and never used, because really, who had time for baths when they worked nineteen-hour days? 

He’d like to see Tatiana soaping up. Washing his come off so he could make her dirty again. 

But no. He inhaled. Tatiana would be combustible later if he made them both wait.  The woman had a perverse love of testing his limits. The more he controlled himself, and by extension her, the hotter she got. Or at least that’s the way he remembered things from their seven-year relationship. He’d almost forgotten, until she’d cued him. Clever girl. 

His eyes strayed to the clock on the bottom of the screen. One hour and thirty-eight minutes to go.

He wrapped his fingers around the Montblanc pen on his desk and squeezed hard. Only the ridiculous cost of the thing and his fear of cracking it made him ease up. Paying more than a dollar for a pen. Fucking ridiculous. 

His door opened, and he tensed. He didn’t have to look up to identify the steady, heavy footsteps of his assistant. Damn it. He had been hoping the woman would sit quietly at her desk for the rest of the day. 

He hired his people partially for their ability to keep their mouths shut. But behind closed doors, Esme didn’t bother pulling her punches or remaining silent around him. He didn’t remember much about his mother, since she had died when he was barely eight, but he liked to think if she had lived, she would treat him the way Esme did. With a sort of calm and rock-steady concern. 

It wasn’t manly to crave mothering, so he told himself Esme was also his friend and right hand, and she was. He would be crippled without her. Really, though…he liked the idea of someone giving a damn about him. So she stayed. And he allowed her some liberties when it came to meddling in return for cookies at Christmastime and invitations to her family’s events. 

That didn’t mean he wanted maternal interference right now. Not when his brain was filled with images of a slick Tatiana. Was she washing her hair right now? When they’d been younger, she’d had a straight, honey-colored waterfall to her waist. Her cut was shorter now, more mature, but the strands were still long enough for him to wrap around his fist. 

“Yes?” he asked, in as curt a manner as possible. An hour and thirty-six minutes now. 

“I need these signed, sir,” she said in her deceptively soft, grandmotherly manner. 

Soft, hah. The woman was a piranha. Disguised as a flounder. 

Brusquely, he used his ridiculously expensive pen to sign at the indicated tabs and handed the sheaf of documents back to her. 

“You didn't even read them,” she remarked. 

Curses. It had been a test. “Did I need to?” 

“No. They're all standard. It's just not like you.”

He avoided looking at her and clicked the mouse. She couldn't see his screen, or she'd know he was merely switching back and forth between browser tabs. “I'm busy, Esme. Can I help you with anything else?”

“Are you okay?” 

Click. Click.
“Sure.” 

“You don’t seem okay.”

“I’m fine.” 

“That girl…she’s beautiful.”

“She is.” 

“She rattled you.” 

Esme saw way too much sometimes. “No.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I haven’t seen you acknowledge a woman at all in a while, let alone like that.” 

What? Why, he’d had a date just last…

His mind blanked. Hell. It was a bad sign when you couldn’t remember the last time you’d wanted to ask a woman out. 

He was careful with his image. He and Tatiana had discovered their predilections early enough that they'd understood it was something they shouldn't share with everyone, and it was important for him to keep a moderately low profile anyway. In a town full of larger-than-life pleasure palaces, his was carefully designed to appeal to those who wanted to partake of Sin City without their faces showing up online the next day. 

That didn’t mean he was a monk. His staff had seen women on his arm and even in his penthouse, women he liked and respected and were as discreet as him. Maybe not lately, though. 

“Plus,” Esme continued, “there’s the fact that she went up to your place right away. That’s fairly unusual too.”

He huffed out a breath. “Is there anything that happens around here that you don’t know, Esme?”

The woman patted a gray hair back into place. “Not really.”

“We dated when we were younger.” Years of love and fights and passion boiled down to a few words. “High school, college.” She’d been in college. He’d been taking classes whenever he could fit them in around basic survival. 

“Ah.” A wrinkled hand dropped onto his shoulder, the weight comforting. “An old flame, then.”

“Yes.” 

She squeezed. “A bad breakup?”

“Yes.” At the time, they’d told themselves it was amicable, but his pain after hadn’t felt friendly at all. A decade later, he had no longer had any idea what had led to their separation, except for a series of stumbling blocks, one after another. Her parents’ constant disapproval of him. Him accusing her mom and dad of controlling her. Her jealousy of any woman he so much as spoke to. His feeling that he had nothing to offer her. They had been young and tempestuous and unable to cope.