Looking Inside

“The elevator leads straight into your house?”

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for her coat. She relinquished it dazedly.

She was reminded that he was the sole inhabitant of the eighteenth and nineteenth floors. They stood in a high-ceiled, elegant hallway. Through an arch she could see his living room. Trey hung up the coats and took her hand. He led her through the arched entry. She gazed all around at the wide-open space, entranced. She’d never seen any of his penthouse, except through the windows of his bedroom.

The living room was enormous and modernly decorated with streamlined yet comfortable-looking furniture featuring leather and beige, brown and ivory upholstery. The ceilings were at least twelve feet tall. The east wall was completely made of iron beams and glass and faced Lake Shore Drive and the lake. The other walls served as the background for a fantastic art collection. Enraptured, she tugged gently on her hand. He released it and she walked to the center of the masculine, sophisticated room while he remained in place. Slowly, she spun around, absorbing all the amazing details, aware of Trey watching her the whole time.

“It’s fabulous. All of it. Is that a Lichtenstein?” she asked breathlessly, pointing at an original painting.

“Yes.”

“And a Stella? And a Paschke . . .” she murmured in awe.

“You know your art.”

“I have degrees in art history and textile preservation,” she said dazedly as she walked the length of the room. The painting over the soaring ivory marble fireplace caught her eye and she wandered over to it in wonderment. “And I love this Hearn of the blues musicians. Is it an original?”

“Yes. Jeanine gave it to me when TalentNet showcased her work several years ago.”

She glanced back to where he stood at the far side of the room. He just watched her soberly, his expression giving nothing away. Eleanor had met Jeanine Hearn, the painter, at an exhibit the museum did featuring young and upcoming Illinois artists. Hearn was extremely pretty and disgustingly talented. Not only was she a renowned artist, she was also a violin virtuoso, thus her favorite topic for her paintings: musicians at work. She was precisely the kind of woman Eleanor could easily picture with Trey.

She also had a pretty good idea that Hearn had given Trey the painting for reasons beyond jumpstarting her career.

It was intimidating, to think of the brilliant, beautiful women he’d known . . . the ones he’d slept with. How would he think she measured up: boring, bookish Eleanor Briggs?

“Come here, Eleanor.”

She turned slowly, fully facing him. He looked beautiful and somber standing there, his face shadowed and grim with determination. Looking into his eyes at that moment, she knew it didn’t matter if he potentially gave her a low grade for her lovemaking. At least in the moment, it didn’t matter. With him, she played the part so well. She became someone other than Eleanor, someone more interesting and exciting. Liberated. The only thing she could think of in those seconds was finally touching him. She dreaded the idea of disappointing him, but she feared the idea of missing her chance to be with him even more.

She started toward him, her lungs tight. He moved in her direction, their paces increasing as they drew nearer.

They crashed together. His arms closed around her, bringing her flush against him. His mouth seized hers in unapologetic possession.

Finally, she knew his strength. Finally, she was drowning in it.

He inundated her, his scent, his taste, his bold, ravenous kiss, the sensation of his spread hands moving up and down along her waist and her sides, his fingers delving into the flesh of her hip and into her back. He intoxicated her. She grew dizzy on him. He plunged his tongue deep, exploring her thoroughly, drinking his fill and sucking on her subtly. She felt that pull all the way to her sex.

His opened hands moved hungrily along the side of her body, cupping her flesh, detailing her shape unerringly. She felt small in his big hands. Feminine. Beautiful. His palms skimmed the sides of her breasts, and she moaned shakily into his kiss. Suddenly he sealed their mouths and muttered a rough curse.

“No bra. I’ve been wondering all night,” he said, plucking at her lips with focused hunger. She smiled when she saw his small, wry grin, but he didn’t stop kissing her or pause in his explorations. He cradled her breasts and massaged her gently. She felt his cock jerk against her lower belly. His eyes glittered down at her. “God, you’re firm. So nice,” he breathed out, his rough, awed voice causing her nipples to shrink tighter and the little hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.

His hands shifted, and suddenly he was finding the tab of the zipper at her neck. He drew it down to the top of her buttocks in one swift, sure motion. His expression grim, he pushed the romper off her shoulders, peeling it off her arms and down to her hips. He let it drop and the fabric slithered down her ass and thighs and past her knees. He backed up several inches, his stare scorching her.

She was naked now, save for the thigh-highs and boots and the bunched romper at her ankles. She’d never been so aware of every patch of her skin in her life as she was at that moment. Her lungs hitched, making her breasts rise in the air. One of his spread hands glided along the indentation of her waist and hip, and the other cradled a breast, shaping the flesh to his palm. She grew mesmerized by his enthrallment.

“Jesus, Eleanor. You’re so beautiful,” he said, sounding stunned. Gratified? Then his expression darkened. “You showed up at those reading events, wearing nothing but your gorgeous skin and some skimpy, clinging fabric. You’ve really got nerve, you know that?”

Her breath froze in her lungs when she saw the glitter in his eyes. He wasn’t particularly happy with her about that fact. Horny because of it, yes, but not happy. She didn’t have the opportunity to try to plead her case, because suddenly, he dropped to his knees in front of her.

She cried out shakily in surprise. He pressed his face to her belly and pulled her tighter against him with his hands at her back. His hot mouth moved, scorching her, sending shivers of pleasure along her skin and down her spine. She trembled, overwhelmed by his erotic adoration. His lips skimmed the sensitive strip of skin just above her sex. He nuzzled the top of her mound, making her cry out helplessly. She delved her fingers into his thick hair. He planted his lips at the crevice of her shaved labia and inhaled, catching her scent.

“Trey,” she muttered, awed at his boldness. Increasingly desperate.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, his warm breath feathering her outer sex. He rose slightly, running his lips along her hipbone, back and forth, back and forth, as though he were memorizing the sensation of her against his mouth. Eleanor knew he probably could feel her quaking. “I’ve never felt skin this smooth. This soft. God you smell good.”

He rose in front of her, and she glimpsed his face. His somber expression barely cloaked a primal edge that sent a thrill through her.

Jesus. What kind of storm did I brew up?