Ruthless Rival

It's too much fabric.

I need it gone.

I need his hands on my skin.

I don't care what happens tomorrow as long as I fuck him tonight.

He releases me. Brings his eyes to mine. "Better than I imagined."

He pulls me into another slow, deep kiss. He keeps one hand curled around my neck. Brings the other to my skirt. The slit of my dress.

He slips his hand under the silk fabric.

His fingers brush my skin.

The top of my thigh.

The inside.

Higher and higher.

"Spread your legs." His voice is heavy. Breathy.

In any other circumstance, I'd curse his bossiness, but the way he purrs is intoxicating.

I part my knees.

He slips his hand higher, higher, higher.

Until his fingers brush the silk fabric of my panties.

A groan falls from my lips.

He runs his first two fingers over the fabric, pressing the silk against my clit.

The friction is intense. So much I have to close my eyes.

Too much.

And not enough.

Not his hands.

He runs his fingers over me again and again.

Winding me tighter and tighter.

Giving me so much, but not enough.

Again and again, tighter and tighter, until I'm sure I'm going to break.

"Simon." It falls off my lips. "Touch me."

He pulls me into another slow deep kiss, then he brings his lips to my ear. "Come on my hand."

He pushes my panties aside. Runs his thumb over my clit as he brings his lips to my neck.

Soft kisses.

Soft brushes of his thumb.

Then harder.

The scrape of his teeth.

The perfect amount of pressure.

Again and again.

My hand finds his skin. The back of his neck. Soft, exposed, vulnerable.

Mine.

Only for tonight.

But mine.

I dig my nails into his skin.

With the next brush of his thumb, I come. The tension in my sex winds so tight I can't take it.

Then it unravels.

My sex pulses.

Pleasure spills through my pelvis.

Every part of me feels awake and alive and perfectly in bliss.

And every part wants the same thing.

More of him.

He rubs me through my orgasm, then he pulls his hand from my thighs, rights my dress, returns to the version of Simon Pierce I know well.

In control, intense, impossible to ruffle.

Only there's something in his eyes, something I recognize—desire.

He finishes his drink. Stands. Offers his hand.

I take it. Ignore the rest of my drink. Follow him through the bar, the lobby, up the elevator.

All the way to the presidential suite.

This is it.

One night with Simon Pierce.

I'm going to use it wisely.

Chapter Three

SIMON

I'm out of my fucking mind.

Honoring a promise to my dead brother.

He was a hopeless romantic. Big-hearted, open, in love with the concept of love.

This isn't the promise he meant—he had no concept of no strings attached sex—but the promise I made.

He saw the way I looked at Vanessa. The way she stared back, with desire and frustration in her dark eyes.

He knew I wanted her. Wanted more with her.

So I promised I'd try.

If he were here, he'd call bullshit. Tell me I need to do more, try harder, open myself to the beauty and majesty of love.

You fuck, Simon. You have time. You like women. You need more. Everyone needs more. Not that soulless, joyless, mechanical bullshit you do.

You need to make love.

Yeah, it's cheesy. I don't fucking care.

You need sex, at the very least.

An actual connection between you and someone else.

You're capable.

You want her.

You like her.

She hates you. Which makes you like her more.

I see the way you look at her. It's not just fucking. It's more. So go, ask for more. Get more. You owe me.

I do.

This is how'd he want me to repay him. Not the twisted path I'm walking. Something beautiful, happy, joyful.

But I'm not Bash.

I'm not a beautiful soul. I'm not jubilant or romantic or capable of loving with every ounce of my heart.

And I'm not nervous around women.

Not even Vanessa Moyer, the one woman I've wanted since the ninth fucking grade.

Fuck. He's in my head.

It's 'cause you actually like her, Simon. Because it's more than f-u-c-k-i-n-g and that terrifies you.

I roll my shoulders. Fix my tie. Smooth my jacket.

She's in the main room, making herself comfortable, like a scene in an old movie.

And I'm here, impossibly uncomfortable, completely out of my depth.

It's sex.

It's not my final promise to my late brother.

It's sex.

That's all.

I step out of the bathroom.

Vanessa is sitting on a leather armchair, poised, confident, commanding the entire room.

A queen, ready to control her kingdom.

She demands respect. She has to work twice as hard as I do to claim it and it shows in her posture.

She doesn't see it.

She doesn't see how much I admire her.

But I do. I always have.

"This room is ridiculous." She runs her fingers over the supple leather, equal parts amused, appalled, astounded. "How much does it run, a night?"

"It's a company room."

"Of course."

"Of course?" I motion to the minibar.

She points to the glass next to the sink. "It suits you. Suits Pierce Industries."

I fill two glasses. Bring one to her. "You don't romance clients?"