Ruthless Rival

She melts into me, purring, groaning, clawing at my skin.

Wracked with bliss.

And desperate for more.

There aren't enough mirrors here. I can't see every inch of her.

Only the nails—painted the same champagne shade as her dress—digging into my slacks.

Her head falling back into the crook of my neck.

Her wine lips parting as she moans.

I tease her until the car stops.

The driver knocks.

She stirs. Still dazed but aware of her surroundings.

"We can stay."

"Fuck here?"

"Fuck here."

Her lips press together. "The driver will know."

"So he'll know."

"What do you say? Drive around the block until we're done?"

"Do you really want a cover story?" I bring my lips to her ear. "Or do you want him to know?"

"I do." She presses her hands to her chest, holding her dress against her skin. "But I don't want to be another rich asshole."

"The partition blocks sound."

She nods.

"There are other reasons to stay in the car."

"The comfortable bench seats?"

"The air-conditioning."

"Right." She laughs. "Air-conditioning."

"The privacy."

"It is for privacy."

"For conversation." I press my lips to her neck. "Have you never stopped somewhere and had a conversation in a car?"

"I have."

"A limo?"

She nods.

"With a donor?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes, with Regina. Or Lee. Or my assistant."

"It could be that."

She turns, so she's facing me. "Is that what you want?"

"I want to make you come."

"That's all?"

"All?" I raise a brow. "Should I stop?"

"No." She grabs my wrist.

I can't help but smile.

"Is there anything more specific?"

"I want to make you come here. And in front of the mirror in my bedroom. And in that leather armchair."

"While you're sipping whiskey?"

"While I'm licking whiskey off your thighs." I press my lips to the hollow of her neck. "You're an exhibitionist."

"I am."

"You want this."

"I do."

"He won't mind."

"How do you know?"

I don't, I admit. But I know men. And I saw the way the driver looked at Vanessa. "He wants to imagine you naked here."

"He does not."

"He does."

"How do you figure?"

"He looked at you."

"That's not—"

"It is. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met." I press my lips to her collarbone. "Most men would kill to be here, with you."

I bring my hands to the back of her dress. Look up at her, waiting for her permission.

I want to fuck Vanessa here.

I want to fuck her everywhere.

At every time.

No. It's more.

I want to give her this.

Because she wants it.

Because it turns her on.

Because I want to be the one person who sees that side of her.

The one person who fulfills all her fantasies.

"I'm a patient man." I trace a line up her spine. "I can wait a long time."

She looks down at me. Bites her lip. Thinking. Deciding.

I trace the line back down.

Lower.

Lower.

Lower.

Her eyes close. Her lips part. "Yes." She curls her hand around my neck. "Tell him."

"Turn around."

She does.

I zip her dress and help her onto the bench seat—her skirt is too tight around her hips for her to maneuver easily—then I knock on the partition. "We're going to have another drink. Take us around the block until we're finished."

"Please," she adds.

The driver nods whatever. Looks at her like he's picturing her naked. "Would you like music?"

I name the opera we watched.

The driver nods figures, rich people want to listen to foreign shit. "Spell it."

Vanessa does.

A moment later, the car fills with the dramatic Italian vocals.

The driver rolls the partition.

The car pulls onto the street.

"He did," she says. "You're right."

"I know."

"Are you jealous?"

"No. It turns you on." I run my fingers over her shoulder.

She turns, so I can unzip her dress.

I pull it down her spine. "Being on display."

"For you."

"Only for me?"

"I only trust you."

Fuck. She only trusts me. It hits me everywhere. Sinks into my fucking bones.

I always want my partners to trust me. But this is different. Something deeper.

Truer.

She wants me to see her.

All of her.

Physically, yes.

And all the other ways too.

I want it.

I want it as badly as I want to fuck her.

And I really, really want to fuck her.

I peel her dress off her chest. Slip off the seat to peel it over her hips, down her legs, past her ankles.

She sits on the bench seat, naked except for her heels.

I kneel in front of her. Lift her right leg and place it on my shoulder.

Then the left.

"Simon." Her fingers curl around my neck. "Fuck."

I'm not in the right position to tease her, but I do what I can.

The soft brush of my lips on her inner thigh.

The sharp scrape of my teeth.

Not rough.

Not enough to hurt.

Only enough to drive her out of her fucking mind.

Her nails dig into my skin.

I tease my way up her left leg.

Then down the right.

Up.

Down.

Until she's scratching hard enough to draw blood.

Until I can't stand it anymore.

Then I bring my lips to her clit.

No more teasing.

Exactly what she needs.

I work her with long, slow strokes.

Then harder.

Faster.

The spot where she wants me.

Again and again.

I push her to the edge.

Then over it.

Her hand knots in my hair.