She tugs me into position, rocking against me, groaning my name as she comes.
I give her a moment to catch her breath, press my lips to high thigh, run my nails over her skin.
Then I pin her to the bench seat, and I dive between her legs.
No tease. No warmup.
Hard, fast strokes.
Exactly where she needs them.
This time, she comes fast.
She groans my name like it's a curse, tugging at my hair as she pulses against my lips.
"Fuck." She grabs at my suit jacket. "You're good at that."
My veins buzz with pride.
She offers her hand. Helps me up. Onto the bench seat.
"There isn't much." I motion to the sliver of the mirror across from us. "But there's something."
She nods, takes in the reflection—a sliver of her bare skin against my charcoal suit—and undoes my belt buckle. The button. The zipper.
Fuck.
She palms me over my boxers.
I should be fair. Let her tease me. Let her take her time.
But I'm not a fair man.
I'm a greedy motherfucker.
"Come here." I wrap my hand around her hip.
She pushes my boxers out of the way. "No."
"No?"
She wraps her hands around my cock. Presses her lips to my neck.
She runs her thumb over my tip. "I thought about this all night." She drops to her knees between my legs. Brings her lips to my cock.
She teases me with a soft brush of her hips.
A soft flick of her tongue.
But she's impatient.
Thank fuck.
She wraps her lips around me.
My hands go to her skin reflexively. One around her neck. The other to her breast.
I toy with her nipple as she explores me with her tongue.
Soft flicks.
Slow ones.
Left.
Right.
Slow circles.
Soft suction.
Fuck.
My nails dig into her skin.
It's too much, too rough, but she doesn't pull away. She wraps her hand around my wrist. Brings it to her chest.
And she takes me deeper.
Again.
And again.
She groans against my skin.
I toy with her as she takes me.
I look down at her. Take in the sight that served a million fantasies.
Vanessa Moyer naked, on her knees, in front of me.
Groaning against my cock.
Fuck.
I draw circles around her nipples.
I let my eyes fall closed.
I let my world turn to Vanessa.
The soft, sweet feeling of her around me.
All light and bliss and warmth.
With the next flick of her tongue, I come.
The world goes white.
Pleasure floods my senses.
I toy with her as I come.
She stays glued to me. Waits until I've spilled every drop, then pulls back, swallows hard, looks up at me with pride in her eyes.
She's naked, on her knees in a limo, and she's exactly where she wants to be.
What the fuck did I do to deserve this?
She holds out her hand.
I help her up. Help her into her dress.
She looks to the mirror. Pulls her lipstick from her purse. Applies another coat. "Ready?"
I nod and knock on the divider. "We're ready to go home."
The driver mumbles an agreement.
After another turn, we stop. Park in front of my place.
I open the door for her. Help her out. Wrap my arm around her waist.
She looks up at the building with wonder. "This is your place?"
"You've never seen it?"
"When would I?"
I'm not exactly the consummate host.
"Is it what I expect?"
"Worse."
She smiles could you really be worse than I expect and follows me inside.
Only it's not like before.
Not a judgment.
Or an insult.
It's an inside joke.
A sign of love.
Or something like it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
VANESSA
Holy shit.
This place is huge.
It shouldn't surprise me—of course, Simon Pierce lives in a massive brownstone—but it does.
Two stories.
Four bedrooms.
Winding balcony.
Airy foyer.
And the view of the park, the Empire State Building, the perfect deep blue sky—
It's gorgeous.
Old money meets new money. Old architecture. Modern decor.
All Simon. Well, Simon and Opal.
Her influence is everywhere.
Pink pillows on the black leather couch. A stereo system next to the TV. A bookshelf overflowing with an eclectic mix. Everything from Young Adult to extremely dirty erotic romance.
I recognize a few names. Authors known for BDSM, dark stories, edgy content.
A lot of survivors read romance. Some read syrupy sweet stories of unnaturally wholesome people with unnaturally good intentions. Others read tales of kidnapping and dubious consent.
I appreciate the potential coping mechanism. Even the really fucked-up books, the ones that romanticize abuse.
I understand why people read three hundred pages of a man intentionally inflicting harm on a woman then magically realizing the error of his ways and transforming into a loving partner.
I understand why the fantasy appeals to victims.
Some people need a glimmer of hope to survive.
But it's not true. It's not what happens with abuse. Patience and willingness to take verbal and physical beatings make things worse.
It's okay for people to indulge problematic fantasies.
But is that what happens?
Do people truly draw a line between real and pretend?
Or does the line fade? Does the pretend seep through?
Do young women like Opal grow up thinking it's okay for a man to stalk you? Ignore your boundaries? Keep touching you after you've said no?