Unbreak My Hart (The Notorious Harts 4)

Another litany of curses spreads through me. ‘You don’t pull any punches, huh?’

‘I prefer to be completely honest about my expectations.’

‘So I’m what? Like a gigolo?’

‘Well, I won’t pay you.’ She grins. It’s a sexy smile, intelligent and knowing, but I want to displace it. I drive a finger deeper inside her and she jerks, her eyes showing surprise and pleasure in equal measure.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ I lean closer and she drops her head towards my shoulder. Her face is shielded; my frame is big enough to block her—mostly—from anyone else’s view. I can’t remember the last time I engaged in any kind of public sex act. Maybe as a teenager? In the UK I’m recognisable enough to warrant a degree of circumspection, but here in the States I’m just another guy.

I glide my thumb over her clit, her moans and sharp breaths driving me over the edge so a little cum spills from me. I haven’t been this turned on in pretty much for ever.

So apparently I’ve dispensed with the morality of this, then.

She’s my closest friends’ sister.

And I’m about to fuck her until kingdom come.

And there’s not a damned thing I can do to stop it.

Her hand lifts to my shirtfront and clutches it and her breathing gets faster. I thrust a finger inside her and she makes a low noise; her muscles squeeze around me, moist, warm, and her body trembles. Her orgasm is impossible to mistake.

Her responsiveness is one hell of a turn on.

She stays where she is, her head pressed to my shoulder, her body almost melded to mine, but against my shirt, in a voice that is hoarse and a little trembling, she says, ‘If you don’t agree to come back to my place I’m going to whip my dress off and beg you to fuck me right here.’

I have a chance to stop this. To take a moment and think—to work out if it’s as stupid as I suspect I’m going to think it is in the morning.

‘That’s probably not the best idea,’ I say in a voice that reminds me terrifyingly of my father’s.

‘You don’t think?’ She pulls back and winks, the gesture slow and hauntingly erotic. The last filament of control I have snaps.

‘Then let’s go.’

* * *

My place is two blocks away—it’s not far—but each step beside this man is agony. I’m desperate to rip that suit from him, to see him naked, to taste every inch of him, to hold his erection in my hands, to pump him until he can barely breathe, until his knees are weak and he’s afraid he’s going to stumble to the floor. I want to take him deep in my mouth until I can taste him right at the back of my throat. I want to feel the weight of his body on mine, and I want to straddle him, taking him at my own pace, tormenting him with his need for me. I want to tie his hands to my bedhead and keep him like that for my pleasure.

The image practically sets me alight.

‘Walk faster.’

He slants a grin in my direction. The problem is, walking faster makes it worse. Every step makes me more and more conscious of the heat between my legs, the moistness there, the pleasure he’s already given me—a promise of what’s to come.

‘Want me to throw you over my shoulder and run the rest of the way?’

Jesus. That idea shouldn’t appeal to me as much as it does but I can’t shake the fantasy of how hot that would be. Like I said, I love a man who knows what he wants, a man who takes charge, because it’s the polar opposite to how I ordinarily run my life. In the boardroom I’d never dream of letting anyone, let alone a man, try to take control.

‘It’s not far.’ The words are breathless. ‘Come on.’

We speed up by unspoken agreement until we reach my townhouse. Halfway down Twentieth Street, it’s a testament to modern engineering, nestled amongst two of San Francisco’s original terraced houses.

‘Here...’ I reach into my bag, fumbling my keys a little in my haste. I catch him eyeing off my home and feel a familiar burst of pride—I’ve worked hard to get where I am and this house is evidence of that. Of course it’s only a fraction of my net worth. Most of what I earn goes to my charity, but this house—in a neighbourhood I fantasised about belonging to when I was a kid riding my bike out of Bayview—this is one indulgence I’ve allowed myself.

‘Nice,’ he says with a small nod. I don’t bother replying.

There’s no need.

This is an exchange, and not of information. I grab his hand and pull him after me, up the steps that lead to the huge glass door. I swipe my key fob and the two security pins click to unlock it. A moment later I shoulder through, holding the door open for him and sealing it shut as soon as he’s inside. I reach for the light switch behind him and a second later I’m pushing up onto the tips of my toes, my lips seeking his, my body hungry to feel him all over again.