The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

I went weightless, yet also as heavy as the grand piano that sat in the corner. I didn’t say no, because I didn’t want to—and I wasn’t capable. That was the only thing that scared me about him. He could make me do almost anything.

But the question burst from my lips. “Why?”

He tilted his head, curious. “Because I want to see everything.” When I didn’t move, he added, “I haven’t seen a naked woman in years, Sophia, and I have no doubt you will be an exceptionally beautiful one.”

Electricity crackled across my arms, and goosebumps rose from my skin. There was something satisfying in knowing I’d be his first, not only after prison, but after her. The first woman he’d chosen to pay attention to in the post-Marist era of his life.

The room wasn’t warm or constricting anymore as I reached behind my back, caught the zipper pull of my dress, and eased it down. The back of the dress peeled apart, it slipped from my shoulders, and the whole garment tumbled from my body, leaving me dressed only in a black bra.

He’d been doing that thing he often did, where his hand was in a loose fist and his thumb ran back and forth over the knuckles, but when my dress was a puddle at my feet, his thumb stopped moving. I held his gaze as I arched my back, reached behind myself, and undid the hooks of my bra.

Macalister’s eyes hooded, the lids suddenly too heavy to stay all the way up.

I didn’t have a body like statuesque Alice did, and I wasn’t as slender as Marist. No amount of diet and exercise could overcome my genes, and I was never going to have thigh-gap or a perfectly flat stomach. But I was healthy and fairly happy with how I looked, even in a bikini. The advantage to my curves meant I had breasts. Big, full ones that made other girls envious.

The summer before my senior year at Columbia, Carrie Jensen had asked if I would send her a topless picture to use as an example for her plastic surgeon. Since pictures were forever and I didn’t trust a soul in Cape Hill, I went with her to the consult instead.

Her new tits were nice, but they weren’t as good as mine.

Macalister’s gaze moved like a glacier over me, taking in every inch of my bare skin, lingering on my nipples that had pebbled from either the cold or his attention.

“Turn.”

I shivered with enjoyment at how his voice had lost its power. Staring at me was undoing him. He’d said it as an order, but it came out as a request, and I obliged him. I turned in place, treating him to a full three-sixty view of my body, and when I came back around, the unadulterated lust in his eyes made my heart skip.

Fuck, he looked at me like I was everything he’d ever wanted and couldn’t have.

“Oh, Sophia,” he said, “the things I’d do to that fucking perfect body of yours if I were a younger man.”

It was so rare that he swore, the curse word carried more weight. The impact of it disrupted my mind, and the truth spilled free. “I don’t want you to be a younger man.”

His eyes turned stormy. “Don’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?” It was true, and I suspected he knew it.

He glared at me with his strict eyes and his sexy mouth pressed into a scowl, and it was scorching. Sweat threatened on the back of my neck.

“Because,” he seethed irritation, “just look at the state you’ve put me in.”

To emphasize his point, he smoothed a palm down the front of his pants, attempting to tame the erection bulging from behind his zipper.

My shoulders lifted as I inhaled deeply, and I flicked my gaze to his. “I can take care of that.”

Desire swirled like dust motes in the air, and it was intoxicating. Macalister stared at me with a mixture of emotions, but they blurred together, and I couldn’t pick a single one out. His gaze was inescapable, though. It was quicksand, and I stayed absolutely still, knowing it’d suck me in faster if I tried to fight it.

His unspoken words suspended between us. We can’t.

The battle waged inside his head over the sensible thing versus what he wanted to do. His banker’s mind considered the pros and the cons, and when he arrived at the decision, he tossed it aside and gave me a stern look.

I can take care of that, I’d said.

His hand went to his belt, and he began to undo it. “Yes,” his tone was absolute, “you will.”

TEN

SOPHIA

WAS THIS ANOTHER FANTASY I’d visualized enough times that it had now become real? My heart lodged in my throat as Macalister sat on his tufted couch and used both hands to slide the end of his belt free, then worked to undo the button and zipper beneath. Like everything else he did, he moved efficiently, and it took him no time to complete his task.