The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

His brain hit a wall while going sixty miles an hour. “What the hell does that mean?”

I sighed. “I don’t have orgasms.”

Horror washed down his handsome face, and his arms tightened like steel bars around me. “Ever?”

My heartbeat was frantic, fluttering in my chest. “Not with other people.”

Macalister was at a total loss, unable to process. His gaze drifted down to my lips, and it went unfocused as he considered my statement. Abruptly, his eyes sharpened, and his attention snapped back to mine. “But you can orgasm? You have before?”

“Yeah.” It was weird to be shy about this, given what we’d just done, but it felt like I was admitting I was abnormal, and I didn’t want to see judgment from him.

The last thing I expected was to see him smile. It widened until it spread all the way to his eyes and consumed his face. It was the first genuine grin I’d ever seen from him, and it was breathtaking.

“You’ll allow me to be the first, then,” he said.

To prevent discussion, he bent and swept my legs out from beneath me, scooping me up into his arms.

Was he aware this was also a first? No man had ever picked me up and carried me before, and it was hardwired into my brain to respond to the swoon-worthy gesture. I blinked up at him with my mouth hanging open in surprise, but he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze surveyed the space, searching for something, and when it was located, he strode deeper into the room.

Our destination was the tan, single-armed chaise lounge in front of the fireplace, and he deposited me there before righting himself and moving to the mantel. I sat up and banded an arm across my chest to hold in my warmth while watching him turn the key to activate the gas. The fire in the fireplace burst to life, its orange-blue flames dancing over the realistic ceramic logs.

Had he done it to light the dark room, or to keep me warm?

With that task completed, Macalister turned and faced me, and I had the strangest sensation he was visualizing his next move the same way I did before each shot in skeet. It made my already racing pulse skip faster and my breathing go shallow.

“You seem certain,” he said, “that I won’t be able to bring you to orgasm. Why don’t we strike a deal?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the side of the fireplace, and although his shirt was still unbuttoned and his posture attempted to be casual, I was smart enough not to fall for it. For one thing, Macalister Hale wasn’t casual. Another was that I was naked, and he was dressed, plus there was his positioning, since he was standing while I was perched on the lounge. He had the upper hand in every way, all the power.

I hesitated. “What kind of deal?”

The fire was already putting out warmth, and it cast flickering light over his face. It made him look sinister and provocative. “An orgasm for the name.”

Had he forgotten how our last bet had worked out for him? I smiled, thinking about how bad the hit would be to his massive ego when he lost to me a second time. I was competitive, always playing to win. “There’d have to be rules, though.”

He nodded. “Of course, such as a time limit to complete my task. Should we say an hour?”

I jolted and my eyes widened. “You think it’ll take you an hour?”

Annoyance glanced through him. “No, I think it’ll take me less than fifteen minutes.”

I stared at him hard. “Then make it fifteen minutes.”

Amusement tugged at his smile. “No, you misunderstand. Just because I can do it in fifteen minutes doesn’t mean I will. I’d prefer to take my time with you.”

Well, fuck if that didn’t turn me on, just a little—but he didn’t need to know that. “It’s late,” I said. “Aren’t you tired?”

He paused, hesitant to reveal it but then accepted it. “I suffer from insomnia, so, yes. But I am always tired. I would rather give you pleasure for the next hour than spend it on the treadmill, working myself to the point of exhaustion.”

It was impossible not to picture him running, beads of sweat darting erratically down his amazing chest. I swallowed thickly. “What do I get if I win?”

Some of Macalister’s looks were easy to read, and this was one of them. There was no doubt in his mind I’d lose, and he was only humoring me with his answer. “Then I won’t ask again.”

He was entirely too smug, and his confidence reminded me not to underestimate him. He’d done that with me, and I’d made him look bad. It was smart to be cautious.

I’d gotten close to orgasm once with a partner. I’d been tipsy and high, and my boyfriend at the time had gone down on me long enough to make me wonder if he was going to get me there. Macalister had been married twice, so it stood to reason he wasn’t clueless about sex. His personality was persistent and methodical. Given a full hour, he might be able to do it with his tongue.