The Ruthless Gentleman

She glanced back at me over her shoulder and lifted her arse provocatively.

I grunted and shoved into her, crass and raw, and she moaned as though I’d just made all her dreams come true. She collapsed on her front, extending her arms over her head, bracing her hands against the headboard. Good. She knew this was going to be hard and rough and brutal—knew, and wanted it anyway.

I pulled out and thrust back in, the effort and pleasure drawing a guttural roar from the center of me.

I leaned over her, my arms to either side, and dipped to press my lips against her neck.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.” She huffed out a breath as I pulled out. “More.”

Arms flexed, I thrust into her, my body heating and the edges of my hair dampening. It was so good, but I wanted it to be more for her. I wanted it to be the best. I wanted to be the best for her.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she mumbled, all her words running into each other, and she scrambled for breath, her fingers curling, her body tensing.

“See how good it is?” I grunted close to her ear. “See how my cock loves to fuck you?”

She whimpered and relief flooded me at the knowledge it was as good for her as it was for me. “See how I make you feel?”

She screamed and her body tensed as she came around my cock, but I couldn’t stop, couldn’t even slow down.

I was chasing something—my orgasm, her, life. I didn’t know but I thrust and thrust and then I was there, and in that moment I had everything I ever wanted.

Twenty-Three

Avery

It was as if I were walking in a field of cotton wool and sunlight as I floated along the street. My body should have been heavy from lack of sleep, but it was soft and light, as if gravity had given up on me as I made my way back to the tender. I wanted to feel like that forever. I resisted the urge to spin full circle in the street like an extra in the Sound of Music, but it took effort.

The sun was up but the light was dusky, as if the day’s eyes weren’t fully open yet. The streets were quiet, shutters still closed. I didn’t know how long I’d been walking so I glanced at my watch. It was twenty minutes before the tender left for the yacht. I’d be fine. I was only a few minutes away.

I passed a man unloading boxes of vegetables from the back of his Vespa and waved. “Buongiorno,” he called.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” I replied, even though I knew he probably wouldn’t understand me. But it was a beautiful morning and I wanted to shout it out loud. A joyous morning after an incredible night.

Running into Hayden at the theater had seemed like a coincidence, but today it felt bigger than that. As though it had been inevitable. I glanced down, embarrassed at the images flashing through my head. The things he’d done with my body? No man had ever made me feel the way Hayden had. He’d unlocked a whole different part of me last night, discovered someone I didn’t know existed. Hayden looked at me as though he knew exactly what I was thinking at every moment—the need, the desire, the vulnerability—as though we’d connected body and mind.

I turned left, and the road sloped steeply under me as it led down to the harbor. I didn’t feel tired. We must have fallen asleep at some point because when I’d woken, I’d been tucked into Hayden’s body, my back to his front, and I’d had to lift his heavy arm from around my waist to escape. I grinned. I couldn’t wait to see him later.

The shore came into view and I spotted the tender immediately. Eric was bent over looking at something, but he was the only one there. He wouldn’t have been expecting me to stay on the mainland last night. I was the one known for enforcing the rules, not breaking them. Of course, no one could find out what had happened between Hayden and me. We hadn’t discussed it, but things had to remain as they’d always been. Nothing had changed. Yesterday was yesterday. Last night was last night. Today Hayden would return to being my client.

Unease settled in my stomach. That wasn’t what I wanted. The thought of going the rest of my life without feeling how I did last night, without spending more time with the man who could elicit the sounds, feelings and memories that Hayden had, tasted like vinegar on my tongue.

Lost in thought, my mood slightly soured, I turned right as I reached the seafront. It was deserted other than a man on a bench facing the sea and reading a newspaper. He closed it as I approached and smiled. He didn’t take his eyes off me as I continued toward him, which wouldn’t have bothered me because Italians tended to be . . . obvious in what they found interesting. But this man wasn’t Italian. His hair was ginger and his newspaper was British.