Jack led her through a dining room and down a hall to his bedroom. It was not the sleek gray and white decorator chamber she imagined, but what she could only call a grown-ass man’s sexy bedroom. The bed, a heavy carved four poster, was massive and domin
ated the room, the tailored window shades the same soft gold as the bedding. A stone fireplace stood dormant opposite the bed, and a desk held not papers but crystal decanters of amber liquid and tumblers. He led her to the desk, seated her in the leather chair and poured her a drink. Her short dress had ridden up on the walk to the bedroom, so her sex was bare against the cool leather. It gave her a sensuous jolt to rub against it. She sipped the bourbon he’d given her and welcomed its peppery burn in her throat.
He stooped to start a fire in the hearth and switching on the gas and making high, orange flames ripple and crack almost instantly. That’s how it is with me, she thought with a touch of embarrassment, how quickly he can make me catch fire. She wriggled in the chair between desire and shame. Jack’s eyes fell to her lap, to the state of her dress and he shook his head. He laid a warm hand on her belly she squirmed at even that suggestive touch. His fingers dipped lower until they were between her legs where she was becoming slick already. He touched her, parted her folds, stroking her sensitive nub. She bit down on her lip to suppress a cry. Jack’s hand on her neck drew her forward and he kissed her mouth, his fingers never slowing in their steady exploration. He released her from the kiss.
“Don’t bite your lip. I want to hear you,” he whispered roughly and knelt before her, nudging her thighs apart with his hands. He grinned at her, and she thought she might faint when he put his mouth to her, licking and lapping, hooking her legs over his shoulders and holding her hips still as she twisted and writhed. She was crying out, a choking moan starting deep in her throat. He stopped when she was right on the edge, ready to spiral over. Drawing back from her, he shook his head. His face was almost intolerably handsome in the shifting firelight, his half smile mischievous.
“On the bed,” he insisted, taking her hand and kissing it. Jack moved her to the big bed and stripped off his clothing again. “I want you between my sheets, Britt. I want to lay claim to you in my own bed. I want you to know you’re mine.”
Without a word, she grabbed his face and pulled him down to kiss her. She bit his lip, tugged at his hair hard, her legs snaking around him possessively. She didn’t take kindly to the interruption, and she was bound and determined to get back the orgasm he’d stopped. The first thing she did to recapture it was to take his hand and set it between her legs. He curled one finger inside of her, working her nub with his thumb, a practiced flick and stroke that set her back on the edge in no time. He pushed another finger inside of her, stretching her, filling her with that pressure as he stroked her until he was bucking her hips, reaching for it, aching for him to finish her. Jack’s mouth closed on her nipple through the silk, nipping it and grazing it with his teeth. She screamed once, keening as she shattered under his hands, her inner muscles pulsing around his fingers as he felt her come hard and long. He kissed her. She was still shaking from the pulses of pleasure that took her, and he was kissing her, his tongue in her breathless mouth, full and questing.
Jack pulled her up to the pillows on the bed and pushed the covers down, sliding her between his soft gold sheets that were cool and slick against her sensitive body. She reached for him, her arms out, and he pulled her to him, gathered her against his naked body, magnificent and muscled, and cradled her against him as if to give comfort. She didn’t want comfort, though. She wanted more. Sitting up, she peeled her dress off and sat before him naked again. His hands went to her small breasts and stroked them. Almost instantly the nipples hardened, his strokes making them peak and elongate almost painfully. Straddling him, she dipped a nipple to his mouth, rubbing it along his lips until he opened them and sucked it in, his velvet tongue lavishing it while his hand covered her other breast, pinching that nipple until bolts of pleasure shot down between her legs unbidden.
“Say you’ll stay the night,” he pressed, his voice hot against her flesh. She nodded, clutching at his hair, bucking against him.
“Say you’ll call in sick,” she challenged. He nodded, never taking his mouth from her nipple. “Say you’ll never stop.”
“I’ll never stop,” he said, fastening his mouth onto hers for a fevered kiss. “I’ll never stop,” he repeated, rolling her beneath him and making love to her.
Hours later, he found his phone, texted that he wouldn’t be in the office that morning. He kissed Britt’s temple.
“I told them you were sick, too,” he grinned.
“Why didn’t you just announce that we were spending the day in bed?”
“I thought I’d save the description for the company newsletter,” he said. “Are you hungry or do you need sleep?”
“I need sleep,” she murmured, burrowing back into his arms.
Jack pulled the sheet over her shoulder and settled his chin on her hair with a sigh.
Chapter 19
When Britt woke up in a vast, opulent bed alone, she put a hand to her head, wondering at first where she was. The one drink hadn’t left her with a hangover, but another night with Jack Fitzsimmons had.
“What the hell did I do?” she murmured to herself, stretching and noting that she was a little sore.
Britt stumbled into the bathroom and scalded herself in the shower, scrubbing with a loofah and sampling upscale Bulgari toiletries, emerging smelling of white tea and sandalwood according to the bottle. She felt cleaner, less ashamed. Combing her hair, she stepped into his massive closet and selected a shirt to put on, a faded t-shirt from in the back corner of the closet that was hung in perfect sections of suits, shirts, jeans, coats organized by season and by color. The t-shirt touted a bar in New Zealand, one that he must have visited. It was soft and worn and hung almost to her knees. She cribbed some socks from a built-in drawer in the closet and, finding nothing that would pass for usable underwear—and relieved that he didn’t have any women’s underwear from past girlfriends—she put on a pair of boxers that rode low on her hips but at least covered everything. She combed her wet hair, wishing she could look more glamorous, more put together and less walk-of-shame when she saw him. If he was even there.
She had a vague recollection of calling in sick. Britt made her way to the kitchen, led by a deep desire for the coffee she smelled. She found coffee and a cup and started guzzling it, strong and black and bitter. With a satisfied smile, she set out to look for Jack. After searching through the living room, three more bedrooms and as many baths, she located him in an office. He was at a standing desk, tapping away at a laptop and mumbling to himself. He looked up when she came in, removed his ear buds and kissed her cheek absently.
“Morning,” he said.
“The coffee’s great,” she said for lack of anything better to offer.
“Good,” he said, eyes darting back to the design on his laptop screen.
“You’re working so I’ll just go. Mind if I borrow these clothes?”
“No, you’re fine. Just give me a minute to finish up here and I’ll be right with you,” he said briskly, popping his ear buds back in and returning to work.
Britt slunk out of the office feeling entirely out of place. She wandered in and found the TV remote but couldn’t find the TV, so she gave up and got out her phone. Nine texts from Marj waited, all making rude exclamations and guesses about what she and the boss’s son were doing with their day off. Rolling her eyes, Britt decided not to answer. She knew they’d be the talk of the office. She had kind of asked for that when she agreed to spend the night with Jack and play hooky with him the next day. Although playing hooky had sounded a lot more fun, a lot naughtier than drinking coffee in his kitchen alone. She rummaged through the cupboards and found a lot of quinoa and kale but not a lot of food she considered edible. No cereal. No crackers. She drank kefir with a grimace. It was less like milk and more like old yogurt than she’d supposed it would be. Pacing with increasing remorse, she went and got her dress and shoes. She decided it was more ridiculous to go barefoot in the city than it was to wear stilettos with borrowed boxer shorts and she put them on with determination.
She was scrib
bling out a note, polite but firm, that she was leaving and thanking him for a nice time when he emerged from the office.
“What’s up?” he asked.