Missed Connections (16 page)

I pull my shirt over my head slowly to make him wait. When I get it off and can see again, he’s moved closer and stands only inches away from me.

“Hi.” His voice is a smoldering bed of hot coals I want to roll around in.

“Hi.” I smile. “Want to help me with my pants?”

His long, well-formed fingers curl into the belt loops of my jeans and tug me closer. “You sure you need help, beautiful girl?”

I trail my hands over the chiseled contours of his abs and up his well-defined chest. “My hands are busy.”

The pull of the button and the slide of the zipper, and then the kiss of the cool night air greets my thighs and calves. He’s bent closer to coax my jeans down, and his hair smells woodsy and fresh, like a forest after a storm. I stop him on his way up, my mouth on his again. How will I ever get enough of these lips, this tongue, now that I’ve tasted this forbidden fruit?

The bed hits my legs as he walks us backward, one more step closer to the point of no return. Maybe we passed that point the moment I asked him to take me home. He pulls my knee up and wraps my thigh around his hip, the tip of his cock nudging against me through my panties. I wrap both legs around him, hooking my ankles together behind his back, allowing full access, and he moves us up my bed and rubs his hands down my back in one long sweep that ends at my ass.

Unlocking my legs from around his waist, he pulls my boy-short panties off, and I hook my big toe into the waistband of his boxers, returning the favor by pulling them down. Arching forward, I undo my bra and throw it across the room, suddenly impatient to be naked. He straddles me and runs his hands up my ribs to cup my breasts, gently kneading them and palming my nipples until they harden further.

“God, Sarah.”

I reach up and take his thick, hard length in my hand. “I could say the same thing, Jack.”

He lets me slowly stroke him from root to tip a few times, then pushes my hand away and moves up my body. Lips land on my neck and burn a trail of shivers across my skin and down my collarbone and chest before he takes one of my nipples between his teeth and rakes the sensitive tip with his tongue. A jolt of hot pleasure leadens my limbs and bucks my hips when he sucks harder, using his fingers on my other nipple to mimic the movements of his mouth, even as his free hand slowly meanders lower.

My thigh muscles tense as his fingers get closer, then relax when he grazes my clit with a fingertip. I tap at his shoulder and he looks up at me.

“Kiss me.” The pleading in my voice annoys me, but I regret nothing when he takes my lower lip firmly between his teeth and slowly runs the tip of his tongue from one side to the other. He releases my lip and once again claims my mouth in a kiss as he plunges a finger inside me. I cry out into his mouth, and he gently sucks the tip of my tongue while lightly rubbing my G-spot with a finger too talented to be legal.

Wars would be fought over his hands if people knew what he was capable of.

His tongue plunges deep inside my mouth, but it’s not what I need as the pressure builds. A second finger joins his first, and when he angles his thumb against my clit, I’m gone, pleasure flowing over me and drowning me in its silken depth as I come silently, deeply, intensely.

When I can form words again, I whisper, “There are condoms in the nightstand.”

He opens the drawer and pulls out the box, cocking an eyebrow at me. “New box?”

“It’s been a while,” I admit.

Then he puts on a condom and repositions himself over me. He rubs the tip up and down my wetness a couple of times, not penetrating, driving me crazy. “How do you want me?” He brushes my forehead with his lips.

My heart thrills at being asked, at him caring. He’s a considerate lover. “Hard and slow.”

“Perfect.”

Then he’s pushing, slowly sliding inside inch by inch, and I can’t exhale until he’s all the way in and filling me so completely it almost hurts.

“Relax, baby.” He nibbles my earlobe. “I’m going to make you feel so good.” His lips and tongue dance over my throat, sending a drunken pleasure haze into my brain.

I run my hands down his biceps and forearms, loving the hardness of them—loving the hardness inside me more when he rubs the base of his cock against my clit. Propped on his elbows, he uses one hand to caress my face. The other meanders down my side, brushing my breast and belly and hip, gripping my thigh, pulling my knee up to spread me more, to expose more flesh.

Then he pulls out and thrusts in again, and now I wish he would never stop moving like
this
. Hard and slow. Pushing into me with all he’s got, but in no hurry. Making it feel like he could do this forever.

The things he’s doing with his hips… I underestimated how good he can make me feel, and I’ve never been happier to be so wrong. I clutch him tighter and try to absorb the pleasure he radiates into my every pore. Jack’s hard to get to know when his clothes are on. Right now, he’s expressing himself very clearly, really well.

So goddamn well.

He kisses my cheeks and forehead and jaw, and then my mouth, sweetly, lightly, while rocking his hips against mine and fucking me so thoroughly that another orgasm builds—but that’s impossible because I never come twice.

Maybe I never came twice because no one’s ever fucked me like Jack is.

“You feel so fucking good, Sarah.” He claims my mouth with his, devouring any response I would have come up with, as if I’d be able to form words with the things he’s doing to me.

I rotate my hips more severely and, despite what I said about slow, urge him to go faster, deeper.

He laces our fingers together, pins my hands above my head, and drives into me harder than I’d thought possible, unleashing sounds of pure pleasure I didn’t know I could make. I want to wrap my arms around him again and hold him close, but the way he’s physically dominating me gives me shivers. Pressure builds, pleasure swelling deep from my core. He lets my hands go to grab my knees, spreading them farther apart, and then I do clutch at him, scratching at his back and begging him not to stop.

He
doesn’t
stop, and after a moment, I shake for a good twenty seconds, coming harder than I ever have, with him twitching his own release while still buried deep inside me.

After a moment, he carefully pulls out and rolls off, pulling me into his arms, both of us breathing heavily.

I swallow. “That was—”

“Fucking amazing.”

I smile. “Mmm. For real.”

“I’ve seen you move on the dance floor, but I had no idea you could move your hips like
that
.”

“There’s lots you don’t know about me. And God, Jack, those
fingers
.”

“All this time we could have been doing this.”

I hope he’s not thinking about a relationship. I know that would never work. That’s not what tonight was about. “I have an idea of something we can do to get to know each other better.”

“What?”

“This time”—I roll over and face him—“I’ll be on top.”

Chapter 17

I slick on one last coat of waterproof mascara—to combat the humidity—and toss it back into my makeup bag. Jack didn’t give me much information about our date, but he said other people would be there, so I’ve slithered into a strapless little black dress that’s never let me down, pairing it with peacock feather earrings, cobalt heels, and a matching clutch. I give my hair another squirt of shine serum, but the humidity is winning the battle against my straightener.

Really, I shouldn’t be going to this much trouble. It’s just Jack. We were supposed to be a one-night thing, but he asked me out while I was still floating in a haze of postorgasmic pleasure, and I said yes.

Besides, it’s one date. One.

I bite my lip. If this goes well… A knock sounds from the door.

No point getting ahead of myself.

When I pull the door open, Jack’s face makes my ego flutter its eyelashes. His gaze does a slow crawl up my body, and by the time it reaches my eyes, his are hungry. “You look amazing.”

I lock the door behind us. “Thanks.” He’s in dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. That shouldn’t do things to my belly, but it does.

I check him out in the elevator mirror.

His hair is brushed back but still damp from a recent shower. I want to run my fingers through it, but I keep my hands to myself. “Where are we going tonight?”

“Some fancy cocktail thing.”

“Don’t sell it too hard.” I quirk an eyebrow.

He grins and guides me out the front door of the building with a hand at my lower back. “Sorry. It’s schmoozing with some old rich guys.”

“And you thought I’d be into that? Where’s Bambi?” I frown at the sleek black Mercedes he’s leading me to. It’s crouched at the curb like a panther.

“At home. I decided I should upgrade. Look the part a little.”

He opens my door, and I slide onto the expensive leather seat.

We drive over in silence, my mind boggling the whole way to SoHo. How the hell much money does Jack have? It doesn’t matter, but you think you know someone, and then this comes out of left field.

When we pull up to the brick Puck Building, with its huge, white columns and golden statue above the arch, I glare at him.

“This is where we’re going?”

He nods.

Suddenly I feel grubby. “You could have told me. I’d have bought a new dress, worn something different.”

Jack cups my jaw and leans in. “I fucking love what you’ve got on, and so will everyone else. They’re all going to be jealous that you’re here with me.” He growls the last word and crushes his lips to mine, causing heat to flare in my body and radiate out, melting away any feelings but sexy ones.

At least until we get inside.

Now I know how Eliza Doolittle felt.

I’m so busy feeling self-conscious about my appearance and gawking at the penthouse itself that I miss the names of the hosts, smiling and nodding my way through the introductions like a mannequin.

“I’m going to steal Jack for a moment.” The older gentleman smiles at me and I nod, though he’s already taking Jack away, leading him over to a group of men smoking cigars in the corner.

I sip from a glass of perfectly chilled champagne, unable to remember how it got in my hand, and wander over to the spectacular view of Soho from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room.

This is someone’s house. They see one of the most expensive neighborhoods lit up like this every night. It feels like an expensively decorated dream.

Gleaming hardwood, base moldings—and
two
chandeliers over the table in the dining area. You know, because one isn’t enough.

Surreptitiously, I glance around the room, eyeing the other people. There are about twenty-five other guests, milling about in clothes that probably cost more than what I make in a year. A woman in next year’s hottest Chanel dress is talking to a twentysomething whose engagement ring is blinding me from thirty feet away.

Every article of clothing is a must-have. A Brazilian supermodel is in the corner talking to an actor from one of those cop shows.

And I’m here in feather earrings and three-year-old Louboutins.

I don’t know whether to kiss Jack for bringing me here or kill him for bringing me here without a week to prepare my wardrobe and accessories.

An hour later, I’m leaning more toward the latter. He’s maybe talked to me twice since we’ve been here, for a grand total of ten minutes. People keep “stealing him away” and taking him to talk shop, and while I’m happy he’s in demand, it also really sucks to be left alone feeling like a designer impostor in a room full of the genuine things.

The only time people look directly at me is when they’re taking Jack away. No one even talks to me, despite my friendly smiles and attempts at conversation. I’d pull out my phone, but it would probably self-destruct in embarrassment at not being next year’s upgraded model that’s not available in stores yet.

I head toward the powder room to kill some time.

It’s so ostentatious. I mean, whose private residence has fancy rooms within the powder room?

People who throw major parties, I guess. There’s no way to pretend I’m not impressed and way out of my league.

I’m squinting critically at the mirror in my little stall, dabbing at the smudge beneath my eyes, when the outer door opens and I hear the water in the sink running.

“Have you
seen
him? What’s his story?”

“He’s a DJ, but apparently he bought a club recently, and let me tell you, I wouldn’t mind taking him for a spin. Pun intended.”

My ears perk as my stomach sinks. Are they talking about my Jack?

“What’s his name?”

“Jack, or John. Jacob, maybe? Who cares? Did you see his tight ass in those pants?”

“I was too busy checking out his abs—you can see them through his shirt. And my gaze strayed a little lower and stayed there. Those jeans do him
huge
favors.”

I bite my lip hard.

The first woman giggles and continues. “And he’s got to be loaded as well or he wouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t even care about that. You remember Anita? Apparently she hooked up with him last year. The jeans aren’t doing him favors. He’s hung like a horse and knows exactly how to use it. She had to upgrade her vibrator after being with him.”

I feel like I might puke up the expensive hors d’oeuvres I ate.

“I wish Gerry wasn’t here. I only said yes to his invitation for the free champagne, but he’s definitely lacking in the girth department.”

“Maybe you can get J’s number. Unless I get it first.”

“Isn’t he here with someone? Who’s she?”

“She’s nobody. Did you see her purse?”

The door swishes shut behind them, and I wait a minute so I’m not leaving right after them. I don’t even know which two women they are. Models? Trust-fund babies who belong in this world and who slum it for kicks?

This sucks. This is Jack’s world now, and I don’t belong here. To people like this, I’m a nobody and Jack’s a mover and shaker. And even among the people who don’t care about his money, sex-hungry she-wolves will be lurking, devouring him with their eyes. No matter where we go, this is going to happen. It’s not Jack’s fault he’s sexy as hell, but could I deal with this on a daily basis?