The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) (24 page)

At last she appeared at the foot of the stairs, and flashed me a wide smile as she came over to open the door to let me in. She wore a simple black dress—her work clothing, no doubt—paired with a ludicrous pair of shearling boots. She followed the direction of my gaze and said, a little defensive, “They’re really warm.”

“I’m sure they are,” I said, leaning in to give her a kiss. “How was your day?”

“Long,” she said, “but it’s getting better now.” She smiled at me. “Are you hungry? Dinner’s almost ready.”

“What’s the saying? I could eat a horse,” I said.

She laughed and led me up the stairs to her apartment. I was glad that I had been running so much lately; it spared me the indignity of breathing heavily as we approached the sixth floor.

The hallway outside of Regan’s apartment was filled with a delicious smell of food cooking, and it intensified when she opened the door.

“That doesn’t smell like cabbage,” I said, shucking off my coat and hanging it on a hook screwed into the back of the door.

“It’s not cabbage,” she said. She went over the to oven and opened the door to check on whatever was baking inside. “I made macaroni and cheese.”

“From the blue box, I hope,” I said.

She shot me an indignant look. “Not that kind! From scratch, with a bechamel. The good stuff. And roasted asparagus, because I know you like to eat your vegetables.”

“You know me too well,” I said ruefully.

She looked pleased, and I turned away so that she couldn’t see my expression, which I feared was one of sappy adoration.

While Regan took the food from the oven and fussed around with plates and silverware, I took the opportunity to poke around her apartment. This was only the second time I had been inside Regan’s apartment, and the first visit was so brief that it left me with few impressions other than a sense of general smallness.

It
was
a small space, one open room, but bright and well-kept, tidy except for the books stacked up on the coffee table. Her small bed was shoved against the wall beneath one window, sheer curtains draping over the pillow, and I thought of her sleeping there and waking up with the sun in her eyes, easing her into the day. I knew that Regan took pride in her apartment, and I saw evidence everywhere: the houseplants overflowing their pots, the shoes lined up neatly beside the door, the large print of a Klimt painting framed and hung above the television. Regan
lived
here. She wasn’t just existing.

“I like your apartment,” I said, joining her beside the table, which was so small that she had left the food on top of the stove for lack of room. I found a space for the wine bottle and set it down.

“It’s really small,” she said, and then furrowed her brow and said, “But I like it. My therapist told me I should stop apologizing so much. My apartment is small, but that’s okay, and I like living here.”

“Your therapist sounds very wise,” I said, and gave her a kiss. “Should we eat? I didn’t realize I was so hungry, but the food really does smell incredible.”

“Don’t heap on the praise too thick before you taste it,” she said, but her eyes lit up as she smiled at me.

Dinner tasted
exactly
as good as it smelled. I ate until I couldn’t force down another bite, and then we moved to the sofa with our wine glasses.

“Should we watch a movie?” Regan asked shyly, bending to pull off her boots.

I considered it. I planned to end my night with Regan naked and begging, but there was no harm in taking it slow and building her desire to a fever pitch. I had plenty of time to tease her until she pleaded with me for release. I asked, “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, um.” She got off the sofa and crouched beside her television, rummaging through a box of DVDs. “I have this one movie, about a boy and a girl who grow up together, and then he goes off to fight in a war and dies, but she still writes him a letter every single day. And there’s another one about a man and a woman who just got married, and they find out she has cancer, but before she dies she finds a new wife for him. It’s really sad.”

I stared at her, horrified. Was that really the type of movie she enjoyed? I could probably force myself to sit through one, maybe by falling asleep. But then I noticed her mouth twitching, and said, “My God, you’re pulling my leg.”

“You looked so afraid!” she said, giggling so hard that she tipped to one side and had to put out one hand to keep herself from falling over. She recovered and sat upright again. “I don’t actually have any movies like that, but I could run down to the bodega if you really want one.”

“Let’s not, and say we did,” I suggested. “Or we could skip the movie altogether and just cut straight to making out on the couch, since that’s what’s going to end up happening anyway.”

She looked down, cheeks darkening. “Maybe we could—do more than just make out,” she said.

She really
had
changed, if she was propositioning me, however obliquely. It was a change I welcomed. “Come here,” I said, hearing my voice drop into the commanding register I so often found myself adopting during sex.

And Regan responded to it just as beautifully as she always did. She rose to her feet and took the few steps to the sofa, and I reached out and seized her by the hips and drew her down on top of me.

She made a soft noise and settled against me, straddling my hips, her hair falling around both of our faces like a curtain. I squeezed her hips, mapping her curves with my hands. She was perfect, and
mine
. I said, “Little girl, you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and although I had fully expected her to assent, hearing her say it sent a jolt of arousal through my body.

“I haven’t fucked in a twin bed since college,” I said. “It’ll be like reliving my youth.” I pulled her closer, seating her hips fully against mine and grinding upward. My cock, already noticeably interested in the proceedings, swelled to full hardness at the pressure and closeness. Her dress rode up around her hips, and I could feel the heat of her through her tights and whatever lacy underpants she had underneath. It was maddening, and I suddenly couldn’t bear being separated from her by anything as inconsequential as clothing.

“I want you,” I said, “and I’m going to have you.” I drew her face toward mine and kissed her deeply, tasting her soft mouth, combing my fingers through her hair and relishing the way she shivered against me. I had never known a woman as responsive as Regan, and I was self-aware enough to admit that it fed my ego: that I could make her quiver and moan, that she kept coming back to me for more.

She was incredible. She was my favorite vice, one I never wanted to relinquish.

I wrapped my arms firmly around her waist and stood up, lifting her with me, and carried her across the room to the bed. I knelt on the mattress and lowered her down onto her back, her head resting on the pillow. She clung to me, trying to pull me down with her, and it was a tempting thought—to lie on top of her and let her wrap her legs around my waist, kiss her neck and yank down her tights and take her like that—but I had other plans. I drew back and stood up, gazing down at her, her flushed face and rumpled dress.

I wanted her—I always wanted her—and I wanted her helpless and docile, submitting to me. I knew she wanted it too. The evening’s many possibilities unfolded before me, overwhelming in their variety. Regan would do whatever I wanted her to, and it was both a gift and a responsibility. She trusted me to make this an enjoyable experience for her, and I was determined that it would be.

It would be enjoyable for both of us. There was nothing I enjoyed more than having her writhing and begging, insensate, driven to the very edge of rational thought and language.

Her bed frame had posts at each corner. The germ of an idea sprouted in my mind. I looked around the room for something I could use, and spotted a collection of scarves draped over the coat rack. Precisely what I needed. I took the few steps to the coat rack and took two scarves in my hands.

Regan had turned her head and was watching me, eyebrows drawn together, inquisitive. Not questioning, though, and not moving from where I had set her.

I went to her and crouched beside the bed, bending to kiss her and stroke her hair out of her eyes. “I want you to raise your arms above your head,” I told her. She did, obedient, and I tied her left wrist to the bedpost with one of the scarves. She made a noise and lifted her head, but I frowned at her and she subsided. I reached across the bed and tied her other wrist to the opposite bedpost, and then she was trapped there, both hands tied in place above her head.

God. I reached down and adjusted myself in my trousers. Just the sight of her like that was doing me in.

I realized the flaw in my otherwise clever plan: I wouldn’t be able to get her dress off unless I untied her again.

A surmountable problem. She didn’t need to be fully nude.

She did, however, need to lose the tights. I slid her dress up enough to expose her lower body, and tucked my thumbs beneath the waistband of her tights. Whoever invented these things deserved a stern word or two: they were impossible to get off. With some effort, I was able to work them down Regan’s hips, and draw them down her legs and off. I muttered a curse and tossed them on the floor.

Then it was just her smooth, bare skin, and the silky black fabric between her thighs. Regan had a penchant for lacy, sexy underwear that I very much appreciated. I stroked my thumb along the crease of Regan’s thigh, tracing the line of her panties up toward her hip. She twitched at my touch, and I smiled. “I like these,” I said.

She turned to look at me, and then glanced away again, eyelids lowering, shy. “I thought you probably would.”

“You wore them for me, then?” I asked, oddly pleased by the thought of Regan rifling through her lingerie drawer that morning, choosing her underwear with my preferences in mind.

I clambered onto the bed and knelt between Regan’s thighs, spreading her legs further apart to make room. I trailed my fingers up the insides of her thighs, skimming lightly over her sensitive skin. She closed her eyes and readjusted on the bed, lifting her pelvis, a silent invitation. I took it. I bent and kissed her lower belly, just above the waistband of her panties, and slid my fingers up and up, drawing closer to her hot center, until I stopped just short of the lacy edge of her underwear.

I waited.

She opened her eyes and blinked at me, eyelids heavy. “Carter?” she asked.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Are you, um.” She shifted her hips again, pressing up toward me, asking me to touch her.

“Am I what?” I asked, amused, delighting in teasing her.

“Will you—touch me?” she asked, biting her lip, looking away, so sweetly embarrassed that I felt my heart clenching in my chest.

And she had asked, so how could I deny her? I moved my right hand and stroked my thumb over her panties, damp between her legs, and she shuddered beneath me, thighs falling open, revealing herself to me.

Oh, she was perfect. I could have teased her like that for hours, touching her through her underpants, but I wanted to see her, stroke her wet flesh directly, feel her tighten around my fingers. It had been so long, months and months since I had her like this, willing and wanton beneath me. Too long.

I bent to kiss her again, feeling her belly jump beneath my lips, and drew her panties down her legs.

She pulled her knees together and tucked her legs up toward her chin, hiding herself, and then took a breath and relaxed, letting her legs sprawl on the mattress again.

“Shy?” I asked. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen you like this, you know.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s just—it’s been a while. Habit, I guess.”

“Sure,” I said. Christ, she looked incredible. I wanted to take off her dress and look at her full breasts, with their dark, peaked nipples, but it would take too long—at least a minute to untie her, tug off her dress, and tie her up again. Next time. I was too impatient. I wanted everything all at once, and I didn’t want to wait.

I slid my hand between her legs, lightly stroking her wet flesh. Her hips jerked. I held her down with my free hand on her hip, pressing her into the mattress. She would move when I wanted her to move, take pleasure when I wanted her to, come when I felt like being generous. Her body was mine to command, and we both knew it.

“Carter,” she said, but stopped herself there, lips clamped together. My good girl. She knew not to speak—not now. The time for that had passed.

I settled on my belly, a penitent before her, my feet dangling off the end of her bed, and set about making her forget her own name.

She was slick to the touch, hot and swollen, and I easily slid two fingers into her and curled them toward me. I could feel every minute movement she made, every twitch and flutter, and she was taut as a tightrope, wound up like a spring. Her body was an open book. It would be so easy to bring her over the edge. A few more strokes with my thumb, a twist of the wrist, and that would be it. Not yet. The waiting, the teasing, making her forget about everything except the pleasure I wrung from her body: those were my favorite things about sex, and I intended to draw them out as long as possible.

Although. Maybe there was a way to give her what she wanted, while giving me what I wanted as well.

There was a small table beside the bed, with a lamp on it, and a drawer in the front. A likely suspect. I leaned over, reaching out my arm to open the drawer, and extended my neck to peer inside.

As I had hoped, there was a shiny silver vibrator, the kind shaped like an over-sized bullet.

I fished it out, and when Regan saw what I held in my hand, she flushed and made an abortive movement with both hands. If she wasn’t tied up, I thought that she probably would have covered her face. “Oh, no,” she moaned.

“Oh, yes,” I said, grinning. This was going to be fun.

I switched on the vibrator and thumbed the control to set it to a steady buzz. Regan watched me, eyes wide. I moved it between her legs and touched it to her clit, and she squeezed her eyes shut and moaned.