His tongue coats a budded nipple, working a small circle around the engorged flesh. As he sucks it into his warm mouth, he inserts a second finger into my pussy, and it’s all I can do not to scream out in delight.
I can’t focus on either sensation. Every synapse is firing, misfiring, and re-firing in such quick succession that I can’t make sense of any of it. All too soon, he pulls away from my chest, and his fingers slow.
My breath ragged, my sight fuzzy, I release the back of his head and stand straight. “What are you doing?”
“I’m about to do you.”
Needing a release, I swirl my hips against his hand. This only makes him pull it away altogether.
“Take off your dress,” he orders as he unfastens his belt.
“But …” I look around the balcony. “Here?”
“I’m not waiting to get inside you.”
His pants, shoes, and socks are placed on the chair, his shirt joining them.
Holt Mason stands in front of me, a chiseled portrait of absolute perfection. His muscles are created, not swollen or pumped by a chemical, but designed … maybe by God or maybe by a trainer. I don’t know, but I’d like to thank them.
He takes a condom and rolls it over the top of his swollen cock. While he does this, he watches me expectantly.
Any hesitation I had about getting naked on a balcony is gone. I’d remove my clothes for him in the middle of the street if he told me to right now. This is completely ridiculous, I’m aware of that, but I. Just. Don’t. Care.
My dress and bra join his clothes in a heap behind him. He takes a few calculated steps my way.
“I let you call the shots. But from here on out, I’m in control,” he breathes. “I will take care of you in every way, but you need to trust me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you,” I whimper as he wraps his arm around me and pulls me against his chest.
“Then give me a chance to earn it.”
When I don’t respond, his eyes light up. He presses a gentle kiss to the middle of my lips, before turning me around.
His breath is hot against the shell of my ear, his cock heavy and hard at the small of my back. Moving a lock of hair fallen from my bun, he presses another kiss to the side of my neck. “Bend over and grab the railing in front of you,” he whispers.
Looking over my shoulder, I’m silenced by what I see.
Lust. Control. Consideration.
A man in power.
And for the first time in my life, I’m okay with giving up that power for one night.
As I grip the rail, my hands sweaty and threatening to slip, he positions himself behind me. The tip of his cock parts my pussy and hovers right at the opening.
Before he slides into me, he pauses. “If you start to fall, I have you.” And then he presses into the wetness, parting me into two halves and bringing me more pleasure than I’ve ever allowed myself to enjoy.
Six
Blaire
His breathing evened out an hour ago, but I couldn’t get out of bed. I laid next to him, his arm protectively around my abdomen, and watched him sleep.
There’s been plenty of time for me to second-guess everything that happened today, and I’ve tried in a very me-like way, but I just can’t make it happen.
Holt was rough yet tender, crass yet careful, smoldering yet sensitive, and I can’t make myself wish I’d made another decision rather than to be with him. Even so, I know the choice I have to make now, and that’s to be realistic. Smart. Gone.
I close my eyes. Even hours later, I can feel him inside me. The taste of his sweat is fresh on my tongue. The strength of his arms as he scooped me up and carried me to bed and lavished kisses against every inch of my body is at the forefront of my brain.
The safety of his gaze. The gentleness of his touch. The absolute control in which he executed every second of last night will be the bar that every man after him is compared to. But the longer I lie here and relish Holt’s hard body next to mine, the more difficult it will be to extricate myself from this situation scot-free.
Lifting his arm off my stomach, I slip quietly out of bed. The silk sheets are decadent, and I have a notion to cancel the room my family got me across town and get another one here, but I don’t.
My dress slips across my body, and my shoes and purse are in my hands in a couple of seconds flat. I tiptoe toward the door but stop when I see a notepad sitting by the little lamp on the table near the window.
Holt,
Thank you for a wonderful evening.
Blaire
I place the pen next to it and go to leave but stop again. Fishing through my purse, I find the red panties I removed inconspicuously during dinner and lay them next to the note.
With a final look at a man I’ll never see again, I let myself out.
Seven
Holt
Ring!
I shake off the dream clinging to me and swipe my hand against the nightstand. It collides with something where my bedroom lamp should be. I reach farther in my sleep-induced haze to silence the incessant ringing of my cell phone.
My fingertips hit something smooth, knocking the item—a clock, maybe—onto its side. I sit up in bed, jolted awake by the sound.
“What the fuck?” I ask as I peer around the room.
The sheets bunched around my waist are not mine. The mattress under my ass isn’t mine either. What is mine is the ringing phone that’s sitting next to a lamp that isn’t in my bedroom.
It takes a full minute to piece together where I am. And why.
Blaire.
Just like that, I’m wide-awake.
I scan the suite as I reach for the phone. The floor-to-ceiling drapes on either side of the open doors leading to the balcony flutter in the breeze. Soft streams of the morning sunlight filter through the room. The pillow next to me has a single strand of dark brown hair but no head to go along with it.
“Hello?” I ask as I bring my phone to my ear.
“Mr. Mason?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sherrie from the front desk.”
I rub a hand down my face and try to clear my head. “What can I do for you?”
“We found a credit card in the Radar Room after your visit last evening. I believe it belongs to someone in your party.”
My eyes flip to the bureau along the wall. Folded next to a statue of a half-dressed woman are my clothes from last night. Next to them, the spot where I laid Blaire’s clothes after she fell asleep, is empty.
I glance at the clock.
“I’ll pick the card up at the front desk before I leave this morning. Thank you,” I say. Before I can end the call, she speaks again.
“It’s not your card, sir.”
My forehead crinkles. “Is it Miss Gibson’s?”
Sherrie sighs. “I shouldn’t divulge that kind of information. But, yes. Gibson is the name printed on the card.”
My body feels like I went a couple of rounds with Boone in the boxing ring as my feet hit the floor. I stretch my free hand over my head and try to work some life back into my limbs.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. May I put you on hold for one moment, please?”
“Sure.”