He shakes his head. “Not even once.”
“Well, I think you are. I think maybe you’re nicer than you let on.”
His expression grows serious, his eyes darken. “Haisley, I want you to remember something about me. Listen to what I tell you.”
“Okay…”
“I am not a nice guy.” He leans forward. “I am not the kind of person you want to grow attached to, or get sentimental about. I’m selfish, arrogant, narcissistic, and I could never be anything other than what I am.”
His words hit me hard, but the very fact that he is telling me this makes me doubt the truth of it.
Since when do selfish, self-centered people announce such things about themselves? All of the truly horrible people I’ve ever known seem to think themselves to be the best thing since sliced bread.
“Point taken,” I say, just so as not to upset him.
But in my heart, I don’t believe his words. Maybe that’s just my lust talking, however. I find that as I am relaxing, my need for him has grown stronger. I remember the orgasm I had earlier, how it came upon me so suddenly, and how his hand expertly found my wet folds, stroking me as I came.
I need to feel that again.
Dermot clears the table. I offer to help, but he forbids it. “Look at the view,” he tells me. “Appreciate it, as you’ve helped me to appreciate it today.”
I do as he says, standing up from the table and approaching the railing of the deck. There’s a slight breeze, and the sun is obscured by clouds for a moment.
Around us, the city is so alive with movement, with energy, and as I watch the lines of cars on the streets below, the buildings towering around us, I’m swept away by the fact that I am really living this moment.
I am in this amazing home, with the sexiest, most powerful, charismatic man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I am living a dream, and helping my father cheat death all at the same time.
I’m filled with awe, with gratitude, and I feel so thankful toward Dermot for giving me this chance. I want so badly to please him.
I want him to know that I understand the gift he’s giving me, even if he doesn’t fully understand it himself.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, coming out to join me again.
I turn a little and smile. “Very much.”
“Good. I want you to enjoy this. Every single bit of it,” he continues, sliding up behind me and deeply inhaling, as if savoring my perfume.
I shiver a little.
“Cold?” he says.
“No. Just…happy.” I shiver again and he wraps his strong arms around me, and I feel so held, so safe, his warmth envelops me and I realize I have never felt this protected in all my life.
It doesn’t make sense that I feel this way. I hardly know Dermot Nash, and what I do know about him isn’t exactly comforting. He’s a serial womanizer, an arrogant billionaire who had made it very clear that this situation is temporary and I’m disposable.
So why am I in this warm cocoon right now, his arms around me, holding me, and his light beard rubbing against my cheek, as he nuzzles into my neck ever so slightly? Why am I so secure when everything about the situation should be making me feel just the opposite?
I can’t say.
Maybe it’s the good wine.
Maybe it’s Manhattan, and this tower I’m standing in, maybe it’s being so far from my home and all of my real problems.
Whatever it is, I just want it to last.
“God, you smell amazing,” he whispers. His lips are hot on my neck as he speaks.
“I like this,” I murmur.
“You’re going to like everything I show you, Haisley.”
“Promise?”
“I swear it. But now it’s time for dessert.” He breaks away and grabs my hand. “Come.” He walks me back inside, and we take the spiral staircase back up to the bedroom.
My heart is racing again, as he lets go of my hand and looks me up and down.
“What now?” I ask, anxious.
“Tell me what you like.”
“I don’t really know.”
“Do you like my lips on your neck?” he says, softly.
“God, yes.” I feel my skin blushing. “I love it.”
He walks forward, his hands brushing against my thighs and then sliding to my hips, bringing the hem of my sundress with them. My dress is now hiked slightly up my thighs, and his large hands are spread on my hips, the tips of his fingers against my bare skin.
He slowly cranes his neck, leaning down until his lips brush ever so softly against my skin. My throat feels hot, white hot, as he kisses, and then I feel his tongue, sweeping, but still soft and delicate, against my flesh.
“Like this?” he says.
“Oh…yes. That’s so…” I feel my center contracting and the heat blossoms in my core, between my legs. I feel my hips working automatically, triggered by the sensual feeling of his lips and his hands and his heat.
I feel drunk, not on wine, but on him.
My eyes are closed, and I’m churning with lust so strong that I want to cry out.
I’m getting wound tighter and tighter as he kisses my neck, and his lips leave a trail up and down my neck, to my cleavage. I think he’s going to continue on, down between my breasts, and then…who knows where?
But instead, he kisses up my neck and then his lips finally lock onto mine.
Holy.
Fuck.
The kiss is like an explosion in my head. It echoes and reverberates through my entire body, until the churning need inside of me breaks loose, a dam bursting.
I kiss him back, fully, my tongue meeting his.
My fear and anxiety is gone, drowned out by the river of lust and desire that Dermot Nash has unleashed within me.
His mouth opens to me, his lips, soft and sensual and somehow expressive. It’s like a silent conversation we’re having, and in this silence, I can feel my blood rushing, heart pounding, and feel his need.
His hunger for me is strong enough to almost overpower me, because nobody’s ever felt anything like that for me before.
My mother left when I was little, and never really bothered with me again. My father always longed for the television to be on, to be watching a basketball game, a baseball game, something he could wager on. His love was the dopamine rush he got when all his money was on the line.
Me? I was just ordinary, I was just plain and simple and quiet.
Forgettable. Forgotten.
I never made waves. Nobody’s ever hungered for me, for my mind, for my mouth, for my breasts, my body or my pussy.
Sure, there were young men who’d have gladly screwed me, slept with me—whatever. But that was just because I was a woman and if I was willing, that would have been enough.
This time, right now, is totally different.
Dermot wants me, and I can feel it. Is it because he had to pay for me? Does that somehow confer legitimacy upon me, does it tell him that I must therefore be desirable?
It doesn’t feel that way. Dermot breaks off from our kiss and looks into my eyes.
“What is it?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“You’re in your head, Haisley. You’re stuck in your thoughts. I can sense it. I need you to stay here with me, right now. Be in this moment with me, don’t run away.”
“I’m trying,” I tell him. “It’s just…confusing. I keep wondering if you…”