The Tycoon Page 14

  “I don’t think I can stop you.”

  “That’s right,” I said with bravado. “You can’t.”

  For a second we grinned at each other, like the moment was just so pure. Like we were just…so happy. And that moment was more intimate than what we were going to do to each other.

  I looked away and went to my knees in front of him. His pants were already mostly unzipped and the hard swell of his cock strained against his black underwear. I gripped him through the cotton and he hissed. He was leaning back on his hands, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes.

  So. Fucking. Hot.

  “Help me take your pants off,” I said and lifted his hips so I could yank them down to his knees. His black boxer briefs I left there. I’d forgotten how big he was. How he felt in my hand. Filled my fist. My mouth.

  Suddenly, all my bravado dried up.

  It had been a long time.

  “I’m still the same,” he said, lifting my chin so he could look me in the eyes. His face was soft. His eyes and mouth relaxed. “We are still the same.”

  I loved him like this, I thought and it wasn’t a terrible thought. For five years I’d believed my feelings for this man made me weaker. But I wanted to be wrong about that. I wanted my feelings to make me stronger. Braver.

  “I love it when you do this, remember?” he asked gently.

  You suck me so good. The words had been the sexiest thing I’d ever heard in my life. And remembering them now fired me back up.

  I leaned forward, setting my open mouth against the hard length of his cock. Breathing warm air through the cotton.

  “Yes,” he moaned. I sucked him through the cotton and squeezed him, pushing him between his belly and my palm until he arched up into my hand.

  “More?”

  “Fuck. Yes.”

  I slipped my fingers under the waistband of his boxers and began to pull them off, but I was too slow. He lifted his hips and yanked then down to his knees and I was face-to-face with his dick again.

  I missed you, I thought, like a dummy. And then I leaned forward and licked him from his balls to the tip.

  Clayton moaned and whispered dirty things, his hand cupping the back of my head, pulling my hair, and I remembered that, for such a quiet man, he talked a lot during sex. Between my legs I was hot and wet. I squeezed my thighs together again, setting off sparks.

  They came back to me, the things he liked. The things I liked. I ached to put my hand between my legs so I could come when he did. But both my hands were busy.

  “I’m going to come,” he groaned. His hands gripped and then let go of my hair, like he was torn between pushing me away and pulling me closer. But I wouldn’t be pushed away. This was my favorite part, when he was so vulnerable and I was so strong. It took a lot of trust for him to give me this power over him and I loved it.

  “Fuck, Ronnie,” he breathed. “I’m—” And then his hands clenched hard in my hair. Hard enough to hurt, but I barely felt it, and he flooded my mouth with come. He twitched and gasped, holding me still one second, pushing me away the next, until finally he was still.

  His skin was sweaty and damp. His breathing ragged.

  “Ronnie,” he whispered and he leaned over my body. Kissed my shoulders. My neck. He pulled me up off his body. My mouth was sore. My body on fire. He rolled me onto my back and kissed his way across my chest. My belly.

  “What are you doing?” I breathed.

  “I need to taste you again,” he said. “It’s been so long.” He shifted me and moved me. Put me where he wanted me. “Yes,” he breathed, when he was down between my legs. “Yes, baby, God. You taste—” And then his mouth was too busy to talk and I had to put my fist in my own mouth to keep myself from screaming.

  It was wet and hungry and electric, and it felt like the top of my head was going to explode. He held me tight to his lips and all I could do was tilt my head back and try to keep breathing.

  “Clayton,” I cried. “Oh, my God. Oh—”

  The clichés are true. Those ones I loved so much in romance novels. It was like an explosion. It was like being flung up and out of my body, and I was crying and grinding myself into his face, trying to make the best orgasm of my life last.

  When it was over and there was no more pleasure to pull out of me, he toppled over to the side, one of my legs across his chest.

  His fingertips stroked up from my knee to my thigh and then his palm stroked back down, like he was ruffling my feathers and then smoothing them out.

  It was deeply relaxing.

  “I like strip conversation,” I said. The first rather inane words that popped into my head fell out of my mouth.

  He was so relaxed he was like a different person. A stranger. And my breath caught in my throat.

  “I like the way you come,” he said and crawled over me to kiss me. Then he shifted to move away, but I put my arms around him and held him still so I could kiss him.

  “How about the way I take care of you?” I asked and he stroked the hair off my face.

  I knew it was just a sexy joke, but it occurred to me that I didn’t take care of him at all. And I never had. Clayton Rorick always kept me at arm’s length, even while he knocked down all my defenses.

  Tonight—not the blowjob, but earlier, when he’d come in rain wet and sad—that was the most vulnerable I’d ever seen him. Hugging him in that moment was the most he’d ever let me take care of him.

  “Thank you,” he said and kissed me. Once. Twice. “For taking care of me.”

  He stiffened, as if he was about to push his body away from mine and start the process of getting dressed and walking out the door.

  “Stay,” I said. I shut my mouth fast but the words were out.

  He smiled at me like he knew I would take it back if I could.

  “It’s all right. I’m sure you have lots you need to do.”

  “No,” I said, finding some weird place of courage. Or foolishness? Whatever, I was going with it. “Stay. It’s late and—” Thunder broke over the house. “It’s really raining.”

  He shifted me and rolled me until we were lying face-to-face.

  “You don’t have to ask me to stay,” he said.

  “But I want to.”

  “No lie?”

  I shook my head, found myself smiling. “No lie.”

  16

  CLAYTON

  I watched her sleeping and knew I was winning. She was melting, bit by bit, back into me. Comforted by this no-lying rule she’d made. And orgasms. For a woman who always claimed that she was over the shit lessons her own father had taught her with his neglect, she could be prickly. And defensive. Quick to assume she’d done something wrong and slow to believe she hadn’t.

  But after sex she was the most comfortable version of herself. Relaxed in her skin. Happy in her body. Ready to laugh and joke. If I could, I would keep her in this state all the time. And when it started to fade, when she thought about the things she needed to do or all the reasons we shouldn’t be together, I would simply make her come again.

  It seemed like the fastest way to get us back together. It would cut through all her arguments and hesitations. Right to the happiness I wanted to give her.

  She rolled toward me in her sleep, her body flush and warm from the cocoon we’d made under the blankets. I never could resist her like this.

  I rubbed the flat of my hand down her back, along her spine, and then over her ass, the thick curve of her thigh. She straightened her leg like a cat being petted, her foot slipping between mine and then bending just slightly, opening her body up to me and more of my touch.

  Yes, Ronnie. Just like that.

  Over and over again I stroked her until she was nearly purring. Until I was hard against the soft skin of her belly.

  “What are you doing?” she asked with sleepy smile. Too drowsy and too turned on to be self-conscious.

  “Nothing.” I kissed the end of her nose. “What are you doing?”

  My fingers lingered wh
ere she liked them best and she caught her breath. Under the covers her fingers found the hard length of my cock.

  I let her touch me for a minute before I shifted her and forced her hand away. There were things I was trying to make up for. Things I was trying to accomplish, and I lost my focus when her hand was on my dick. When she was on her knees in front of me, like she had been last night, taking me as far into her mouth as she could, things became blurry. My goals. Plans. When she was taking care of me I forgot how badly I needed to take care of her. How much I had to make up for.

  And I could handle that—tolerate it—only sometimes.

  That might have been the mistake last time; I’d gotten too used to my own pleasure.

  I rolled her onto her side, facing away from me, her top leg bent forward. I came up behind her, my dick pressed to the heat and damp of her. I slipped my hand down her chest, over her warm breasts, her round stomach, until my palm covered her pussy.

  This was her favorite. Well, it used to be. I was ready to find out if old favorites still pleased.

  She twitched, arched up, and I followed, my dick nudging at the entrance to her body. I positioned myself so that with one thrust forward I would be inside of her.

  She clapped a hand to my hip and went absolutely still. “You don’t…have a condom?”

  Five years of abstinence required very few condoms.

  “No,” I said and kissed her shoulder. Not pushing, but not going away, either.

  “I haven’t been on the pill in five years,” she whispered, and I lifted my head so I could see her face. My fingers covering her pussy twitched, rubbing her clit. She gulped air like she was desperate. And against my fingers and the head of my cock she was wet.

  Wanting.

  “You want children,” I said. And the thought of her swollen, with our baby in her body, was like a dream. A wish I didn’t have the courage to wish for. And because I was a bastard, because I was so close to everything I’d ever wanted, I pushed an inch inside of her. Where she was warm and wet and ready. “I want to see you with our baby.”

  17

  CLAYTON

  I was drunk on this half pleasure and full fantasy. I slipped my hand over her breasts and her stomach, imagining the changes. Imagining how beautiful she’d be.

  I pulled my hips back, easing out before easing back in another inch. In my arms she vibrated, she trembled and shook.

  “You want it,” I said. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her body flushed with the pleasure I was about to bring down on her like a storm. “It would feel so good.”

  “So good,” she agreed.

  Fuck. Yes.

  Another inch and it felt like the top of my head was going to blow off.

  “But not like this,” she said, her hand braced against my hip, holding me back. “Not…now. So soon.”

  Of course. My logical Veronica had returned at the last possible moment. I eased out of her, the air cold against the inches of my flesh that had been inside her.

  “Are you mad?” she asked.

  I blinked at her. “Of course not.”

  “You’re sure—?”

  I kissed her and stopped her words before rolling her onto her back. “Not mad. It’s your body. Your choice. I was being an opportunistic bastard.”

  She smiled against my mouth, her arms coming up over my shoulders. Her hips lifted and I imagined she didn’t even know she was doing it.

  “It felt good,” she breathed. “I missed having sex with you. I liked the way we fuck.”

  Her words lit fires under my skin.

  “I want you to come,” I whispered against her neck. Her ear. And she nodded, opening her legs for me.

  But closing her eyes.

  “Open your eyes,” I said.

  She blinked them open, but when I stroked her clit she shut them again. “No. Open your eyes.”

  She did.

  “Keep them open.”

  It was more intimate than sex. Nearly uncomfortable, but she did it. And I made her come just the way she liked, pushing her right to the edge and then holding off, over and over again until she was frantic. Dripping sweat and crying my name.

  Like nothing else mattered. The past. The lies. The future. Everything was gone for her, except me.

  And then I let her come.

  The second she was done, her body boneless and replete against the damp sheets, I eased away from her. Got myself out of the bed. Away from that cocoon and the temptation of her.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, staring at the mess my dick was making in my underwear. I was hard and leaking precome all over myself. I reached down and tried to adjust myself, but my touch was almost too much.

  It hurt. I was so hard and wanted her so much, it hurt.

  “I need to get going.”

  “Let me—” She reached for me and I felt that old urge, that deep, primordial instinct I had to step away. To be careful. To deny myself what I wanted so I wouldn’t get lost in it. So I wouldn’t be distracted from these things I needed to do. And in my hesitation, she got up on her knees on the bed in front of me and eased her hand into my underwear.

  “Fuck. Ronnie,” I gasped. She curled me in her fist, licked the head of my dick, and all I could do was hold on to her shoulder. Too hard, probably. I was going to leave marks on her creamy skin. But I couldn’t stop myself.

  Like an animal I thrust myself into her mouth and she moaned and cupped my ass in her hands and she took it.

  She took everything. All of me.

  And everything I was trying to prevent happened.

  I was lost in her.

  Ten minutes later, we were facing each other in bed and the wrinkle between her eyes appeared. I tried to smooth it down with my thumb but it didn’t work.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

  “I keep telling myself that my father…didn’t hurt me. That I didn’t have any lingering issues because of the way I was raised. Like, I look at Sabrina and Bea and, fuck, even Dylan, and I think, I’m so better off. But every once in a while, something happens, a feeling comes over me, and it’s not rational but it’s there.”

  “What feeling?”

  “You’re going to cheat. Like my father did—”

  “No,” I said and shook my head. “I won’t. I’ll never cheat.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m not your father. And I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  “The thought of you doing this with me and then going out and doing the same thing with another woman…I can’t…it’s devastating.”

  “I know,” he said. “And I won’t. We weren’t even together for the last five years and I couldn’t have sex with another woman.”

  I could see she didn’t believe me and I didn’t blame her. Between her father and our past, she was ripe for this shit.

  “You want me to write it into the contract?”

  That made her smile. “Sort of.”

  “Then I will.”

  “You must think I’m crazy.”

  I shook my head, because I understood all too well the scars fathers left on their kids. For a moment, I thought about telling her about mine. The cottage. The stroke. Cupid. But there wasn’t a point to it. My father and Dale were two separate things, and my life with Ronnie was another separate thing, and there was no reason for them to ever touch. For her to ever know where I’d come from. Who I’d come from.

  “You’re going to be late for work,” Ronnie said and looked at her watch.

  Again, like I had since she took it back, I missed my watch. I hadn’t bought a replacement because I was hoping she’d change her mind.

  “I know the boss,” I said.

  But she was right, and I tore myself off that bed, feeling like it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  Twenty minutes later, she looked over her shoulder at me on the stairs and smiled. She was damp and sweet smelling from the shower we’d taken and my dick twi
tched in appreciation.

  Stop, I told myself.

  Get it together, I told myself.

  This…looseness I felt was dangerous. It was nebulous and risky. It was hard to control things when I felt out of control myself. And my life required constant control. There was too much at risk.

  We turned the corner into the kitchen and Ronnie gasped, then shrieked, and took off running to hug the woman sitting on one of the stools at the dining counter drinking coffee.

  Bea was here.

  This did not bode well for me.

  While Bea and Ronnie hugged, Bea looked right at me. Her eyes met mine in a you are a motherfucking asshole death glare.

  I nodded at her, because I deserved some death glares, but I wasn’t running.

  In fact, I pulled two mugs down from the cupboard. I put milk and sugar in one of them, filled it with coffee, and set it down beside Ronnie, then poured myself a cup. Over the rim of the mug I lifted my eyebrows at Bea, who only glared a little harder.

  “When did you get in?” Ronnie sat down beside Bea.

  “Last night.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “It was late.”

  “Is…everything okay?” Ronnie asked. “The police—”

  “It’s fine,” Bea said. “Why don’t we talk about that later? Instead, you tell me what the hell is going on here.”

  “Nothing,” Ronnie said and took a deep sip of coffee. Bea shot her an incredulous look and then glared again at me.

  “You’re the fox in the hen house, Clayton. In case you didn’t notice.”

  “I mean you hens no harm.”

  “Yeah, excuse me if I don’t believe you.” Bea was bristly with outrage and pure dislike for me.

  “It’s okay,” Ronnie said. “We’re…figuring things out.”

  “Really?” Bea asked. “Because something tells me Clayton’s already got everything figured out.”

  At the moment, my body and brain disjointed from pleasure, those words felt nothing like the truth. But I understood her suspicion. That didn’t mean I liked it.

  Or planned on taking it.