The Deal / Turn Me On

I walk across to him with what I hope passes for a seductive stroll, a feline smile on my lips the closer I get. Here, just a foot or so away from him, I breathe in and taste the masculine fragrance he wears—woody and alpine and intoxicatingly sensual. His shirt is crisp white and at the cuffs he wears shining black cufflinks, which I have every reason to suspect are diamonds.

When someone applies to join The Billionaires’ Club, we run a detailed background check to maintain our exclusivity and privacy. I mean, membership comes with an annual fee of a million dollars, plus the buy-in, so I know the members can get their hands on serious cash, but we need to know more than that. Criminal records, credit history, scandals, everything.

So I know Nicholas Rothsmore’s background, probably better than most who just presume he’s a playboy bachelor living off his family’s considerable wealth. Sure, he was born with the proverbial silver spoon but he’s also smart as all get out and a crazy hard worker. Five years ago he arrived in New York to take over his family’s American branch of the Rothsmore Group and in that time he’s trebled their revenue and expanded beyond a blue-chip investment portfolio to a remarkable presence in the tech world.

Even without his family, he’s a formidable and impressive entrepreneur. Then again, his silver-spoon start in life probably didn’t hurt.

‘Your eyes,’ he murmurs, scanning my face thoughtfully, and my heart rate kicks up a gear, so that I doubt my veins are going to be able to hold the blood in place. ‘They’re so…’

Instinctively, I blink, shuttering my eyes from him. They’re a very dark blue, the colour of the sky at dusk, and I know it’s unusual. I don’t want him to recognise me. ‘No cheating,’ I say, taking the champagne flute he offers, lifting it to my lips. ‘This is secret.’

‘Right.’ His grin is pure devilish heat and his expression is one of amusement. ‘Well, Miss Anonymous, what’s your thing?’

‘My thing?’

‘Yeah. What are you into?’

I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t have a lot of spare time. I guess, reading…’

‘Fascinating.’ His laugh is a slow vibration that travels around the room before landing at the base of my spine, sending little shards of awareness through my nerve endings. ‘But I meant, in bed.’ He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his fingers lifting to curl the edges of the wig, teasing the flossy pink strands between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Right.’ I slap my forehead exaggeratedly and my smile holds a silent apology. So much for acting as if I do this all the time. ‘I’m…a little out of practice.’

‘Are you?’ His gaze flicks to my cleavage again, lingering there for so long a faint murmur escapes my lips. Heat travels along my body as though he’s touched me.

All I can do is nod.

‘Why is that?’

We’d agreed not to discuss anything personal. I think of how to answer in a way that won’t give me away. ‘I’ve been single awhile.’

His smile is just a lazy flicker of those sculpted lips, framed by a squared jaw and a brush of stubble. I like the stubble. I itch to feel it and rather than denying myself that impulse, I surrender to it, lifting my hand to his face so I can run my fingertips over his jaw.

It shouldn’t be so sensual, but just the act of touching him like this is so illicit and sinful that I make a low, husky sound, my body trembling with the first flush of desire.

‘So you are nervous?’ He comes closer, so our bodies brush, and then he moves behind me, so close I can feel his nearness, his warmth, even though he doesn’t quite touch me.

He dips his head forward, something I only realise when I feel his breath on my shoulder, warm and smelling of champagne.

My knees tremble.

‘Look.’ He lifts his hands to my shoulders and angles me slightly so I can see us in the mirror. The sight of myself in this costume—so different from my usual appearance—and Nicholas Rothsmore at my back, his long, tanned fingers curved over my pale shoulders, fills me with a need that demands indulgence.

‘Tonight, we’re just two people.’ He speaks slowly, the words buzzing right against my ear. ‘Who came here to fuck.’

I swallow, my throat moving convulsively. His coarse description sends a frisson of awareness down my back, because he’s right. This is physical, primal, animalistic. ‘Right.’ I went into the forum looking for this. I don’t know why I’m panicking at the eleventh hour. I draw in a deep breath and smile slowly, calming my nerves.

‘That’s what you want?’

‘Count on it.’

His hands move to my back, where a delicate lace ribbon holds the corset together. He loops a finger beneath the bow, watching me with a hint of mockery as he pulls on one loop, loosening it appreciably.

‘You can stop this at any time, if you change your mind,’ he murmurs, pulling on the other loop.

My breath snags in my throat. I shake my head slowly from side to side. No way on earth am I going to put a stop to this.

‘Good,’ he growls, easing the corset down so my breasts spill over the top. He stops moving and stares at me in the mirror, his eyes hot and possessive, glued to my body as though I’m the first woman he’s ever seen.

Strangely, I don’t feel at all self-conscious now, despite the fact I haven’t been naked in front of anyone in a really long time. I’m someone who wears underwear even at the gym or the spa; when other women seem perfectly happy to strip down completely in the sauna or whatever, I’m buttoned up in the corner, sweating into my cotton.

I just don’t really do the naked thing.

But here, in the privacy of this intimate room, wearing a mask, with a prearranged lover loosening my lingerie, I have no reluctance; not even a hint of hesitation. This is what we’re here for. It’s just a transaction.

Convenient, satisfying sex.

At least, I hope it’s satisfying. His reputation sure as heck precedes him, but then, sometimes the myth is bigger than the man.

I don’t chase that thought down; I don’t have time to think about that. His hands are running up my sides, his eyes on mine in the mirror as he brings his hands around front to cup my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples and tweaking them so I let out a low growl, the pleasure from such a simple touch totally overwhelming.

‘I don’t want to stop it.’ The words are squeezed from my throat, breathing and speaking almost completely beyond me.

‘Good.’ Another husky admission before his fingers are sliding into the corset, pushing it even lower until it hits my hips and then falls apart completely, leaving me standing in just a scrap of elastic and lace. His eyes hold mine as he slips a finger into the waistband of my thong and then flicks it. I jump a little, and laugh, the sting unexpected, and unexpectedly sensual. Especially when his hands caress the area almost instantly, soothing the flesh.

My pulse is trembling like a fire in my veins and heat is rushing my insides. He moves his hands around my hips; still watching me intently in the mirror, he slides one hand into the front of my thong. I’m so glad I waxed there too.

His fingers brush my flesh, finding my clit with expert precision, moving over it slowly at first, so I gasp because the touch is unfamiliar and for a second I fight an urge to ask him to stop, because I haven’t been touched here in a really, really long time. And never like this. He is some kind of maestro because the very idea of objecting disappears from my mind almost instantly as I succumb to the blinding heat of this pleasure, this possession. It’s just the lightest touch but flame explodes to molten lava and I’m burning up, heat in every cell of my body, every nerve ending.

His mouth drops to my shoulder, kissing my flesh there, moving closer to the nape of my neck. His breath is cool, his kiss warm, his touch perfect and suddenly pleasure is like a lightning rod, forking through me, so I have to bite down on my lip to stop from crying out.

‘Don’t be quiet,’ he urges, and I blink, finding his eyes in the mirror. He’s watching me with an intensity that robs me of breath, his steady grey gaze fascinating and intelligent and somehow all-seeing, so I feel as if beyond my arousal he must be comprehending so much more about me right now. As if he might be seeing into my buttoned-up soul, might be seeing all of my usual tensions and removing them from me.

And I don’t care.

‘Look,’ he prompts, lifting one hand to my breast and cupping it, while his fingers work faster until I’m tumbling so close to the edge of a ravine that I can only exhale in short, shallow rasps. There’s nothing to grab onto; nothing to save me from falling.

‘Watch yourself,’ he says more insistently, though it takes me several seconds to process his words because my brain is no longer firing on all cylinders. All of my blood is busy being pleasured inside my body, being lit on fire by his intensely skilled ministrations.

‘Oh, my God.’ The words tumble from my lips and then I’m groaning, tilting my head back but doing exactly as he said—watching me, us, this. Watching as he moves his hand and pleasure makes me blush and my nipples hard and then I can’t watch any longer because I’m scrunching my face up and giving myself over completely to the total subjugation of sense and reason in place of white-hot desire.

I am falling, I am falling too fast to stop, and yet somehow I’m also flying, all the way to heaven.

I dig my nails into my palms and, because I am secret and he is not, I cry his name as I tumble over the edge. ‘Nicholas,’ I moan into the glamorous bedroom. ‘Oh, God, Nicholas.’

It is a wave that won’t stop, as if the last four years of celibacy have left me with a hyper-charged sex drive. How did I not realise that until now?

‘Oh, this is going to be fun,’ he drawls, his British so very sexy, so husky, so hot, and I laugh, because I’ve already had more pleasure than I bargained for. I can’t imagine what else he can do with those clever, clever hands. And that mouth…my eyes drop to it in the mirror and it lifts into a knowing smirk.

‘Oh, yes, that’ll be fun too.’

My eyes jerk to his. He’s watching me with what I think is amusement.

Normally, I might feel embarrassed at having been so completely lost to that amazing feeling, but I’m not. Because firstly, there’s nothing wrong with sexual pleasure—and this is the man to know that. And secondly, he has no idea who I am! This is totally anonymous, totally secret, totally no-consequences, no-holds-barred sex.

That knowledge is empowering, so I spin where I’m standing and look up at him. Even though I’m tall, there’s a height differential between us that means I have to look up.

‘How come you’re wearing clothes?’ I murmur.

His shrug is pure indolent heat. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Let’s do something about that, shall we?’

His nostrils flare at the challenge in my words. My fingertips tremble a little as I begin to undo his buttons, concentrating hard on the task so afterwards I think I probably could have moved a little more seductively. Not that I can muster much energy to care, because now I’m eye height with his naked chest and it is a sight to behold.

The first thing I notice is a tattoo that runs above his left pec, near his heart. It reads, in a strong cursive script, I am my own. I trace it with my eyes, imagining what would lead someone to have that written over their heart. I don’t ask. We’re not here for that kind of inquisition.

‘Holy crap.’ It’s just a whisper, so soft and hoarse in the silence of the room, with only the grandfather clock’s metronomic beat for company, but he hears and he grins.

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Now it’s my turn to look a little mocking when I turn to face him. ‘Like you don’t already know.’

Because how could he not? While he’s slim, he’s also insanely toned, a buff chest loaded with muscles, eight firmly defined ridges calling out to be touched. I lift my fingers and trace over the pectoral definition, lingering on his own hair-roughened nipples, surprising myself when I flick one, just as he did with the elastic in my underpants, and he lets out a growl.

‘Retaliation,’ I simper, grinning as I move to the other.

His hand catches my wrist, his eyes flaring. ‘Careful, Miss Anonymous.’

‘Oh?’ My fingertips tingle. With his hand clamped around my wrist, his eyes watching me, I blink—a study in wide-eyed innocence. ‘Why is that?’

‘You’re baiting me,’ he points out.

‘Yep.’ And I flick his other nipple, so he tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple moving beneath his stubble. More than that, through the confines of his trousers, I feel his cock jerk and power rushes my veins. Power, desire and a surge of sheer, desperate attraction.

I drag my fingertips lower over his body, moving them in teasing circles over his washboard abs then out to his hips, up a little, and lower, to the soft leather belt that’s threaded through his trousers.

Now my lack of speed is deliberate. I can tell it’s driving him crazy and, hell, I love that. I loosen the clasp and pull on the edge of the belt, watching him as I slide it out of his belt loops. I drop it to the ground beside us then concentrate on the button and zipper, easing it down, pushing the sides apart.

Suddenly, and out of nowhere, I’m uncertain. He understands and takes over, kicking his shoes off and stepping out of his trousers at the same time. Only his dark grey boxer briefs remain.

‘My turn,’ he murmurs, and I don’t understand what he means until he kneels at my feet, looking up at me as he slides my lace thong lower. I watch, the pink wig swishing against my shoulders as he uses my techniques against me, moving too, too slowly. Frustration gnaws at me. I don’t want slow. I want to be naked and possessed by him.

I go to step out of my thong but his hands are firm around my thighs, holding me where I am. He makes a tsking noise in response to my silent expression of inquiry, and then he’s slowly pushing the lace lower, so I have to stand there and wait until finally my thong is at my ankles and I can kick out of it.

I keep the shoes on and he makes no effort to remove them.

I can’t think about my shoes though. He’s kneeling before me and now his mouth is moving to my clit, and the pleasure I’ve been surfing since he walked in the room is dragging me away again, swallowing me into its midst, so I’m dropping off the edge of the earth, just pure sensation and feeling.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but the last thing I think before I come—this time against his mouth—is that wild, anonymous sex might be the hottest thing ever.

CHAPTER TWO

JESUS CHRIST, SHE is unbelievably responsive. I lift her up easily, carrying her across to the bed. Her breasts are soft against my chest and I’m searching for her lips, kissing her, tasting her sweetness as I bring her to the edge of the bed and drop her onto it.

She laughs, a sound so sexy that I swear it writes itself into my mind as though it were chiselled from stone. There’s something about it, husky, sweet, laced with promise and heat. I don’t give her a second to recover; my mouth chases hers and pushes her backwards, my body coming to lie over hers even as she scrambles higher up the bed so she’s lying fully on it.

I trap her wrists with one of my hands, pinning them above her head so her beautiful round breasts are high and firm and then I bring my mouth down to one, sucking on a nipple, rolling it with my tongue, flipping it, my body weight holding her still as she writhes with pleasure. I smile against her pale skin and then move to her other breast, my spare hand plucking the nipple I just released, and I grind my hips so my rock-hard dick—that is giving me no end of grief right now, desperately needing to bury itself deep inside her—throbs and begs for release.

Soon.

We agreed to fuck, once. She was very specific about this. She wanted to get laid.

I can’t be away from the party for long. It has to be efficient.

A quickie? It feels as if it should have been outlawed, given how damned sexy she is. This is not a woman who should ever be made love to quickly, unless it is a desperate preamble to a long, slow seduction.

She deserves to be explored and tasted and delighted until she is hoarse from crying out in pleasure.

As if my thoughts have conjured her voice, she spills my name into the air over and over, arching her back, begging me to take her.

I don’t want to, though. I want to prolong this; I want to lose myself in her.

These rooms were built for privacy—not even a hint of the party downstairs reaches us, and I’m glad. I kind of hope she’s forgotten that a thousand of the world’s most well-heeled individuals are just a hundred or so metres away.

‘Please,’ she whimpers, but in a way that makes it clear it has nothing to do with her desire to re-join the party, or her worry that she might be missed. It’s more than that. She needs me.

I push up on my elbows, staring down at her, but I want to see more. I want to watch her come. More than just her expressive eyes and pouting lips, I want to see her whole face. I move my hand to the mask and begin to shift it but she jerks away and, from what I can see, her expression sobers instantly.

‘No.’ The word is deadly serious. ‘It stays on.’

Shit. I forgot. Anonymity is part of the deal.

‘Sorry.’ I grimace. ‘I just wanted to see you.’

Her smile is laced with pleasure. ‘You can see enough.’

I arch a brow but inwardly I disagree. Still, it’s better than nothing, and sure as hell better than I expected when I agreed to this.

I’m no stranger to random hook-ups, but something about this woman’s approach fascinated me. Her desire for anonymity, and the fact she is new to the club—I haven’t seen her profile on any of the forums before and thanks to networking I’m pretty familiar with most of the members.

So she is new. Someone who has just come into money?

No. I can’t say how, but I can tell she’s old money. Cultured. She has a certain air about her, a way of speaking that’s instinctively familiar.

‘You do realise we’re here to sleep together?’ she prompts, her brows lifting above the edge of the mask.

My laugh is immediate. ‘Are you complaining?’

‘Nope.’ She digs her white teeth into the pillow of her lower lip and need rushes through me. Fuck, she’s hot. So hot. I drop my head and pull her lower lip between my teeth, my whole body mashed to hers, her nakedness its own kind of torture, so close to me, so close and yet there’s still a scrap of cotton between my cock and her sweet warmth and suddenly I’m done being patient and I’m done with the idea of making this last.

Sex is sex. She wants a wild time, and that’s what I’m going to give her.

I push up onto my elbows. ‘Stay here.’

There’s a box of condoms in the bedside table. I pull it out and cross back to the bed. She’s watching me in a way that fills me with a torrent of needs and I intend to indulge each and every one of them.

There’s something about not knowing who she is that makes this even sexier. Except…

Ridiculously, for the first time, I wonder about her life outside this, outside this room and our agreement. ‘You’re not married?’ I prompt, staring down at her as my lungs work overtime trying to suck in enough air to keep me alive.

‘Married? I told you, I haven’t done this in a long time.’

My smirk is to hide my cynicism. It doesn’t work. ‘I don’t think celibacy and marriage are necessarily oxymoronic.’

She grins, and I hold my breath, needing her to tell me she’s single. I like sex. I fucking love it, unapologetically, but there are some lines I will never cross, and fucking someone else’s wife is one of them.

I like my women to be completely mine, even if it is just for one night.

‘No, Nicholas.’ The words are soft, sweet, and they run over my skin like oil. ‘I’m not married.’

Good. But I don’t feel a burst of relief—yet. ‘Engaged? Seeing someone? I’m not getting in the middle of anything?’

Her teeth are gnawing at that perfect, full lower lip again. She pushes up to kneel and moves across the bed, somehow managing to look elegant and coordinated. Her hands connect with my chest and my breath hisses out of me.

‘I am definitely not in a relationship with anyone. Except my remote control. And my MacBook.’ She grins, and I feel a kick of curiosity about who she is outside this.

I ignore it.

Tonight isn’t a prelude to anything except sex.

And I’m more than optimistic that this will prove satisfying.

In the back of my mind is my father’s edict.

‘Five years, Nicholas, and each year I expect you to come home wiser and ready to make me proud. And each year you disappoint me.’

I slide a finger into the box of condoms and pull a foil square out. Miss Anonymous takes it from my fingers, lifting it to her lips and tearing the top off. I watch with a racing heart as she pushes my boxers down, just low enough to release my cock, then her hand is cupping my length, her fingertips brushing my tip, delighting in the drop of cum she finds there.

‘I’m so glad your reputation isn’t exaggerated,’ she teases, sliding the condom over me and easing it down my length. My breath hisses out of me as she snaps it at the base, then squeezes me in her palm, my cock jerking against her hand, my whole body standing to attention.

‘I’ve had enough. Reading about you on that idiot gossip blog, seeing you with a different woman every goddamned night. If you’d married Saffron you’d have three kids by now.’

Everyone seems to have forgotten Saffy left me—for a firefighter from Bristol, as it turns out.

‘If you’re not married by the time you’re thirty then you can forget about becoming Lord Rothsmore. You can forget about the whole damned thing.’

It has been distinctly tempting to tell him to go to hell with his bloody title and inheritance. As if I give a damn.

Except I do. I care about my mother, and I care about my father, I even care about the legacy into which I’ve been born. But more than that, I’m becoming a little bored of this lifestyle. What started off as rebellion has become an unbreakable habit and it’s all just a bit too easy.

Miss Anonymous is right. My reputation precedes me. Women fall at my feet, doors open because of my name and the title I’m due to hold.

I’m ready for a challenge. I’m ready for something different and unexpected.

I’ve decided I’ll go home soon—before I turn thirty—and show my parents that, heirs or not, I am someone they can be proud of. I am someone who can think with more than his dick.

But for now, for tonight, I’m going to enjoy being the man my reputation has made me.

‘Exactly how long has it been?’ I prompt as I find her lips, tangling my tongue with hers, pushing her head back, so she falls flat against the mattress once more.

Her eyes, expressive and somehow familiar, swirl with uncertainty and then they zip closed a little, hiding herself from me. ‘A while.’

‘A month?’

She laughs, a skittish sound. ‘Longer.’

‘Six weeks?’

She shakes her head.

‘Jesus. Two months?’

Pink spreads across her décolletage. ‘A bit more.’

I frown, hating the thought of that, and hating it for her—because she’s so sensual, so responsive, so completely driven by desire. I can’t imagine how she could go even a night without sex, let alone months.

I nudge her thighs apart with my knees, and push my tip to her entrance, running my fingers over the bright pink of her wig. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that, huh?’

She nods, no smile on her lips, but I feel her anticipation and I recognise it because it one hundred per cent matches my own. Her breath is held; the room is quiet except for the incessant ticking of the clock against the wall. Outside, Sydney sparkles, beautiful, old, subtropical.