I stared down at his computer. I took a few deep breaths, forcing the air into my stomach through channels of nervous tension, reigning in jittery thoughts, schooling them into calm, centred coherence. My breath haunted my ears, still a little fast, the only outward sign of my emotion a slight tremor in my hands.
I gave myself some time to glance around at the opulence, an extravagant waste of seconds, but I wanted a record of this moment. I stood at the apotheosis and needed to commemorate my achievement. The only way of doing so was acknowledging my presence here.
The last hurdle, the biggest hurdle—I had hedged my bets on my ability to guess in three goes the password into his computer. Not a total guess, really. I knew everything about him, not just the amount of zero's coming after the first number of his bank balance. I knew when the guy liked to take a shit, and how often. That sort of detailed information gave me a good—no, excellent—understanding of the man, which meant, I was hoping, I would be able to guess his password. My success the last three times was testament to my skill.
I sat down and opened the computer, imagining standing at the beginning of a rickety suspension bridge, an abyss stretching below, the Holy Grail up ahead, close, but out of reach. I flipped through my three password contenders, each equally likely, then pressed the “start” button, counting the seconds before the screen lit up, clenching my fists. A yacht appeared, moored just off the beach at Zanzibar, taken approximately two years ago while he was on a meet-and-greet with the CEOs and chief engineers of a new acquisition in Tanzania. A dialog box obscured a section of the mainsail, waiting for input.
Here goes. I typed in my first selection, pushing the “return” button immediately. Denied. Damn.
That's OK. I still had two more guesses. If I'd really stuffed up, knowing sooner rather than later was preferable, so my actions were smooth and fast. Promptly, the screen opened before me, welcoming. I resisted the urge to explore and instead tapped into the one thing I wanted, his computer's IP address. This took seconds to locate. After writing the number down, I was out. Shit. I’d won. While I sat waiting for the computer to shut down, I contemplated going back into the bedroom and kicking him in the balls one more time because he deserved it. Plus, I got a lot of satisfaction the last time I did it.
As I gloated, a soft sound from outside in the corridor pierced the quiet. Because I’d been on edge since the moment I’d entered the penthouse suite, my heart ratcheted tenfold and plummeted, along with everything else inside my glove fitting dress, as the familiar ping of the lock to the door being deactivated radiated through my ears. Someone was about to enter.
Four men burst into the room. I flew to my feet, knocking over the chair behind me.
"Police! Don't move."
Four gun barrels pointed at me.
Kitted out in SWOT gear—at least that's how they appeared to me, but I knew little about the police—they fanned out around the room. They were bulky in the chest, perhaps wearing bulletproof vests. Who were they expecting to meet in here? Not a prostitute, surely?
As a synchronised unit, they moved further into the penthouse, scoping the surroundings, some moving off into the bedroom, while one closed the distance between us, his gun pointed level with my face. My breath came shallow and fast. I'd never faced a weapon of any sort before. Thank God I didn’t need the toilet. The carpet would be soaked by now.
My arms shot up, ramrod straight as they do in the movies. The open chamber of his gun, his eyes centred down the barrel, filled my vision. I stood bullseye and weak-legged from adrenaline. I couldn't fight and I couldn't flight, so the next best thing was to cry. My lower lip began to tremble and a tear threatened to escape. Lost in my demise, I almost missed the movement at the corner of my eye and turned my head, capturing his arrival.
He strolled in as if the show was over and he'd arrived to witness the aftermath, moving in enough to clear the doorframe. He stood like an alpha male, legs apart, dressed in a tailored suit, which told me he was above the rest, the guy who gave the orders. Reaching six feet, plus with obvious musculature, he was dark and impossibly handsome, vacuuming the air from my lungs.
He looked around the room, noting everything in a few brief moments before targeting me with his unscrupulous, dark eyes. He held my eyes first, then traced an invisible line down my body, taking in all my curves, his mouth curling into a conceited smile. Locked by his stare, I flinched at what I saw behind his thick, dark eyelashes, framing bedroom eyes—a smart, cunning, persistent hunter. The heaviness in my gut told me I'd met my nemesis.
"I would like my phone call now."
I tried to load my words with saccharine. He smiled and leaned back, getting off the table, standing with his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to move. I stood and contemplated walking around his side or going around the other side of the table to reach the door. In the end, I opted to pass him for the exit. His presence evoked a threat, something I would never allow him to know.
He left me a narrow corridor. Another intimidation tactic, so I scooted past. As I drew parallel with him, he shot out his left arm, barring my way. The sudden gesture made me squeak, and before I’d time to glance across to him, he came up behind me, forcing me to turn towards the table. He pressed himself against me. I had to bend, throwing me hands out on the table to stop myself from toppling too far forward. I felt all of him, particularly his erection pressing into my backside. He grabbed me tight around the waist with his right arm, pulling me back further into him, while his left hand began strumming a gentle tune along my thigh. He lowered, moving close to my neck and inhaled deeply, no doubt smelling the faint aroma of perfume left from my deception tonight.
Was this really happening? I should be outraged. I should struggle free of him, yell out for help, slap him. Intoxicated by his gentle strokes, I couldn’t. Inflamed by his strong hard body flush against my back, I couldn’t. His domineering nature, the way he took what he wanted, crushed my resistance. Who am I? Not this? Wound by tonight’s events, my emotions and hormones had been perched at the precipice, ready to jump when he’d entered the room. Everything pent up morphed into something else, pure desire, the only logical solution available to me.
He started moving his lips up my neck, feather-light, to my jawline while his left hand moved further inward towards the apex of my thighs. My mind, drawn to his hand, tracked its movement, inching to where I couldn't wait for it to go. I held my breath, but he distracted me with sensual kisses along my neck, and I rolled back my head, resting it on his shoulder, and released a moaning gasp. His hand continued upwards to the top of my panties, and he slid his fingers underneath the elastic. I quivered. Please touch me there. He didn't. Instead, he began slowly lowering my panties without ceasing his kisses.
As my panties slipped lower down my thigh, I snapped into reality and placed my hand over his as a feeble protest.
"Put your hand back on the table."
A whisper into my ear like a caress, but it carried the weight of a demand. I complied. Who was I kidding, anyway? I was wet and wired like a coil waiting to be unsprung. He would know as soon as he touched me. I imagined he would feel immensely pleased with his power.
I allowed all this to happen. I stepped out of my panties when they slid to the floor. I even spread my legs further when I felt his hands, both of them now, slide across my thighs to my sex, making me moan while his fingers explored me, smearing my wetness. He let out a harsh breath the moment he touched me, aroused by my readiness.
His fingers were slow and deliberate. I could tell he'd touched many women this way before. He slid two fingers into me, his thumb massaged my clit, and I pushed back into him, into his erection. I placed my hands over his wrists, pushing his down, a silent plea to enter further, rub faster. Ignoring my request, he began kissing my neck with passion, nipping and sucking.
He removed one hand and shifted his weight back, and I protested, "Don't," in a throaty voice. Then I heard the noise of his zipper opening and felt his movements as he released his cock from its confines, the other hand disappearing from between my legs, pushing my dress up to my waist. He moved away from me a little and I could imagine his view.
Must he? I didn’t have long legs ending in a small, round ass. I was shapely and everything sat in the right place, but the extra curve made me uncomfortable, particularly with a gorgeous guy gazing at my exposed behind. He seemed appreciative of the view, because he let out a sharp intake of breath.
His hands were back, placed on either side of my cheeks, massaging with a slow, rhythmic grace, marking me with their warmth, lulling me into a sensual pool of lust, before they disappeared again, making me groan in frustration. I straightened to turn around when the scrunching of wrapper told me he was ripping a condom out of its packet. Now I understood his comment about the one-way mirror. This had been his intention all along. At what point had he made these plans?
His hands warm on my sensitive skin.
"I won't tell you again. Place your hands on the table."
If another man had spoken to me like that, I would have slapped him and walked away. Mystifyingly, I complied, docilely. No, eagerly. He was alluring in a frightening way. I was in a dangerous position, about to fuck the guy who wanted to bring me down. At this moment, he was all I wanted, to feel his cock inside me, to feel how he fucked, because the look of him told me it was going to be hard, fast and mind-blowing.
His caresses began again on my behind, but in my mind, I pleaded, “Please enter me now.” I couldn't focus on the movements of his hands because the mental image of his sheathed cock jammed my neural pathways.