She sat down again, her hand shaking as she picked up her glass and held it to her mouth. Besides the disaster of losing the money, she felt clammy with apprehension. Now there was no reason at all for him to hold back because no matter what he did to her tonight, tomorrow she would be history. That was why he had made sure the wager wouldn’t terminate the game until tomorrow morning. Whatever happened tonight, she would have to live with it, in silence, because even if she were at liberty to complain, which she wasn’t, who would take her seriously?
He regarded her silently, noting her pallor. It was obvious that losing the coin toss, losing the money, had devastated her. She wanted it so desperately she had agreed to the wager, gambling the whole shot for the chance of having it all at once, tonight, rather than earn it tediously from him, month by month. And she would have walked away from him tomorrow without a qualm. By a process of deduction, that must mean that she wasn’t in it for sexual excitement, but solely for the money. Where it came from, or from whom, was irrelevant. Sex, the game, was simply the means to her end. And yet, despite knowing that, he had no intention of giving her up. She was the only one who could do it for him and with every fibre of his being, he still wanted her.
Alone in his bedroom last night, after leaving her, the idea of her having sex with him for money had suddenly begun to bother him to the point where he would have willingly just given her the money up front, to see whether she would still stay with him. But she might have stayed out of gratitude and he would never know for sure. He didn’t want her gratitude, so he had decided to give her a chance to compete, to win fair and square, so she wouldn’t have to feel obliged to stay, unless she really wanted to. In his heart he hoped she would win and choose to stay although, even if she lost, he had every intention of tracking her down. There was just no way he could let her walk out of his life for good.
She had lost and tomorrow, as much as he dreaded it, he would have to let her go, for a while at least, until he found out more about her, why she needed money so desperately. But not until tomorrow. The thought of one more night with her flashed through him like quicksilver.
She swallowed the last of her brandy. It spiralled down into the centre of her belly, shooting warmth in all directions. It bolstered her courage a little.
“Are we going to be here much longer?” she asked. Her hand covered a fake yawn delicately.
“As long as it takes me to decide what I want from you tonight,” he replied. He picked up the bottle of brandy and poured some more into his glass. He gestured towards her with the bottle questioningly. She shook her head and he returned it to the tray. He picked up his glass and throwing his head back, tossed the brandy down his throat.
He got to his feet, walked around to her side of the table and stood behind her. Tension clawed her stomach. He took her head in both hands and pressed lightly inwards, as though his intention was to crush her skull with his bare hands. Then he began to massage her scalp, his fingers working in little circles over her temples, her hairline and the crown of her head and she broke out in goose bumps as her body began to tingle with awareness of him and the power of his touch over her.
With a gentle gesture, he tilted her head and pushing her hair away, bent down and gave the side of her neck a playful bite.
“I could eat you, Nicola,” he murmured. He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, bit gently and sucked the delicate reddened skin into his mouth. A quiver shimmied through her as his mouth moved downwards, nudging the fabric of her halter aside to press hotly into her soft flesh.
Her eyes closed, she clenched the arms of her chair, willing herself not to reach out and clasp his head to her breast. His hair tickled her flesh teasingly, and she could barely stop herself from burying her face in its dark wavy mass. As his tongue swept over her nipple the effort of denying her every instinct made her head jerk backwards and then suddenly forward, showering her hair down over his head and face and ensnaring him in its silky tendrils.
He experienced a moment of pure transcendence, of suffocating on his own attempt to absorb every last drop of the essence of this woman and suddenly it was too much. Summoning up willpower, from where he absolutely had no idea, he tore himself away from her with an exclamation and stood over her, breathing hard and staring down at the top of her bent head. He was so aroused it was close to unbearable. He struggled with a powerful urge to pull her out of her chair, throw her down on the floor and fuck her into next week. Instead, he stalked back to his chair and flung himself into it, knowing that although he had won the toss, he had lost the game, because no matter what she did or didn’t do, he craved her.
“Shall I start my fantasy?” It came out barely above a whisper.
“It’s one of my favourites,” she told him.
“What is it about?”
“It’s about……a beautiful stranger who…who does things to me,” she said haltingly.
“Things that excite you?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Tell it to me. All of it. Don’t leave anything out.” Anticipation knotted his groin as she shifted slightly and resettled herself against the headboard.
It is Black Friday, she began, the busiest shopping day of the year. People have come to London from all over the world to shop and Harrods is so crowded it is almost impossible to move.
Her voice had taken on a dreamy quality and he saw that her eyes were closed. Unconsciously, he leaned in, observing her intently as she continued.
The crush of bodies has made it exceedingly warm in the store and even though I knew it would be so and have dressed accordingly, I am already perspiring.
“What are you wearing?” He kept his voice to a murmur so as not to destroy the sensual fairy-tale atmosphere.
“I am wearing a sleeveless v-neck white silk blouse, a brown leather mini-skirt and matching fashion boots.”
“No. I don’t wear underwear with skirts.”
He felt his cock stir again and willed it to behave as his brain worked overtime on that image.
I am in the food hall and people are pressed up against me on all sides, conversing with each other as they inch closer to the counter. The hall is jammed with people, hundreds of people, and the sound of their voices is a dull roar. Suddenly a hand slips around my waist, holding me tightly as another hand slides between my thighs and begins to stroke my sex. I freeze in shock and for a second remain paralyzed with disbelief. I try turning around to confront my assailant but movement is impossible. Just as my mouth opens to scream I hear a whisper in my ear: ‘Don’t. I am not going to hurt you.’ It is a man’s voice, the timbre so compelling that despite my fear and shock, I am captivated and abort my intention to make a scene.
I turn my head at an angle, just enough to allow me to see his face and it is the most beautiful face I have ever looked into, sinful and innocent at one and the same time. It is like looking into the face of Lucifer, the fallen angel of light. Or his son.
He is a young man, around my age, with eyes the color of cinnamon blended with agate that has been crushed into dust. His nose is classically perfect, the nostrils unflared. His mouth is made for laughter, or kissing, and my eyes linger on it. His dark brown hair curls loosely past his ears and his skin looks as though the Mediterranean sun has warmed it. I am tempted to caress his face, just to experience the feel of it under my fingers.
He brings his face closer to mine until his lips brush the corner of my mouth. Their touch is light, superficially innocent but conveying so much sensuality my mouth waters as though I am about to consume a delicious meal. His fingers probe my sex as he clasps me still more tightly against him. I am now wet and he plays in my wetness, sliding the back of his thumb between my labia and circling it inside my sex, around and around. With each slick pass the knuckle of his thumb presses down on my nub and makes me want to come. He easily inserts two fingers in my drenched sex and begins to finger fuck me while his thumb continues pressing my nub, pushing it against his fingers as they move in and out of my sex.
Each time they intersect, his fingers and thumb seize my nub between them, twisting and squeezing it. Their dual manipulation of my clit is a pain so indescribably sweet I have to clench my teeth so as not to bear down and moan. I can feel my climax building powerfully in my groin and I know it cannot be stopped . My heart is pounding.
“What of the people around you? Are you not worried they will perceive what is happening?” Anthony asked softly.
“We are virtually hemmed in on all sides. Only our heads, with his chin resting on my shoulder, are plainly visible. No one can detect that his hand is under my skirt. My mind has already rationalized that anyone who observes us will likely dismiss us as two young people so in love we cannot keep our hands off each other.”
‘My tongue is jealous,’ he whispers against my mouth. ‘Come with me.’
I nod, completely forgetting that I had come to the food hall to purchase something for dinner. Food is the last thing on my mind.
He takes my hand, his fingers are still wet with my fluids. Somehow, he begins forging his way through the dense crowd of people and they part, letting us through. Keeping my hand firmly in his he makes his way through the store to the front entrance and out into the street. At the curb is a long gleaming black limousine with tinted windows. A man appears suddenly, opens the door of the limo and pats me down so swiftly it is over before I am fully aware of it happening. We get in, the man places a package on the seat next to us, closes the door and takes the front seat on the passenger side. Seconds later we are pulling away from the curb. The privacy barrier slides shut soundlessly and I am alone in the back of the limo with a beautiful stranger who has just fucked me in Harrods with his fingers.