My house is filled with beautiful things. Sleek, fine, and worth every penny I paid for them.
I don’t say that to brag. Because despite all the luxury surrounding her, there is nothing more gorgeous than January stalking through my living room. The windows overlooking the bay frame her with the ink-dark water and the light dancing across it, the Golden Gate stretching from the City to Marin. It’s a setting that’s perfectly made for her, a diamond amid all that glitter.
I should be remembering that she brought Julian to our party, causing a scene, and that the only reason she walked into Bastard Capital was because of the money.
But then I have to remember the frisson of fear running through her as she gave her pitch and her very real, very naked fright tonight.
There was also her tender smile as she remembered doing the crossword together all those years ago. I thought I’d feel nothing but cold satisfaction at getting her here, but the past is more potent than I’d realized. Dangerously so, the same as January herself.
“Is that a real Miró?” she asks, pointing to the painting on the wall.
I shake my head. “My cousin is an artist. That was from her surrealist class. All the stuff here is hers—she’s very prolific.”
“And talented.”
January has no idea. Everything I’ve got is merely Joan’s castoffs—the real stuff is sitting down in a gallery in Union Square, being snapped up by my tech peers. But I like having this slightly off art in my home, chosen not to show how big my wallet is or what cutting-edge taste I have but pieces more real to me than any multimillion-dollar canvas could ever be.
January sends me a tilted, teasing grin, and my heart is jolted. This feels so damn real, like we’re picking up from where we should have left off in college. Or maybe I only want it to be that real.
She’s here for her company. For the money. I might be a charming motherfucker, but she’s also desperate.
And frightened. My heart jolts again. She never did say what spooked her, because it wasn’t any damn ghost. No, it was something—or someone—all too real.
“Has she ever painted you?” January asks.
I answer her smile, because she’s going to love this. “Yeah.” I motion her forward into the hallway that leads to my office. The mahogany double doors are wide open, my antique banker’s desk framed between them, forlorn in its massive majesty among all that sleek modernist crap.
The top is green felt, and the feet and drawers are carved with griffons and vines. It’s a desk that belongs to an entirely different era, and I love it.
January immediately gasps at the sight. “Where did you find this?”
“In the East Bay at some random furniture store.”
She runs her fingers over the felt, bends over to inspect the carvings, throwing herself into exploring my desk.
I’ve never had sex on this desk or any desk; it’s just too damn clichéd. But suddenly I want to bend January over, pull up that tight skirt of hers while leaving those killer heels on, and sink fully into her.
Wait, scratch that. I want her sitting on the desk instead, her legs spread wide and me between her thighs, tasting her. Driving her wild.
I can almost imagine how she’ll smell, musky and sharp, thick with desire. The sensation is so real, so forceful, my hand starts to shake. I curl it into a fist and tell it to behave. I’ve given a lot of women oral sex—I’d even call myself pretty fucking good at it—but only January threatens to bring me to my knees before I’ve even begun.
I’m supposed to be the one in control here, and instead I want to surrender to my need before I’ve even touched her.
“So where is this picture?”
Her question pulls me out of my fantasy and back into the moment. I point to it. “My cousin said that every successful man needs an oil painting of himself. So she decided to gift me with this.”
January starts to laugh, putting her fingers over her mouth to hold it in. Her entire face lights up, bright enough to see in the dark.
I can’t blame her for laughing—the painting is of me at twelve, wearing a Star Wars T-shirt, shorts, and white socks up to my knees, standing in front of a computer. The style is garishly cartoonish, but my cousin has painted me with such a happy expression that it’s clear she’s making fun of me out of love.
It’s probably my favorite painting in the entire world, one that I don’t let many people see. Not everyone would see the affectionate humor in it, and even more would take it as a blow to my ego. I’m supposed to be one of the most powerful men in one of most powerful industries in the world; pictures like that of me shouldn’t exist.
But January knew me before, rejected me before. Even if she’s only here because of the money, I knew she would appreciate it.
There are so few people in my life who would.
“That painting is amazing,” she gets out between laughs. “It actually looks a lot like you in college.”
“Please don’t remind me what a dork I was back then.”
It’s as if lightning strikes between us, snapping us back into our respective corners when I say that. Reminding us of the distance and antagonism that should be between us. Even though I know this is the way things should be—me on the offensive, her on her toes—I still miss the easy warmth once it’s gone.
“I won’t then,” she says quietly. “But thank you for showing it to me.”
She takes a step back and folds her hands, her entire body saying what do you want me for next?
The answer is crystal clear, always has been, but my conscience pulses like a stubbed toe.
“You can still go home.” There, I tell my conscience, she’s not a prisoner. She can do whatever she wants.
She lifts her chin, and she looks like the January I remember from college. Brave and wicked smart and ready to take on the world. “I don’t want to.”
My aching conscience surrenders to a warm, glad rush of relief. Time to celebrate this victory with a special treat.
I crook my finger at her, never saying a word, letting my expression describe the depth of my desire for her. She comes easily enough to stand before me, but her pulse is fluttering in her throat, a butterfly trying to escape its containment.
She reaches behind her to unfasten her dress, and I shake my head. That’s not what I have planned.
“On the desk.” My voice is rougher than I want it to be. I need to remember my control here.
She pushes the chair out of the way and spreads her fingers wide on the green felt, letting her head rest between her outstretched arms. Her ass, pushed high in the air by her skyscraper stilettos, tilts up invitingly.
“Like this?”
It looks so damn hot I’m tempted to abandon my original plan. When I come around behind her, I see that her dress has ridden up high enough to reveal the lace edges of her stockings and the tiniest sliver of bare thigh. I sink my fingers in her hips and pull that gorgeous ass toward me, grinding my cock against her. Even through several layers of clothes, the sensation is wildfire licking my skin.
Oh yes, I could very much do it like this. But somehow, even with the pure lust boiling in my veins, something’s off. Not quite in the right place.
Her. She’s not where I want her to be.
I steady my grip on her hips and, with an easy flick, turn her toward me and set her ass on the desk. Her legs open naturally, invitingly, and I step between them. Her skirt is clinging just barely to her upper thighs, ready to give up all her secrets with the slightest tug.
Rather than taking advantage, I kneel before her. Immediately her scent hits me, more complex and enticing than I’d hoped. I’d bet my entire fortune she’s already soaked her panties.
She’s definitely already shocked, her eyes wide and her mouth a wicked, hot O. My cock pulses at the sight. Later. There’ll be time later.
For right now my plan is to keep on shocking her. I slip a hand under her skirt, finding the tops of her stockings. The lace gives way to the satin of her skin, and I toy with the edges, watching her pant with every motion of my fingers.
“These are very naughty.” I tug one stocking down until the lace catches at the top of her knee. “Do your panties match?”
Her cheeks flood with pink, and she catches the edge of her lip with her teeth, delicious guilt written all over her.
“Oh,” I say slowly. “Oh, you were very naughty.”
“The dress is too tight for panties,” she gets out.
I’d call it perfectly tight, and sure enough, when I slide my hand higher, there’s no barrier between me and her soft curls. I delve deeper and find the core of her. Her folds are slick and plump, swollen with need.
I can’t see anything, only feel, which might be a good thing. If I could see my fingers tracing her pussy lips, see her moisture coating my skin, see how hot and wet and flushed she was, I’d completely lose control. I’m barely hanging on as it is, the floor seeming to vibrate beneath my knees.
No, that’s not the floor vibrating—that’s all of me, eager to get at her, to devour her with pleasure. I shouldn’t be this keyed up, not this soon, not with simply touching her, but I am.
Thank God she doesn’t seem to notice, with her head thrown back, her lip between her teeth, and her hips giving small jerks. She’s more lost in this than I am, although the expression on her face, the stark, needy line of her throat, threatens to pull me all the way under.
Keep it cool, Taylor. Remember why she’s doing this.
Because she fucking wants me as much as I want her, my libido snarls back.
“Open your thighs,” I command, my fingers still teasing all her most sensitive spots, the ones that make her breath catch.
Her legs shake as if on marionette strings, the instructions from her brain garbled by her pleasure. But slowly she gives me one inch, then two. Her skirt rucks up past her hips.
The change has transformed her pussy into the most enticing peep show, with her dark curls revealing and concealing her lips and clit as she shifts, seeking more sensation. She’s hooked her heels into the drawer handles, the better to hold on. And the better to expose herself to me.
I’d thought the desk was perfect when I bought it, but it hasn’t achieved true perfection until now, with this woman framed on its surface.
I don’t care what brought her into my VC firm in this moment; I’m too damn thankful she came at all.
I sink my fingers into her thighs, steadying myself and her. Things are going to get wild here. Then I lower my head and taste her.
My first taste is a gentle one; I want to savor her, to get to know her desire. I was right—her juices aren’t sweet at all. They’re musky, earthy, and tangy with need. Beautiful.
I lick again, taking in all of her pussy, all the way to her clit. Her thighs tremble under my hands. This time her taste is deeper, more encompassing. My cock pulses, sensing exactly where it ought to be.
On my next pass, I linger over her sensitive spots, the ones I already know make her weak. Her thighs tremble, then strain, and her breathing goes harsh and guttural. This is a rough, demanding need taking over her.
But then I’m a rough, demanding man.
I circle with the very tip of my tongue, moving closer and closer to her clit, pushing her harder and harder. When I finally make contact with the swollen, straining bud, January jerks like a live wire. The desk creaks as her heels dig in. Her knees are pressing hard against my hands, urging me on.
I don’t need to be told twice. I slip one, then two fingers inside her, finding the spot where all her nerve ends are waiting for me. With my hand working in concert with my tongue, I push her to a fever pitch. I can’t see her expression, but the moans she’s making—rough, achy, begging—tell me she’s utterly lost in what I’m doing to her. Hell, I’m halfway to lost myself, simply from soaking in her responses.
Her pussy clenches tight around my fingers, again and again, her climax setting a new rhythm between us as her hips lift completely off the desk.
“Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell,” she chants. I wish it was my name she was calling, but we’ll get to that. I’ll make certain of it.
I get to my feet as all of her goes limp, her orgasm leaving her a boneless sprawl. Her dress is around her waist, her legs hanging over the edge of the desk, and her lungs gasping for air. A tendril of hair clings to her sweat-slick face, but she doesn’t brush it away. Maybe her arms aren’t working again yet.
Never in my life have I seen anything more gorgeous. I want to tear open my fly and bury myself in her, just like this.
And then I want to gather her up and put her in my bed.
I’m definitely going to do one, but not the other. Because gorgeous as she is, January’s got her own agenda here, which isn’t the same as mine.
Sex is one thing. Sharing a bed is another, and my agenda definitely doesn’t include that.