Dirty Filthy Rich Men Page 16
“That didn’t take long,” Donovan said when I stopped at my door and pulled my key from my purse.
So he thought I’d hooked up again with Weston. Maybe he actually had been the suit I’d seen outside the closet at Red Farm. Or he’d just put two and two together. He wasn’t dumb.
I wasn’t ready to admit anything, so I simply shrugged. Really, he had balls to bring it up. He had balls to even be here. The only reason he made it past the doorman was because he owned the building.
“You didn’t have your own key?” I asked, half joking as I stuck my key in the lock.
“I would have had to go home for that first,” he muttered.
I twisted my head back to look at him and found he was serious. He really had a key at his place? Wasn’t that something the building manager took care of? I felt twisted up inside to think that Donovan had the very real ability to walk into my place whenever he felt like it.
I felt even more twisted up to realize how near he was standing behind me, so near that another slight shift of my body would bring me into his arms. My eyes traced a path from his Adam’s apple up his throat and over his jawline to his mouth… Would he taste like sin and scotch, secrets and sweat?
What would it take to make me stupid enough to find out?
“Thank you, I guess, for waiting for me instead.” I pushed my shoulder against the door and stepped inside when it opened.
Surprise, surprise, he followed.
“By all means, come on in,” I said, switching on the light, not sure anymore if my irritation was feigned or real. I wanted him here—I just wanted him here for me, not for some other nonsensical agenda he’d concocted.
He closed the door with his foot and trailed behind me as I turned on lights and made my way to the coat closet.
“Are you going to tell me anything?” he asked while I hung my jacket on a hanger.
My eyebrows furrowed. “About Weston?” So that was honestly why he was here. I was irritated. And hurt, which was stupid. “You want all the details? Pictures too?”
I threw my purse on the dining room table and breezed past him into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I took a long cold swallow, imagining how good it would feel to throw the whole thing in Donovan’s face.
Correction—Donovan’s smug face. His shoulders had relaxed visibly in the past few seconds and his expression had gone from agitated to confident.
“Nothing happened, did it,” he said, like it was a statement, so sure he was of the answer.
Fuck him for being so sure.
And fuck him for being so ridiculously sexy while we were at it.
This was impossible. I was thirsty but not for what I was drinking. There was only one thing I wanted to taste on my lips, and if I couldn’t have that then I didn’t want anything.
I slammed the bottle on the counter, exasperated. “Why are you here?”
He crossed his arms in front of him. “Because I can’t not be. Are you going to meet up with him later?”
I considered dicking him around, but I was tired of the games. All of them—his and mine.
“I’m not,” I said. “But guess what. It’s not any of your business. None of this is. And yet you keep showing up, playing God like it’s your job. Thinking you know best what everybody wants.”
“You don’t want Weston.” Matter-of-fact. Plain light of day. No room for arguments. He said it like it was reality as we knew it.
And I about went off.
“Oh my god, I can’t…” With my hands to my heart, I pushed past him to get into the living room. I needed space. Did he even hear himself?
Spinning back toward him, I pointed accusatorily in his direction. “For weeks now you’ve been trying to convince me that I do want Weston.”
“Well, you don’t.” It was infuriating how calm he remained while both my head and my chest felt like they were going to explode.
“How do you know what I want?” My voice was louder than my neighbors would probably have preferred, but if they had a problem with it, they could take it up with the building’s owner. “You assume and assume and assume. You’ve never even bothered to ask!”
He came toward me so we were only an arm’s length apart. “What do you want, Sabrina?” he asked earnestly, his hazel eyes holding me captive. “Tell me.”
Weeks of torment and denial had built up inside me. Years of it. My skin itched on the inside, and the want of Donovan had grown so acutely sharp and specific. It didn’t even occur to me to try to lie or pretend that I didn’t know the answer. I could only think in terms of transparency and truth.
“I want you to touch me!” I cried, desperate and willing to lay it all on the line.
Donovan’s reflexes were quick. He grabbed one of my wrists in each hand and twisted one until it was pinned behind my back and bent the other until it was trapped between us.
“Touch you like this?” he asked brusquely, yanking my arms uncomfortably and pushing me until my back met the wall.
“No,” I said, meekly. Except I meant exactly like that.
It was just the way I’d been yearning for him to touch me. Like he controlled me. Like he owned me. My nipples were already tight knots.
He raised an eyebrow. “No? Because I can't touch you like Weston touches you.”
Jesus, I was so tired of hearing that name. Tired of that being the thing between us. Even now, Donovan had me against the wall but the only place we touched was where he held my hands. And everywhere around us, in the space between us, the imaginary being holding us away from each other was Weston.
“I don't want you to touch me like Weston,” I said, once and for all. “I don’t want Weston! I want you!”
Donovan let loose the smallest hint of a smile. “I know. I was waiting for you to know too.”
I had the impulse to slap him, but it was lost when his mouth crashed against mine. Then I couldn’t think about anything but him—his hands, his body, his victory over me.
It was such an easy surrender.
He took complete command. With the length of his body pressed against me, his erection pushing firmly at my pelvis, his lips molded mine. He sucked alternately on my bottom lip and then my top, leaving no part of my mouth untouched or untasted. When this wasn’t enough, he let go of one of my hands and grabbed a fistful of my hair in its place. Then he yanked my head back, opening my mouth wider. I let out a cry that he lapped up with a long swipe of his tongue.
I’d remembered this about him. I’d remembered that he’d been a kisser, and there was something validating about having the memory confirmed. Something surreal about living again a time that had only been lived through recollection for so long. Experiencing it for real with all of my senses fully engaged already had me wild.
And I needed more.
With my hand free, I urgently pushed his jacket over his shoulder and down his arm. Then I tugged at the empty sleeve until he let go of me long enough to finish taking it off. Now I had both hands free, and I stroked them up and down his torso, clawing at his chest through his shirt, frantically, wanting it gone, wanting to be able to scratch at his skin.
But Donovan was in control, and he had a free hand too, which he used to plunge inside my dress, inside my bra, and clutch my breast. It was painful, and I groaned into his mouth as he squeezed harder. Harder still.
Then he let go, and as soon as he did, pleasure vibrated straight down to my pussy.
“Oh my god,” I gasped. “Do it again.”
“No,” he said, pulling his hand from the cup of my bra and moving it lower to play with my belt sash.
He was an asshole even now.
It was such a turn-on.
Releasing his other hand from my hair, Donovan pulled the tie at my waist, and my dress fell open. He pushed it off my shoulders and took a step backward so that he could see my whole body.
I felt a blush run down my skin; his gaze was the sun and everywhere his eyes touched I got burned.
I told him the truth anyway. “I was thinking of you.”
He practically groaned. Pressing in closer, he cupped my pussy. “You’re so wet, I can feel it through your panties.”
“Donovan...” I begged, bucking into his hand. This was torture. I’d wanted him to touch me, but I needed him to touch me in every way. I needed him to never stop.
Unexpectedly, he slapped my pussy. Hard. Then he slipped a finger inside the crotch of my underwear, gathered some of my wetness, and brought it to his nose and sniffed. “Just like I remember,” he said before licking his finger clean.
I couldn’t take it anymore—I lunged for him. Wrapping one hand around his neck, I brought his mouth down so I could kiss him while I rubbed my other palm along the outline of his dick. I could taste myself on him, and I wanted to devour every last drop.
He let me kiss him like this for a minute. Then abruptly he captured my hands again and drew them up against the wall above my head.
“You’re dangerous with your hands free,” he said then bit along my collarbone, marking me.
“Dangerous how?” I moaned as his teeth sunk into my skin, but if he hadn’t been biting me, I might have laughed. Me? Dangerous? He was the one who wore that warning in my book.
“Dangerous like you always are when I let you touch me.” He kissed me deeply, distracting me from the topic.
By the time he pulled away, I was dizzy and desperate for what words couldn’t provide. My eyes flicked to my room and back to him.
“I know,” he said, reading my mind. He circled one large palm around my wrists and tugged me into the bedroom where he tossed me onto my bed.
The light was off, but the blinds were drawn and the outside light spilled in across his torso. His dress shirt stretched tautly over his muscles, and though I wanted to see them in the flesh, I also loved the way it felt to be nearly naked while he was still dressed. It made the whole thing dirtier. Kinkier.
Especially when he ordered me around like he had a right to tell me what to do. Like he was still my teacher. Like he was my boss.
“Get naked for me,” he commanded, loosening his tie.
Goose bumps spread along my arms and stomach. My hands trembled as I reached behind me to undo my bra. I threw it off the bed then scrambled out of my underwear.
He watched me as I did, his eyes dark slits. “Give me your hands.”
I held them out to him, palms up, not sure what to expect. His authoritative tone along with the not knowing had my breaths coming double time, and I was pretty sure there was already a wet spot underneath me.
Looping the tie around my wrists, he tied a knot and pulled my arms until they were lying flat on the bed above my head. Then he looped the remainder of the tie around the corner bedpost and positioned my body so that I was stretched diagonally across the mattress.
He stood back and examined his captive. “How many men have you been with like this, Sabrina?” he asked, as he began undoing his belt.
“I’ve been with five men besides you.” My number felt large, even when I was sure that Donovan had likely had plenty more lovers than I’d had. “But I’ve never been with anyone like this.”
His eyes flared. “Never been tied to the bed before?”
“No.” I’d never been so thrilled I nearly came without being touched before either.
And it was more than that. Except for that one time in a small office at Harvard, I’d never been with a man who made me feel so completely turned on, as though every single one of my arousal buttons had been hit and not just one or two.
And now his belt was off and his cock was out, hard and thick and purple in the moonlight. I tried to sit up, wanting it in my mouth. Wanting to taste him the same way he’d tasted me.
But Donovan put his hands on my thighs, and with the bindings on my wrists, I couldn’t move very far. I definitely couldn’t get to him. It felt like all the years of yearning for him were compounded in this one moment and the torment was nearly unbearable.
I wriggled and pled. “Please, Donovan!”
“What?” He knew exactly what. There was even a hint of a laugh, as though he found my misery amusing.
“You’re cruel.”
“So you’ve said.” With a smile, he flipped me over so I was on my stomach and propped me on my knees. Then he stroked his hand down my back, pressing my head down. I peered back at him through my legs and saw him put one knee on the bed next to me, the other foot he left on the floor.
I heard the tear of a condom wrapper and watched as the foil fell to the floor. Again he ran his hand along my spine. This time when he reached my ass, he gave it a firm slap that made me jump. When I relaxed again, he was waiting with his cock to slam inside me.
“Fuck!” I cried into the pillow. Or I meant to, but it came out as some strangled sound I didn’t recognize.
The feeling, though—now that, I recognized. Donovan filled me so uniquely. Like no one else ever had, completely and totally, but it was also how he filled me that made my pussy crave him, how he moved inside me, how he bucked and raged, how he managed to go wild and yet master me all at the same time.
It was some form of magic or manipulation or maybe he just made me insane. I couldn’t say which. All I knew was that with each thrust of his cock, I felt myself slip further under his spell.
My first orgasm hit almost immediately.
The second took longer, growing torturously as Donovan drove into me, hitting me at just the right spot, and with each thrust, my nipples rubbed against the ties of the quilt below me. It couldn’t have been more agonizing if he had planted the quilt there. The yarn tickled my breasts and no matter how much I tried to adjust my position, I couldn’t get the pressure to be enough. Every time I attempted to raise my torso even an inch off the mattress, he would push me back down. As if he knew the torment I was suffering. As if he wanted me to suffer more.
And I loved it.
When my second orgasm hit, my body fell into spasms, writhing with ecstasy.
I was still thrashing when Donovan put both of his legs on the floor. He shifted me so that my body was now perpendicular on the bed, and just my wrists were bent at the post. With his fingernails digging into my hips, he hammered into me, chasing his own orgasm, which he found quickly.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, I fell on my side.
Immediately, my head started working, like it always did, but I forced all thoughts and judgment and regret from my mind. Those would come later. I knew that well enough from experience.
Donovan collapsed on the bed behind me, his breath ragged.
I closed my eyes and listened as his breathing evened out. It was a peaceful sound, and I wondered how long I’d get to hear it. He wasn’t the type to spend the night. He’d leave soon.
But I didn’t think about that. I just listened and breathed.
I was only vaguely aware when he shifted a few minutes later, only vaguely aware of the loosening of the binding at my wrists before I slipped into the contented haze of unconsciousness.
Nineteen
I woke with a start, as if I’d been dreaming, but the only images in my mind were from real life. Images of Donovan over me, inside me. I could still feel him even though I knew immediately that the bed was empty.
It felt worse than I thought it would to wake up without him. I guess I hadn’t thought it would feel like anything, but it did. It felt hollow, like I’d forgotten to eat all day, yet my appetite was completely gone and the hollowness was both higher and lower than my stomach.
Other than the emptiness, though, I felt kind of amazing. Post-sex hormones lingered in my bloodstream, and my head spun in a weird euphoric haze. I stretched and my muscles screamed in protest, reminding me they’d been used in ways they hadn’t been used in quite some time. I rubbed my eyes and blinked. It was still dark, and I’d woken in t
he position I’d fallen asleep in, so I knew I hadn’t been out long. I rolled over to look at my alarm clock and nearly jumped out of my skin.
I wasn’t alone after all.
Donovan sat in the chair in the corner of my room, his elbow propped on the armrest, his chin in hand, watching me.
The clock said I’d been asleep for more than an hour. Had he sat there the whole time?
I shivered at the thought, but I didn’t pull a blanket over me. If he wanted to look, he could look. As far as I knew, it was the only thing keeping him here, and now that I had the choice, I wasn’t ready for him to go.
But he would go. I knew that. He’d told me before that he was the quick-to-escape kind of lover. If he were staying, he’d be naked in the bed with me. Instead, he was just as dressed as he’d been when he’d fucked me. His pants were still unfastened and now his tie was looped around his neck.
But maybe that’s why it thrilled me so much to find him still here, why it warmed me to think he’d been sitting there the whole time I’d slept—because he hadn’t left yet.
I sat up and tried to pat down the bird’s nest that had once been my hair.
“Were you even going to say goodbye?” I asked, pretending to balance accusation with acceptance when really I was hoping he’d say he’d changed his mind about going at all.
He smiled lazily. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m still here.”
“You’re just as much already gone.”
His face was in the shadows, but I could feel his expression sober even if I couldn’t see it. “I’m less gone than you’d imagine.”
My inner thighs clenched with desire, but the sincerity in his tone tugged at some emotion beyond lust. It made me brave. “Get in bed, then. Stay.”
He chuckled. “Sabrina, Sabrina,” he scolded. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankle. Then, distinctly changing the subject, he asked, “Where did you get your name?”
Casual conversation wasn’t where I thought this was going, but his attention had a way of engaging me whatever the form. I swung my knees to one side and leaned my weight on the opposite hand. “My father. When they were thinking of names, he was reading the Milton poem about the nymph who saves the virgin.”