Dirty Filthy Rich Men Page 17

  “Can’t say I read that one. Is Sabrina the virgin?”

  “Sabrina is the savior.”

  There was a beat of silence. “Huh. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting.”

  For half a second, I wondered if I should be offended, but it was kind of amusing to think of myself as anyone’s savior. “I guess in our version of the story, Sabrina was the virgin.”

  He didn’t say anything. Didn’t respond at all, just kept looking at me in the same piercing way he would all those years ago in Business Ethics class.

  I used to hate it when he looked at me that way. I still did. Hated it because he seemed to see things I didn’t want him to see. Seemed to see things I didn’t even know about myself. Mostly I hated it because I liked it so much.

  I cocked my head, wondering if I could see him the same way he saw me, but all I saw was a fiercely attractive man with the devil’s smile and dangerous sex appeal.

  I’d let a dangerous devil in my bed. A dangerous devil who’d once been my savior. Could Donovan be any more of an enigma?

  I let out a sigh. “Where did you get your name?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “It was my great-grandmother’s maiden name. She claims that’s why I have the name, but I think my mother just liked the sound of it.”

  It occurred to me that this was one of the only things Donovan had ever told me about his family or his personal life. It was small, but in some ways it was also really big, and I held it like it was precious.

  “What does it mean?” I asked, hoping not to sound too eager.

  “Dark warrior.” He shook his head. “I think she was expecting an entirely different kind of son.”

  “But that fits our story. Dark warriors are totally the guys who save the virgins.” It was maybe too fitting. Too easy to romanticize. And I knew even without being able to clearly see his sneer that he didn’t appreciate the analogy.

  Or maybe he didn’t like that we had an our story.

  Now that I’d said it out loud, I wasn’t so sure I liked it either.

  I tugged at my hair and stared out the window. What was I doing with this guy? What the hell did I imagine could happen next? Coworkers with benefits? We weren’t really friends, and it wasn’t like this could lead to anything romantic.

  Could it?

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Sabrina,” Donovan said, pulling my focus back to him.

  It was the kind of statement that was usually followed by a but. When it didn’t come, I couldn’t resist questioning. “Am I?”

  “Very.” His voice was thick and rough, like heavy sandpaper.

  I glanced down at where the moonlight hit his lap and saw his cock bulging, its head peeking out over the band of his underwear.

  Oh. So not a but.

  Wherever this was going tomorrow, it was still tonight right now. And tonight I was wet and wanting and Donovan was hard and here.

  I straightened, purposefully showing off my breasts. “Do I make you think dirty thoughts?”

  “Mm,” he moaned. “Very dirty thoughts.” He kept his hands braced on the armrests, his eyes pinned on me.

  “When I was younger, I used to have all sorts of dirty thoughts about you.” I didn’t know why I said it. I’d told him I’d had inappropriate thoughts about him back then. The information wasn’t exactly new.

  “And not now?”

  “Now too.” God, it was my last secret. How much I thought about him. How much he invaded my mind. “All the time.”

  His grip tightened on the armrests, and my pussy fluttered in response. I liked telling him, I realized. I liked him knowing, just like I liked knowing he had dirty thoughts about me.

  “Do you get yourself off when you have these dirty thoughts?”

  “Yes.” I pressed my thighs together, seeking relief. I was so turned on.

  “Show me.”

  “Show you?” I’d heard what he’d said. And I knew what he meant. I just needed a second to process what I thought about the idea.

  “Yes.” He sat up straighter in his chair, obviously eager. “And tell me. Tell me what I do to you in your imagination. Show me and tell me. Show and tell.” He smirked at his own pun.

  “Well.” I’d never played with myself in front of someone else before. I’d never wanted to. Donovan was different though. He brought out different things in me, and saying no to him never crossed my mind, much less felt like an option.

  I lay down on the bed, propping my head up with pillows so I could see him when I opened my legs. Now which scenario would I share? “There’s a few different…”

  “Tell me your favorite,” he interrupted.

  Variations on a rape. That was my favorite and most played out. No way was I telling him that. I’d stick with one of the more generic fantasies. Maybe the one where he threw me across his desk…

  I closed my eyes and prepared the scene in my mind. Then I opened my mouth to begin.

  “Now, be honest, Sabrina,” he said, cutting me off before I’d started. “It’s no fun if you aren’t honest.”

  My heart thumped louder against my ribcage. Could I really tell him the truth about this? It was so dirty. So wrong.

  I opened my eyes just enough to peek at him. He wouldn’t know if I lied, not if I made it good enough. But he was right—what would be the point of that? Wasn’t my whole fascination with him about this filthy daydream of mine anyway? Wouldn’t it be best to tell him so I could finally get this sick perversion out of my system?

  No. I should tell him because it might be my only chance to live out this deepest, darkest fantasy. And feeding that need, that craving, that endless hunger, was reason enough to be worth it, humiliation and all.

  And, honestly, as humiliating as the act was to think about, it was equally as hot. Hot because it was humiliating.

  I took a deep breath. This time I didn’t close my eyes—I met Donovan’s instead. “You hold me down.” My voice sounded slow and monotone, like a narrator stripped of emotion, but even just that much of my story was enough to make Donovan’s eyes flare. “I can’t get away. You’ve muffled my screams. No one can hear me. No one can help me. You manage to get my pants down—”

  “But you struggled first,” he added, in a similar matter-of-fact tone.

  “Yes.” His addition to my fantasy surprised me, but it added to my arousal. My nipples immediately budded. I brought my hands to my breasts, caressing them, easing them from their sudden heaviness.

  “How did you struggle?”

  “I kneed you, but I didn’t get you where I aimed.” I lowered my glance to his cock and saw it had grown even bigger, which made my breath catch. “Fighting just turned you on more. You punish me with a hard bite on my nipple.”

  He raised his brows, and I realized he wanted me to act this out how I would if he wasn’t there. Taking a nipple between my thumb and forefinger, I pinched and pulled as hard as I could.

  “Harder,” he taunted.

  I tugged harder and tears formed at the corners of my eyes. “Until it makes me cry.”

  He adjusted slightly in his seat, as though his erection was growing uncomfortable, but he didn’t even touch himself. It made me antsy that he didn’t. I wanted to touch him. Wanted to rub my palm across his crown. Wanted to wrap my fingers around him and feel him throb in my hand.

  If I couldn’t have that, then at the very least, I wanted to watch him do it.

  Then I remembered—I had myself to touch. Spreading my legs wider, I pressed two fingers between my folds and began massaging the bundle of nerves in quick, aggressive circles. “You’re rubbing my clit now. You’re rough and you’re relentless, working me to orgasm.” I could already feel it building. This fantasy always brought me to climax fast. “I’m close.”

  “Close to coming?” His voice was threadbare and ragged, a reflection of how I felt.

  “Yes,” I panted. “You’re glad because you’re impatient and you want me to come. Not because you want me to feel pleasure,
but because you hate going in dry.”

  He grinned like he was admitting something. “Nice detail.”

  I had my own confession to admit. “But what you don’t know is that I’m already wet.”

  He threw his head back and groaned in the back of his throat. “Show me.”

  Though I was teetering on the edge, I pulled my hand away from my clit and moved it lower where I dipped two fingers inside me. When I withdrew them, I held them up so that Donovan could see them glistening with my wetness.

  “Jesus, Sabrina.” His expression tightened, and he bucked his pelvis in the air. I could feel his control abandoning him. Especially when I brought my fingers to my mouth and sucked them clean. “Are those my fingers?” he asked.

  “Yes. You shove them so far down my throat I think I’ll gag.” I stick my fingers in my mouth again, shoving them in as far as I can.

  “Fuck, the things I want to do to your mouth right now.” He shifted once more, and I could see his thighs tightening through his pants. “Then what?”

  “Then you fuck me.” Watching him get aroused made me even more turned on. I writhed on the bed, trying to rub my pussy against the mattress. We were both miserable—surely we’d played enough of this game. I needed him inside of me. Now.

  But he didn’t move.

  “Fuck me, Donovan,” I begged. “Please!”

  “No. You have to do it.” He was cold and in charge. “Show me how I fuck you.”

  I whimpered, but I didn’t protest. There was no use arguing with him, and I knew it. Reaching down, I rammed several fingers inside my pussy, thrusting in as far as I could go.

  He sat abruptly forward in the chair. “Three fingers—is that what you always use?”

  “No,” I gasped, drawing my fingers back out. “Sometimes I use a toy.”

  “What else?” He was on edge. I could feel it in the air between us.

  “Nothing else.”

  “If I couldn’t fuck you with my cock, I wouldn’t use a dildo.” His eyes began to frantically search the room. “Next time, use that bottle over there.”

  I followed the line of his gaze to my moisturizer sitting on the nightstand. The bottle was thicker than my toy. It would be an uncomfortable fit, but because the order to use it had come from Donovan, I was more than eager to comply. “Okay. I will.”

  Seemingly satisfied with my response, he returned his focus to me, to my hands and what they were doing, what I was pretending he was doing to me.

  He stood up, as though to get a better view. “Now,” he said, finally, finally drawing his cock out. “Tell me how I fuck you.”

  “Hard. Brutally. It hurts.” I couldn’t take my eyes off his cock, hard and thick in his palm. It made my mouth water, made my cunt wetter.

  “Show me,” he said, stroking himself lazily. “Show me how much it hurts.”

  I thrust my fingers inside of me again and again, rapidly, the way I always liked to imagine him fucking me. The way I always remembered him fucking me. The pressure of my hand helped relieve my discomfort, but it wasn’t perfect. I wanted more. I wanted him. I stared at him, stared at his cock as he ran his hand up and down his shaft, wishing again that I could touch it. Wishing it was closer.

  Without realizing what I was doing, I scooted closer to the edge of the bed. He still wasn’t close enough. “Show me!” I cried. “I want to see you too. Please!”

  For once, he didn’t argue. He walked to the end of the bed and scooped some of my wetness from my pussy. Then, standing over me, he matched my tempo, jerking himself off inches above where I finger-fucked myself. It was so hot, so dirty, watching his hand moving briskly over his thick cock while I imagined he was holding me down, plowing into me instead of his palm.

  I couldn’t take more than a minute of it before my orgasm ripped through me. My back arched and my toes curled and my vision went black and then spotted with lights. It was the kind of orgasm that I felt everywhere in my body. The kind I’d never had with another person other than Donovan.

  Donovan watched intently throughout my climax—I felt his eyes on me the entire time—and when I was finished, he was ready with his own. As soon as I could see again, I threw my focus back to him. His hand quickened and he moved to tug on just his tip. Suddenly, his tempo slowed and he came, spilling everywhere on my belly and my pussy.

  It was one of the most erotic things I’d ever experienced in my life. Even as sticky with sweat and cum as I was. I probably looked like a worn-out porn star, but I felt fabulous.

  Donovan was already tucking himself away and zipping up his pants when I gathered myself enough to prop up on my elbows and stare dazedly at him.

  “Was this you marking your territory?” I asked, sure that I had the dopiest grin on my face.

  “Is that the reason you came up with for your fantasy?” He kept his attention on his belt as he fastened the buckle.

  “Is that not the right interpretation?”

  “No, Sabrina,” he said sharply. He met my eyes. “I came on you because it’s dirty, and it gets me off. Don’t attach anything more to it than that, fantasy or not.”

  My grin slid off my face. More like he’d knocked it off my face by what he’d said. There were a thousand responses that came to mind, too many to sort through in the moment. There was nothing I could do except to sit there, dumbfounded, naked and covered in his cum.

  And what an asshole that he could say something so cold while looking me straight in the eye. To my credit, I wasn’t the one who looked away first.

  He finished putting himself together quickly. “I’m going,” he said, dodging my gaze. He’d taken several steps before—as an afterthought—he asked, “Would you like me to grab you a towel before I leave?”

  “No, thank you,” I said bitterly. “I need a shower.” I suddenly wanted to wash the whole night off of me, wanted to clean myself of Donovan Kincaid.

  He nodded, as if his approval was necessary. At the door to my bedroom he stopped. “Make sure you lock up behind me.”

  Yeah, yeah. Like you care.

  I stood up to follow after him, but when I heard the apartment door shut, the first thing I did was pick up the night cream by the side of my bed and throw it across the room.

  Once again Donovan Kincaid had proven to me that he was a total asshole. It was not the first time. Not even the second time. Why, then, was I always surprised when he showed his true colors?

  A Dangerous Devil, that’s what he was. A Dangerous Dark Warrior Devil.

  After kicking a few things and locking the door, I took a scalding hot angry shower. I was angry as I washed my hair. Angry as I scrubbed myself clean. Angry as I erased every trace of Donovan from my body.

  And it wasn’t just Donovan I was angry with. I was angry with myself. More than anything else, I was angry at getting caught in his trap. I was angry for caring. I was angry, because if I wasn’t, then I’d be hurt, and I was pretty sure that would feel even worse.

  Twenty

  I spent the weekend engaged in a teeter-totter of thoughts where Donovan was concerned. He pissed me off; he didn’t piss me off. I cared; I didn’t care. It was just sex; it was more than sex. It didn’t matter; it mattered.

  By Monday morning, the conclusion I’d come to was that I was a strong woman who’d had dirty sex with a powerful man. It had been my choice, and I owned that. I was grateful for that choice. It had been consensual, and there was nothing to regret or be ashamed of.

  What I didn’t own was the disrespectful way that Donovan had left, and that had nothing to do with me—that was on him. I refused to feel bad about it. He obviously had a fear of women growing attached to him. If he’d thought that I’d grown attached after one roll in the hay or that I’d misread the situation, he’d worried needlessly.

  Or maybe he’d worried as he should. I’d thought about him for ten years after the first roll in the hay—if that wasn’t attachment, I didn’t know what was.

  The point was, I wasn’t planning to
cling, and if he thought I was then he needed to get over himself.

  The only thing I hadn’t decided was whether or not I planned to say something about his nasty departure. Yes. No. The answer changed by the hour.

  It would have to be a bridge I crossed when I came to it. Luckily, I didn’t see much of Donovan on a day-to-day basis without going out of my way.

  Problem was, there were other people that I did see on a day-to-day basis. And, as I stepped into the elevator and found myself standing next to another man in a suit who was both my boss and had seen me naked, I realized I’d forgotten to consider how I planned to deal with Weston.

  “Morning,” I mumbled, unable to meet his eyes. What were the rules of etiquette in this situation? Did I need to tell him about Donovan? Did I owe Weston a heads up? We weren’t together, but we’d almost made out just hours before I’d ended up in bed with his best friend. What was my obligation here?

  While I bandied the two options—tell, don’t tell; tell, don’t tell—Weston fidgeted next to me. His eyes seemed focused on the dial watching as the elevator climbed from floor to floor when he abruptly burst out, “We need to talk.”

  Oh, shit.

  My options suddenly seemed slimmer.

  Or, maybe I was jumping to conclusions.

  “If this is about Friday…” I paused, realizing that wasn’t specific enough. “If this is about the restaurant, I don’t think there’s anything else that needs to be said.”

  “This isn’t about the restaurant.” He couldn’t look at me either, I noticed.

  “Oh.” My hands were sweaty. He knew. He already knew. Donovan told him, and he knew. “Okay.”

  I took a breath.

  This was fine. I’d tell him that I was planning to tell him today. He couldn’t be that mad. We weren’t a couple. He was engaged to someone else, for Christ’s sake.

  The elevator arrived, and I followed Weston onto our floor. Might as well get this over with. “Right now good?”

  He looked at me as though he hadn’t expected anything else. “If you’re free...”