The Deal / Turn Me On. Clare Connelly
start in life probably didn’t hurt.
‘Your eyes,’ he murmurs, scanning my face thoughtfully, and my heart rate kicks up a gear, so that I doubt my veins are going to be able to hold the blood in place. ‘They’re so…’
Instinctively, I blink, shuttering my eyes from him. They’re a very dark blue, the colour of the sky at dusk, and I know it’s unusual. I don’t want him to recognise me. ‘No cheating,’ I say, taking the champagne flute he offers, lifting it to my lips. ‘This is secret.’
‘Right.’ His grin is pure devilish heat and his expression is one of amusement. ‘Well, Miss Anonymous, what’s your thing?’
‘My thing?’
‘Yeah. What are you into?’
I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t have a lot of spare time. I guess, reading…’
‘Fascinating.’ His laugh is a slow vibration that travels around the room before landing at the base of my spine, sending little shards of awareness through my nerve endings. ‘But I meant, in bed.’ He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his fingers lifting to curl the edges of the wig, teasing the flossy pink strands between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Right.’ I slap my forehead exaggeratedly and my smile holds a silent apology. So much for acting as if I do this all the time. ‘I’m…a little out of practice.’
‘Are you?’ His gaze flicks to my cleavage again, lingering there for so long a faint murmur escapes my lips. Heat travels along my body as though he’s touched me.
All I can do is nod.
‘Why is that?’
We’d agreed not to discuss anything personal. I think of how to answer in a way that won’t give me away. ‘I’ve been single awhile.’
His smile is just a lazy flicker of those sculpted lips, framed by a squared jaw and a brush of stubble. I like the stubble. I itch to feel it and rather than denying myself that impulse, I surrender to it, lifting my hand to his face so I can run my fingertips over his jaw.
It shouldn’t be so sensual, but just the act of touching him like this is so illicit and sinful that I make a low, husky sound, my body trembling with the first flush of desire.
‘So you are nervous?’ He comes closer, so our bodies brush, and then he moves behind me, so close I can feel his nearness, his warmth, even though he doesn’t quite touch me.
He dips his head forward, something I only realise when I feel his breath on my shoulder, warm and smelling of champagne.
My knees tremble.
‘Look.’ He lifts his hands to my shoulders and angles me slightly so I can see us in the mirror. The sight of myself in this costume—so different from my usual appearance—and Nicholas Rothsmore at my back, his long, tanned fingers curved over my pale shoulders, fills me with a need that demands indulgence.
‘Tonight, we’re just two people.’ He speaks slowly, the words buzzing right against my ear. ‘Who came here to fuck.’
I swallow, my throat moving convulsively. His coarse description sends a frisson of awareness down my back, because he’s right. This is physical, primal, animalistic. ‘Right.’ I went into the forum looking for this. I don’t know why I’m panicking at the eleventh hour. I draw in a deep breath and smile slowly, calming my nerves.
‘That’s what you want?’
‘Count on it.’
His hands move to my back, where a delicate lace ribbon holds the corset together. He loops a finger beneath the bow, watching me with a hint of mockery as he pulls on one loop, loosening it appreciably.
‘You can stop this at any time, if you change your mind,’ he murmurs, pulling on the other loop.
My breath snags in my throat. I shake my head slowly from side to side. No way on earth am I going to put a stop to this.
‘Good,’ he growls, easing the corset down so my breasts spill over the top. He stops moving and stares at me in the mirror, his eyes hot and possessive, glued to my body as though I’m the first woman he’s ever seen.
Strangely, I don’t feel at all self-conscious now, despite the fact I haven’t been naked in front of anyone in a really long time. I’m someone who wears underwear even at the gym or the spa; when other women seem perfectly happy to strip down completely in the sauna or whatever, I’m buttoned up in the corner, sweating into my cotton.
I just don’t really do the naked thing.
But here, in the privacy of this intimate room, wearing a mask, with a prearranged lover loosening my lingerie, I have no reluctance; not even a hint of hesitation. This is what we’re here for. It’s just a transaction.
Convenient, satisfying sex.
At least, I hope it’s satisfying. His reputation sure as heck precedes him, but then, sometimes the myth is bigger than the man.
I don’t chase that thought down; I don’t have time to think about that. His hands are running up my sides, his eyes on mine in the mirror as he brings his hands around front to cup my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples and tweaking them so I let out a low growl, the pleasure from such a simple touch totally overwhelming.
‘I don’t want to stop it.’ The words are squeezed from my throat, breathing and speaking almost completely beyond me.
‘Good.’ Another husky admission before his fingers are sliding into the corset, pushing it even lower until it hits my hips and then falls apart completely, leaving me standing in just a scrap of elastic and lace. His eyes hold mine as he slips a finger into the waistband of my thong and then flicks it. I jump a little, and laugh, the sting unexpected, and unexpectedly sensual. Especially when his hands caress the area almost instantly, soothing the flesh.
My pulse is trembling like a fire in my veins and heat is rushing my insides. He moves his hands around my hips; still watching me intently in the mirror, he slides one hand into the front of my thong. I’m so glad I waxed there too.
His fingers brush my flesh, finding my clit with expert precision, moving over it slowly at first, so I gasp because the touch is unfamiliar and for a second I fight an urge to ask him to stop, because I haven’t been touched here in a really, really long time. And never like this. He is some kind of maestro because the very idea of objecting disappears from my mind almost instantly as I succumb to the blinding heat of this pleasure, this possession. It’s just the lightest touch but flame explodes to molten lava and I’m burning up, heat in every cell of my body, every nerve ending.
His mouth drops to my shoulder, kissing my flesh there, moving closer to the nape of my neck. His breath is cool, his kiss warm, his touch perfect and suddenly pleasure is like a lightning rod, forking through me, so I have to bite down on my lip to stop from crying out.
‘Don’t be quiet,’ he urges, and I blink, finding his eyes in the mirror. He’s watching me with an intensity that robs me of breath, his steady grey gaze fascinating and intelligent and somehow all-seeing, so I feel as if beyond my arousal he must be comprehending so much more about me right now. As if he might be seeing into my buttoned-up soul, might be seeing all of my usual tensions and removing them from me.
And I don’t care.
‘Look,’ he prompts, lifting one hand to my breast and cupping it, while his fingers work faster until I’m tumbling so close to the edge of a ravine that I can only exhale in short, shallow rasps. There’s nothing to grab onto; nothing to save me from falling.
‘Watch yourself,’ he says more insistently, though it takes me several seconds to process his words because my brain is no longer firing on all cylinders. All of my blood is busy being pleasured inside my body, being lit on fire by his intensely skilled ministrations.
‘Oh, my God.’ The words tumble from my lips and then