Just One Night, Part 1: The Stranger (8 page)

CHAPTER 11

I
WORK LATE
, WHICH
is hardly unusual for me. I’m the last one in the office. Even Tom Love left more than an hour ago. But I’m feeling energized. Blame it on the suit . . . or the sex. I laugh to myself. Yes, it’s more likely the sex than the suit.

In my hands and covering my desk are statistics, facts, and numbers. I’m using them as building blocks to craft Robert’s professional dreams.

And if I succeed, what then? What if I manage to chart a path for Maned Wolf’s complete market domination? What if I gift-wrap that particular treasure map and lay it at Robert’s feet? Would he be amazed? Would he worship me?

But that’s not what I want. I like the way Robert sees me. There’s a gritty realism to his affections. Our attraction to each other is almost brutal . . . and yet our lovemaking never has anything to do with distress or affliction.

What I want is for him to thank me, with his eyes, with his mouth, with his tongue. I want him on his knees, not in worship, but in service.

These are the thoughts I’m having when my phone rings.

It’s him. As usual, his timing is . . . opportune.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m at work, playing with numbers . . . for you.”

“Oh, I doubt your motives are completely altruistic.” His voice sounds gravelly through our shaky connection. It has so much texture, I feel like I should be able to see it.

“No,” I admit, “I do take some pleasure in it.”

“There is nothing more spectacular than the vision of you in a state of pleasure.”

“Now, now, Mr. Dade, is that an attempt at some kind of sexual innuendo?”

There’s a pause on the phone. I know his thoughts. He hadn’t expected me to be this playful. I told him I would never let him touch me again.

But I’m rubies. Not diamonds. I’m not sure of what I want anymore and my awareness . . . my
acceptance
of that uncertainty feels like a triumph.

And triumph makes me playful.

“You’re done with work for the day.” It’s not a question.

“Am I?”

“Meet me out front.”

The line goes dead.

Without hesitation I stack the papers filled with numbers into a pile. It’s not as organized as it should be but a little carelessness feels appropriate.

I take off my blazer and open my briefcase. Inside is the sheer shirt.

I take off my camisole and then my bra before putting on the top.

My heart is pounding in my ears as I shrug back into the blazer. There is no pretense this time. I know what I’m going to do. I don’t know if it’s going to be the last time or not. I don’t care. My body wants to explore and this time I don’t feel the need to deny it.

I make my way down to the street and it’s only a matter of minutes before Robert Dade pulls up in a silver Alfa Romero 8C Spider. Its sleek lines and elegant power fit perfectly with my mood. He doesn’t say anything as he gets out of the car and opens my door for me. It’s not until I’m in the passenger seat that I hear him say, “I like your suit,” before slamming the door.

It’s been ages since I’ve been in a sports car and I’ve never been in one like this. The seats hug me like a lover while at the same time keeping my posture erect, ready to react to whatever adventures the vehicle might bring me to. Everything is silver or black. No bright colors are necessary for this beautiful beast to be the center of attention.

Robert Dade gets in beside me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Robert turns to me, the key is in the ignition, his hand on the leather-cloaked steering wheel, the engine rumbling. “To my place.”

I answer with a smile then shift my eyes to the road as we roar away from the curb.

I’ve never asked Robert where he lives. I assumed Hollywood Hills, Santa Monica, perhaps somewhere among the mansions of Beverly Hills. But he lives in West Hollywood, on a hill, above the hustle and bustle of Sunset on a windy little street no one would think of traveling if they didn’t know someone who lived there. The homes are impressive yet far short of astounding. But then the dark hides the more subtle elements of their design, so it’s hard for me to make judgments.

And the truth is that they could never hold my attention, not even if they were each five stories high with gold-plated awnings. That honor now belongs exclusively to the man by my side. He’s been driving the car in sports mode the whole way, gently adding pressure to the paddle shifters occasionally to take fuller control of the ride. I sense his thoughts are racing much faster than the car. He wants me here but he doesn’t trust it. I sense it in his refusal to turn his head in my direction, as if I might be scared away with a look. I can tell by the way he holds on to his silence, as if one wrong word might awaken me to my previous declarations.

But I’m not changing my mind and as he opens the automatic gates with the touch of a button, I reach over and let my hand slide over his thigh and then up, letting him know my intentions, my desires, my willingness to go forward.

He breathes out of clenched teeth as if it’s all he can do to keep himself from grabbing me, pulling me out of my seat, and taking me right here in the street, before we even have a chance to get to his intimate little driveway.

But like the car, he restrains his power and pulls us delicately into the driveway, then into the open garage waiting for us.

There is no other car there, though there is a motorcycle. It’s not chic or dignified like the Spider. There’re no special chrome accessories or add-ons to speak of. The seat has seen better days. Mud clings to its narrow black tires.

I love it. I love that this man with his exquisite car has a motorcycle that emanates nothing but rugged and gritty masculinity. Again I look at Robert’s hands: beautiful, rough, strong but at times so very gentle.

Yin-yang. And as he puts his hands on my face, as he holds me still, as our eyes lock and my own hand coaxes out another primitive and powerful reaction, I feel our wholeness.

“I don’t often invite people over,” he says. “I don’t entertain. But ever since Vegas, I’ve wanted to bring you here.”

“Why?” I ask. “You’ve had me in your hotel room, your office, on the screen of your computer . . . why do you need me here?”

“Because,” he says, then pauses as he searches for an answer. “I’ve been inside your walls,” he says slowly, “and this is the only way I can think of to bring you more fully inside of mine.”

I’m unsure of how to respond, so I wait for the kiss I know is coming. It starts soft but then quickly becomes more demanding—his tongue sliding against mine. He holds my head still and I press my breasts forward trying to bring myself closer to him. My hand toys with him. I have no patience. I want him, every part of him, now. His erection is full and complete and I wonder if anyone has ever made love in a Spider.

But Robert pulls away. He removes my hand as he takes a breath to calm himself and bring his body back under his control.

Well, partially under his control. His body, like mine, aches to explore.

He gets out of the car and I wait as he comes around to open my door. Again we fall into silence as we step into the driveway. The house doesn’t look like much. I can see only a wall and a door that looks like it leads to . . . maybe a small closed-in front yard? Maybe nothing at all.

But when he opens it, I am greeted with everything. The entire city is beyond this wall. A view that stretches to the beaches of Santa Monica. We stand on top of a hill, feeling a thousand miles away from the lights that decorate the vast city beneath us. But of course we’re not so far. Only a two-minute drive to Sunset, where the hot dog restaurants complement a few strategically placed nightclubs.

I feel his fingers dance up and down the back of my neck, sending shocks of heat through my nervous system. The house that goes with this private front yard is to my right. It’s built onto the slope of the hill, which is why it’s virtually invisible from the street that leads to it. Stilt beams hold it up, fragile-looking things that have the strength of Greek gods.

I let him lead me through the front door; the home has walls of windows and I imagine what it must look like in the daylight: bright sunshine illuminating dark wood. But for now the only light is the light of the city. He finds a dimmer switch and gives me enough illumination to see the room’s design a bit more clearly. The place is hardly immaculate but it feels comfortable. There’s bold and abstract artwork on his walls.

One painting in particular draws me in. I can’t say for sure if it’s of lovers or even if the figures depicted are fully human. But it has the essence of unbridled passion. Two beings hold on to each other as a swirling mass of color and utter confusion appears to try to tear them apart. But they’re stronger than the anarchy; their desire is more brilliant than the colors.

Robert steps up behind me, presses against me. I can feel his strength; I can feel his desire pressing into my back.

I stare at the painting as he unbuttons my blazer. The might of the painting is in the two embracing figures. That’s what matters.

The rest is nothing.

My blazer falls to the floor.

Slowly he turns me around and takes me in. My nipples are hard and strain against the sheer, tight fabric of my top. He traces the outline of my breasts.

“You’re magnificent,” he says.

I slip out of my heels. I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes but I don’t mind. My hand reaches for the button of my pants and with no effort I pull them off. The only part of my suit that I’m wearing now is this scandalously sheer shirt.

“Look at me,” I say quietly.

He steps back, his eyes slowly traveling up my legs, to my panties, to my exposed breasts, to my neck and my lips, and finally my eyes before they reverse their journey on the way down.

“Do you see who I am?” I ask. “Or do you just see what you want?”

I see a flash of understanding as he brings his gaze back up to meet mine. “I see a woman who can be incredibly authoritative and a woman who is exposed. I see that you are as forceful as you are tender, absolutely brilliant, and just a little bit naïve.”

“What else?”

“I see . . . I see that you have the courage to face your fears. You’re a little bit scared right now, aren’t you?”

I answer with only the slightest nod.

“What are you scared of, Kasie?”

I tremble even as I smile. “You tell me.”

“All right.” He takes a step forward and caresses my body with his stare one more time. “You’re scared of the part of yourself you have begun to unleash.”

“Partly.”

“You’re scared of how much you want me. Maybe you’re scared because right now I can do almost anything I want to you without your issuing a single protest because you know that the things I want to do are the things you want to happen.”

I swallow, hard. But I won’t look away from him. He takes another step and runs his hand up my inner thigh until he presses against my panties, only the thinnest fabric between his fingers and my clit. I know this dance now but I still gasp as his fingers begin to move.

“I see who you are, Kasie,” he says. “And it’s the only thing I want to see.”

My legs are shaking and I reach forward and grab his shirt, holding on to him out of both necessity and passion.

“Take me to your bedroom,” I whisper as the shivers take over every part of my body. “I want to make love to you on your flame-colored bed.”

His hand moves away and in a moment I’m up in his arms, being carried like a princess down a discreetly placed flight of stairs. The room he leads me to is massive, easily as big as the living room above us. I see his desk with his computer. I see the expensive chair.

In the center of it all is the bed, which I feel as he lowers me onto it. I feel it against my skin as he removes my panties. But when he takes off his shirt, his jeans, and all the rest . . . well then I can only feel him . . . the pressure of his muscles as they press down on top of me. His lips as they devour my neck. I pull off the sheer top. Every inch of my skin must touch his. The flames are not coming from the bed but from inside me. My hand goes to his erection and I feel my own potency as it twitches in my hand. Every ridge is familiar to me now. I know how to touch it to make him go crazy and I toy with him, enjoying the staccato nature of each breath he takes. But I don’t object when he pulls away, lowering his mouth to my very core. I shake as his tongue plunges deep inside of me, tickling me, making me wetter than I have ever been before. I can’t keep quiet. I moan and cry out as I grab on to the comforter beneath my arching my back, almost pulling away, almost afraid of the intensity of what he’s making me feel. But he holds my hips still, refusing to let me go, using his thumb to pull my skin taught around my clit so he can lick and taste every hidden corner, forcing me to experience what I’m afraid of and what I long for.

The orgasm is so strong, I think it’s going to split me apart. I have no control. I don’t even have the ability to want the control I’ve lost. I don’t recognize the guttural sounds that are coming out of my mouth. I have no power to resist when he comes back up, hovering over me, taking a long, hard look at my trembling naked body before kissing me, his taste mingling with my own. I feel his erection pressing up against me but he won’t enter. He’s teasing me and my desire is driving me absolutely wild. I struggle to push myself down, struggle to force him inside but he grabs me by the arms and holds me in place. I have to wait, and the wanting, the lust, the impatience . . . it’s bringing the intensity to heights I hadn’t even known it could reach.