His Gift (A Dark Billionaire Romance Part 2) Page 3

I tried desperately to shift his mouth up to mine, but he would not kiss me directly. My lips burned.

  “Kiss me,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to speak during sex, but I wanted this so badly.

  He pulled back and looked at me.

  “Not yet, Lacey,” he said. There was a threat in his face that told me to take him seriously. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of rejection, but when his hands moved down over my body the pang turned to a violent shock of desire.

  We were pressed against my paint, my art, but I didn’t care one bit if I was messing it up. I felt the paint smear over my back as he slid down slowly, easing me down by inches.

  His ruined jacket flew back over his shoulder. He unbuttoned his shirt. One sleeve at a time, the clothes peeled away. He left on his white undershirt. I could see the fabric straining against the muscles of his arms.

  Then I realized what he was doing.

  He buried his face in between my legs. His hands gripped my thighs tightly and his teeth pulled my panties down. I was wet and the chill of the air was nothing compared to the burning desire that shot through my every nerve.

  He licked me and I came instantly.

  Bucking against his hard hands, the orgasm raced through me in thick waves of pleasure.

  “Ohh!” I cried out, shaking so hard my head knocked against the wall. “Oh God, yes! YES!”

  I shuddered again and again against his hot tongue that was still licking, pressing against me. He kissed my swollen sex and I jerked again as the last thrill of the orgasm rode through me. This—was this what sex was truly like? None of my masturbation sessions could hold a candle to the raging orgasms that Jake was able to tear from me so easily.

  It had ripped through my body so quickly that I hadn’t even found the time to be embarrassed. My whole body shivered like it was made of liquid held together by the barest film. My chest heaved with breaths as I tried to gain enough air to stand on my own. Right now I was leaning against the wall and he was holding me up.

  I blinked hard and looked down. He was still kneeling between my legs, and now shame came tumbling in.

  How… why…? I had no answers. I didn’t even have the questions. I only knew that this wasn’t a fair game, that somehow he had gotten the upper hand again even as he knelt and pressed his cheek against my thigh.

  He heard my breathing slow and turned his face up. He was smiling.

  “Again,” he whispered.

  It wasn’t a question, and although I struggled to break from his grip, my efforts were half-hearted. The orgasm was still shivering my body with its force as he whispered the word against my overly sensitive clit. His breath was warm and oh so tempting.

  I put my hands down on his shoulders, meaning to press him away. The paint on my back was sticky; drops ran down the backs of my arms. He was spotted with paint, too, and the more I looked at him the more I noticed that my work had gotten all over him.

  “Your suit,” I said in weak protest.

  “It’s already done for,” he said, and he sounded as if he didn’t mind a bit. A bespoke suit, it probably had cost him thousands and thousands of dollars. And he tossed the jacket aside and smeared paint over the pants… for what?

  For me.

  Heat streaked down my legs as he pressed an open kiss against me down there. He hadn’t kissed me yet on the mouth and I wanted so badly to know what he tasted like.

  Later, he’d said. Later? When I’d first met him, at the party, he said that I was to be his gift for a week. I wondered if he would get bored with me before then.

  I wondered if it would be enough time.

  A pinch on my asscheek made me squeal. His grinning face told me that he wasn’t about to let my thoughts go wandering off again. A swipe of his tongue brought forth another squeal. I never knew that I could sound so girly.

  “You know, I’m not a very patient man,” Jake said. His tongue moved again, hot against my folds. Exploring… probing…

  I moaned when he pulled back slightly. He pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh, although it was slick with moisture. It tickled slightly and I jerked back, but his hands gripped me in a solid vise.

  “I love the noises you make, sweet girl,” he said. He sucked at me then, and explosions of color burst behind my eyelids. I didn’t even know that I had closed my eyes. Immediately I thought of the canvases, of the painted wall behind me. That was how I had painted my frustration.

  How would I paint this? This fury of burning pressure that had already rekindled in my body? How else but red, red and orange and gold, the color of flame? Or blue, flame’s true color, the hottest part of the spectrum. All of the colors, in fact, all except green, his eyes.

  Before I met him, I never thought that green could smolder.

  His hands kneaded the backs of my asscheeks, pulling my hips forward. I screamed softly as his tongue thrust into me, then retreated, then thrust again. My hands had moved down to push him away, but now my fingers threaded his hair and pulled him urgently to me.

  “Yes,” I whispered. I tilted my head back. The ceiling, too, was white, pure white, and just above me the green dripped like a dark growth. The paint was all over, in my hair and on my body, and I didn’t care a single bit. All I cared about was the insistent rhythm with which he thrust his tongue farther, farther inside of me.

  The slickness, the press of his lips, the suction that ebbed and grew, all tore me from side to side. The room had turned hot again and I was breathing hard, my throat burning along with the rest of me.

  Clenching my eyes shut, embarrassment forgotten, I screamed loud as the pressure exploded again through me, bursting like color from a brush onto a perfectly white canvas. I threw my head from side to side, clawing at his back, his hair. His tongue worked me all through the orgasm, pushing me to ever greater heights and sending me flying from the top.

  Every muscle in my body had turned watery and I trembled as he leaned back, wiping his mouth on his undershirt. I nearly sobbed with pleasure. Every new climax he brought me to was higher than the last, and I could not understand how. How had he pulled these sensations from my body?

  This is what I want to paint. This.

  I thought it dizzily, not sure what I meant. My hands were still opening and closing against the hair on his head.

  He stood up, his hands pressing first against my hips, then cupping my elbows. I stayed leaning against the wall, breathless and unable to stand. My eyes closed, I felt his lips brush the top of my hairline.

  “When do you want me to fuck you?” he whispered.

  The question shocked me. It was meant to shock me. I opened my eyes, swallowing. Jake grinned wolfishly.

  I gathered myself for a moment. He was pushing me to the edge again, this time to the edge of my discomfort. He must know how difficult it was for me to talk. Not just because he’d taken away my breath, but because… well, I had never talked about sex before with a guy.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  I shook my head, feeling my brain slosh around in a pleasant haze.

  “I don’t know,” I said again.

  “Come on. How innocent are you, my Lacey?”

  My Lacey. Was I his? Yes. Yes, he’d bought me. He hadn’t bought me with money, though. He bought me with his touches, strokes that sent my body whirling in a storm of pleasure and needing more. More.

  He thought of me as a girl, and now he was asking me to tell him. There was no thought in my mind that I wouldn’t tell him. He would know soon enough. I’d heard about the blood, and the pain, not too bad, they said.

  I couldn’t lie to him. I steadied myself as best as I could and then lifted my head, speaking as clearly, as matter-of-factly as I could.

  “I’m a virgin.”

  ***

  Jake’s eyes stormed over, and for the first time since I’d met him, his emotions showed bare and obvious on his face. One in particular.

  I could see in his
eyes a small flicker of fear.

  “A virgin?” he asked.

  His skin was taut over his forehead. Sweat darkened his white undershirt, showing the damp skin through the fabric. He looked like a wild animal coiled and ready to attack. I let myself breathe in slowly before replying.

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you?”

  The last thrills of the orgasm were leaving me under his eyes. He looked so fierce. Almost angry. I frowned back at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Did you even bother looking up my name?”

  “I’ve only had a few hours, and most of your records are sealed. All of them, in fact. But you knew that, of course.”

  Yes. My parents had paid money to scrub away my teenage crimes. They’d been ashamed, and now as I thought about it, the disappointment they’d shown made me feel utterly guilty.

  They’d punished me back then, too, of course. Not physically, they weren’t that kind of people. I’d hated the punishment. But their shame made me feel so wrong that it hurt me all over again.

  I shook my head. Why did my mind fly to all of my bad memories when I thought back to that time?

  “An article on your high school website showed you graduated five years ago, with your name in the list of graduates. I assumed—”

  “I got my GED at the end of middle school and went to work on my parents’ farm,” I said, thinking about the two-story white building sitting in the middle of a cluster of low oaks.

  “Middle school?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat down, his face pale. He was sitting in a puddle of paint that I’d dropped earlier, the dark indigo now seeping into the gray of his pants. It looked like a bloodstain on the side of his leg, as if he’d been shot.

  When he spoke again, he spoke in one sharp breath, as though he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him.

  “How old are you, Lacey?”

  I knelt beside him. His eyes searched mine for the answer. I couldn’t hold out any longer. It was torture to him, I could see that.

  And, unlike him, I could not stand to torture.

  “Twenty-one.”

  He exhaled. Relief rippled through his muscled arms and he swallowed. His chest bellowed out against his white undershirt smeared with a rainbow of paint.

  He rubbed his temples with his fingertips, sliding them to the bridge of his nose and then back.

  “I’m sorry. You don’t know— you can’t know.”

  Know what? I kept myself from speaking the words. He would give me his past when he wanted to. I could sense that pressing him would make him recoil from me.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  He smiled.

  “Thirty-one.”

  “That’s not that old.”

  “There’s a world of difference. Once you’re out of college—”

  “I’m not in college. I never went to college.”

  He looked at me anew.

  “Of course. That’s right.”

  “Stop looking at me like you just figured something out about me,” I said.

  “Is that how I’m looking at you?”

  “Don’t talk down to me.” Irritation surged through my chest. “You don’t know anything about me. I’m not some pampered rich kid like you, okay? I had to grow up early.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  He patted the ground next to him. I sat, careful to avoid the indigo puddle even though I was covered in paint. My back itched from where the paint was drying. When he looked at me, his eyes searched mine.

  “Tell me about yourself, Lacey.”

  Chapter Five

  The sun had almost reached the top of the Manhattan skyrise buildings. We sat in the middle of the room full of canvases and talked as the room warmed with its light.

  We ate from the silver tray he’d brought. There was a full tea set with cream and sugar. A heap of pancakes was topped with strawberries and handwhipped cream, and another plate was laden high with bacon and eggs.

  I reached for the pancakes and he stopped my hand with a touch of his wrist.

  “Let me feed you,” he said.

  I was uncertain, but I bit my lip. He was trying to do something for me, I realized. Something nice. Something… innocent.

  “Strawberry, please,” I said.

  He picked up a strawberry from the side of the dish and dragged it through the whipped cream. He lifted it to my lips.

  It was the sweetest strawberry I’d ever tasted. I licked my lips and saw him look away. Good. Maybe he would feel some of the unsatisfied desire that I’d felt before.

  “These remind me of the strawberries we had on the farm,” I said. “They were smaller, but just as delicious.”

  “You worked on a farm? Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “Living on a farm? I don’t know. I’ve never been to a farm,” he said.

  I grinned. It was nice to feel like I had some experiences that he hadn’t had already. Lord knows he was way ahead of me when it came to sex. But at least I was ahead of him when it came to farming.

  “We did some homesteading, so there was always harvesting or weeding or canning to do. Mornings you feed the chickens, evenings you go gather eggs. You know, farming stuff.”

  “That’s fascinating.” He leaned forward, his hand stroking one side of his cheek. Wow. He really was fascinated by nothing.

  “I had a vanilla bean plant,” I said.

  “What does a vanilla bean plant look like?”

  “It’s a vine. Grew it right up a string in the greenhouse. I thought it would taste like vanilla ice cream. When a bean finally got ripe, I bit into it.”

  “Isn’t real vanilla—”

  “It’s the worst!” I grimaced while remembering it. “So bitter it stung my tongue. My dad laughed and laughed.”

  “What is your family like?”

  “They’re fine. Nice. Normal. My mom makes the best quilts and my dad yells at the TV during political debates and baseball.”

  I cupped my chin in my hand.

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “Me?” He looked surprised for a moment, then relaxed. “Oh, that’s right. I forget that you don’t know anything about me.”

  “The elusive Jake Carville.”

  For a second, his mouth turned down at both corners. Then he composed his face into a teasing expression.

  “Am I that elusive? I’m all over TV, you know.”

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t have a TV. So sue me.”

  “I think I’m beginning to realize why…”

  “Why what?”

  “Nothing. Nothing,” he said. “So why are you here?”

  “Here? I’m here because an eccentric oversexed billionaire kidnapped me and brought me here.”

  That brought a smile to Jake’s face. A real smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It made him look even more handsome, if that was possible. He forked a piece of pancake up and held it out to me. I took the bite gratefully.

  “No, I mean, why are you here in New York City?”

  I sighed. I remembered the farm, remembered leaving it, waving goodbye to my mom. My dad had already gone out to the fields to finish the harvest. He wasn’t ever much for goodbyes. Even when I called them, he would grunt a few hellos over the phone and then pass it on to the rest of the family.

  Why was I here? I had almost forgotten over the past year.

  “I moved here when I realized that Iowa wasn’t exactly the place to make it as a budding artist.”

  “So you’re here as an artist.”

  “Sort of. I mean, I’m trying. I saved up enough money for a train ticket and a small room to sublet, and I came out here. Now I’m waitressing and bartending. Doing absolutely everything except art. Well, I do art when I can.”

  I thought of the subway cars, of spray paint cans and paint markers. Of
running away from security guards who caught me painting flowers on the aluminum siding.

  I yawned, cupping a hand to my mouth.

  “You must be so tired.”

  “A little.” The pancakes had settled into the bottom of my stomach, and my stupidly high libido had calmed down. The previous night was starting to catch up with me. When had I slept last? I didn’t even remember.

  “Let’s get you to bed.”

  “Okay. Wait! I have to call in sick for work.” My boss at the diner would kill me if I didn’t show up. I was supposed to be there at eleven, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it in at all. Oh well. I’d never taken a sick day before. She could deal with it.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay.”

  He sounded so gentle, so sure. He would take care of everything. Of course. He had control, didn’t he? Complete control.

  ***

  He picked me up in both arms, as before. But this time, he held me so gently that I could have sworn I was floating on clouds. My head lolled against his shoulder. All of the paint on me had dried over my skin and underwear.

  I was tired, so tired. If I had a few cups of coffee, I would have been okay to work. In my mind, I could see all of the disgruntled customers. The endless plates of food. My boss, pacing the floor.

  But it was okay to take a sick day. That would be fine. He would call. Jake would call them. And I would sleep…

  Where would I sleep?

  I lifted my head from his shoulder and peered ahead. He was carrying me down the hallway. I could see the paintings on either side of me, their elaborately carved wood frames glinting and gilded. The carpet, plush like the thick grass that used to grow under the oak tree in my backyard.

  “Where are we going?” I mumbled.

  “So curious. We’re taking you to bed.”

  “To your bed?”

  The expression on his face showed a slight shock, and his next step was quicker. He strode down the hallway to another door, this one diagonal to the art studio.

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “Jake?”

  Again the slight wince, and I felt guilty. I’d forgotten that he didn’t like me to use his name.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. A flush spread over my cheeks. How could I ask him anything so intimate? But I had to know.