Park Avenue Prince(18)

“Does being that direct usually work for you? You know, with women?” I wasn’t trying to provoke. I was genuinely interested. I couldn’t remember a man being so blunt about wanting me before. Generally, it was me who made the decision that I wanted someone. Had there ever been a time when a man had asked me on a date? Most of my boyfriends couldn’t afford dinner.

I’d never considered it before but Sam’s aggressive pursuit of me brought my actions into sharp focus. I’d always given men all the power.

“So, just so I’m clear,” I said, “what happens after the f*cking?”

Sam’s smile turned from wicked to amused. “After?”

I eyed my glass, wanting the illusion of bravery that it gave me but holding back from taking another sip because I also wanted to be lucid.

For the f*cking.

I wanted to find out what it was like to be pursued. To be under a man as big, as confident, as in control as Sam Shaw.

“Nothing. I don’t do anything other than f*ck.”

Oh. So, it was just sex that was on offer. My only other one-night stand had been in college. I couldn’t remember if the sex had been good, and that probably meant it hadn’t been. Certainly not memorable, in any event. Something about Sam Shaw told me a night with him would never be forgotten.

“I’m not so tightly wound, you know,” I said. “I live in Brooklyn.” He didn’t have me pegged.

He let out an almighty guffaw.

Heat whispered across my cheeks. I suppose it sounded silly, as if I were trying to make out that because I lived in Brooklyn, I wasn’t the Park Avenue princess he thought I was.

“I’m not sure you ever grow out of where you grow up,” he replied, his voice soft as he stroked the small of my back as if in apology.

I placed my hand on his chest, not knowing if I should push him away or pull him closer.





Chapter Seven

Sam





“So, Grace Astor,” I said, taking her whiskey glass and placing it on the windowsill next to the bottle. I wanted to kiss her. Touch her. Fuck her.

“So, Sam Shaw,” she replied, looking up at me from under her lashes. Her body had become more and more receptive to me as our conversation progressed. I could tell she was weighing up the pros and cons of sleeping with me.

She was a Park Avenue princess—I’d met plenty since I’d made my money—but I liked her. Grace didn’t fit the stereotype. Most people cared far too much about things that didn’t matter and not enough about things that did. Grace jibing me about buying art when I knew nothing about it was an interesting position to take when it was her job to sell art. It drew me to her. Like the photographs she had next to the Degas—the juxtaposition didn’t make sense, but worked at the same time.

I circled my arms around her waist and pulled her toward me. She didn’t resist, but she kept her hands cautiously on my forearms. She wanted me—she just didn’t know how to be okay with that.

“I don’t want to get f*cked on a mattress on the floor,” she said, her eyelids flickering.

“We really don’t have to do this at all.”

“I want to.” She looked away, nodding. “Just not there.”

“You want to go to your place?” I asked. “Or a hotel?”

She pulled the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth, then slowly released it. I couldn’t stop myself from rubbing my thumb along the reddened flesh.

“Here’s okay. Just not on the mattress.”

I wasn’t quite sure what her issue was. Was it the mattress, or the fact I’d had women there before? I hadn’t, but she couldn’t know my MO was to go back to a woman’s place. I didn’t mind. I just wanted to get her naked. Where wasn’t my concern.

She slid her hands up my arms and rounded my shoulders, as though tracing her hands over my body so she could remember me in another time or place. I removed one hand from her waist, tucked her hair behind her ears then pressed my fingers around the back of her neck.

Her entire body seemed to sag with my every touch as if I had some kind of power in just my fingertips. She was soft—her skin, her hair, the way she spoke when she was embarrassed. She felt good to hold, but I knew she’d feel better beneath me.

I turned us around and walked her backward until she was pressed against the drywall next to the La Touche. There was as many unanswered questions surrounding the woman in the painting as I had for the woman in front of me. My hands circled her waist, my thumbs dipping below her waistband. I felt her desire in the quick twist of her hips and it fueled mine. I ducked my head, my lips finding hers.

She locked her grip to the back of my neck, holding me in place—as if I’d go anywhere. I took her hands in mine and brought them over her head. I wanted to kiss her, to find our rhythm, our mixed breath, before things went any further.

Her tongue was as soft as the rest of her, but not as confident as I’d expected. I liked it. I wanted to guide her.

She tasted like cherries—sweetness with a hint of sour—her edges disappearing under my fingers and my tongue. I pulled back to look at her, wanting to see her reaction splashed across her. Slowly, she opened heavy eyes, as if she were coming out of anesthesia. Her lips were red, her normally sleek blonde hair mussed.

Perfect.