Park Avenue Prince(32)

In his apartment, we stood in front of the couch, holding hands, looking out onto the city.

“Did you feel it?” he asked, keeping his gaze forward at the skyline as if he was trying not to look at me. “Between us, at the auction house?”

I knew what he was asking. There was a pull toward him, a need to touch him, a desire to be alone, together.

I nodded and he turned toward me. “I wanted it to be just you and me.” He released my hand and cupped my face, stroking his thumbs over my cheekbones. “I like you.”

His eyes flicked to my lips.

There was nothing but the sound of our exaggerated breathing in the air.

“I like you, too.” I shouldn’t like him—I should think he was spoiled and indulged. Except that he didn’t seem that way at all.

He sighed as if he were disappointed. Slipping my jacket from my shoulders, he didn’t take his eyes from my face. Not as he undid my sleeveless shirt, leaving it to fall to the floor. Not as he removed my skirt. Not when I stood in front of him in just my underwear. He stepped back and finally let his eyes trail down my body. Just his glance intoxicated me, each part of my body lighting up as he inspected me. “Sam,” I whispered, urging him to take pity on me, to touch me.

My cry brought his gaze back to my face and he stepped forward. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, Princess.”

My fingers fumbled at his shirt but he knocked them away and unbuttoned it quicker than I could have. My body was weakened by him. Relief flooded me as I placed my palms against his chest. I’d been waiting to touch him, to kiss him. He took his pants off and snaked his arms around my waist, one hand smoothing up my back, the other down to my ass, holding me against him. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his forehead pressed against mine.

“You. I want all of you,” I replied.

He groaned as if just my words increased his need for me. “You don’t know all of me, Princess. Not yet.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I want it all.”

He pushed his lips against mine, urgent and needy. Our lust had been let off the leash; I just couldn’t get enough of him. I pulled at him and he gripped me tighter. My hands went from his neck to his chest to his sides. I couldn’t decide where I should hold him, where I could feel enough of him, get enough of him.

He lifted me and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, our lips never leaving each other’s, our tongues pushing and reaching as he walked across the living room.

His hands went to my hips, holding me as he encouraged me to unwrap my legs.

“Bend over, Grace,” he said, turning me so I faced the couch. I shivered and leaned over the black velvet arm, the fabric pressing against my warm skin, softly grazing my nipples.

Sam smoothed his palms up my spine, then down and over my ass. “Beautiful,” he whispered, then his touch left me. I pushed up on my hands and glanced over my shoulder. “Stay there,” he said from a few steps away. He crouched, rummaging in his pants pocket. I took the opportunity to admire his body, his hard thighs, the peaks and troughs of his arms where muscle overlapped muscle. He stood and walked toward me, his thick cock flat against his stomach. Jesus.

Strong was the only word to describe Sam Shaw. And it wasn’t just his body that earned that description. When he spoke, the way he walked—everything about him exuded strength. Like rock, having weathered a thousand years of the world, Sam was strong inside and out.

“Are you ready?” he asked, stroking his hand across my lower back.

Couldn’t he tell?

I opened my legs and turned my head so he couldn’t see my smile as he moaned. The crinkle of the condom wrapper delayed the feel of his cock at my entrance. I sagged, relieved he’d soon be inside me, hoped he’d cure this need I had.

“You want more of me?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he said. “I want to hear it.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice small and desperate.

“Say it louder,” he bellowed.

“Please. I want you deeper. I want all of you deeper.”

He slammed into me and I slid against the velvet. He hooked his hand over my shoulder, driving me onto his cock. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He pulled out. “Tell me,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yes, I want it. Please, Sam.” What was he doing to me? This man had me begging for his dick. But as he drove into me again, my questions disappeared and I could only concentrate on the way he filled me up. I had no control over my body. The heat. The layers of pleasure that seemed to settle over me with every thrust. Sam gave me everything and I lay there, feeling like I could give him nothing in return.

His thighs pressed against mine as he continued to f*ck me. His hands tugged and pulled at my waist, my hips, my neck. I was covered in him.

I wasn’t used to taking from a man. I was used to giving, to concentrating on making him happy, making sure he was getting what he needed. All I could think about was how good this felt. How perfect Sam made me feel.

He withdrew and I reached for him, but his hands left me, too. I snapped my head around, but before I had time to argue, he’d pulled me up and sat my ass on the back of the sofa. “That’s better. I can see your eyes,” he said, pushing into me again. His pace was less feverish this time, slow and steady and deliberate, as if he’d regained some control now that I’d admitted I wanted him.