The Price Of Scandal(60)

The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered under her skin. The molecules of air between our bodies were charged with electricity. I was aware of every breath she took.

“I don’t want to be seen. And I don’t know if I want to be fucked into oblivion by you,” she said, destroying my world with her words.

“With all due respect, darling, you’re a shit liar.”

Her grin was devastating.

“I’m not asking for a relationship. For an all-access pass to your life—”

“You already gave yourself that,” she complained.

I gave her a wolfish smile. “Can you blame me? I want to be close to you. So close I feel you close around me like a fist while you’re calling my name. Will you shout it? Whisper it? What will you look like when you let go?”

The color on her cheeks heightened.

“This is wildly inappropriate,” she reminded me.

“This is life, Emily. Two consenting parties who agree that we don’t require a fully functioning relationship in order to have a good time together.”

“What do we require?” she asked with equal parts interest and suspicion.

“Hours. Uninterrupted. Uninhibited. Unhindered.”

Her lips, painted in that glossy, tempting rose, curved.

“I need to think about it,” she said softly. Her hand toyed with the hair on my neck, and I reveled at the touch.

“When you figure out exactly what you need from me to make your answer yes, tell me.”

“And then?”

“I’ll remove any and all obstacles,” I promised.

A peal of laughter drew our attention. Venice Stanton was hanging on her son as they danced a poorly choreographed tango around their table.

“On that note, I think it’s time to go home. I have some thinking to do,” Emily said.





Traffic had cleared and the limo was waiting for us out front. I slid into the back next to her on the bench seat. Her bare arm brushed the sleeve of my jacket, and I thought about how very close we were, yet, thanks to a few layers of material and all of Emily Stanton’s impressive invisible walls, we were still miles apart.

The slit of her gown parted over her leg as we pulled away from the curb. I admired the long, lean lines. Unable to help myself, I rested my palm on her thigh, just above the knee. Together, we stared down at my hand on her silky length of leg.

As far as touches went, it was practically platonic. Except for the microscopic strokes of my thumb.

She could think all she wanted, but I wanted those thoughts to be clouded with the perfume of lust. The material of her dress heard my darkest wishes and slid open, exposing more flesh.

I tested her, sliding my palm an inch higher. My pinky finger rested indecently on her inner thigh. Even in the dim light, I could see her nipples puckering against the material of her dress. Her breath was short.

“Just so you know, Emily,” I said conversationally, “I’ll be thinking about you tonight. I’ve held off as long as I can.”

She shifted ever so slightly in her seat, and the movement brought my hand higher still. That pinky finger was so close to heaven, I could feel her heat. One move and I’d be able to stroke right through those soft folds.

Was she wet for me? Was she throbbing with need like I was?

My cock had turned to stone during our dance and was showing no signs of transforming back to flesh any time soon.

“What will you do while you think about me?” she asked, gaze still glued to my hand.

My fingers flexed on her thigh.

I glanced toward the privacy glass and back to her. I was leaning into her, drawn to her with a gravitational pull. I could hear a heartbeat and wondered if perhaps it belonged to both of us.

“I’m going to go home, get in the shower, and stroke my cock while I think about spreading your legs and feasting on you.”

Her intake of breath was sharp. The material of her dress dipped low on her breasts. Those golden peaks were mere inches from my mouth.

“I’ll think about this moment, when I’m a breath away from you.” I brushed my lips softly over the curve of her breast millimeters from the nipple straining to escape. “I’ll think about how wet you’d be for my fingers.”

My finger curled back and brushed delicately over the seam of her folds.

Her breasts rose with her breath, begging for more. I traced my tongue along the edge of the dress, dancing over the circle of her areola. I was torturing us both. She had the power.

“And then?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“And then I’m going to come in my own hand wishing it was you.”

I gave her nothing more than the tip of my tongue, my finger. Leaving us both trembling with need. When the car came to a stop in front of her house, we broke apart like guilty teenagers.

I helped her out, discreetly adjusting my cock while she tugged her dress up to better cover the rosy tips that had just started to appear.

The ache was painful, and I knew one shower jerk-off wasn’t going to put a dent in my pent-up frustrations.

“Walk me to the door, Price?” she suggested.

I waved off the limo and followed her past my car, up the winding walk, to her front door.

“Sweet dreams, Emily,” I said, fighting the urge to touch her. I’d given her enough. The ball, and my aching dick, were both in her court.