Mogul (Manhattan #2)(2)
“Do me hard,” I whisper, unable to stop kissing him, sliding my fingers into his hair.
“I’m doing you hard.” He shoots me a look so full of sexual innuendo that I expect to turn to cinders any minute. “And repeatedly.”
The man takes my lips again and gives my tongue the best massage it’s ever gotten. A massage that promises my whole body a happy ending.
I stroke my fingers along the front of his slacks, and I cannot even measure how big he is, because he’s huge, and something about him being this well endowed, and about him being ready to give it to me, makes me wetter and wetter. I stroke up and down and feel myself pant, my whole mind on fire with thoughts of him—how good he feels, smells, kisses, because this is so lit.
He is LIT.
Sara
The day before…
I’m back in New York after a delay in Houston and a storm above Manhattan that kept us circling for an extra half hour. I’m beat and moody, but glad to be home, as I head out the terminal with my suitcase rolling beside me.
I’m ready to fill up the tub and forget this weekend entirely, including the fact that my family has broken apart in what feels like a blink.
I never saw it coming.
I thought my parents would age together, right to the end. I thought they were happy. I thought they were one of the precious few couples in the world still in love with each other.
But it turns out that my dad no longer loves my mom. I don’t know who’s more devastated, my mom or me.
Distracted by the thoughts, I realize too late that I’ve walked down the taxi line—a line that indicates at least an hour wait—to the front. “Line’s back there,” a moody older man grits out through his teeth.
Startled, my eyes scan to the back of the line and my heart sinks. I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. Last time I tried grabbing an Uber at the airport, it was hell. The guy couldn’t find me and I couldn’t find him, and I still got charged. Nobody likes to get charged for a service they never enjoyed, so I hesitate.
Scanning the area, I notice a man in a suit about to board a taxi. I approach, wondering if I can ask where he’s headed and if I can share a ride.
The man is bubbling hot, and he knows it, but I try not to get caught up in that. I am too exhausted.
As the taxi driver loads his suitcase into the trunk, the man’s gaze slides to me. He lifts his brows expectantly and I open my mouth and quickly blurt, “Nolita. Going anywhere near?”
He steps back and purses his lips as if annoyed, but motions for me to board.
I bristle in defense, a New Yorker’s instant reaction to the hostility we face on a daily basis, but I hastily pass my suitcase to the driver and quickly hop inside the cab. The man slides in behind me and shuts the door while I tell the driver my address.
My defenses begin to drop once we’re on our way and fantasies of my hot tub return to my mind. I turn to thank the man, but he already has his phone to his ear. He speaks with a deep voice and his answers are a series of curt grunts.
He seems like a bit of an asshole. Like the type of man with expectations who isn’t used to hearing the word no.
During my years at the NYU dance academy, a lot of the male performers I ended up dancing with expected to go to bed with me. I became an expert at fielding them off. I even had a special move I used when they went in for the kill—I’d push my arm out, palm up, and quickly turn my head. I called it the “hell no.” It was enough to get the message across so I thankfully didn’t need to say it; the hand move was far more subtle.
Will I need to use the hand move with this guy?
Excellent question, Sara. Though something about him is making me think of a different kind of hand move. I shiver as I stroke my gaze up his hard body.
“Yes, and FedEx a copy to the hotel,” he barks.
I shift, and his gaze drops to my miniskirt.
I feel my brows rise in disbelief, but he’s too intent on staring at my thighs to notice. When he speaks into the receiver again, I feel as if he’s speaking to me. “I’m telling you just open it up, pull it out, and get it to me as soon as possible.”
I squirm in my seat.
His eyes lift and his lips curl at the corners.
I try not to audibly pant when his eyes trail downward again. I swear I see a glimmer of lust in his eyes, but his expression is unreadable.
“Thanks. And have Roberts call me when she gets in.”
He cuts the call and pockets his phone.
He glances at me in silence.
He looks like business, but underneath his suit is an appeal so raw I can only wonder how it would feel to claw my nails under that white button shirt, undo his tie, grab him by the collar, get that perfect black hair mussed, and feel his damn gorgeous hands on me.
He narrows his eyes when I lick my lips; then he looks away, out the window, and sighs, dragging a hand over his face. He curses under his breath, shaking his head and twisting his lips sardonically.
I start to wonder if I hallucinated the sexual looks between us when he curves his lips higher and knowingly says, “Come closer.”
I start and let out a small laugh. “Does that usually work for you?” I whisper.
“I don’t know. Does it?” He shoots me a lazy look, and his inky black eyes reveal a glimmer of mischief.
He sighs, tugs on his tie to loosen it a fraction, and leans back against the seat of the car. “Had a long day.” He kicks his feet out and looks at me as if expecting me to massage him or something.