Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(69)

Behind me, I hear him whipping off his belt and the zipper of his trousers being yanked down. He pulls my thong string to one side and uses the other hand to run his hardness up and down my dampening slit.

I let out an involuntary moan. “Please.” I want him to own me. My arousal has been simmering all day ever since he took control of the stage; now it’s a pot ready to explode.

He lifts my hips and thrusts his cock deep into me. Once he’s in, he pushes me down onto the dresser, so I’m at a right angle, then he really gives it to me, his hips slapping against my thighs.

I practically convulse. This is angry sex, not tender. Crazed, urgent sex that makes me want to start an argument with him every day. As he pounds relentlessly, his hand curves around my hip and his thumb rubs circles on my clit.

“Ah!” I cry. The man can multitask.

He teases my clit faster with his fingers until my whole body is shaking.

I grip the dresser for control. “Tristan,” I moan. “I can’t take it. I’m going to—”

“That’s right, Elly,” he cuts in with a possessive growl. “You’re mine.”

Tristan, I groan over and over as his fingers massage me relentlessly. With one final thrust he releases into me and shudders so hard, a glass falls from the dresser.

Holy shit.

My breathing is out of control. “I think I might be going into cardiac arrest.”

Behind me, his touch becomes tender as he moves my hair to kiss my neck. I feel drops of his perspiration.

“You’re mine too,” I whisper, staring straight ahead.

He’s silent for a moment while he adjusts my thong and smooths my dress down past my thighs. “I’m yours too,” he repeats gently into my neck.





23




Tristan

I leave Danny and Jack playing the last few holes by themselves. Danny gets slower every time he tries to beat me. He can have this one; today I’ve got no time. I’ve been crawling in traffic for two hours across central London and the exhibition closes in twenty minutes.

Finally, my phone tells me I’ve reached the destination, a humble-looking library in South Tooting.

I coax the car into the parking space, feeling apprehensive. I have a surprise planned for Elly, and I'm not sure how she will react to it. I’ve arranged to meet her at Megan’s art exhibition then we can drive to the surprise. I haven’t seen enough of her this week.

I have some making up to do since I over-reacted at the all-staff event. I don’t handle jealously well after my previous experiences.

It doesn’t take long to find them in the library. They are the last stall of about twenty selling various crafts, paintings and soaps. Charlie would like this. The crowd looks like it's dying.

“Hi, ladies,” I say as I approach the table. “I’m sorry I’m late, the traffic was horrendous.” My mouth comes down on Elly’s, restraining myself enough to kiss her like a gentleman in public.

Her breasts press against my chest as she breaks the kiss. I resist the urge to run my hands all over her body.

“You should have taken a chopper,” she teases. “Better late than never.”

“I sold a fucking painting!” Megan cuts in. “It’s the first I’ve ever sold! A hundred quid! This time next year I’ll be a millionaire.” She grins, doing a little victory shuffle.

“That’s amazing.” I step back to take in her paintings, which are mainly landscapes. They’re not bad at all, although some look a little rushed. “You’re very talented, Megan.”

“I know.” She shrugs, making me chuckle.

“Have you been to all these places?” I ask, scanning the landscapes of Tibet, China and, I think, Peru.

She shakes her head. “Not all. Some are from pictures. You’ll recognise these ones.”

She points to a collection featuring white houses with blue domes in the signature Greek landscape.

“Beautiful.” I smile. One in particular catches my eye. It’s a girl sitting on a beach in a summer dress. Her long brown hair is flowing in the wind and the brush strokes have aptly captured her long, graceful neck and high cheekbones. “I love this one,” I murmur.

“Thought you would.” She smirks.

I cross my arms over my chest. “How much?”

Megan's eyes light up as her brain ticks over pound signs. She knows I’m not going to hustle with her in front of Elly. Let’s hope she doesn’t say a ridiculous figure like fifty thousand.

“Tristan,” Elly starts, “you don’t need to—”

“Elly, you ain’t the seller, buyer or barter so stay out of it,” Megan cuts in quickly, her eyes glinting.

I cock my head, waiting. “Well?”

She licks her lips, sizing me up. “Three thousand!” she shouts.

“Steady on, Pablo Picasso,” Elly grumbles. “At least give him a realistic price.”

Megan doesn’t speak. She studies me, as I pretend to mull it over.

“Sold,” I say simply.

“Yessssss!” She screams, making every stall holder turn to see what the commotion is. I laugh and stand back as she fist-pumps the air.

Elly stares between both of us, dazed. “Tristan, you don’t have to do this. Megan! See sense. Three grand?”