Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(44)

It was like he was happy.





Chapter Thirteen


What was it about Jack that turned her into such a…slut? Normally, she hated that word, but something about him made her want to do the hottest, most forbidden things she could imagine. With him she felt wanton—slutty in a good way. Liberated.

Lying belly down on the marble island with her legs hanging over the edge, she’d just gotten to the point where a niggle of doubt was starting to worm its way into her bravado. Maybe she did seem like a slut. He’d waited out there just long enough to make her wonder if she’d misread the signs yet again. She’d laid herself bare—literally—and she wasn’t sure she could take another dose of his indifference. But when he finally came into the kitchen, she heard him breathing heavily. Then he went completely silent for a few beats before breath returned, shallow and uneven. The pulse of desire between her legs became an insistent drum beat.

“Tomorrow is Wednesday,” he said.

What? That was the last thing she expected him to say. She started to push herself up.

“Don’t move.” A hand settled on her back, and she stilled. “Tomorrow is Wednesday. I assume you have to work at the bar.”

She nodded, trying to twist her head around to see him. She couldn’t read his tone without seeing his face. He sounded almost angry.

“And we leave early Thursday,” he went on. “And then it’s done.”

She nodded again. He must need reassuring once more that she wasn’t going to try to cling to him beyond the confines of their agreement.

“Between now and then, with the exception of your shift at the bar, you will be here.”

She tried to say something about having to go to her place at some point to pack, but he wasn’t listening. He just talked right over her.

“Right now, I’m going to f*ck you senseless. Then, between now and Thursday morning, I’m going to make you come so many times that you’ll be begging me to stop.”

She hadn’t finished a sharp, involuntary inhale of surprise—and desire—before he was on her. The crinkling of a condom wrapper, and then he was pushing his way inside her. There was no foreplay, and she didn’t want any—she was already wetter than she could ever remember being. Just his warm hands anchoring her hips as he entered her. Once he was buried to the hilt, he paused. She loved the feeling of being filled by him and released a shaky sigh. His hands travelled up from her hips, over where her dress was bunched up around her waist, and along her arms until his hands covered her own. He guided them up, over her head, and wrapped her fingers around the lip of the counter on the other side of the island.

“Hold on,” he whispered. And then his hands were back splaying her thighs and he was pounding into her, the only sounds in the room the slap of his balls against her ass, his labored breathing, and the gasping she couldn’t seem to control as heat coiled in her belly. He was pounding into her so hard she was inching forward on the island. She never wanted it to stop, but all too soon, he groaned, and time seemed to stand still for a moment as he froze, buried in her. Then his hips bucked wildly for a moment, and he collapsed on her.

“Cassie,” he whispered, making her name sound like a prayer. “Cassie.”

…

Ten. He was counting, and by the time she left for the bar the next afternoon he was up to ten. He was beginning to see the utility in retaining a lover for more than a day or two. He’d always prided himself on making sure his partners left his bed satisfied. But they always left. This arrangement with Cassie, once he got over his initial fear that she wasn’t going to know when to say good-bye, was proving very interesting. When the same woman stuck around for a few—or ten—orgasms, you could start to figure out exactly where her edge was. There was something to be said for taking a wild, running leap over the edge. Nothing wrong with that, in fact. But once you knew exactly where the edge was, like within millimeters, you could keep her teetering there almost indefinitely. A little practice yielded the secrets. She liked her nipples, the left in particular, flicked with his tongue. Her ankles were sensitive.

But it wasn’t altruism. He loved watching her come, yes, but he was a selfish bastard. Even more than that, he loved feeling her tightening around his cock, her face screwed up in pleasure. He loved hearing her sob his name, gasp for more. He loved having the power to make her lose her beautiful mind.

Ten. Double digits had been the goal, and when he got her home after her shift tonight, he was aiming for a baker’s dozen, at least.

Or maybe he wouldn’t wait until she got home. He pushed through the door of Edward’s, thinking maybe they would revisit their spot in the alley. He glanced at his watch. Three hours till she was done.

She must get a break, though, right?

The bar was moderately crowded, and she didn’t see him initially because she was engrossed in a conversation with a customer whose wine glass she was refilling. He could tell she sensed the arrival of a new customer, though. Her face didn’t change, and she smiled and nodded at the sixty-something woman she was serving, but she listed almost imperceptibly in his direction. The palms of his hands began to itch.

Backing away from her customer, she set down the wine bottle and turned, still half the bar-length away. It took a moment for her to register it was him, and when she did her smile turned from generic to…something else. Enormous. She lit up like the Christmas tree in his living room. As she came closer, he could see she was turning pink. Good. He couldn’t make her come here, but he was stupidly glad to see that he could still affect her.