The Wrong Gentleman(9)

“Just on the other side of the port.” I didn’t mention that it was the hotel where we’d had drinks. That would give too much away.

I took off my suit jacket and placed it on the back of the chair before taking a seat on the bed where I could watch her relax before she came closer.

She glanced at me from the corner of her eye and took off her earrings. I didn’t get to witness them much, but I liked women’s routines. They were so different from a man’s. The way they removed jewelry, undressed. The stuff they put on their face and then took off.

“You want a drink? Water?” she asked, reattaching the clasp on the necklace she’d just taken off.

I shook my head. “I like to watch you. Undress for me.”

Heat colored her cheeks. Skylar was so confident on first impression that she didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who blushed. Perhaps that was why her reaction felt so much like a victory.

Every time I thought I had her pegged, had figured out what type of girl Skylar was, she showed me something contradictory. I’d only known her a few hours, but she was like some beguiling puzzle, that the more I examined, the more determined I was to solve.

She turned away and reached for the side of her black dress. The grating of the zip drove the blood right to my cock, and I had to hold in a groan. Keeping her back to me, she let her dress drop and stepped out of the fabric.

Jesus, even in the dim, half-light, the sight of her curves in just a few scraps of lace was more than I could have imagined. Her waist provided a delicious, narrow center of the hourglass, her hips and breasts generously providing the counterbalance.

She glanced at me from over her shoulder. Was she still shy?

“Come here,” I said.

She turned and took her time. The way she seemed to think about and consider every move was entirely arousing. Was she a tease or was she genuinely weighing up the options and deciding for herself what she most wanted to do?

I didn’t rush her, and she finally walked toward me, her hips gently swaying as she put one foot in front of the other. She stood as close to me as she could without touching me. From this angle, every part of her I wanted was on display.

I ran my knuckles up her inner thigh to the edge of her underwear, then nestled deeper. She was going to need to hold on to something, keep herself steady as I broke through her barriers and claimed her body. Any distance she put between us would tumble away as I made her come.

I dipped two fingers under the lace and found her hot and wet. She tipped her head to the side and blinked lazily.

I let my fingers explore, and as I did, it was as if her heat spread from her body to mine and my blood began to simmer in my veins. I grabbed her arse with my free hand to hold her in place. She gasped, her eyes widening, as my fingers dug into her flesh.

I nodded, my fingers working faster, deeper, more rhythmically.

“God,” she choked.

Her pulse tripped against my fingers and she became increasingly unsteady, but despite her protests, I kept working my hand and her hips began to tilt in time.

“Oh God,” she said again, her knees buckling.

I held her steady and kept going—I knew what would make her feel good. She might think I was just some deckhand. Some guy she just met who would never come close to satisfying her.

She was wrong.

“Hold on,” I said. I might not know this woman, might not have her figured out quite yet, but I could tell she was close. My hand was covered in wetness. Her body screamed its desperation to let go despite her reticence.

“Hold on,” I growled, louder this time, pushing two fingers into her.

She screamed and fell forward, bracing herself against my shoulders.

Her silence finally shattered, I basked in every moan every yes every oh God as my erection pressed against the fabric of my trousers, desperate to replace my hand. Fuck, she looked beautiful like this—finally out of control, her criteria ripped to shreds, coming on my hand.

Her fingers grasped the cotton of my shirt, her entire body tightening and then loosening as she floated down from her climax. Reluctantly, I withdrew my hand as her legs gave way and I pulled her limp body onto my lap.

My satisfaction was all about her tonight, which was unusual. I usually liked to start a sexual encounter with a blow job. It wasn’t that I didn’t like turning women on—more that there was something about Skylar that meant I wanted to try a bit harder. She deserved me to work at it. For her.

I gazed at her, enjoying her softness, her warmth, as she pressed her body against mine. Her orgasm-induced haze lifted, and she stiffened as if she’d given away state secrets and had just realized what she’d done, but I held her tight, determined that the mask she wore stayed off.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, cupping her neck. I hadn’t even kissed her yet, but I knew it would be one of the most memorable of my life.

As if she didn’t know whether to encourage or discourage me, she circled her fingers around my wrist.

My heart drummed in my chest as if in warning, of what?

My gaze dipped down to her full lips then back up to those ice-blue eyes and I pressed my lips against hers. She tasted of silk and candy floss—sweet and sexy. I groaned and pressed my tongue against hers. Her fingers dropped from my arm and her body relaxed again. She was trying to hold back but it was futile when she was with me. Guys she dated probably didn’t give a shit about her pleasure, didn’t understand that the biggest turn-on was to make a woman so weak with desire that she’d do anything for you.