The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

44. The View from the Balcony

44

THE VIEW FROM THE BALCONY

Gunnar

Rafe is unstoppable.

In that black suit, purple shirt, and no tie, he’s coming for me, and I hate that I’m vibrating at the thought of being near him.

I will myself to feel nothing.

I can’t let myself fall for the guy again. He’s unavailable. He made that crystal clear.

But in three more seconds, he’ll be right in front of me.

Three, two, one . . .

He stops. “Gunnar.”

“Rafe.”

His brown eyes are hard as they lock with mine. “I need to talk to you.”

What the hell?

He disappears to another continent and then demands an audience?

Fuck that. Screw the way my skin is buzzing. Fuck the way my cells are humming.

But the man is one of my sponsors, so I better be professional.

Somewhat professional.

I cross my arms and lift my chin. “About what?”

“About something I said,” he bites out, like he’s angry at himself.

But I still don’t like his attitude. He broke things off. I took it like a champ because I care about him. I hated seeing him torn up over doing the right thing. I let him go because it’s what he needed. He doesn’t get to show up and order me around.

I pretend to smile at someone in the distance. “Gotta do this later, Rafe. I need to say hi to Tanner.” Then I step away, heading for my bud.

Rafe darts out a hand and grabs my wrist, gripping me tight. The man is strong.

“What is it?” I ask, trying to stay impervious.

He steps close enough that I can smell his cologne, and I hazard a glance at his gorgeous face. His eyes are shells. He’s devastated.

My heart thaws a degree or two. Maybe more.

“Please, Gunnar,” he says, pleading like a broken man. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m half pissed, half intrigued. I scan the room. The ballroom is swimming with guests and the entryway is packed. But not far from us, there are doors to the balcony.

I head that way, weaving through the glittery crowd, and he follows. I slide open the door and step onto the terrace, eight floors above the New York street. He steps out behind me and closes the door behind him.

It’s just us out here on a balcony, and I’m free to let out what I’m truly feeling in my shattered heart. “What the fuck, Rafe? You come in? You demand an audience with me?”

He stares at me like I’m the first food he’s seen in weeks. “I lied,” he confesses like it’s a mortal sin. “And I’m sorry.”

Curiosity edges out my other emotions. “What did you lie about?”

“I said I had to go to London early for meetings.”

Wait. Whoa. “That was a lie?”

He nods, contrition etched across his face. “I had to escape you, Gunnar, and then I lied, and I came here tonight to tell you.”

I reel at his words. Why would he have to escape me? Why did he want to admit he lied? “We were already broken up.”

He grimaces. Good. Saying it hurts me too. Seeing him hurts. Wanting him hurts.

“I knew the date of the photo shoot, and I wanted to see you desperately. I didn’t know if I could stay away,” he says grimly. “I stared at the calendar and pictured showing up at the shoot, asking everyone to leave, then pushing you against the wall to show you how much I’d missed you.” Each word sounds scraped and rough. “I didn’t know if I could be in the same city and stay away.”

“You were in the same city with me the whole time before the shoot,” I point out. I mean, logic matters.

He drags a hand through his hair, his eyes pinched. “It was the idea that I knew where you were, where I could find you at a particular moment, someplace I’d have an excuse to be. I wanted to tell you that I missed you. That’s why I got on a plane.”

I’m crackling. I am dynamite, and he’s lit the fuse. “And now?” I ask breathlessly.

He curls his hands in fists as if he’s fighting not to touch me. “This time, I flew across the ocean to tell you I lied when I promised you I wouldn’t.” He takes a big breath as if to fuel his final words. “I came because I miss you so much, it’s driving me mad.”

I close my eyes, fighting with the anger and desire tearing through me. When I open them again, I set a hand on his chest and grab onto his purple silk shirt. “Goddamn you for showing up, Rafe. Goddamn you for confessing that. I was getting over you, and you just came here to destroy me.”

His eyes flare with heat, and he licks his lips. “Do you want me to walk away?”

“Fuck you. I can’t walk away.” I yank him against me, and I kiss him ruthlessly.

My lips smash into his, and I consume his greedy mouth. I pour my soul into the kiss, biting his lip, sucking on his tongue, making him moan.

I push my body against his. I grab his firm ass in one hand while the other cups his stubbled cheek. I jerk him closer, and we grind together. My back’s against the wall right next to the sliding glass door, barely out of view from the party.

I kiss him relentlessly, driving him wild. He’s a man undone, hands grappling at my shirt, cock pressing against my hard-on.

When I break the kiss, he’s panting, and his dark eyes are rabid as he cups my cheeks. “I have been going crazy,” he murmurs.

“Well, I already am,” I confess.

“Show me how crazy,” he demands.

“I will.” I grab his hand to push his palm against the outline of my aching cock.

“Yes,” he growls, sounding drunk on lust.

So am I. My head is a haze; my reason is shot. I move his hand against my hard-on and take staggered breath after staggered breath as he strokes me.

I’ve missed this so fucking much. Missed him.

I glance at the city spread out in front of me. At all of New York looking at me. Owen’s warning words flash in my brain. Someone could see you. Someone could have a camera.

A spark races through me.

I want all of New York to watch Rafe get on his knees and suck me off. I want those people in the building across the street to stare at me, unable to stop watching the dirty show unfolding on the balcony.

I want to be seen.

I undo the belt on my slacks, then the button, then the zipper. Rafe goes wild. He shoves a hand inside my boxer briefs and grips my cock. I groan. At last. At long fucking last.

He strokes me, and I am fucking his fist already.

“Need this,” I rasp. “Need to come.”

I push on his shoulder, guiding him to the floor. But Rafe sets a hand on my chest and wheels around so his back is against the hotel wall. He’s looking out at New York night now. No one in the ballroom can see us.

He grabs my chin. “That’s not how we’re doing it,” he says, intense and commanding. “Get down on your knees and suck me off.”

Yes.

I want that more than I want a blow job. I drop to the ground, unzip his pants, then take his thick cock in my mouth. I don’t tease him. I don’t flick my tongue against the head. I draw him in deep, all the way to the back of my throat. I inhale his cock, wrapping my lips tight around his length. Immediately, he’s fucking my face. I gag, and he whispers in a mean voice, “Take it.”

And I take, sucking as he pummels the back of my throat. Curling a hand around the back of my head, he rasps, “Give me your palm.”

I lift my hand. He spits in it. “Stroke your cock,” he demands. “I’m going to watch you get off while you get me off.”

Oh, hell yes. My dick is already leaking.

I grip myself, using his saliva and my own arousal to slick up my cock. As he fucks my mouth, I fuck my fist. He growls and drives into my mouth without mercy. Saliva runs down my chin. I nearly choke. All he does is grunt out a quick, “You okay?”

I nod, and I stroke, and I suck. My dick throbs. My balls tighten. My thighs shake. My fist flies faster and faster as my orgasm marches through me and then ignites all my senses. I spill all over my hand as Rafe’s salty, musky taste floods my throat. I drink him down, and then he slides out of my mouth. He drops to his knees and gently, but purposefully takes my hand from my dick, bringing it to his mouth. Then, with his eyes locked on mine, he licks my climax off my palm and from between my fingers, murmuring as he goes.

I shudder at the sheer eroticism of it and the tender, possessive care he’s taking with me.

When he’s thoroughly licked away the evidence of our balcony tryst, he brings his mouth to mine and kisses me so softly, so gently, that I could dissolve into his arms.

We sigh into each other’s mouths, tasting our orgasms on each other. Tasting our longing.

Finally, he presses his forehead to mine and says, “Please come back to my room with me. Spend the night. I miss you so fucking much.”

I want that more than anything. But his Bespoke deal isn’t done. He’s still not available.

And I don’t want only one night.

I stand and tuck my dick back into my boxer briefs, then I zip and button my pants as Rafe gets to his feet as well.

At last, I answer him, the words ripping me apart. “There’s nothing in the world I want more than to go back to your place. But I made you a promise in San Francisco that I wouldn’t get in the way of your work. And I care about you too much to go back on it. Look me up when your deal is done, and if I’m still single, I’ll let you know.”

And then I walk away from the man I’m in love with.

Damn him.