Chapter 9
NINE
Bennett
I could be locked away in the dining room, but I’m working at the desk in the living area of my suite, determined to torture myself.
Or not.
Depending on who comes to service the suite today.
I’m acting like a three-year-old with zero self-control. What on earth am I hoping to achieve by sitting here while she cleans around me? A boner? Apart from that, nothing positive can come out of me being near her, unable to have her.
Yet here I sit.
The click of the door lock echoes in my ear like it’s a mallet on a gong. Does it indicate the start of something or my impending doom?
Either. Both?
I don’t look around to see if she’s here today. I’m concerned that if the older woman is with her, she’ll know immediately what I’m thinking. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself.
I try to work. I respond to emails. I try to read a report one of the technicians has sent me, but I read the first line over and over. It’s like someone’s coated the words in Teflon and I slide over them, unable to absorb their meaning.
I don’t know how long it’s been, but the room has gone quiet behind me. I’m tempted to stand, to investigate if there’s anyone still here. Before I can, my eye snags on someone emerging from the bathroom. I snap my head back to the laptop before I can see who it is, but I already know. I can feel her. She’s here. And it brings me peace and war in the same breath.
What is it with this woman?
Okay, we had a great night together. A fantastic night together. There was a connection beyond the physical that I’m not used to feeling. But I’ve built a billion-dollar company. I’m used to being able to give up the temptation of tasting the apple of today to grow the orchard of tomorrow. So why is resisting her so damn difficult?
Yes, she’s beautiful. But this is New York City. Beautiful women are everywhere.
And she’s smart. Like really smart—even though she says it herself. That’s a turn-on, sure.
Then there’s her ass, so deliciously round in contrast to her narrow waist, begging my hands to span the luscious width of it, moving her to my will.
Her long legs that draw me in, like a road I know leads only to nirvana.
And that smile that tells me she’s in on the joke, but isn’t about to tell me until I’ve told her all my secrets.
I’m so fucking done.
Unable to resist any longer, I turn around, not caring what expression she sees on my face. She’ll know I’m looking for her and her alone.
I hear something clatter to the ground in the bathroom and somebody mumble something.
Then she emerges. She wipes her hand down her apron, pulls out the duster tucked into her pocket and heads into the living area.
We lock eyes, and she grins at me like I’m the best man she’s ever known. It’s a smile that hits me in the chest with a smack and then fractures into a thousand tiny splinters that lodge into every atom of my body.
Fuck.
She doesn’t say anything and neither do I.
Her colleague is probably in the bedroom.
All I can do is watch her as she goes about resetting the bar, scooping up my whisky glass from last night—the drink I used to take the edge off the frustration of being at her apartment and not being able to do what I wanted to her, with her, together.
When she’s finished at the bar, she starts to wipe down other surfaces, cleaning them free of dust. She starts at the bar and works her way around the room in sections from top to bottom.
I’m mesmerized by the movement of her hem as she bends and stretches. At one point she keeps her legs quite straight and picks something off the floor; her skirt rides up so high, I can almost see her panties. Is she deliberately teasing me?
I shift in my chair. I can’t take my eyes off her. She ignores me completely. Doesn’t glance over at me once. She moves along the room counterclockwise, dusting as she goes, lifting up magazines and lamps, bending to catch the bottom of floor lamps and the legs of chairs and side tables. She works thoroughly and consistently, and she’s graceful and sexy and I can’t stop looking at her.
She edges ever closer to me, but I don’t move. She must know I’m watching her. She must feel my eyes on her.
She crouches beside my chair and dips underneath, her ass on perfect display, right next to me. If I reached out, I could grab?—
Before I can form a thought, she maneuvers herself closer and brushes my thigh with her hand.
“Sorry, sir. I want to make sure I don’t miss a spot.”
It takes everything I have not to groan and pull her ass into my lap.
But I still don’t know if we’re alone. Surely she wouldn’t risk us being seen?
She leans across me to get to my desk, her heavy breasts dangerously close to my mouth.
“Efa…” I rumble.
“I just need to get a little”—she steps between my thighs and reaches up behind me—“closer.” Her skirt rides up higher and higher, and if I dip my head, just a little, I can see black lace.
She turns, still between my thighs, and leans over the desk.
My self-control tunnels into oblivion.
I slide my hand up her inner thigh and she continues to arrange my desk. Let’s see how long she can pretend I’m not touching her.
“Are we alone?” I scratch out.
She nods but doesn’t say anything. I trust her. I trust that she wouldn’t put either of us in a situation where anyone could discover us like this. Maybe she hasn’t earned that trust. I don’t know her well enough, but my gut tells me she gets it. She’s not going to expose us in any sense of the word.
My fingertips slip from her soft skin to the delicate lace of her underwear. She pauses for just a second before picking up the telephone receiver and wiping her duster over it.
I slide my fingers over her folds, finding her hot and wet and perfectly ready for my dick.
“You want it so bad,” I say.
“You’re right, sir,” she says in a singsong voice. “I’m desperate to have everything dust-free for you.”
My breaths are heavy and needy. She sways her hips, pushing my fingers deeper. I reach my arm around her thigh and find her clit.
“I think it’s my dick you want.”
She whimpers.
“I think you can’t get enough. I think you’re so fucking desperate to get fucked you’d do anything.”
“By you,” she blurts, circling her hips.
“What?” I snap.
“I’m desperate to get fucked by you. Only you.”
I push my chair away and stand. If that’s what she wants, that’s what she’s going to get. I’ve tried to resist this woman. I’ve tried to do the right thing. She knows in no uncertain terms that I’m not going to put her on the Fort payroll, yet still here we are, my fingers covered in her.
I grab my wallet from the desk and clumsily fumble for a condom. There’s not time for me to feast on her. We both need release.
I need to fuck.
She needs to be fucked.
We both need to come or… god only knows what’s going to happen.
I yank down her panties and push up the skirt of her dress so it bunches around her waist. In an effort to try to prove that I’m still in control, I press the crown of my condom-covered cock down through her soaking folds, once, then twice, before I push into her.
“Jesus Christ,” she calls out.
“Be quiet,” I grunt.
Bells ring in my ears. I tighten my jaw and grip her hips. I feel like I’m about to unravel. Like she’s a kitten and I’m a ball of yarn and she’s got the end of me between her teeth.
She’s stripped me of my self-control, had me walk back on the promise I made to myself that I’d never be tempted to use my position of power or wealth to take advantage of anyone or anything. Even though she’s assured me she wants this—wants me to fuck her, not because I’m Ben Fort, or because she thinks it will help her land her dream job—it’s not good enough. Growing up in Hollywood, I saw men use and abuse their power. I swore I’d never do it.
Then along came Efa.
She feels so perfect, so tight. Her sounds echo around me, piercing through the ringing in my ears. She reaches one hand back, pressing her hand over mine, like she’s feeling something more, something deeper—a connection.
I curl my hand into hers and thrust into her over and over. She whimpers, gripping my hand, my cock, and my chest from the inside out.
Fuck… this girl.
“No more teasing,” I say. “This is what you wanted. This is what you practically begged for.”
She’s panting, so close to the edge that I know she’ll be undone in seconds.
And thank god, because I can’t hold it together any longer. I need to be pressed up deep inside her, ripping her orgasm from her so I can have mine.
She trembles beneath me, her legs begin to shake. “Oh god,” she cries out. “Oh god,” she cries again, panic in her voice. It’s like she’s turning to liquid in my hands, I thrust up, up, up and follow her over the edge, my orgasm crashing over me like a landslide.
Shit.
We stay, bent over the desk, panting until our breaths even out.
I shift, already craving her tight heat as I slide out of her. She stands and smooths down her skirt. She turns, her face flushed, her legs still damp with a mixture of me and her. I can’t take my eyes off her.
The condom in my hand, I continue to stare. She looks up at me from under her lashes, like she’s back to being the submissive maid.
My jaw clenches. “Show me your pussy,” I growl.
Her eyes narrow in confusion, but she gathers her skirt up her thighs to reveal her underwear.
I nod in appreciation. Already I want her again. Once wasn’t enough. I’m staring at her panties. “Let me see.”
I groan as I see how her wetness has darkened the lace, and then she pulls the fabric free of her pussy so I get to see the bare flesh I’m already craving again. My heartbeat is rattling in my chest. If I can’t have her again, she’s going to feel me all day as she works.
I upend the condom and my come drips out onto the lace; bright white evidence of what just happened between us.
She gasps and looks up at me, then bites down on her lip. I lift my chin slightly in victory and she blinks, long and slow, like she’s dizzy with desire.
I drop the condom into the trash and she lets go of her panties with a snap. She’ll feel my come on her pussy every step she takes for the rest of the day. The thought makes me want to beat my chest, lock the door, and do nothing but fuck her again and again and again.
I zip up my pants and buckle my belt.
She tilts her head slightly and smooths down her skirt. “Is there anything else I can do for you… sir?”
All I can do is growl at her, and just as I’m about to suggest she gets on her knees, the whir of the suite door’s lock pulls our attention, and we both snap our heads around. I feel like a naughty schoolboy who’s about to get caught with his hand in the candy jar, but I wouldn’t take any of it back.
She picks up her duster from where she’s dropped it on the floor and scurries over to the couch. I flip open my laptop.
The blood in my ears is pounding, my orgasm still whispering in the distance as I stare at the screen.
This is my fucking hotel, and I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, but I don’t want to get Efa into trouble. I imagine bending over for guests is frowned upon.
The older woman comes through the door and heads to Efa. Is she going to suspect? I can’t imagine anyone can fuck like that and not have the aftermath showing somewhere—a graze on her neck, a rumpled uniform, the scent of lust.
But I only hear the two of them moving around the suite. After just a couple of minutes, they disappear, and I can breathe again.