Chapter 18
Ivy
Taking whatever this is any further with this man is up there with the stupidest things I’ve ever done—and there have been a few—but I don’t care.
Everything has been so shit lately, and I’ve felt so bloody lonely and overwhelmed and old before my time.
But right now, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen has his boner pressed against my front and his lips pressed against my neck, and my blood is pumping with the arousal of us having wound each other up so savagely, and I basically could not give a flying fuck about anything that isn’t this or him.
None of it.
I’m done.
Yeah, it’s broad daylight, and we’re in a building that’s probably half glass, and it’s almost certain that he’s using me as some kind of quick, kinky, and totally inappropriate distraction from his own problems.
Once again, do I give a fuck?
I do not.
All there is is his scent, and the heat pumping off his body, and those hard muscles under my hands that make me wonder if he spends more time helping out Flora’s hot under-gardeners than he lets on.
He may be a pompous dickhead, but he’s a hot pompous dickhead, and right now he’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever seen.
(I have a horrible feeling that he’d be the most intoxicating thing I’d ever seen even if I wasn’t in this particular state.)
‘You’re right,’ I gasp. I’d tell him the earth was flat if it got me laid right now. ‘Show me you can handle me.’
I force myself to pull away enough that I can see his face, and Jesus.
If I had any doubts that he needed this as badly as I do, they’ve vanished into thin air with one glance at him.
The expression in his eyes is downright dangerous.
He looks like he’s been snorting lines. It gives me the courage to grit out, ‘If you bail like you did last time, I’ll fucking castrate you. I’m serious, Xav.’
It’s in the back of my mind that this is what might politely be called a double standard.
That if a guy said that to any of us at Alchemy, if he tried to take away our right to quit at any moment in the proceedings, he’d be out on his ear.
So I’m hoping Xavier takes it in the spirit in which it’s meant.
You know, as a horny compliment instead of a blatant sign that I’m a sex offender.
His filthy grin tells me he does. He slides a hand through my hair and around my neck.
‘I wouldn’t be capable of walking away even if I wanted to,’ he tells me, and then he’s dipping his head and claiming my mouth and holy mother of Jesus, there is nothing else that matters in this life aside from his mouth dragging over mine and his tongue, hot and wet, demanding entry.
Holy fuck, he does not mess around.
‘Xav now, is it?’ he mutters into my mouth before his tongue finds mine and winds tautly around it in a way that makes me want it between my legs now.
I grumble something garbled that’s supposed to be shut up, and he chuckles softly while continuing to kiss me, which is far more attractive than I’d like it to be.
The kiss escalates quickly. I pull his hair (obnoxiously soft) and grab at every muscle I can (obnoxiously hard) and push up against his dick (which I already know is obnoxiously, excellently big).
Either we’ve both made up our minds, or we’re both terrified of the other changing their mind, but we’re most definitely on the same, very smutty page.
I’m used to getting it on with guys in Alchemy’s Playroom, a place where everyone’s a sure thing.
I didn’t think this would happen with Xavier, I really didn’t, and the sheer, unexpected joy of it has me giddy.
I want to climb him as if he’s the very tall palm tree in the middle of the orangery.
I want my hands on every part of him all at once.
I want every appendage he has to offer inside my body right now.
And the best bit?
He seems to feel the same way.
Next thing I know, he’s yanking the straps of my tank and my bra down over my shoulders.
He tries and fails to get my bra unhooked without breaking our kiss and then, with a frustrated grunt, just shoves everything straight down around my waist. The shock of him baring me like this, in broad daylight, no permission asked and none required, has me gasping into his mouth.
(Okay, so maybe it’s more of a moan. Or a whimper.)
He pulls away, eyes wild, mouth swollen, hair mussed, as he takes in my tits. ‘And to think I was worried I’d imagined you,’ he says roughly. To his credit, he looks back up at my face as he says it. ‘I could never, ever have imagined all this.’
Then he’s on me again, hauling me closer, taking great, greedy handfuls of one boob as he fists my hair once more and kisses me as if the world is ending.
He’s so much less circumspect than I thought he would be.
Less apologetic, less polite. This exceptionally well-bred man is kneading my boob in full daylight, taking and taking as if it’s his birthright.
As if I’m his birthright. As if disrobing common young ladies in not-so-secret corners of his estate is par for the course.
As if I’m fair game.
My pussy, which has been quietly throbbing throughout our verbal foreplay, leaks again as he pinches my nipple and rubs it hard between his thumb and forefinger.
He’s not even doing it for me. I can tell.
He’s doing it for himself. He’s acting in that blind, fevered way guys do when they’re getting lost in you.
He stops our kiss so he can crouch and take my nipple in his mouth instead, kissing and sucking and licking with deep pulls that echo through my entire body before switching to the other one.
His mouth, his hands, are all over me, and I stare down at the top of his dark head, clawing at his lovely soft hair as he goes to town on my tits.
We’re both making a lot of noise: little cries from me every time he sucks, and low, male grunts of appreciation from him, and my God, I’ve done some seriously kinky things in my life, but standing under a spotlight made of sunshine as a divine aristocrat suckles on my boobs and dust motes swirl prettily around this great, gorgeous space might just be the most arousing moment of my life.
‘I’m too close,’ I warn him, because I don’t want to come like this. It’s too much of a bypass. I want actual clit action when I come, not just the crappy friction of me squeezing my thighs together.
He pops off my boob and gazes up at me, his hands still banding my rib cage in a way that makes me feel like his most prized possession. His lower lip is all wet, and I can’t help but drag my finger over it.
‘That’s what I call a high-quality problem,’ he says, and next thing I know, he’s straightening up and marching me backwards until my thighs hit the stone ledge.
He makes quick work of my clothes, unzipping my jeans and shoving them, my pants, my bra and tank down until everything is pooling around my ankles. ‘Sit.’
I do, yelping a bit as my arse hits cool stone. In a flash, he’s kneeling at my feet, tugging off my trainers and socks and then everything else until I’m stark, bollock naked in front of him.
Now, I’m a girl who has very few inhibitions, clearly, but it feels so—I dunno—brazen for him to be stripping me in broad daylight surrounded by tropical plants, you know?
And I think the same thought strikes him because he gets to his feet with that dangerous look on his face and in his eyes again, taking me in, in all my bare glory.
I plant my hands behind me and lean back a little, tossing my head so my hair falls back over my shoulders and swinging my legs.
I love that he’s taken all my clothes off and that he’s still fully dressed.
I love that the huge tent in the front of his jeans looks like the Rock of Gibraltar.
I love that he seems to have recovered from all his moralistic bullshit last time over my Alchemy status.
Who knew the only thing I had to do to get him to stop clutching his pearls was to offer myself up for free?
‘Show me.’ He nods at my lap area. ‘Show me what I walked away from that night. I want to see every fucking inch of you.’
A slow smile breaks over my face at his demand.
He wants seduction? He’s come to the right girl, that’s for sure.
The difference is that I want to perform for him.
I suspect he despises himself for going after a trashy little ex-sex worker almost as much as he resents me for being one, but this is not about me making a client happy.
It’s not about going through the motions, putting on a coquettish little performance, because I want some guy to feel like he’s got his money’s worth.
I’m not sure why, but I want Xavier to want me more than he’s ever wanted anyone in his overprivileged life.
He thinks he’s calling the shots here, and in a way he is, but it’s suddenly massively important to me that he is totally bewitched.
Completely entranced. I don’t like how needy, how desperate I feel for him right now. I don’t like it at all.
And I’m fucked if I’m going to let him get away with being any less ensnared than I am.
I lick my bottom lip slowly, as if I’m considering it, before moving one leg and then the other until they’re as wide as I can get them in this position. I lean back even further, legs all the way open for him, my feet dangling and my tits and bits on full display.
And I watch him to see what he makes of it.
Of me.