Mack, page 18
I have an unbelievable urge to shove her back into the car, dive onto her, and order the driver to put the window up and take us around town while I fuck her senseless. It’s animalistic, primal and raw, and I’ve never felt a surge of adrenaline like this in my life.
Her crimson lips part in a nervous little smile. “I pass muster?” She turns in a slow circle, showing off her body, and a groan catches low in my throat. When I see her ass I just want to drop to my knees and bite it, leave marks nobody else better ever fucking see. The dress cuts down low, right at her lower back, leaving little to the imagination.
I lean down next to her ear. “It’s phenomenal.”
“Thanks, I don’t get to wear it much.”
“I don’t mean the dress.” My hands twitch, wanting to grab her, dig my fingers in, let her know she’s mine and the whole world needs to see, but I maintain my composure. “But it’s gorgeous too, only because you’re wearing it.”
The last bit gets a genuine smile out of her.
I pull my other hand from behind my back, revealing a single red rose. “I know you don’t like flowers, but hopefully this is adequate for a few hours of your time that are worth far more than any flower on earth.”
She accepts the rose. “Thank you.” She looks away momentarily, as if she’s hiding the pink tinges on her cheeks. She draws a wrap around her shoulders, shivering a little in the cool night air while staring at me. “How do you know I don’t like flowers?”
“Asked your neighbor.”
Presley grins. “Really?”
“Yeah, before our second date in one day. I was going to go get some. I thought one would be acceptable tonight, though.”
“It is, thank you. It’s not like I totally hate them or anything.” She looks at the mansion. The look on her face says I knocked the venue out of the park.
“Ever been here?”
She shakes her head, eyes darting here and there like she’s trying to take it all in at once. “My parents used to come here for events and parties and stuff. I was too young. And now…”
There’s no need for her to go on. I know what she’s getting at. This isn’t the world she lives in.
“It’s okay to enjoy yourself, Presley. You deserve this and more.”
She slips an arm through mine and leans against me as we walk up to the front door.
No matter how many times I see it, I can’t help but appreciate the exquisite craftsmanship that went into this mansion. It’s a work of art. “Are you familiar with the history?” I ask, opening the door.
“The basics. What an important home it was, how famous it was. That’s about it.” Her eyes widen when we step into the beautiful foyer with its Tiffany stained glass doors. “Holy…”
“I could spend days here, just staring at this place.” I glance up at the chandeliers that illuminate intricate woodwork along the ceilings, the grand staircase, the tile floor. My eyes move down to her. “Especially with you, in it.” I start to worry if I’m coming off too cheesy. I’m not like this, ever. But the smile on her face tells me she doesn’t mind the flattery.
I mean every damn word of what I say to her.
She quickly changes the subject from her, but it won’t work. She’s getting an entire night of compliments.
“What’s that saying about things not being made the way they used to be?”
“I agree.” I approach the desk near the staircase and give them my name. Within moments, a young woman leads us up the stairs, past another stunning set of windows on the landing, then up to one of the private dining rooms.
“This here—”
I cut her off. “No worries, I’ll fill her in on the history.” I say it as nice as possible, not to offend her. Really, I just want Presley—alone.
She gives a polite nod and leads us on in silence, straight to the table.
It’s a two top set up in front of the room’s fireplace, where a small fire burns and fills the room with warm amber light. Candles on the table and mantle add to the intimate ambience.
“Oh wow…” Presley sighs, looking around.
“This was Mr. Whitney’s dressing room.” I wait while the girl who brought us upstairs opens the bottle of Veuve Clicquot I arranged to be waiting for us in a chilled bucket.
She shows me the label.
I nod.
She pours two glasses and turns on a heel and leaves.
“Just the two of us in here?” Presley glances around, apparently noticing there’s no other table in sight. “Is that normal?”
“It is now.” It’s usually for parties, not couples. I had to sweet talk the manager and pay to rent the entire room.
It doesn’t matter, though, and Presley doesn’t need to know that. Whatever it is, it worked. Presley looks like she’s enjoying herself more than ever.
I hold up a flute. “Thank you. For sharing your time with me and looking incredible in the process.”
She holds up her flute to mine. “Did you do something wrong?”
I shrug, grinning. “Of course not.”
“Seems like you’re aiming for some brownie points here.”
I glance down at her breasts in that dress. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking my intentions are pure. I’m aiming for much more than that.”
Her face flushes. “You say things.”
I take a casual sip from the glass. “I mean things. You don’t know what you do to me.” I set the glass down and stand up.
There’s something amazing about making her so damn nervous. I can see the pulse beating in her neck as I take a commanding step around the small table and lean down next to her. I get right up next to her ear, exhaling down her neck as I speak. “I want you so bad right now.” My hand goes to her thigh. “I’m hungry, Presley.”
“Oh God.” Her eyes flutter closed.
I then give her a soft, warm kiss on the cheek, but I’m careful not to linger no matter how bad I want to. “Enjoy dinner. You’ll need every single calorie for later.” I rise up and walk back to my seat, completely satisfied with the look on her face.
She wants me just as bad as I want her.
For the first time, I think I’ve rendered her speechless. I take a seat just in time as a server walks over, and my eyes never leave Presley’s as he approaches.
“Hello folks.”
Presley looks like she might faint.
“How are you, sir?”
“I’m well. Tonight we have an amuse-bouche from the chef, followed by Caesar salad, lobster bisque, and beef Wellington with whipped potatoes and roasted vegetables.”
Presley stumbles over her words, trying to be nice and act normal. “That s-sounds incredible.” She offers a shy smile. “Thank you.”
“Would you like a vase for your rose?” he asks after offering a small stool on which she can leave her purse during the meal. She nods, still clearly a little flustered.
When he walks away she narrows her eyes at me. “That wasn’t fair.”
I shrug, grinning. “Life’s not fair. You’ll live.”
She shakes her head with a smile, then quickly comes back to earth. “I feel like royalty.” She lifts the champagne flute to her lips, and I would pay anything to see her like this. No dollar amount would be too much to make her this happy.
“You should have this every day.”
She shakes her head again. “No, it would become normal.” Her face goes pale. “I didn’t mean… I mean, it wouldn’t be as special.”
“The Overton window.”
She nods. “Exactly. I like it like this. It’s amazing. I can’t remember enjoying myself this much, living in the moment.”
It’s not lost on me, what she’s saying. The words cut a little. As if that’s what we’re doing, just living in the moment, like we’re some kind of fling that’ll eventually come to an end. We’re not. She doesn’t know it yet, but we’re just not. I can bide my time, be patient if needed, if it means winning her forever.
She turns her gaze to the flames. “Imagine having a dressing room with its own fireplace.”
“One of twenty-two in the mansion.”
Her eyes widen. “Twenty-two? Do you know everything about this place?”
“Quite a bit. It’s the first home in Detroit to have an elevator. And they spent over seven million dollars in today’s money to fill it with art. The furniture cost another six million.”
She shakes her head. “It’s so beautiful but seems like such a waste at the same time. You can only be in one room at once.” She glances over at the ornate sofa and brocade draperies, the portraits in their gilt frames.
I do love the way she sees the world, the way she interprets situations and people. It’s true, there’s only so much a person can see at once. But she manages to sound sad, almost like she feels sorry for the paintings and sculptures that haven’t received their fair share of admiration, like if they were in a public museum.
It grounds me. Makes me think about more than just excess. Makes me think about what the point is of working so much, just to attain shit you never get to enjoy.
The intimate room makes me want to throw her on the floor and make love to her in front of the fireplace. It’s so easy to forget I’m in a restaurant.
I have to bite back the animalistic urges because I want this too. I want time with her, to know her better.
She makes me want to be better. Not just for her, for myself.
“To you.” I raise my glass after refilling it. “I’m lucky to be with you tonight.”
I expect her to tell me to knock it off, or it’s too much, but she doesn’t. Everything I say, I say it with conviction.
She stares at me for a long time, like she’s figuring me out, like I’m a puzzle. At the last second, she raises her glass, finally giving in. “Flattery will get you everywhere, sir.”
“I’m counting on it,” I reply with a wink moments before the first course arrives.
Yep, I’m winning her over. Little by little. Not just sexually. I’m winning her heart. I can see it happening in front of me.
And I like what I see.
Presley Griffin
Wow.
How else do you describe a date like that?
Nerves filter back into my stomach as we head into Mack’s house. He disables the alarm as I slip out of my shoes.
Great shoes. Sexy, too. But damn, they hurt after a while, and we walked around the mansion after eating. I use the pain to help me temporarily forget all the nerves coursing through my body, knowing the way he looks at me in this dress.
He looks like he can’t wait to get me out of it, and he’s so going to succeed.
“Damn. I liked those.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe I’ll wear just them for you sometime.”
His nostrils flare, like he wants to do that right now, but he shows amazing self-control. “Here. Sit down.” He takes my hand and leads me into the living room, which, to be honest, could use a woman’s touch. It’s very masculine, modern, sparsely furnished with clean lines.
The sofa’s comfortable when he guides me down, deep and plush. I expect him to go for a kiss, but he doesn’t. He takes a seat and props my legs up on his lap.
What the hell is he… Oh God.
One of his knuckles digs into my arch and I damn near pass out.
He flashes that devilish grin at me as he goes to work on my feet. How does he make a foot rub so damn sexy and hot?
“Can I get you a drink?”
I shake my head profusely. “Nope. Don’t stop that, please.”
It’s not just the amazing foot massage that makes me decline, either. I want to fully experience what I know is going to happen. I mean, the stage is set. Both of us are lightly boozed, relaxed, and he looks incredible in his suit. He sets my feet back on his legs then slowly removes his cufflinks. Then he rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, like he’s really about to go to work.
What is it about a man’s forearms? His are thick and hard and perfect.
I squirm a bit when one of his hands works to my calf. He’s turning me on so bad, I don’t even realize I bite my lip when I look at him.
“Stop that.” His words come out sharp.
“What?” I flash him a look of horror.
“Biting your lip. Or I’ll end up doing it for you.”
Holy shit.
I bite it harder.
He grips my calf with those damn possessive fingers of his the second I say it. The level of restraint he shows is off the charts, because the look on his face says he wants to grip the back of my hair and force me over the side of his couch.
I get wet just thinking about it, coupled with his fingers on me.
He continues to work my feet and my legs over, slowly making his way up a little more each time.
My breath hitches as his hands rise on my legs. He still goes slow and deliberate, staring at me like I haven’t experienced everything he wants to do to me over the past two weeks.
He concentrates on one foot, and I take the opportunity to speed this along, because I can’t wait much longer. I want him inside me so damn bad. With my free foot, I run it across his dick. He’s rock-hard too.
A groan comes from low in his throat. “Presley.” He growls my name.
“Oops.” I feign innocence.
His hand slides farther up my leg. I bite my lip and arch my back when he finds the inside of my knee, a place he knows is especially sensitive. “That’s not my foot,” I whisper, gasping when his touch turns feather-soft, teasing.
“And what you did was a complete accident.” He doesn’t stop, holding my ankle tight with his other hand so I can’t squirm away.
“You didn’t tell me to stop.” I can barely speak between gasps for air. I run my foot across him with a little more force this time.
My eyes close. He’s winning right now, and he knows it.
That will change.
He’s in for a surprise. An inside joke between the two of us, from our first little phone encounter that set us on this path to destruction.
When his hand makes its way to my thigh, I part my legs just slightly for him.
His reaction is unmistakable, nostrils flared, breath ragged. “Fuck you.”
“That’s your job, Mr. Mitchell.” I slowly lift the dress, one inch at a time, revealing everything.
His fingers dig into my thigh. “All night? At the table?”
“Indeed. And you did nothing about it.”
He stares right between my legs like it’s his. Like he owns every inch of me. “For the better.” He runs a hand farther up my thigh. “I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”
“How do you make me like this?” I slowly run a hand over my breasts, down my stomach. “How do you do this to me?”
“It’s mutual. Trust me.” He lightly licks his lips, his chest rising and falling faster with each breath. His dick hardens even more against my foot.
When his fingers meet my pussy, he groans, “Fuck.” It’s throaty and guttural.
I shove his hand away, and replace it with mine. “Do you like watching me?”
His eyes widen and he nods. “Yes.”
“What should I do next?”
“Touch your clit.” He unzips his pants and frees himself, stroking his shaft slowly, his eyes glued between my legs.
I close my eyes, trembling, not at the thought of what I’m doing, but at the sound of his voice. The lust in it. Lust for me, because of me. When I circle my finger, his hand speeds up a little more.
Everything fades away but the incredible sensation, knowing I’m doing this in front of him. I’ve never felt so alive, so comfortable in front of another man. I close my eyes and give in to his touch. His hand running up and down my leg, the sound of his other hand pumping his cock. It doesn’t take long. I can feel it all building, right down where my hand is.
It comes over me so fast and I’m lost in the moment.
“Oh, God! Mack—” Truth be told, I was already halfway there before I ever started touching myself. I bite my lip, moaning as the pleasure rolls through me in wave after blissful wave.
“Fuck, Pres—”
I moan his name again.
“Open your eyes.” He says it like a command.
When I see him, it’s even more than I expected. His eyes are on me and nothing but me, and his hand pumps his dick so fast it’s almost a blur.
“You do this to me,” he growls. “You make me insane. You.”
Holy shit.
I have no idea where it comes from, but his words sweep over me, his stare, and I’ve never felt so emboldened in my life—so utterly confident. I swing my legs off his lap and fall to my knees next to him. “Give it to me.” It’s an order.
He lets go.
I wrap a hand around his shaft and lower my head to sweep my tongue over the tip. I can already taste his precome.
He gasps. “Shit.” His fingers rake through my hair and he balls it in his fist, holding me in place. “Fuck, that’s so good.”
I pause for a moment, just to tease him. “You like it?”
His forceful hand urges my mouth back onto him and he applies pressure. Not enough to gag me, but enough to tell me he’s still in charge.
“That’s it. Fucking take it.”
My eyes roll up to his, and he looks possessed, his eyes closed, like he’s in another world. My free hand goes down between my legs because there’s no way I can stop it. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, knowing I make him this way too, that he loves every single detail of what I’m doing to him.
I move up and down on him, taking more with each bob of my head.
It reduces him from words to nothing but groans.
It only urges me on more, and I take him deeper in my throat, swirling my tongue around his thick length. Just when I think I can’t take him any farther, I plunge my head down all the way to the base. I’ve never been like this before. So primal. So unfiltered.
“Fuck.” He groans out the word and yanks me up off him.
I’m not going to lie. The look on his face is so damn hot and ferocious, but it strikes some kind of excited fear from deep inside me. He looks like a man possessed, who won’t stop until he’s inside me any which way he chooses.
