where the danger part came in. All he knew was that the instant they entered the elevator in his Upper East Side building, Carol Lambert stopped playing coy and began playing hard. Not hard to get, but hardball—letting him know exactly what she was after. Which happened to be the same thing he was after. But despite his time with the nympho socialite, he wasn’t accustomed to this unabashed display of carnal desire. Or his own feral response to it.
Carol shoved him against the mirrored back wall of the elevator, kissing him hungrily even as she pushed his suit jacket over his shoulders. One of her legs edged between his, her upper thigh pressing boldly against his erection.
Ryder rolled her so she was the one against the wall, pulling open her blouse to reveal the sexy garments underneath. The black lace should have surprised him, but it didn’t. Rather he experienced a sense of relief that the woman he’d raced on the street was evident in the racy underwear. No pretend sex kitten here. She was one hundred percent the real thing.
He grasped her right breast, pressing the circle of her areole more tightly against the lacy cup, then fastened his mouth over the fabric and the flesh beneath, drawing both deeply inside even as he worked his own leg between hers, raising his upper thigh until it met with her crotch. Bracing himself, he lifted her until she slid up the mirror. Her knee-length skirt bunched around her lush hips, revealing that she wore no stockings and that the black thong she had on was all lace.
He groaned, holding her against the wall with one hand even as he lowered to his knees, at eye level with the decadent undergarment. Dipping a finger inside the edge, he tugged the lace aside until her gloriously bare swell of flesh was exposed to his hungry gaze.
His vast experience with women left little doubt as to her arousal. Her labia were swollen, making her sex appear like a fresh fruit just waiting to be plucked. He blew lightly and watched as the skin reacted, contracting so that the pink bit of delicate flesh between her folds peeked out, tempting his tongue.
And it was his tongue he offered.
Carol moaned even as the elevator climbed up the thirty floors. He ran the length of his tongue against the slit, then flicked it over and around her clit, pulling the bud deep into his mouth. Her hands left his hair as she braced herself against the wall. Ryder took in her provocative, half-lidded expression even as he drank deeply of her.
The scent of feminine musk, the sound of her shallow, ragging breathing, filled his senses, increasing his desire for this woman who tasted like fresh peaches and cream but was as naughty as the day was long.
He grasped her right leg and positioned it over his left shoulder, then followed suit with her left leg over his right shoulder. She quickly joined her ankles behind his neck, balancing herself against the mirror even as he dove in for another taste of her.
He was aware of her impending release and moved to delay it, moving his attention from the bud to the blooming entrance just below. So slick. So tight. He lapped her slowly, purposefully. As soon as he heard her breathing even out a bit, he traveled back up to the fleshy button and fastened his lips around it again, sucking deeply.
She came apart instantly, her legs tightening, her cry echoing against the elevator walls at the same time an electronic ding sounded.
Ryder thought she might panic at the thought that someone might see them. Instead she rode out the wave of her orgasm then collapsed against the wall, making quite the provocative image with her wild hair, her skirt bunched around her waist, her legs still crossed around his neck as he looked up at her.
She smiled at him languidly. “My, Mr. Blackwell, you do appear to have your skills.”
He chuckled as he freed her legs. She found her footing and he rose to stand next to her.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal his warmly lit, empty penthouse. During the drive home—they’d taken their separate cars—he’d called his butler Jonathon, asking for discretion. A silver ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne, a tray of chocolate-tipped strawberries and a bowl of cream and the soft strains of old Motown melodies were the only evidence that Jonathan was anywhere in residence.
“After you,” Ryder said.
For just one night Seline wanted to forget the past…forget the future. She wanted to live in this one moment, and this one moment alone.
She’d need all the help she could get. Because both the past and the future were difficult to ignore for even one night.
She looked around. She’d always appreciated a man with good taste. And Ryder obviously had it in spades.
Languidly strolling into the penthouse, hyper-aware of every nerve ending in her body, the chafing of her nipples against her bra, the throbbing of her womanhood, she took in the mammoth living and dining area, colorfully yet sparsely decorated. Probably it had been put together by an interior decorator. She snatched a strawberry from a tray and bit down on the succulent fruit even as she moved to consider a small framed Manet over an antique, ivory-inlaid banquet. A very good decorator who had taken Ryder into consideration during the planning process.
And likely Ryder had taken the decorator right on the huge ottoman that served as a coffee table between two long sofas.
She shivered.
It had been so long since she’d indulged herself with casual sex. So long that she felt her emotions exaggerating the not-unfamiliar sensations. Her elevator orgasm just as the compartment had stopped moving had rocked her to the marrow. Even now, she was uber-aware of every move Ryder made even though her back was to him.
A crystal flute was placed in front of her. She put it down on the buffet then scooted to sit on the surface, spreading her legs wantonly.
“Nice place.”
Usually when she made a comment like that, the person in question took a look around as if seeing through her eyes. Not Ryder. He trapped her gaze with his and didn’t blink, secure in the knowledge that it was a nice place. And that it had nothing at all to do with the reason she was there.
“Thank you.”
He put his flute down on the other side of her, his gaze dropping to where her blouse bowed open, then lower still to her bared thighs.
“Are you hungry?” he murmured.
“Mmm.” She caught the waist of his slacks and yanked him forward, his suit jacket long since discarded by the door.
Then she set about showing him exactly what she was hungry for.
Many women she knew sorely underestimated the importance of a good kiss. And oh, did, Ryder Blackwell know how to kiss. His lips were firm yet malleable, his mouth damp but not too wet. And he didn’t go for her tonsils as other men she’d known over the years had made the mistake of doing. Instead he lingered with his lips on hers, his mouth not quite open, not quite closed, his tongue dipping out briefly before he finished the kiss.
Seline grew aware of her shortness of breath. That and he hadn’t touched her beyond their kiss since they’d entered the penthouse.
She scooted forward on the buffet, her softness instantly meeting his pants-covered hardness. She briefly bit on her bottom lip, an ache the size of Manhattan gaping within her. An ache that only he could satisfy.
His hands squeezed her legs near her knees then slid up. Her instinct was to throw her head back and allow him to do what he would.
Which was why she instead caught his hands, slid down from the table, then led him toward the wide, open staircase to their right. Swaying her hips suggestively, she climbed three or four steps, aware of the view he was being afforded from the back. She felt a hand on her ass and she paused, allowing the hot branding to ripple through her. Then he was pulling her toward him, forcing her to lie against the carpeted steps as he fitted himself between her thighs.
Seline groaned, welcoming his weight as she pulled at his tie and shirt, then abandoned both for the fastener to his slacks. He hungrily kissed her as she tugged his zipper down, working her hand inside his boxers until the scalding length