I led Ruby inside the hotel and into a crowded lift. We exited on our floor in silence and walked down the carpeted hall toward our rooms, our steps echoing in the quiet.
Once we stood outside my door, I told her, “I have never considered having a fling. One drunk, fumbling interaction aside, sex purely for the sake of sex is not interesting to me.”
She licked her lips and gave me an impish smile. “Then you need to have better sex.”
As she continued to look up at me with her patient, playful eyes, the moment grew heavy.
“I think without a doubt I need to have better sex,” I admitted quietly.
Her brows slowly inched up in suggestion and she tilted her head toward her hotel room door. “I had a really nice time at dinner . . .”
Ruby gave me another ten seconds to do or say more before she stretched to kiss my cheek, just barely missing the corner of my mouth. “Good night, my tentative, sexy, secretive crush.”
I watched her turn and walk the ten steps to her room. She let herself inside, and the door clicked shut quietly behind her before I murmured, “Good night, my beautiful, exuberant girl.”
* * *
“What brand of imbecile are you?” I asked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “You could have kissed her. You could have enjoyed her tonight. At the very least you could have asked her in.” I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath through my nose. It felt a little as if my skin were on fire, and short of walking into the shower with all of my clothes on, or barging into her room and deciding once and for all to have a go, I wasn’t sure how the feeling was going to diffuse.
I swore I could remember every time she smiled tonight, or her openmouthed laugh, head back, eyes closed. Ruby seemed to enjoy every tiny instant of her life. There was something about her that made me want to be near her, put her up on a pedestal, bask in her energy and uninhibited sweetness.
Say something filthy, she’d said. Tell me the craziest, dirtiest thing you can think of. Render me speechless.
Walking to my closet, I pulled off my jacket, my tie, my shirt. I hung up all of my clothes, feeling overheated and sensitive and wound up to the point I thought I might burst. And I felt stupid, really. Ruby wouldn’t have said no had I stepped forward, cupped her lovely face, and kissed her. She wouldn’t even have said no if I’d simply asked her, “Come inside, show me how to do all of this for real, now? I’m afraid I’ll bungle it.”
Because, sincerely, I’d never taken a leap like this. Professionally, yes: I put myself out there, drove for what I wanted. But my personal life had sort of fallen easily into place. When we were sixteen, Portia found me in the woods near my home and suggested I kiss her. When we were eighteen, she informed me that she was ready to make love. Being Portia, she was unable to resist telling her mum what we’d done, and being Windsor-Lockharts, her parents had immediately suggested we marry. From there, it all unfolded rather obediently: a grand wedding, a flat her father loaned us the money to buy (and which I repaid in under four years), a car, a dog, and a marriage built on suggestion.
Things I never wanted again.
A new plan, then. I would take this side of me—the secret side that had long been dormant: romantic, passionate, desperate to find adventure with someone just a touch wilder than I could ever be—and not let it slide back into politeness, into convenience, into routine.
If Ruby wanted me to open up, I would do everything I could to do it.
I would ask for what I wanted with her.
I would learn how to play.
I would show her that I could give her what she needed.
With this sorted, an unwinding sense of relief passed through me and I sat down in my boxers at the desk, intent on going through my piles of voice mails from the London office. Pulling out my small voice recorder, I set to making notes after each call: which required immediate follow-up, which I could have my assistant attend to, and which only provided information of note. But after only fifteen messages, my mind wandered back to dinner.
Ruby’s habit of smiling with her tongue trapped between her teeth combined with the sweetness of the pineapple sorbet she had made me nearly dizzy with curiosity: Was her tongue cold? Cold and sweet? Did she like to have her tongue sucked and licked?
What would it feel like if she tasted her sorbet and then licked me, her tongue chilled, sliding around . . .
I let myself imagine Ruby at my door, in her tiny silken sleep shorts and tank, her breasts hard at the tips, the curve of her hips narrow and smooth. She steps inside, holding a glass of ice water in one hand and using the other to press on my chest and walk me backward to the bed.
“Don’t sit,” she warns me.
Wordlessly, I nod. I’m wearing only my boxers, and she doesn’t say anything else, she doesn’t even kiss me; but she traps that pink bubble-gum tongue between her teeth, smiling up at me, and slides to her knees, pulling my pants down as she goes.
I slid my boxers down my hips, letting the fantasy build.
I’m hard, jutting thick toward her, and watching transfixed as she takes an ice cube in her mouth, sucking it, sliding it down my stomach, over my hips.
“Ahh,” I gasp as she slides her free hand up the inside of my thigh, cupping all of me—testicles and cock together in her grip—holding me crudely. I’m finally brave enough to put my hand on top of her head and then slide my fingers into her hair. It’s soft, just like I imagined, and she gasps a little when I fist it, when I tug it.
She didn’t expect that. She lets the ice cube fall from her mouth.
I wrapped my hand around my cock, pulling down and tight, groaning. “Lick it,” I managed, my voice feeling oddly loud in the empty room.
Ruby’s eyes go from bright and mischievous to half closed and sweetly obedient. I can feel her pull against my grip in her hair, struggling to reach me.
“You look so bloody gorgeous,” I growled, moving my hand faster, imagining how it would feel for her to wrap her fist tight around the head of my dick, and swipe that soft, cool tongue around and around . . . I groaned. “Go slow,” I hissed. “I want your tongue to play with me before you show me what you look like when you beg for it.”
Her tongue peeks out, licking away the liquid there, sucking for more. Greedy, wicked little thing. I pull back, swiping myself across her lips, asking,
“Did you think about this earlier? When you licked your dessert from your spoon or sucked the sauce from your thumb, did you imagine you had my cock perched between your lips?”
She nods, opening her mouth and looking up at me with her lips suspended like that—parted for me.
“You want it?”
Nodding again, she lets her lips meet only long enough to whisper, “Please?”
With a tight moan, I slide in deep, relishing the feel of her tongue, of her mouth sealing around me and the rippling vibration of her surprised moan. Her eyes widen only for a heartbeat at the abrupt invasion before she relaxes, licking and whining sweetly, eyes fixed on mine. I slide in, and out, my breath choppy and rough as I tell her,
“Like that,”
. . . and . . .
“Oh, sweet girl . . . suck me . . .”
. . . and . . .
“I’ll never get this sight out of my head. Never.”
Her hands reach up to cup me lower, to tug and pet—and it’s heaven. It’s too good, and it’s too soon and I want to watch her face when she feels me come.
I closed my eyes at the fantasy. I hadn’t received oral sex in nearly seven years and I was obsessed with Ruby’s mouth and her tongue and her filthy, brave words.
I touch a finger to her chin, whispering,
“I’m coming. Ruby. Ruby. Please . . . please let me come inside.”
And with a jerk against her tongue I do—the pleasure crawls up my legs and down my spine until it’s pulsing and hot and my skin flushes with a tingle along every inch and
and
and
“Ohhh . . .”
 
; I came against my fingers, groaning her name.
* * *
It took nearly a minute before my vision cleared and I could use my discarded boxers to clean my hand and the floor in front of me. The room felt startlingly quiet, as if I’d been on a stage somewhere, performing.
On the desk, my watch ticked loudly in the silence.
I glanced down at the desk and felt my face heat in embarrassment.
My voice recorder had been on the entire time.
My finger hovered over the rewind button. Nothing in the world could be more mortifying than listening to myself masturbate. I could rewind it all, erase everything.
But something in me dared to hesitate, and I put the device back down on the desk, staring silently at the wall separating our rooms.
The opportunity to move forward with Ruby got away from me tonight, but I wasn’t going to let it happen again. Ruby was my safe space; oddly, after only a handful of days I felt we knew each other better than I knew Portia after nearly eleven years of marriage.
I could give Ruby what she needed.
I hit record again. Picking up my phone, I dialed her mobile and waited as it rang once,
My heart is beating so hard
twice,
Do this, Niall. Do this
and then she answered, clearing her throat before saying, “Niall?”
“Hello, Ruby.”
Pausing, she whispered, “Is everything okay?”
My heart thudded in my chest and it occurred to me that I was standing in the middle of my hotel room, stark naked, on the phone with her. “Everything is fine,” I murmured. I closed my eyes, imagining her listening to the recording of what I’d done, and then realizing I called her just after. Smiling, I said, “I just wanted to confirm that you’ll be present at the meeting tomorrow at eight thirty?”
Another pause, and when she answered, she sounded slightly disappointed. “Of course. I’ll meet you in the lobby at a quarter to eight?”
I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Only a matter of hours before I would see her. “Quarter to eight,” I said. “Perfect.”
“Good night . . .”
“Good night, darling.”
I hung up, and reached over to hit stop on the recording.
Nine
Ruby
The next morning, I was holding my breath the entire time the elevator was descending to the lobby. It was 7:43 and I knew without question that Niall would already be downstairs—suit: immaculate, hair: perfect, body: banging. What I didn’t know was exactly which Niall I would encounter today.
Would it be the teasing, flirtatiously forward maybe-almost-my-boyfriend-Niall from dinner last night? The one that sent my hands straight down my panties within seconds of closing the door? Or the strangely terse, abrupt Mr. Stella from the phone call only an hour later?
Niall’s brain seemed to be his own worst enemy, unable to shut down or stay silent long enough for him to just have fun. At dinner he’d let the walls down, teasing and being downright filthy across the table from me. But give him an hour in his room, alone with his own thoughts, and any afterglow I’d been experiencing was doused like a bucket of ice water.
A tiny voice warned that I should pay attention, that I should heed the warning bells—however dim—inside my head. Although he looked like a man who carried the world in the palm of his hand, Niall was also a hypercautious overthinker, and maybe I should rein in my desire to dive headfirst.
Good advice, I was sure.
But when the elevator doors opened and I saw Niall Stella himself across the lobby, that advice was all too easy to ignore.
Like always, my pulse sped up at the sight of him, my skin prickly and almost hot to the touch. He looked over and met my eye. People filed out in front of me and the seconds seemed to tick by while I waited for a reaction from him—any reaction. My shoes clicked on the marble floors as I walked, and I had to look away, adjust the belt on my trench coat, and force myself to keep my shoulders straight. Niall was just a man, after all, and from what he’d told me last night, I had more experience in this sort of situation than he had. I had the upper hand.
Keep telling yourself that.
His overcoat slung over his arm, he checked his watch, his brow lifting when he glanced back up at me. “Punctual, I see.”
Teasing. My breath eased out of my lungs and I straightened my shoulders. I could do teasing.
“Punctuality is a critical virtue,” I told him.
“Couldn’t agree more. I happen to find it very attractive.” His voice sounded deeper this morning, more confident. There was something about the way his accent sharpened very, shaping it into something dirty that sent goose bumps up and down my arms. If this was anyone else, I would have questioned whether he was up to something, but this was Mr. Straight and Narrow. I was fairly certain he wouldn’t be ravaging me in a hotel lobby, or while meeting with the New York Transit Authority.
I knew he’d be careful to keep everything between us strictly professional at work, but after last night, when he’d suggested he wanted to show me all the things he didn’t consider “gentle, or chaste or very proper,” the question of where we stood was still largely unanswered, and I was trying my best to let him tell me how fast we should move. One would think he would have wanted to start right away. One would think he would have even simply kissed me good night.
I looked at him expectantly as he slid his arms into his coat and motioned for me to lead the way. “Shall we?”
Halfway through the first meeting, we adjourned for a break. I felt pretty useless during these discussions about budget and public perception rather than the cogs and wheels of the actual structures themselves. But I listened, knowing the conversations that felt challenging right now were actually the ones I needed to grasp the most.
Still, even Niall seemed to be distracted, staring down at the same page of his agenda repeatedly, and twice needing to be nudged when called on to answer a question. He barely glanced my way, but there were lingering touches as I’d handed him a stack of papers. His calf rested a bit too comfortably against mine to be written off as anything but intentional.
In fact, his lack of focus was bordering on unnerving, and so I was grateful when he pulled me aside, asking if I’d mind sitting the rest of the meeting out.
“I know this is terribly rude of me,” he said, motioning to the phone in his hands. “But I’ve just checked my mobile and I’ve a few things that need attending. Nothing too urgent, but Jo’s called with some names and dates I need for a conference call with Tony. Would you—” he paused, eyes apologetic. “I know you’re not my assistant, or under my report in any way, but would you mind listening and jotting the information down?”
I heaved a sigh of relief, both that there seemed to be a reason for his distraction, and that I might be spared the pain of another two hours of this.
“With pleasure,” I said, taking his cell. “These team meetings have nothing to do with my department. Give me a job, any job, before I lose my mind.”
The wall separating the conference room from a smaller waiting area was about twenty feet long and floor-to-ceiling glass. Inside the space were a pair of white leather couches, a handful of sleek iron tables, and two matching chairs. A wall of exterior windows looked out over a street lined with restaurants and newly flowering trees. I deposited myself on the couch, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began opening his phone.
“One more thing.”
I startled at the sound of his voice in the doorway.
“The passcode is my birthday—”
“Oh-six-oh-nine, I know,” I blurted, and then blinked up to see him staring at me in surprise. I gave him a slow, wincing smile. “You should probably know I want the floor to eat me now,” I said. “Because, hello, stalker.”
He laughed. “Perhaps I’m not very clever with my passcodes.”
“I guess if you stare at a person enough you pick up all sorts of things,” I said, thr
owing in an awkward cough for effect.
But Niall only laughed again, shaking his head and throwing in another “thank you” before turning to leave. “Oh and Ruby?” he said, pausing just at the door.
“Yeah?”
“Be sure you listen straight through. Some of them are quite long and . . . there’s one at the end that’s particularly important.”
“Got it,” I said, and didn’t even pretend I wasn’t watching his butt as he walked away.
From the sofa, I could see him perfectly. He’d stopped at the refreshment table for a bottle of water before taking his seat, and I wondered if it was a trick of the light that made him look slightly flushed.
Given that some of the voice messages were apparently on the long side, I reached for my purse, happy when I found my earbuds tucked away near the bottom. I inserted the plug into the jack and placed one of the buds in my ears, then keyed in his password. Four messages. The first, predictably, was from Jo, and I listened while she rattled off a list of names and corresponding dates, and carefully wrote each one down. The second and third followed along the same lines, and within three minutes an entire sheet in my notebook had been filled.
I looked up and checked into the meeting again, catching him discussing something with a person seated nearby. Without the benefit of his voice, I could see the way his mouth formed the words differently than those around him, his accent visible at a distance. He used his lips more, held the shape of the words longer. I wondered what it would be like to hear that voice at home, in my ear while it panted out commands, telling me what he needed.
One day I should write a novel full of all the things I wondered about that man.
Pressing play again, I caught Niall’s eyes for just a second before he blinked away. The last message started, and I waited, trying to discern exactly what I was hearing. Someone breathing . . . the hum of an air conditioner . . . faint traffic? The shuffling of fabric filled the line—almost as if a piece of clothing were being dragged over the receiver—and I picked up the phone again, checking the connection to make sure I hadn’t knocked something loose.