The air in my lungs gets trapped. “Another man,” I manage to rasp out.
“That’s right. I get off on watching another man touch what’s mine, on telling him exactly how to touch her, how to make her come until she’s trembling.”
“Why not just do it yourself?”
“I am doing it myself,” he says as he runs a hand up the outside of my thigh. “Because I’m the one in control, his body is merely an extension of mine. It’s my will that’s being done. It might be his hands, his mouth, even his cock…” He dips his head, and I tilt mine to the side to give him better access to my neck. A sigh shudders between my lips as his nose grazes the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “But it’s my touch, because they’re my words.”
My fingers are clutching his shirt at his lower back like he’s my lifeline. I know if I let go, I’ll fall. Further under his spell, further into the oblivion of pleasure he’s promising with his taboo whispers. So I’m holding on, keeping myself grounded in the moment with the feeling of starched cotton pressed into my palms.
But there’s a voice in my head urging me to let go, and a big part of me—more than I’m willing to admit in this moment—that desperately wants to. I want to fall with this man who’s dominated my fantasies for months. Why not let him dominate me for real, like I’ve imagined at night with my eyes closed and my hand between my legs? All I have to do is be brave enough to trust that he’ll be there to catch me…and let go.
“How does it work?”
He stops moving then pulls back to look me in the eyes. “How does what work?”
Infusing steel I don’t quite feel into my voice, I say, “Sex between you, me, and an as yet unknown male party. I want to try it.”
My heart beats loud and hard in my chest as he stares at me, taking my measure, as though trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth. His expression is one of doubt with a hint of hope, and I know he’s seconds away from dismissing my statement. But I’m done with letting him push this thing between us away. Done with letting him decide what I want. Because what I want is him, and if I have to argue my case and fight to get him, I will.
Slipping my hands from his back, I frame his face. He swallows hard again. “Addie—”
“No, Roman,” I whisper as I shake my head. “Don’t deny me anymore. Don’t deny us. You’ve told me what you want, and I’m saying yes. You’re out of excuses.”
He surprises the hell out of me when he palms the back of my neck and pulls me in for a fierce kiss. It’s frenzied and quick, but I can taste his frustration. “But you’re not just anyone, goddamn it. If we try it and things go…” His brow furrows as he searches for the right word. “Badly,” he finally decides on, “then I’ve potentially ruined our friendship and made your workplace an uncomfortable environment. I can’t do that to you.”
My heart melts at how sincerely he’s concerned for me. Roman might be a shrewd attorney and a badass stripper, but at his core, he’s a very caring and loyal friend. If I’d had any reservations about pursuing some kind of relationship with Roman—whether purely sexual or something more—I don’t have them now. More than ever, I want this.
“Your concerns have been duly noted, counselor,” I tell him. “But you’re not the only one responsible here. You can’t take on the weight of my consequences, too. You have your own to worry about.” Threading my fingers in his hair, I brush my lips over his. “I want you, Roman. I want whatever this is.”
“No expectations.” He makes it sound like a statement, but the question is in his eyes.
“None,” I reassure him. “I’m yours to command.”
I see the very moment he decides to go through with this thrilling, albeit somewhat risky, exploration. His usual confidence returns, and I nearly sigh with relief. “Then get ready, Ms. Paige,” he warns, and this time when he uses the formal version of my name it makes my insides flutter wildly. “Because I’m about to get a lot more bossy.”
Chapter Fourteen
Addison
Is it possible to have an orgasm from intermittent stimulation over the course of ten hours or so? Because I swear if Roman even asks me to pass him a pencil, just the sound of his voice will set me off.
I had no idea what to expect when I showed up for work today after last night’s agreement. I’d been a little surprised—and a whole lot disappointed—when we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off right then and there, but I should have known better. Everything with Roman is about control, so he’s not going to do anything remotely spontaneous. Now that I know him well enough, I can safely say it’s a small miracle I was able to get him to do anything with me at all in the alley that first night. (Then again, I believe we’ve established I’ve been known to make miracles happen. See earlier reference: Jance.)
I guess I’d assumed things would be business-as-usual, which is why my jaw literally dropped after our first encounter this morning. He’d walked into our kitchenette—dressed all in black with an ice-blue tie that matched his eyes on some illegal level—as I was doctoring my coffee, and we offered our usual pleasantries. As he poured himself a cup of high-octane caffeine, he kept his eyes on his mug and said, “What a lovely blouse, Ms. Paige.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reeves,” I replied, keeping the formal tone. “I didn’t realize you had an eye for couture. How very metrosexual of you.”
Replacing the carafe on the warmer, he then turned toward me and leaned in so that he could speak softly in my ear. “It’s actually just plain sexual. I don’t have a clue what kind of blouse it is, nor do I care. But it’s thin, which means it’ll be easy to see the way your nipples bead against the fabric when you get turned on.” He dropped his gaze to my breasts, but I didn’t have to look to know what he saw. I felt it. “Lovely.” Then he stepped back, took a sip of his coffee, and left me with my jaw hanging open as he walked from the room.
It only got worse—or better, depending on your viewpoint—from there. All day, as long as no one else was around, he tossed out innuendos and blatantly undressed me with his eyes. Apparently, when you give Roman Reeves the green light, he puts his foot to the frickin’ floor. The crazy part, though, is that even with the occasional double entendre underscored with a healthy dose of eye-fucking, we’ve managed to continue working without issue.
And I love working with Roman. Have I mentioned that yet? Because I totally do. I love how intense he gets when researching a case, how he dives in so completely that he forgets the world around him until Maggie chides him about needing to eat or drink something other than black coffee before he gets an ulcer. Watching him is exhilarating and inspiring, and I’ve learned more from helping him these past several weeks than in my entire tenure with Dick Schmeel.
Last night, I was pretty cavalier about how simple it would be to give us a shot at something more—whatever that more turned out to be—how we could try it and if it didn’t work out we’d just revert to the way things were before. But now that we’re actually doing it, the weight of what’s truly at stake for me is finally sinking in. If for some reason things get messy, it won’t be Roman who loses out on the best opportunity he’s ever had to further his career.
Nope, that little (major) setback (tragedy) would be all mine. So, I’ll be doing everything in my power to make sure this doesn’t get messy. I’m putting a metaphorical bib on the whole damn thing and throwing a tarp under it for good measure. This is a mess-free zone.
I kept that thought firmly in the back of my mind all day, which made it ironic when I dropped a file, spilling its contents on my office floor, when Roman’s voice came through the intercom on my phone. “Addison?”
I cover my mouth to hold back my nervous laugh. I’m jumpier than a perjurer on the witness stand. Clearing my throat, I answer, “I’m here.”
“Great. Before you leave for the night, I have a call I’d like you to join me on.”
“Of course. Who’s it with? Do you need me to bring any files in with me?”
“Just bring
yourself.”
He clicks off before I can respond, and I wonder which case it involves. I can’t think of any we’re currently working on that need a conversation with anyone, but maybe it’s with a potential new client. Sometimes they require meetings after-hours because they can’t get off of work during the day to meet with us for their initial consultations.
I check the time on my laptop before powering it down. It’s after six, so Maggie is for sure gone, but there’s a chance John and Martin might still be over on their side of the suite. I grab a pen and my notepad, just in case, and walk down the hall to Roman’s office. I find him in his large leather chair, turned to the side and peering out at the sun descending over the city, a squat glass of his cherished Glenfiddich in one hand.
“Close and lock the door, please.”
According to Roman, John has a bad habit of walking in without knocking, so it’s not uncommon for us to lock the door when we’re meeting with clients or on important calls. I do as he asks, and make my way across the large office. As I take my place in my usual chair in front of his desk, he turns his to face me, but doesn’t make a move to do anything else. He just…stares.
The overhead fluorescent lights are rarely used in his or John’s offices since so much natural light pours in through the back wall of windows. They could probably be turned on now that the sun is slipping from the sky. The fast-approaching sunset has transformed the space into a kind of dusk or twilight—still enough light to see by, but only for maybe another half hour. I should offer to flip the light switch by the door, but I’m transfixed by the way Roman is backlit by the pale orange hues, by the barely there shadows cast over the strong angles of his face.
I shift uncomfortably, uncrossing my legs and crossing them in the other direction. Finally, he nods to a glass identical to his that I hadn’t noticed. “I poured you a drink.”
“Thank you,” I say and, because I have a feeling nothing will happen until I do, I raise the glass to my lips and sip the amber liquid. His gaze burns me like the trail of smooth fire the whisky leaves behind in my throat. His eyes slide down to my lips, then my neck, and finally to my breasts, where I feel them grow heavy and my nipples furl into beads against the silk bodice of my slip.
Heat that has nothing to do with the alcohol I’m sipping swirls in my belly and spreads to the aching space between my thighs. And with the way the edge of his mouth tilts up on one side, he knows it.
“Who are we calling?” I ask, pleased I don’t sound as weak as I’m sure my knees would be if I were standing. “Is it a potential client?”
“No. We’re calling a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Last night you told me you were mine to command.” His voice is deep and smoky, slipping from corporate boss into bedroom boss, and it does things to me I don’t have words for. “Is that still the case, Addison?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent,” he says, reaching over to his phone. He opens a line and after pressing a few buttons, the ringing of an outgoing call echoes from the speaker. “This will give you a taste for how a three-person dynamic works.”
I’m glad I’ve already finished the finger of whisky because I would’ve choked on it otherwise. Before I gather my wits enough to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, a man picks up the call.
“She there?” the voice asks.
“She’s here,” Roman replies with a wicked grin that both excites me and terrifies me.
“Hey there, darlin’.”
I recognized the smooth, Southern voice. Austin. I let out the breath I’d held on to from the moment he picked up. Roman hadn’t been lying when he said we were calling a friend. Not that I expected Roman to lie about anything, but I’m so off-balance I can’t think straight. Which, I’d bet my entire savings, is the name of the game.
“Hi, Austin. How are you?” God, was that lame? Normally, it would be considered pleasant and polite, but all clues are pointing to this not exactly being a social call, therefore, lame is entirely a possibility.
His warm chuckle comes through as he says, “I’m good, girl. But I’m not Austin right now. Tonight I’m Rowdy, your fairy-stripper-godfather, here to make all your wishes come true.”
I know Rowdy is Austin’s stripper persona, but what that has to do with me I can’t imagine. “Um, okay.”
“Don’t sound so nervous, Addie. We’re just here to have a good time. Where are you right now?”
“We’re calling from Roman’s office,” I say.
“No,” he says, “I mean where in his office are you? I’m not there so you have to help me and be my eyes.”
“I’m sitting in one of the guest chairs in front of the desk.” Roman lifts his glass and takes a slow drink, his heavy gaze trained on me. “Roman is in his chair,” I finish.
“Okay, Addie,” Austin says. “I want you to get up and go around to stand in front of Roman.”
My mouth opens to say something, but my brain hasn’t caught up, so nothing comes out. I look at Roman, knowing my questions show on my face. He gives a slight nod and says, “It’s okay. Do as he says, Addison.”
For whatever reason, hearing Roman’s encouragement helps me to find the strength to rise and move to the other side of the desk, directly in front of him. “What are we doing, Roman?”
“I told you that I get off on telling another man what to do with my lover, but tonight we’re going to reverse things. Our friend Rowdy is going to be the one directing. We do what he says. Again,” he continues, “this is to give you a taste of what it’s like when someone else is involved. Everything physical is just between us, but mentally…”
“He’s just as much a part of this as we are,” I finish for him.
He smiles indulgently, almost as though he’s proud that I understand, or maybe that I haven’t run away screaming yet. And I’m a little impressed by that myself. I can talk a good game—hello, I’m a lawyer for chrissake—but not many of my bluffs actually get called, so I don’t always have to “walk the walk,” so to speak.
But Roman is calling my bluff hard. I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination. I like things wild and crazy and a little kinky. However, sex has still always been a two-player game for me. The combo voyeur-exhibition thing that happened with Roman that night was my first and only time involving others, but they were strangers and on the other end of a darkened alley. It wasn’t hard to put things into a lust-blurred perspective that took it from shocking to alluring.
This is nothing like that, though. This is interacting with the other person, inviting him into my head, which is perhaps a more intimate place than he could enter me physically. And yet…I’m so fucking turned on right now it’s all I can do to not hike my skirt up, work open Roman’s pants, and straddle him where he sits.
“Roman, tell me what she’s wearing.”
He peruses me as though committing everything to memory before he speaks. “Thin, white blouse that doesn’t do a damn thing to hide the stiff peaks of her nipples. A purple skirt—”
“Plum.” I don’t know why I blurted that out, but I’m not about to backpedal now. “It’s not purple, it’s plum. If you’re going to be the man’s eyes, you should do it right.”
Austin sounds like he’s trying to smother a laugh, and Roman’s mouth quirks up. “I stand corrected. She’s wearing a plum skirt that has silhouettes of large flowers on it. It flows loosely, the hem flirting with her knees. Black stockings with black-and-white heels.”
“Nice,” Austin says, his voice sounding raspier than it was a few seconds ago. “Addie, sweetheart, unbutton your blouse and show us what you have underneath. Roman, while she’s doing that, I want to know what she has under that plum skirt of hers.”
With shaky fingers, I do as I’m told, but I’m too focused on Roman. He leans forward and smooths his hands up the outside of my thighs, pushing up my skirt and dress slip as he goes. When he reaches the tops of my thigh-highs, he mutters a curse then rucks a
ll the material around my waist in one quick shove. His eyes are glued to my undergarments, and I’ve never been so glad for my sexy lingerie addiction than I am right now.
“The little minx is wearing garters, brother.” Austin groans, and I hear the sound a man’s stubble makes when he drags a hand over it come through the line. Roman lifts his eyes to mine. “Garters are one of Rowdy’s weaknesses.”
“Color,” he demands.
“Black with black lace panties,” Roman answers. “Really fucking tiny ones.”
“Jesus. What’s up top?”
By now my shirt is open and pulled out from my waistband, and I’ve clamped my hands on the edge of his desk to keep them from visibly shaking.
“An ivory slip with lace trim. No bra.” He grinds out the last two words like they’re causing him physical pain. “She’s been torturing me all damn day with thoughts of what she had on underneath.”
“And?” Austin asks.
“So fucking worth it,” he rasps.
“Show her,” Austin says. “Suck those pretty tits through the fabric of her slip.”
My mouth goes dry, and my heart races like a galloping horse as Roman’s large hands wrap around my ribs and pull me in closer to stand between his spread legs. As soon as his mouth fits over one of my nipples, my breath catches, then I moan as he suckles, laving my peak with his tongue and nipping lightly with his teeth. I thread my fingers into his hair, ruining his carefully styled “Roman” look by mussing it to the point of “Ruthless.”
Every suck, lick, and pull tightens inside my belly, the pleasure shooting straight to my clit and making it thrum in time with my pulse. His eyes never leave mine, and I barely hear Austin in the background as he says things like, “fuck, yeah,” and, “that sounds hot,” and my personal favorite, “suck ’em like she pays you for it.”
When I have two huge wet spots over painfully sensitive nipples, he finally gives me a reprieve and sits back. Somehow Austin can tell that he’s stopped—probably from my sudden lack of noises—and asks me, “How’d that feel, sweetheart? Roman do a good job?”