Tell Me What You Crave Page 9

  He sat next to her, and stole her foot from the edge. The second he started rubbing her heels, she relented and stretched out.

  Her eyes closed, and a deep hum came from her lips. “You’re good at that.”

  “I’m good at a lot more.”

  She chuckled. “One of your job requirements, I’m sure.”

  He lost his smile.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace added quickly. “I meant that to be a compliment.”

  “You must be out of practice, then.” Dorian motioned for her other foot, which she complied with a grateful bash of her eyelashes.

  The more he rubbed, the more her shoulders loosened. The more she smiled and he saw glimpses of that younger Grace from the photos.

  “I’m out of practice at a lot of things,” she muttered with her eyes closed. “I’m so used to shutting myself off, and pushing people away. Kind of had to, with all the scammers knocking on my door. That’s why I moved here.”

  “Scammers?”

  “There’s a whole world of con-artists that somehow know when someone gets into a lot of money, and they target them. You know, like lottery winners, lawsuit settlements…or life insurance beneficiaries. Each of them claims to have your best interests at heart, or can truly make a difference. Even go so far as to invoke a romantic interest—console a grieving widow desperate for affection. A reprieve from the loneliness. Until they swindle the money out of you, and they split.”

  He stopped rubbing. “They actually stole from you?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t fall for any of that. But I got tired of the attempts. One right after another, they just kept popping up. So, I moved. Changed my number, everything. Decided to downsize while I was at it. Gave away most of the furniture, kitchenware, clothes…almost like a Spartan. Or a gypsy.”

  “A gypsy, with a cause.” Dorian’s thumb circled the ball of her foot, and she moaned. The sound shot straight to his groin in the most carnal way.

  “So, you threw yourself into your job, and your new cause like Joan of Arc. Take no prisoners, no excuses…no distractions.”

  Grace opened one eye at him, her lips curving up on one side of her cheek, and revealing an adorable dimple.

  One he fought the urge to lick off.

  “You figured me out, have you? I’m no longer the mysterious woman in the apartment below you. Does that mean you’ve lost interest?”

  He laughed, and moved his hands up her smooth ankle to her calf. “Hardly. Quite the opposite.”

  “Now that you’ve discovered I’m loaded.”

  “Oh, so you’ve figured me out then, have you?” he mocked. “Freeloader? Dodging responsibility at every turn, waiting for someone else to pick up the tab?”

  “Cougar chaser, is a term I’ve heard.”

  Dorian threw his head back and laughed. Louder than he’d intended. He moved his hand to her knee, and circled her skin with the intensity of a leopard. “You’re not that much older than me. Enough with that.”

  “How do you know my age?”

  “You’ve been all over tabloids. I’ve caught your magical number.”

  She chuckled. “And what about you? Twenty-four? Five? Somewhere in there?”

  He tugged on her leg, gently pulling her closer. His palm wrapped around her knee, and he looked her straight in the eye. “Twenty-eight. Not that age should matter.”

  Her gaze matched his, dark, focused, and almost lustful.

  He didn’t dare push his luck by going higher on her leg, no matter how much his urges begged him to.

  Until she licked her upper lip. Like she was savoring a sweet dessert, too delicious to push away.

  Dorian slid his hand up farther, ever so slowly. Inch by inch, until he reached her thigh. And squeezed.

  The whole time, their gazes locked on each other.

  His pulse raced. Maybe she could hear it through his chest. The farther up he went, the more her chest rose and fell.

  The haze in her eyes deepened, and her cheeks flushed.

  “You have to want this, Grace.” Dorian’s voice shook as the words came out. “I’m not doing anything more, until you tell me to. Because I’m not pretending.”

  Her mouth parted, and he desperately wanted to dive into her. Taste every morsel of her tongue, until he dissolved in a puddle of flesh.

  He’d never wanted a woman more.

  “I know you’re not pretending.” Grace’s voice came out edgy, almost raw. “Which is why I haven’t told you to stop.”

  Dorian’s heart stuttered.

  Did she just admit she wants me?

  His groin ached to be freed. “Then, what are you waiting for?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Grace

  What am I waiting for?

  Grace could barely form words in her mind. A swirling heat burned low in her gut, and her breasts felt heavy. Warm tingles spread through her face and down her neck. For the first time in years, her body responded to a man’s presence in the most salacious way.

  Dorian was looking at her the way every red-blooded woman dreamed of, as if she were the goddess of love, incarnate. His eyes devoured her, and damn his delectable five-o-clock shadow.

  The most compelling part of him was his hands. Rough, strong, and clearly oh-so-capable on her skin. Smoothing their way up her thighs, almost reaching the part of her that throbbed. Ached.

  What am I waiting for?

  Grace had no idea. This all could have been from the sake. Alcohol had always run right through her. She honestly didn’t trust herself.

  If she were truly honest, Dorian intrigued her. Ever since she moved in, and had first seen him checking his mailbox in the lobby. He’d just returned from a run or a workout, and she’d been on her way into work. As usual. Now, he wasn’t as young as she’d pegged him for earlier. He knew her age, too. And he still sat in front of her staring like she was the only woman on the planet.

  Even her dormant desires appreciated the sexual aura oozing off him. Despite her best efforts to push him away and convince herself he wasn’t right for her, was too young, or too wild—any reason to deny the attraction—he was always there.

  In the elevator, in the lobby, in her mind…in her dreams.

  Only now, he wasn’t a dream. He was right in front of her. Ready, and willing.

  With no more excuses coming to her head.

  “Do you want me, Grace?” Dorian asked.

  Oh, hell.

  She surged forward and grabbed the back of his neck. Crushing her lips to his, the world tilted sideways and the only thing that mattered was his taste.

  A blend of fruit, cloves, and vanilla from the Merlot, and his minty mouthwash blended together in a seductive flavor she couldn’t resist.

  His expert mouth delved into hers, and his hands gripped the flesh of her thighs, pulling her into him. She nearly fell off the edge of the chair, but he was right there, filling her space, breathing her air, and absorbing her hunger.

  A growl twisted from his throat. He yanked her on his lap.

  Straddling him felt so natural, and unfamiliar at the same time. Grace’s sex rubbed against his raging erection through her panties. She clung to his shoulders to keep from falling, and relished in the thickness of his arms. The consuming force under her fingertips, kneading and claiming her space.

  Dorian’s hands roved. Her bare ass under her skirt, then up her back under her tank top, and finally to her breasts. Through her bra, he massaged the flesh desperate for attention. Her breath came in flutters, keeping her on the rim of sanity and hallucination.

  She scraped her nails down his scalp. His groan electrified her body, escalating the temperature of the room to hellfire.

  He kissed down her chin, nibbling on her neck down her to her cleavage. He nuzzled there, giving her a brief chance to gasp for air.

  “You are good at this.” She put her head back and let the lust consume her.

  “I’ve barely gotten started,” he rasped. His hands roamed down her bra, and li
fted the hem of her tank top. Urgently, he peeled up the fabric and suckled her breasts.

  With a tug, she yanked the shirt off the rest of the way. Tossing it over her shoulder, Grace clung to his back, and the thick, muscular ridges around his shoulder blades.

  Dorian pulled away to undo the buttons, and tugged off his shirt.

  The split-second view she had of his chest stole the little remaining breath from her lungs. An intricate web of vines and thorns weaved across his pectoral, spreading from his arm like ribbons. Every thread of muscle was so well defined on his chest, it was almost sad that he’d marred such a marvel with ink. If the design wasn’t so exquisite.

  She didn’t get a chance to admire it. He cradled the sides of her neck and pulled her into him. Their mouths fused in a searing kiss that vibrated the room around her. Her fingers stroked his chest in time with her tongue, gliding along his. Dorian was the dessert she’d starved from her life for years. A diet from her urges as a woman, from the need to connect.

  Why did I deny myself this pleasure all this time?

  Her hands glided down his abdomen, and started to undo his belt. He gasped into her mouth. As she pulled the leather from his waist, he unclasped her bra, and let it fall from her shoulders.

  She leaned back, and tried to slow her breath before she passed out.

  His gaze roved over her naked form. If eyes could groan in wanton abandon, Dorian’s did. With a lick of his bottom lip, his hand touched the skin between her breasts. He caressed down her sternum, and then up again.

  The pressure sent her back farther, until she arched over the edge of the table. Her caramel-honey hair fell away from her shoulders. His other hand on her back braced her from falling, and he loomed over her torso. With a searing heat, his mouth closed over her nipple. Laving and suckling until it hardened into a diamond tip, zinging to her sex that still rubbed against his erection.

  He massaged her other breast, gently and thoroughly. Soft moans crept from his lips when she tightened her grip on his neck, grazing his ears.

  Dorian wrapped his arms around her waist, and stood. With ease, he laid her against the table, and her skirt fabric bunched around her hips. His fingers slipped under ass, and pulled her panties down, inch by inch. He kissed along her skin starting at her thigh, all the way to her knee, and let them fall to the floor.

  Her heart hammered a thousand times in the span of a second. His abs were a masterpiece, an unfair taunt to the rest of mankind. Until the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile, which raised the bar on taunting.

  “Step into my office,” he teased, and pulled the chair behind him closer to the table. When he sat, he smoothed his hands up her thighs, to the sensitive skin of her bikini line, and grinned at her open legs. “This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” His fingers grazed over her sex, and Grace twitched. He blew a tantalizing breath over her scorching skin, and his grin widened when goosebumps rose everywhere. His gaze turned dark, hungry, like a mountain lion starved for weeks. “See how long you can last, before I make you scream.”

  Her pulse skipped. She wanted to tell him she was too controlled, had never screamed during sex, but her lungs were deprived of oxygen. Especially when she watched him lower his head between her thighs. His face disappeared, and his warm lips closed over her sex. His tongue spread her folds, and circled around her clit.

  She jerked with a gasp, and his hands tightened around her waist, holding her in place.

  “Easy, angel. Let me do all the work.”

  Grace gripped the edge of the table to keep her grounded, but that didn’t stop the chandelier from spinning over her head. His tongue delved into her, and rubbed along her bud like a cat licking a bowl of milk. Drinking her in, and rocketing spears of desire through her nerve endings. Pants and moans escaped her lips, and she rocked against his mouth.

  He slid a finger into her, and curled around the inside of channel. He circled and massaged in time with his tongue against her clit, and she dug her nails into the wooden table.

  She didn’t care if she left scratches, as long as that heat continued to build. To coil around her center, and send her to the rafters.

  Somewhere in all that haze and lust, she was determined to last. To not give in to the urge to scream, and beat him at his own game. The challenge was her goal.

  He wanted her to scream, and she’d make him work for it.

  Grace gripped his arm, the one still latched on to her waist. Then found his head and scraped along his scalp. She loved the growl he gave each time she did it.

  Dorian returned with his teeth against her folds. She yelped, but he didn’t relent. He pulled the sensitive nub between his teeth, and sucked his heart’s content.

  She squirmed and panted, unable to hold still through the onslaught. In time with his fingers expertly massaging inside her core, she was about to lose the challenge. She wouldn’t be able to hold back.

  “You taste so damn good,” he muttered against her folds. “Hold onto that feeling, right there. That’s it.”

  He stood in a rush, and the chair pushed back against his legs. Dorian never released her sex, and pumped his fingers into her. Her body involuntarily lunged and oscillated into him, over and over, the pressure building and expanding.

  The chandelier lights danced over her head. The tips almost sparked with the supernova between her legs, and her face flushed to the point of numbness. Grace had to hold it, contain it, keep it right there.

  Until she exploded. The sweet release and shudder of her control. The table nearly fell out from under her. A low moan amplified into a series of cries, and she held on to his head as if her life depended on it.

  “Shit, yes!” Dorian rumbled against her skin. He drank her in until she finally stopped convulsing. After a final flutter of kisses against her sex, he lifted his head and blew a breath against her stomach. He rubbed up and down her chest, and squeezed a breast in triumph.

  Her chest heaved, desperate for air and to prevent from being absorbed by pure heat. The lights stopped dancing over her head just as her face started to tingle.

  “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Grace squeezed her legs together, the ache sublime.

  He grabbed her hands, and slowly pulled her to a sitting position, on the table with her skirt still bunched around her waist. He brushed the hair away from her face, and licked her taste from his lips. “I think I won that challenge.” Dorian grinned.

  “You had an unfair advantage,” she panted. “It’s been a while for me.”

  His grin widened. “Even better.” He pulled her hips against his, straddling him against the table. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

  Dorian

  Flushed skin, pink cheeks, messy hair, and naked chest. Dorian’s new favorite look on Grace. Even more beautiful because she’d wanted it. Wanted him. There was no ounce of doubt or discomfort on her face. Just the satisfied look of a woman sated and pleasured beyond sanity.

  All because of Dorian.

  “I’ve made a mess of my table,” she chuckled. Grace pulled her hair up, and rested her hand on his chest. Her finger outlined the edge of his tattoo.

  “You don’t have a couch. It was either here, or your desk.” He motioned to the glass desk in what was supposed to be a living room.

  “Or the bed.” She smirked.

  His cock jumped, still straining against his pants. “You ready for that level of commitment? A table is one thing, you only eat there. But a bed…”

  Grace chuckled, and squeezed his bicep. “Is that another one of your rules? Not on a bed?”

  “No rules about that.” He trailed his fingers up her backside, reveling in yet more goosebumps across her blushed skin. “There is one other place we could finish.”

  She took in a breath with a smile. “I’m already ahead of you.” With a push against his chest, he stepped back, and she slid off the table. Her skirt draped over her legs, and she strolled down the hallway to the bathroom.
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  Her slinky skirt swayed against her hips as he followed. By the time he reached the doorway, Grace had already turned on the shower in the glass stall.

  He unzipped his pants, and let the slacks fall to the floor. Dorian stood behind her in his boxer briefs, and breathed in her scent.

  As she tested the water temperature, he slid his fingers into the hem of her skirt, and tugged them down, kissing her ass on the way.

  His dick stretched at the sight of her glorious rear end. Through the top of the elastic of his briefs, his tip strained, nearly purple and aching for the woman mere inches from him.

  “I take it you’re not pretending either,” he whispered in her ear.

  Grace tilted her head into his voice. “I suck at pretending. Never been a good liar.”

  Her admittance made his heart swell. Dorian grabbed his pants from the floor and dug around in his pocket for the condom. Tearing open the wrapper, he slipped it on, trying to keep his hands from shaking with the anticipation. He turned her in his arms, and held her neck. Slowly, he stepped forward, moving her under the spray, and covered her mouth with his.

  Her tongue battled against his, drawing him further under her spell. Against the warm spray down his shoulders, she dragged her fingers along his skin. When she reached his ass, she dug her nails in, the sharp sting stretching him more.

  Without her heels, she was so much shorter. She amazed him more with that much confidence and vitality wrapped up into one compact woman who made him burn. He pressed into her, his cock pushing against her abdomen, and his tongue diving deeper into her mouth. Dorian tilted his head to gain more access, and tried to taste her soul.

  Grace rose on her toes, arching for him. Opening for him, and letting him in to her secret space.

  He gripped under her ass, and lifted her like she was a pillow, weightless and plump.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, letting her sex open to his straining dick. Rubbing along his shaft in torturous delight.

  Dorian could barely restrain himself. He’d waited a year for this moment. To have Grace Evans, and claim her as his own. To show her just how glorious he could make her feel.