smiled down at him and touched his face, his scowl warning me that my small-town New England ways would have to take a back seat for once – maybe for ever. And that just then he had more important things to do, like what he was doing just then.
I swallowed, my will fading under his onslaught, my stomach muscles still rippling from the effect of his hungry tongue.
Do it later, I thought. Fight later. I need this. I tried one last time. ‘You must. You promised. You said you’d see a professional, Darnley. Even now you’re starting to remember, there may still be issues –’
I broke off with a gasp, derailed by an extra vicious jab from his hungry tongue.
‘Enough. I’ll find one in my own time, Ella. And in my own way.’ He was leaning on his elbows glaring down at me.
For a split second I froze. The steel in his tone is always a shock, even when we’re doing this.
‘OK. I get it.’ I stroked his tense forehead and ruffled his springy mass of fresh-washed chestnut hair, thrilling to the glimmer of little blond highlights that sparkled at the ends. ‘And don’t stop,’ I gasped, giving in as gracefully as I could with my legs splayed wide and my arousal pounding. ‘I was enjoying that.’
Now, as we face each other in the cushioned luxury of the private jet, his dark look demands an answer.
‘You’re right. It was a fantastic evening,’ I say quickly. Something burns deep down, something we’ve been putting off all evening.
Does he sense this?
‘Meaning what? I’m not enough for you?’ His eyes gleam as he says this. He may be playing – maybe not.
I swallow. ‘That’s not what I meant. You –’
He smiles slowly. ‘I’m what? Twisting your words? You tear me apart when you look at me like that. How about a small thank-you?’
I was ready for this so I make a start on the rather big thank-you I’d already planned. With a slow, swaying motion I arch my back as I slip the sleeves of my gown a little way down my arms and then reach round to lower my zip. He watches, his eyes growing darker, as I slide the satin down further, move round slowly to bend low and unzip the rest, then turn and face him as I slide the satin down all the way.
As he sees me emerge from my clinging, costly gown his eyes widen briefly. ‘Wow.’
Tonight I’m wearing his diamonds for lingerie. I’d trusted to roughly a million dollars’ worth of bling to provide the support structure that evening gowns this pricey require. Rather to my surprise they’ve done pretty well. Now all I have to deal with is the liquid heat in his gaze as he sees his Christmas present turn into a perfect New Year offering.
‘And just so you know,’ I say gently, as I sink to my knees and free him from the taut imprisonment of his trousers, where I sense his arousal has been steadily building at much the same rate as mine, ‘I’m very, very grateful.’
To prove it I touch my lips reverently to his hot, silky shaft, which is already hungry for my mouth, and for a few delicious moments our battle is on hold.
All around us the low, throbbing hum of the engines closes us into our own private world as I explore him with my tongue, tease him when he tenses, lick gently when he groans. Soon I can see – from the tension building in the rippling muscles of his thighs – that he’s close.
‘Whoa. Let’s make this last.’ With a groan he eases away from me, smiling at me as I lean over to plant a brief kiss on the tip just as he pulls clear.
He raises me gently until I’m upright and finds my mouth once more, his hands exploring me now, reaching into every part of me, his touch urgent, his fingers squeezing, pressing, making me limp with desire as he finds all the places I want him to find and then finds them again and lingers. And slowly he presses me back against the mattress lying just behind us, and as my knees buckle under his weight and my will melts away in the white heat of his look I give myself up to him with the eager abandon of an alley cat.
When he finally plunges inside, his shaft huge and hot and wet from my kisses, my belly muscles haul him in like we’ve been apart for weeks. Every thrust is a surge of triumph, every retreat a mournful parting as he leans over me, his eyes burning into mine with the dark passion that’s been pent up all evening.
And as I climb ever closer to orgasm under his steady gaze I know now why his look is so disturbing, even across a crowded room – it reminds me of this. His dark, intent gaze is the living promise that he gives me, even in public places where words and touch are forbidden, that he loves me and needs me, all the time.
Soon, far sooner than I want, I spasm around him, tipping over the edge at the onslaught of his steady, pounding rhythm. Seconds after that he comes too, his deafening bellow his only response to the soft undertow of my rippling muscles.
‘Christ, Ella.’
* * *
Our journey takes a while. We refuel in Denver, make love and sleep and make love again. In between we eat, drink coffee, play cards, talk to friends and family while we take turns to tease and fondle, each daring the other to break up the conversation with a shout from him or a giggle from me.
When we finally arrive in a sun-kissed land under a wide blue sky, a million miles away from the deep winter of New York, we’ve a long drive up Highway 101 to reach our destination.
I’m blurry from sex and bewildered by the time zones when he finally tells his driver to slow down to show me the view.
‘There it is. See it, down there along the cliff?’
I grin up at him, pleased he’s so happy, eager and carefree as a boy. Then I blink. ‘But it’s massive. I thought it would be some kind of shack on stilts.’
‘I don’t do shacks.’ He’s laughing now, nuzzling deep into my shoulder, sending sparks of excitement all over me as I gaze out over the sleek glass palace that millionaires like him call a beach house.
But as we get closer I frown. On the longest wall, looking out over the bay, I see something odd.
‘That’s weird. Some kind of artwork?’
Weird though it looks to me it’s entirely possible that’s exactly what it is. His world’s a universe away from mine. I’d sooner not seem naïve.
But at my side I feel him stiffen. He pulls away from me and picks up his phone and now I sense that, art or not, something’s very wrong here.
He mutters into his cell, his tone low.
This is serious. Alarmed, I tune in to what he’s saying. He’s using the part code, part command string he uses for emergencies.
As we pull up outside the house, we gaze at it; him in silence, me in growing horror. All along the gleaming, white-glazed wall someone has scrawled a vast message in vivid scarlet paint. It’s been done in a hurry with a very thick brush. Trails of paint trickle down, still wet. Crude splashes of
