‘Shut up.’ I punch his shoulder playfully but his eyes flare in a way that promises it could very quickly go from playful to something else entirely if I’m not careful.
‘No one has to know about this.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Could we actually keep this a secret? Is that remotely feasible?
‘What? You’re planning on taking out a full-page ad?’
‘No, but, you’re kind of recognisable, and so am I.’ Temptation is dragging me towards the line of acceptance, though. ‘Why don’t we just, you know, sleep together? My apartment has a basement garage, you can come and go and no one needs to know…’
‘No.’ He lifts a hand, curving it around my cheek, his eyes flaring with mine. ‘It’s obvious you’re a total novice and need a first-rate education. I’m going to take you out.’
‘Wine and dine me?’
‘Yes.’
Heat soars in my chest.
‘It wouldn’t work. I can’t have people talking. This matters too much to me.’ Once more, I wave my hand around my office, indicating the club.
‘I respect that.’ He studies me for a beat. ‘I promise I won’t do anything that could damage your reputation in the club. Scout’s honour.’
I laugh, because he is far from a Scout. ‘Dating you would do that though.’ And it would. Not just because I’m me, but because he’s Nicholas Rothsmore and his reputation would be enough to drag me towards scandal—just the kind of scandal I promise my members the club will help them avoid.
‘So we’ll keep it secret.’ He says it as if it’s simple.
Before I can ask him exactly how he proposes to do that, he pulls me closer, tighter, so our bodies meld and thought becomes a little harder.
‘I saw something on the forums about the Christmas gala,’ he murmurs, his eyes sweeping my face.
‘That we’re looking for donations of time?’
He nods, then drops his head so his lips buzz mine so lightly it’s a form of torture. I push up on my tiptoes without meaning to, so my face is closer, wanting an actual kiss.
He pulls back, just a little, teasing me, tempting me. Frustration kicks in my abdomen.
‘So?’
‘So,’ he murmurs, buzzing my lips again, then sliding a hand between my legs so I sway forward and exhale softly. ‘If anyone runs into us, we’ll tell them I’m helping with the Christmas gala.’ His fingers brush my clit and I dig my fingers into his shoulder, holding on for dear life as he stirs my body to a new fever pitch.
It’s so plausible. Members with certain expertise often volunteer their time or resources when it comes to organising events. Ellie Little recently provided a heap of supercars for a member event. This isn’t unprecedented.
People would believe it.
Probably.
He slides a single finger inside my core and my knees threaten to buckle. His arm clamps around my back as if he knows somehow.
‘Think about it,’ he murmurs in my ear before sucking my lobe into his mouth, teasing it between his teeth. ‘How else will you know what really…’ he moves his finger deeper, brushing his thumb over my clit; my breath hurts ‘…really…’ he bites his teeth down on my earlobe and I make a sound of total surrender ‘…great dating feels like?’
I hold him as he moves faster and pleasure is like a tidal wave swirling around me. I’m not sure I care about dating so much as sex, and sex specifically with Nicholas, but at the same time I’m completely intrigued.
Pleasure is making thought almost impossible, so I ask the first thing that occurs to me before I lose myself utterly in this moment. ‘Why would you do this?’
‘Beyond the fact the sex with you is fucking fantastic?’
I nod, tilting my head back, staring at my ceiling as everything explodes in my chest.
‘Because in a month I will become the man who’s going to be Lord Rothsmore and any kind of social life will be a distant memory.’ I cling on tighter as my eyes fill with stars. ‘This month with you will be like my very own goodbye party to my real life.’
If I weren’t cresting over a wave of sublime release, I might almost have felt sorry for him, I might have paid more attention to the heaviness in his voice. But I cannot think properly, I cannot act as I normally would. I cry out his name and tip over the edge, my eyes blinking open to find him watching me with an intensity that takes my breath away.
‘Say yes,’ he prompts, a smile flickering across his lips, as though he knows I’ll agree—how can I not?
My throat is parched, my body awash with a shock of feelings, but I nod, jerkily. In that moment, I would have agreed to give him my soul; I would have agreed to anything he asked of me. We have thirty days, not one thousand and one, and yet sex, I think, has become my Scheherazade’s tale, and he is the master storyteller, intriguing me more and more with each and every encounter…
WELL… THAT WAS UNEXPECTED.
I settle into the luxurious leather of my limo, staring out at Manhattan as I cut across town. I can still smell her on my skin, on my hands, taste her in my mouth. Desire slides across me like warm water, and I throw my head back, squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.
Miss Anonymous is Miss Imogen Carmichael.
I’ve met her before, but only briefly, and while I thought she was attractive, I haven’t really given her a second thought. I focus on that memory now, remembering the way she was with me, the same way she is with everyone in the exclusive club. Friendly, but in a way I instinctively understood to be guarded. She is exceptional at seeming warm without giving much of herself away.
She’s calm and measured, and the club is a testament to that. It’s a behemoth of an organisation and she oversees all aspects of it, an impressive tribute to her hard work.
What is unexpected is the heat that runs just beneath her surface. The passion that makes her lose herself in the moment just as completely as I do—if not more so. She’s driven by instincts, and her instincts are fire and flame.
It isn’t that I haven’t had good sex. I have. But she’s on a whole other level. There’s nothing practised about her, there’s nothing overthought or contrived. She does as she feels, and she feels as she needs, and her body answers mine in every way.
It’s utterly surreal.
It must have been, for me to suggest we date.
Date! What the actual fuck?
I don’t date. I screw.
