Come and Get Me: The Magister Series, Book 2: A Billionaire Romance Page 9

  “Gee,” she said, her voice husky. “That sounds familiar. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “I want to come inside you.” Now. His cock and balls ached, his whole body ached, he couldn’t stand it any longer. She couldn’t torture him all night. He rubbed his face into her throat, nipped her earlobe. “I need you…I need…”

  Her breath caught. She whispered, “I’ll give you what you need. I promise.”

  Thank Christ. Charles made to roll her on her back.

  She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Shh,” she breathed, kissing him again. “Just a little at a time.”

  “What?” he croaked, and then saw stars behind his eyelids when she took hold of his cock and guided him toward her entrance. Oh yes. He didn’t care what position they were in, all that mattered was sliding home and being joined completely. She’d clench and squeeze him, drive him fucking mad, and after all this teasing he’d come so goddamn hard he’d be lucky to stay conscious.

  She rubbed the tip of his cock against her slit. Then she sank down on him until his crown slipped inside, bracing herself on his shoulders while he gasped between her breasts. The most sensitive part of him, surrounded by that tight, wet heat. Yes, fuck yes. “Hold still,” she panted, and…

  Slid off him again.

  “No,” Charles gasped, but it was too late. The final stage of his torment began. He could only hold on for the ride, clinging to her while she worked him, letting him rub against her entrance, go in a little, slide out again, then in a little farther next time, then withdraw. He could no longer breathe without moaning. As for her, she was starting to whimper again, and the next time she let him inside, she fluttered around him.

  “Charles, oh my God,” she choked. “Need you so bad.”

  He couldn’t speak. He could only groan something that sounded like her name. Every time she moved on him, he heard wet noises. The next time she did it, he’d go over the edge. Nothing would hold it back.

  “Going to come,” he managed against her throat, his hands sliding through the silk of her hair. “Darling, I’m going to…I’m…”

  “Do it,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Do it, I want you to feel so good, it feels so good—”

  She lowered herself one final time, taking him all the way in, every inch of him, and he felt her starting to convulse all around him. Time seemed to stop completely, every heartbeat became an age.

  And then he roared, without words or sense or thought, as he let go. His orgasm wrecked him while she chanted praise and pleas into his ear. Oh baby yes, give it to me, more…

  His cock throbbed and pulsed inside her, just as it was made to do. He came in her, filled her up until he had nothing more to give.

  He didn’t pass out, but he came damned close.

  When the stars cleared out of his eyes, and as he calmed, a different kind of pleasure filled him. Warm, brilliant satisfaction. He had everything he needed. Nothing mattered outside of this room. Nobody else mattered.

  After a few moments, he collected himself enough to nibble Sandra’s neck. She shivered. Too much? He muttered in her ear, “All right?”

  She laughed breathlessly. “More than.” She kissed his damp temple. “You?”

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth. His body had never been happier, but his brain cells might be incinerated for good. “I can’t seem to think.” Then he laughed too, soft and disbelieving. “How do you do this to me?”

  “I could ask you that same thing. Oh, wait. I have.” She wriggled and began to edge off his softening cock. With a grunt, he withdrew. “Got an answer yet?”

  “Don’t ask me the tough questions,” he sighed. “Or any questions.” She giggled, and rolled over to her side of the bed, where a box of tissues rested on the nightstand. Technically, in fact, it was his side of the bed. Charles blinked.

  Then, as they cleaned up, he realized it didn’t matter which side of the bed he was on. He could fall asleep on the floor. His eyelids kept trying to close, and his limbs felt heavy as lead. Dammit, no. He’d never been one to roll over afterward and start snoring. He hadn’t enjoyed afterglow and pillow talk in years, but it was starting to come back to him.

  Sandra lay down next to him. Whatever she saw in his eyes made her expression soften. “Long day,” she said.

  “No,” Charles said at once. “Not at—” He yawned. “All.”

  “What time is it?” She propped herself up on her elbow and peered over his shoulder at the alarm clock on the other nightstand. Her eyes widened. “Wow.”

  He rolled over to take a look and blinked in disbelief. It was nearly one in the morning. Impossible. They’d gone to bed around ten. They couldn’t really have been making love for so long, could they?

  Sandra cuddled up to him and rested her head on his chest. Her hair tickled his mouth. “Wow,” she repeated softly.

  He’d feel smug later. Right now, he didn’t even have the energy for that. “Where does your sister think you are?” he mumbled, because that seemed important somehow.

  “Tomorrow’s Halloween,” Sandra reminded him. “She’s out at a party. She’ll drink like a fish and won’t come home until tomorrow afternoon, and then she’ll go out to another party tomorrow night.” She yawned, too.

  “College life.” He made himself sit up. She grumbled in protest. “Under the covers,” he ordered, and she went without further demur. In fact, she sighed blissfully when she sank into the crisp, heavy cotton sheets.

  “How busy?” Charles asked as he took her back into his arms. “What’s on your schedule for tomorrow?”

  “Oh—well—I’ve actually got a party, too. I got invited to the one that Pattern Drift always throws. The Chelsea firm where I interned.”

  “That’s good,” Charles said. “Those are valuable business contacts. You don’t ever want to stop networking.”

  “I…” Sandra sighed. “Right.”

  “Are you dressing up as anything seductive?” He couldn’t decide if he was hopeful or not. It wouldn’t be for him, but maybe she could wear it later.

  “Nah, I just decided to go a couple of days ago. I’ll wear a mask.” Her voice grew warmer. “Tonight was my real night to dress up. What do you have planned for tomorrow?”

  “No parties, squash at three.” A horrible thought occurred to him. “You’re not going to go running at dawn, are you?”

  “God, no. Tomorrow’s my rest day.” Her voice took on a wicked tinge. “Complete rest. I bet I won’t be up to any physical activity.”

  At the moment, that didn’t sound so bad. He could sleep for a year. Charles struggled manfully to keep going, but his eyes couldn’t stay open. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yeah, we will. Uh—” Now her voice got a little small. “What time should I leave?” Never, Charles wanted to say, but that was probably not wise. “Kind of early, I guess? Before people are out and about.” That made his eyes open again. “I…I actually wondered if I should even spend the night.”

  Charles touched her chin, and got her to raise her head so he could glare at her. He searched for something diplomatic to say and settled on, “Shut up and go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She spluttered, but he closed his eyes and nodded off before she could retort. His last thought was that even her moans couldn’t pay him enough to listen to such nonsense.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Shut up? That jerk. If he hadn’t made her come her brains out twice, Sandra might have been really irritated.

  She’d asked a serious question. The building’s side entrance on Seventy-First Street was discreet (relative to the Park Avenue entrance, anyway), and she was pretty sure nobody had noticed her going in at ten o’clock tonight. She hadn’t encountered anyone except the doorman. But wandering outside in broad daylight on a Saturday morning could be a different story.

  What a pain in the ass. This was the ugly flipside to the thrilling part of their secret. Sandra sighed but then felt a pleasant twinge
between her legs that had her reliving the thrill all over again.

  Yep. He liked waiting, all right. She wondered when he’d figure that out for himself. She didn’t want to rub his face in it. He probably wouldn’t take it well.

  As she cuddled up next to him, Sandra’s gaze fell on the Queen Anne chair in the corner of the room, where she’d placed the Carine Gilson box. Her heart sank a little. That was something else he wouldn’t take well—if he knew she didn’t like it.

  The chemise was beautiful, of course. Tasteful and no doubt fabulously expensive. Pale blue silk, cream lace, modestly cut at the bust.

  The perfect garment for an ice princess.

  She bit her lip. Yeah, it was pretty. She’d have picked it out herself not so long ago, before she’d gotten together with Charles and realized that she could be so much more. That she had fire and passion and the power to drive an alpha male crazy in bed. She’d thought Charles saw her that way, too.

  He’d loved the lingerie she’d worn tonight, which was as daring as anything she’d ever owned. It seemed odd that he’d buy her something so tame. Didn’t men usually get their girlfriends sexy, revealing stuff?

  Maybe it would look different when it was on her. Sandra gave Charles a quick look to make sure he really was asleep and then wriggled her way out of the bed as quietly as possible. She tiptoed over to the chair and opened the box again.

  She held up the chemise, looking at it in the dim light of the lamp. The silk and lace were so delicate. She even felt hesitant about putting it on while she was still sticky and smelled like sex. She’d mess it up. Maybe she should take a quick shower first. Yeah, that was the hallmark of every temptress: wearing lingerie you had to be squeaky clean to touch.

  Charles’s bedroom had not one, but two full bathrooms attached. Sandra slipped into one of them, pretty sure it had been Eleanor’s once. It didn’t have much in the way of stuff for a man—or for anybody. But it did have a walk-up Jacuzzi, heated marble floors, and a nook for a vanity and armchair. Heavy damask curtains covered the windows that looked over Central Park.

  Sandra took a deep breath and hurried into the enormous walk-in shower. It was even bigger than the one in Charles’s North Shore house, which was really saying something. She saw nozzles for side-jets too. She played around with them, and couldn’t decide if she felt like a pampered guest or someone caught in a car wash.

  Though opulent, the bathroom was lacking in actual bath supplies. Not surprising, she guessed. But someone had provided tubes of lotion and shower gel with French labels, and there were towels and washcloths waiting for her. She cleaned up, letting the warm spray relax her all over again, and patted herself dry with the fluffy towels.

  Stark naked, she walked back into the bedroom, casting a quick glance at Charles. He was still asleep, though he’d flung one arm back over the spot where she’d lain. She grinned and picked the chemise up again, slipping it over her.

  It was like putting on a little slice of heaven, the silk was so fine. The lace wasn’t itchy or scratchy, not even on her freshly showered skin.

  A full-length mirror stood next to a tall mahogany chest of drawers. Sandra tiptoed over to check herself out in it. Sure enough, she looked clean, angelic, and untouchable.

  Was this what he really wanted from her?

  “Lovely.”

  She twitched and turned at the low rumble of Charles’s voice. He was watching her from the bed with half-open eyes. She licked her lips and tried not to fidget. “It’s really pretty,” she said. “I’m sorry I woke you. Was I too loud?”

  He patted the empty space next to him. “You were too gone.”

  She blushed, and the thrill returned. Who cared what he gave her to wear, if he was going to say stuff like that? “Sorry about that,” she said, and took a step toward the bed.

  “Wait a second.” He rubbed a hand over his face and then pointed at the open box on the chair. “There should be something else in there. I forgot about it before.”

  “Oh yeah?” Curious now, Sandra returned to the box and sorted through the tissue paper. Sure enough, there was another garment wrapped in a second layer. She carefully opened the paper to get a look.

  Her mouth formed an ‘O’ when she pulled it out of the box. It was a floor-length robe, all in black silk with scarlet trim, and with a red silk sash. A pattern ran across the back, wrapping up from the hem and then swooping down over the right shoulder: a firebird, a phoenix.

  She put it on, silk over silk, with the scent of French soap underneath it all. She’d never felt so decadent. The robe rippled like water as the hem brushed over her toes, not quite touching the floor. With open vents, the kimono sleeves draped beautifully over her arms. She tied the silk sash into a bow.

  She heard a slow, deep exhalation from the bed and looked over to see that Charles had propped himself up on his elbow. He was looking at her with a very different expression than he’d worn when he saw her in the chemise. His eyes were a lot bigger, for one thing.

  Sandra glanced toward the mirror again and almost gasped, because she could see why. The robe hugged her perfectly, the red phoenix seemed to wrap around her in an embrace, and against the black silk her hair shone like flame.

  “You look like a queen,” he breathed.

  Ha. So much for ice-blue innocence. She grinned, and then got ahold of herself and lifted her chin imperiously. “Indeed. You have done well, peasant.”

  He grinned back. Even now, she didn’t coax many real smiles out of him. “I’m glad to hear it. Get over here so I can kiss your ring or something.”

  She laughed and returned to him, loving the motion of the silk robe against her bare legs. When she stood at the side of the bed, she extended a regal hand. He kissed her knuckles. “Come back to bed,” he said.

  “Happy to,” Sandra replied feelingly. That mattress looked comfier than ever. She took off the robe, folded it carefully, and laid it on the nearest chair. He looked at her in the chemise again, and a furrow appeared in his brow, as if he was confused.

  “Yes, very pretty,” he said, but he sounded puzzled now.

  Sandra kept quiet. Charles wasn’t dumb. He’d figure out soon enough that he preferred Queen Sandra to Pretty Sandra. And if he didn’t, well, she couldn’t afford thousand-dollar silk whatevers, but she had a few other ideas for cluing him in.

  She took off the chemise too. He made a disapproving sound. “You’re all sweaty,” Sandra informed him. “You’ll just have to make do with naked me.”

  He gave a martyred sigh as she climbed back into bed next to him. “Tough job, but somebody’s got to do it,” he said, and switched off the lamp. “Just as long as that’s me.”

  * * *

  The clouds rushed past her face. Tears stung and then froze on her cheeks—this high up, it was bitterly cold. But strangely enough, the air wasn’t getting any warmer, even while she hurtled down toward the ground.

  Where had she fallen from? Sandra couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. She had no parachute, nothing to grab at to slow her descent. It was so cloudy that she couldn’t even see the ground below. How long until she crashed? How long until her bones broke and her heart stopped and the fall finally killed her?

  It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing, some distant voice reminded her, which wasn’t helpful at all. But the landing came closer and closer, and she didn’t want to die, and Sandra screamed.

  Then she woke up.

  She was alone in a bed, not hers, and naked. After her nightmare, it took a disorienting second for her to remember what the hell was going on. She shook her head and slowly sat up, glad that wherever Charles was, he hadn’t been here for this.

  She’d had the same dream once before, at his North Shore house. That time, she’d confessed everything to him in the middle of the night, and later had been so embarrassed. The dream broadcast her insecurities loud and clear. She didn’t need him to see them again, thank you very much.

  The clock next to the
bed said it was 8:33 a.m. So much for sneaking out at the crack of dawn to avoid the neighbors. Well, Charles obviously wasn’t worried about that, so it must not be a huge deal—she’d just be a woman walking through a doorway on a side street, nothing remarkable.

  She rolled out of bed, hit the facilities, and then put on her new chemise and robe before leaving the bedroom suite. He wasn’t out on the terrace overlooking Central Park.

  Sandra made her way down the hallway. On the other side of the bedroom, she found a study. From there, a door led to a second terrace, but she didn’t see him there either. Probably too chilly outside. The air had been so cold when she was falling in her nightmare. Sandra shivered and pulled the robe more tightly around herself. It wasn’t made for warmth, but it still felt nice.

  Next to the study, Sandra saw an elevator door. She sighed. Somehow she’d missed that last night. It must be nice for rich people never to have to take the stairs if they didn’t want to. Then she remembered the stairwell in his office building and blushed.

  The flight of stairs next took her down to the floor that contained his library and three bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was the place they’d technically met, though they hadn’t actually been introduced. This time two weeks ago, the memory had mortified her. Now it made her glow. Much better than worrying about a stupid little bad dream.

  He wasn’t in the library, nor was he in the billiards room she hadn’t seen last time. The bedrooms seemed unlikely, but Sandra still couldn’t help peeking into the one she’d been in before. He’d put in a new lamp to replace the one she’d broken. Huh. In a way, they’d met because of the lamp—he’d heard the crash when she knocked it off the nightstand and barged in to find the source of the noise.

  Looking back, everything seemed inevitable after that.

  Sandra continued down the stairs, which widened dramatically into a curve as she approached the main floor. She felt like someone ought to begin playing the Miss America theme. She’d certainly never felt so fancy in a robe before.