Imogen.
Out of nowhere, my storm clouds lift and I’m smiling, my eyes sweeping shut so all I can see is her pale blonde head descending on my cock, feel the sweeping warmth of her mouth around my flesh, the flicker of her tongue, impatient and hungry, teasing me to a desperate release.
‘Dad, I have to go.’
‘But—’
‘Later.’
I disconnect the call and surrender to the memory, pushing back in my leather chair, staring at the ceiling of my office, my body harder than black diamonds. Imogen is everywhere—my memory, my mind, my senses, my soul.
The blow job in the cockpit was just the beginning. Neither of us was sated by that release, as fucking amazing as it was. I reach for my phone on autopilot, flicking open our chat window.
I can’t stop thinking about you and your extraordinarily talented mouth.
I smile as I send the message.
A minute later, she responds.
My mouth and I are glad to hear it.
My smile stretches. I drink my coffee, but half an hour later I send her another message on the spur of the moment.
Busy later?
I see three little dots appear as she starts to type, then they disappear.
It’s a few hours before she messages back.
What do you have in mind?
My gut kicks. Dating. We’re dating. Not just fucking, though that’s a given.
I’ll pick you up at seven?
Another surprise?
Great question. What shall we do? I look towards the windows, which frame a panoramic view of Wall Street. The sky is woolly. It’s freezing too. I can think of one surefire way to stave off coldness.
Dating, idiot. Dating.
I open up a browser and type in a few questions. Five entries down, the search engine has provided the perfect solution for me. I type a message.
Yes. Bring a bikini.
;) Have you looked outside?
Trust me.
She doesn’t reply.
I click on the link and open the booking form, then place my phone down, thoughts of Imogen and the night ahead already making the idea of an afternoon’s work damned near impossible.
Seven o’clock can’t come soon enough.
I love to swim. I was on my college team, and it’s one of the few activities I regularly make time for. There’s something about it I find meditative and calming, and I find being underwater, away from noise and other people, is also an excellent opportunity for deep thinking. I have at least three quarters of my ideas while submerged in my apartment complex’s huge swimming pool.
Usually, I wear a one-piece, a habit that’s a hangover from my college team days.
But for tonight, I’ve chosen a barely there string bikini, bright red. It felt bizarre pulling it out of the drawer given the weather—we’re in the midst of a cold snap that feels as if it’ll never end.
But his premise has intrigued me.
More than I wanted it to. I had a huge afternoon with some investors in the charity and I had to concentrate—almost impossible with my phone buzzing in my pocket and the memories of a few nights ago shifting against me.
I’m wearing the bikini beneath a black jersey dress and a floor-length trench coat, with a pair of gold stilettos. My hair is pinned into a bun high on my head, loose and casual.
The buzzer sounds and I move towards it. ‘I’ll be right down.’
‘Okay.’ Even that single word made up of two syllables, spoken through telephone cabling at a distance of forty odd floors of concrete, has the power to double the speed of my pulse.
I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, moving quickly to the elevator.
Mr Silverstein looks at me thoughtfully as I click my way across the marbled lobby.
‘Good evening, Miss Carmichael.’
‘Hi, Mr Silverstein. Keeping warm?’ I nod to the inclement weather—it’s dark now, but the glass has a frost to it showing that the temperature is arctic.
‘As warm as can be, ma’am. Out again?’
I nod, my eyes darting to the revolving door. I see his dark car parked right outside. My heart soars. ‘Yeah.’
‘Take care, miss.’
I smile, because for the first time in years, I’m doing exactly that. Taking care of myself. My needs. My wants. Things I hadn’t even realised I felt or needed to tend to. And, sure, in three weeks there’ll be the Christmas gala ball and this will end, and my time with Nicholas Rothsmore will be like an island in my life, girt by water and isolation on all sides, but it will still be there—a month of hazy, heady sex, of total indulgence and hedonism, a secret, joyous letting down of my hair.
‘Goodnight.’
He opens the door for me and I don’t look back.
Nicholas steps out of the car as soon as I appear on the pavement, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of his smile. ‘Did you bring your swimming costume?’
‘Did you expect me to be wearing only a swimsuit?’ I tease. ‘It’s kind of cold, or hadn’t you noticed?’
He pulls me to him abruptly, suddenly, jerking my body to his and wrapping his arms around my midsection so I’m tight to his hardness, contoured perfectly. ‘Is it?’
Heat belies my statement. I feel it as surely as if the sun had burst out from the other side of the earth, channelling the heat of a few weeks ago, in Sydney.
He releases me just as abruptly, but not before he’s placed a quick kiss on my forehead—just enough to send need lurching through me.
‘You look beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
He opens the back door to his limo and I step in, noting there’s a small box of my favourite champagne truffles on the back seat.
Once we’re in and the car is moving, he hands them over.
‘For me?’
He grins. ‘Second date.’
‘Ah.’ I take them, dipping my head forward with a smile. ‘Perfect.’
‘Never date a guy who doesn’t bring you truffles.’
‘Duly noted.’
‘How are you?’
His question, so simple—just a basic function of civility and etiquette—etches through me because of the way in which he asks it. As if he really cares about the answer.
‘Good. Busy day. You?’
‘Less busy than it should have been, thanks to some very distracting fantasies I struggled to ignore.’
My ego bursts, higher than an eagle. ‘Lovely.’
‘Yes, just what I was thinking.’
‘Are you wearing trunks as well?’
He nods.
‘So we’re going swimming?’
‘Later.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yep.’