Beauty and the Billionaire (Page 24)
Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(24)
Author: Jessica Clare
“I’m still in you,” he reminded her. “And after my shower, I’m ordering Eldon to get a box of a hundred condoms.” His fingers continued to lightly play with her clit, spreading her thighs wide and continuing to slide back and forth, teasingly, slowly, over that sensitive bud of flesh.
“Oooh.” She bit her lip, trying not to bear down against his hand and failing miserably. Oh, God, he was such a quick learner. “A hundred condoms? You’re very optimistic about either my stamina or yours.”
“Both,” he said, and his teeth nibbled on her earlobe, sending shudders through her exhausted body. “I want you to come for me again. This time I want to watch.” He took her leg and dragged it over the arm of his chair, leaving her spread wide for the mirror.
She shuddered, moaning. She looked in the mirror at her flushed sex wet with arousal, his fingers teasing and circling that small bud, his c*ck still buried deep inside her. Her n**ples were hard and thrusting, her face contorted with pleasure.
He slid a finger down to the well of her p**sy, where her heat still gripped him tight within her. He ran a finger in the wetness there, then dragged it back to her clit, circling it, his eyes watching her reaction avidly in the mirror.
She came again, the orgasm exploding through her in waves that seemed to coincide with his fingers grazing over and over on her sensitized clit. Gretchen cried out, the sound ridiculous and garbled with the intensity of her orgasm.
“Beautiful,” he told her, and kissed her neck again.
And as they slid apart, Gretchen was wondering just exactly who had been seduced here. She’d come into the room expecting to throw him off, to seduce and tease her way into his virginal pants. Except that as soon as he’d gained a little confidence, he’d turned into a demon in the sack.
And holy hell, she was weak with desire . . . and she couldn’t wait to do that again.
Forget Lula and Benedict. They had nothing on Hunter Buchanan.
After Gretchen had showered and taken a nap, she awoke with the realization that she’d completely forgotten to ask Hunter if he wanted to invite a few friends over.
She suspected it wouldn’t be an easy topic to broach with him. There had to be a reason why this big, gorgeous house was empty of everyone but the owner and sour Eldon. Still, a party would be a good thing. She could introduce him to her friends, and she could put Kat’s mind at ease about the situation.
And she could show him that the world wasn’t full of people who wanted nothing more than to leer at his face and stare at him.
She suspected Hunter didn’t leave the grounds much, just as she knew no one came to visit very often. Why he’d ever agreed to let her do the letters here, she had no idea, but she was grateful. It had brought them together, however briefly.
She’d have to approach the thought of a party with a lot of tact and subtlety.
Hunter wanted to do something for Gretchen, he decided as he ran off his tension on the treadmill.
She’d done so much for him—gave herself so freely and so sweetly—that he wanted to do something for her. But what? He was already giving her money through the book contract, and just handing a woman thousands of dollars after sleeping with her felt rather . . . crass. But money was the only thing he knew, other than property.
Property. Hunter debated it for a moment, then shook his head and kept running. Most of the properties acquired by the Buchanan family were extremely expensive investment properties. He doubted Gretchen would know what to do if he handed her a twenty-million-dollar flat in Manhattan or a shopping mall in Poughkeepsie. And she might panic at the amount of money. He didn’t give a shit, but he suspected something like that might be alarming to a regular sort of person.
More roses? He gave her roses every day, though. It was part of their little ritual. He needed something that only he could give her. Something that would show her that he knew how she thought and what she would appreciate.
Something that told her he loved her.
Because he was pretty sure he did. It was too soon to tell, and there was too much adrenaline rushing through his veins after sex to know that it wasn’t just post-coitus giddiness.
But Gretchen was perfect for him. He wanted to show her that he was perfect for her, too. There had to be something.
Hunter continued running. He’d come up with something eventually.
Gretchen hadn’t heard from Hunter all day. His schedule had been full of meetings, and despite her longing to spend time with him—which was ridiculous, really—he had to work, and she did, too.
Her morning rose had unfurled in its vase by dinnertime, and she leaned in and touched a velvety petal. Her work had been going slow, her thoughts distracted. Every single sexual act described in Victorian euphemism in the letters made her pulse race and her imagination automatically insert Hunter into her mental images.
It made working at a brisk pace near impossible. She had tight deadlines, so she couldn’t afford the distraction, and yet . . .
A knock at the door made Gretchen jump. “Come in.”
She turned just in time to see Hunter, and a smile curved her face. The smile disappeared a little when she caught sight of the somber suit he was dressed in as well as the bodyguard out in the hall. “Going out?”
“I have a . . . meeting.” He grimaced, the lines of his scars stark on his face. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
“Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” She gave him a playful mock-pout. “I guess I won’t stay up and wait for you, then.”
“Actually,” Hunter said, moving into the room. He stood before her and lightly brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “If you want to wait in my bed for me, I’d be happy to wake you up when I return.”
“Mmmm.” She leaned into his hand, and then lightly bit at the pad of his thumb. “We’ll see.”
Oh, who was she kidding? She’d totally be there.
Hunter’s gaze seemed to brighten, though he didn’t quite crack a smile. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Actually,” Gretchen began. “I wanted to talk to you about having a small get-together of some kind. My agent is really pushing for a small house party here, since it’d give me a good chance to spend time with my editor and tie in the project with the house.” She winced at his expressionless face. “Feel free to tell me no. I know this is your house.”
After a long moment, his finger brushed over her cheek again. “Would this please you?”
“Not if it makes you uncomfortable,” she told him truthfully. “But it’d get my agent and my editor off my back for a while, which would be nice. I figured you could invite your friends, though. Maybe that’d make things less painful.”
“I . . . am not good with strangers,” he admitted.
“Is it because of your face?” When his cheeks began to flush red, she shook her head. “You don’t have anything to be uncomfortable about. I find your scars incredibly sexy.”
He gave her a scathing look. “My scars are not attractive, Gretchen.”
“On anyone else they wouldn’t be,” she agreed, getting to her feet and wrapping her arms around his neck. She leaned in and traced her tongue along the jagged line that distorted the shape of his mouth. “But on you, they arouse me.”
His hand slid to her ass and he gripped it tightly, then groaned low enough that only she could hear. “I can’t miss this meeting, Gretchen. But you’re making me want to leave early. If you want to have this party, it’s fine with me.”
“Are you sure?”
He leaned in and kissed her mouth, sucking on her lower lip in a way that made her quiver. Good God, where had he learned that? “As long as you’re in my bed tonight when I come home, you can have as many parties as you want.”
“I’ll be there,” she told him breathlessly, and collapsed in her chair when he gave her a scorching look and headed out the door.
Gretchen stared after him long after he’d disappeared, then glanced at the clock. How many hours until bedtime? Too many.
Reese threw his cards down on the table in disgust. “I’m out.”
Hunter’s mouth curved into one of his rare smiles, and he raked the chips on the table toward him. “You should have stayed.”
Reese shook his head. “I can’t read you tonight. You’re being . . . weird.”
“Weird?” Griffin’s cultured voice cut through the smoky haze in the Brotherhood’s meeting room. He put down his cigar and peered at Hunter. “Weird like how?”
“I don’t know,” Reese said bluntly. He tossed back his drink and then shook his head. “I can’t put my finger on it. It’s different.”
“He’s happy,” Cade said.
All eyes turned to the blond man. Cade shrugged, grinning. “I’ve seen him smile twice tonight. He doesn’t scowl when someone suggests something, and he’s actually participated in every conversation and not all of it about business. He’s happy.”
At his side, Logan turned and stared at his friend.
Hunter ignored him, picking the cards up off the table and shuffling. He handed the deck over to Jonathan. “Your deal.” He kept his voice gruff, even though he was pretty sure his face was burning with embarrassment. Was he that obvious?
He glanced over at Jonathan. The other man was chewing on his cigar, his brow creased as if something troubled him. He shuffled and then tossed a chip into the center pile. “Everyone ante up.”
Jonathan didn’t look in Hunter’s direction. Good.
Hunter glanced over at Logan, his oldest friend. Logan was staring at him with a suspicious gaze.
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?” He tossed his chip into the center of the table and picked up a card that Jonathan threw his way. “Cade’s right. You’re downright cheerful.”
He frowned at Logan. “You’re one to talk. How’s Brontë?”
A grin flashed across Logan’s face. “In a state of crisis. She’s trying to take classes and expand her reading charity at the same time.” He picked another card up off the table and couldn’t keep the satisfied grin off his face. “And she keeps complaining that I won’t let her get any sleep.”
Hunter’s lips twitched with amusement. Brontë had a remarkably stubborn streak when it came to Logan’s bulldozing ways, and it was a good thing. The tiny woman would never let him walk all over her like he did his business partners, and it was good to see Logan so completely confounded and besotted and happy.
“It’s a woman, isn’t it?” Logan said quietly to Hunter. “That redhead you asked Brontë about. Greta?”
“Gretchen,” Hunter corrected, and then couldn’t hide his smile. “She’s the sister of your assistant.”
“Audrey has a sister?” Logan looked surprised, then recognition dawned. “Ah, right, the one Brontë stayed with for a time. Brontë likes her quite a bit.” His tone implied that anyone that Brontë liked, Logan approved of.