She felt it. The first press against her throbbing clit. The slide through her wet folds. The pressure from something that wasn’t his finger. Something that had been made. That had been created to bring her bliss.

  “What is it?” she asked in between staccato breaths.

  “It’s The Lola,” he said in a hot, husky voice, whispering in her ear as he rubbed a small toy against her aching pussy. She looked down—he held a sleek circular device between two fingers, one finger through a silver hole in the middle. The toy was like a large ring, made of the same soft material the world’s best pleasure toys came in. Only this one didn’t just stimulate her with vibrations. Somehow, the toy felt like a tongue against her. Like fast, intense flicks from the most wonderful, amazing, fantastic tongue she’d ever felt. Like Jack today. Times ten.

  It was that good.

  “I don’t have this one,” she said, in between gasps and moans.

  “I know. It’s new. They say it feels fantastic against the skin,” he said, rubbing the vibrator against her. “Tell me if it does.”

  She cried out. “Oh, yes.”

  She felt as if her body belonged to this toy, to the intensity of the pleasure strumming through her blood and bones. It owned her.

  “Does it make you want more of me?”

  “So much more,” she moaned.

  “This part,” he said, slowing only to press the soft middle section to her clit, the beads beneath the surface rotating against her, simulating the intoxicating sensations of a tongue flicking against her. “Does that feel like the way I licked your pussy earlier today?” he asked in a whisper, his breath hot against her skin.

  “Yes. Oh, God. Yes.”

  “I can make this feel like a soft swirl, or like I’m fucking you with my tongue,” he said, and began cycling through the levels of vibration. Her vision blurred from the sweet intensity. She wasn’t sure how she was still standing. “I can show you worlds of pleasure.”

  “I want it,” she said, now begging because this was a new land of desire he’d taken her to, and she didn’t ever want to leave.

  Working the toy expertly between her legs, he yanked her body closer, his erection hitting her backside. His voice was low and dirty as he growled in her ear. “This is what I can do to you for thirty nights.”

  “I want it all. I want you,” she said in between pants and moans, her body arching into the toy.

  “This is how you’ll be mine,” he said, gliding the toy across her clit that was so swollen she ached with the need to come. She felt desperate in every pore of her body. The intense need to climax was bearing down on her. Her world narrowed to this hot neon need as pleasure took over, spinning wildly out of control, blissfully into chaos as she leaned back into his chest, his arms holding her in place, his finger working her over and over with his toy as she shattered into endless erotic bliss, crying out his name above Manhattan.

  Minutes later she turned around, looping her arms around his neck. “You win. That was the best orgasm of my life. I’m yours for thirty nights.”

  * * *

  He was right. He didn’t fuck her properly. Not one bit. Everything about the way he lifted her skirt and pressed a strong hand on her back, pushing her forward and forcing her to grasp the railing even harder, was thoroughly improper.

  Rough. Demanding. Confident.

  So was the slap on her ass and the bite on her shoulder blade—oh, the sweet sting of that bite, sure to leave marks. Then there was the way he shifted gears, running his hands down her back, layering kisses along her spine. As if he relished the transition from rough to tender.

  “Now that I’ve won you, I’m going to have you,” he said in a hungry voice.

  He palmed her ass, digging his thumbs into her cheeks and spreading her open. For the briefest of moments, she tensed. He wasn’t going to do that now, was he?

  “Like that,” he said, his voice a rumble against her ear. “I want you like that. Nice and open for me.”

  A shot of worry torqued through her. How far would he go? How much did he want from her? But the worry was less about him, and more about her. Everything he’d done so far was like a sensual reawakening. A reminder of the kind of sex she wanted to have. Earth-shattering. Mind-blowing. Pleasure beyond her fantasies. As she bowed her back, her hips high in the air, she couldn’t have felt more exposed even though she was half-dressed.

  “Close your eyes,” he told her, and she trembled, but obeyed.

  “They’re closed,” she whispered. She heard him open a condom, then there was a pause as he rolled it on. Off in the distance, a horn honked, and a car somewhere slammed on its brakes. A night breeze gusted by, kicking up her skirt even higher. She shivered from the momentary chill. Everything sounded and felt more intense with her eyes closed.

  Especially the anticipation.

  She waited for him.

  For his next move.

  His next touch.

  His next order.

  Then, she felt him, rubbing the head of his cock between her legs.

  The first touch undid her. Like an unraveling. She wanted him so badly, so much, that her body was a beacon for him. She was aching to be filled. Mercilessly, he refused her wishes, her attempts to draw him in. He teased her. Taunted her. Giving her the barest taste of what his fantastic length would do this time. She couldn’t bear to wait any longer.

  “Please,” she said, her voice a beg, and she didn’t fucking care.

  “Please what?”

  “Please fuck me.”

  “How? How do you want me to fuck you?” he asked, buzzing his soft lips over her shoulder blade, as his hand moved up to her throat. He ran his thumb across her collarbone. Heat blasted through her. Like a powerful force of nature, swallowing her up, enveloping her in nothing but raw, unabated desire. He rubbed his steely length along her sex, hitting her clit once more. The world around her was black and fuzzy, noise and haze. There was only this. Pure physicality. Unadulterated need. “How?” he asked again, demanding an answer.

  “Fuck me improperly,” she said, arching her back for him. “Fuck me now.”

  “That’s right,” he said, his voice hot against her ear. “That’s exactly how I’m going to do it.”

  Her breath caught in her chest and that moment felt like a stitch in time. As if everything in her life would be marked before or after. That was silly, she knew, to think of one night of sex as so goddamn monumental. But then, all thoughts drained away in one single thrust.

  She inhaled sharply, and panted hard as he filled her so completely she wanted to sing out. She wanted to cry from the sheer ecstasy of the way he stretched her, driving deep inside her, opening her body to him.

  “Give yourself to me.”

  Instinctually, she knew what he wanted. Control. Complete control of her body, so she raised her ass higher, flattened her back more and handed over the keys to him. He thrust deeper and harder, and she cried out in pleasure. Soon, she could feel that tightening in her body, that climax just within reach.

  Then he surprised her with his next words. “Don’t come,” he growled.

  “What?” she asked, her body begging as she pushed back on him.

  “Don’t come until I tell you I’m ready to let you,” he instructed, all while sliding deeper into her.

  “But,” she protested, and her words were cut off by a hand over her mouth, a slowing of his rhythm, and his voice in her ear. Soft. A sharp contrast to how he held her. Imprisoned. “Let me take you there,” he whispered, his tongue flicking across her neck, punctuating his words. “I promise I’ll get you there. Just hold back.”

  She breathed out hard, full of longing and untamed desire. But she chose to trust him. Though this kind of submission was foreign to her, she was willing. How could she be anything but willing, seeing as how she was fifty stories above Manhattan with her skirt hiked up her spine, and his hand over her mouth?

  He slowed down, gliding into her in one long, torturously delicious thrust. Inch by inch, she felt his cock filling her all the way. Her walls clenched around him, hot and tight. She tried to wriggle against him but he shook his head, lowering his hand to her neck.

  “No. Not yet,” he told her. “Tell me you can wait.”

  “I can try.”

  “Tell me you can do it.” His voice was rougher this time. There was no room for trying. There was only doing.

  “I can.”

  Another breath released, another shudder as he moved out, nearly leaving her pussy, where she desperately wanted him.

  She moaned and reached her hand behind her, trying to gain some sort of control, to hold onto him. His hip. His leg. Anything. But he grasped her hand, clutching it tight as he drove into her yet again. Deeply, so deeply that she saw the edge of her climax coming into view. There. Close. So fucking close. If only he’d let her have it.

  “Hold back,” he told her, as he fucked her harder, gripping her hand, as if the force with which he held her would keep her desperate orgasm at bay. “Don’t come yet.”

  She couldn’t speak, could only whimper as she concentrated so fiercely on denying the quivering in her core, the molten heat coursing through her veins from the absolutely overwhelming way he took her. From the way he fucked her into such a state of wildness. “Please,” she begged as he took his hand from her throat and moved his fingers up the back of her neck, threading them through her hair.

  Grabbing her hair. Pulling it. Keeping her immobile.

  He thrust into her, sending shock waves of pleasure from her center all the way through her body.

  “Please what?”

  “Please let me come.”

  He lowered his mouth to her shoulder, kissing her so hard he’d leave marks. When he let go, he whispered, “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give yourself to me,” he said and she knew what he wanted. All of her body. All of her pleasure. Nothing for her to do but be consumed by him. He wanted to give her everything, and to take nothing from her as he fucked her relentlessly.

  She let her head fall forward, her shoulders go slack. She held onto the railing, but the rest was up to him. He dropped his hands to her hips, gripping her tightly, and so fucking possessively that if he didn’t let her come right now she was sure she would die from wanting to climax.

  “Don’t hold back anymore,” he commanded, and his tone made it clear—he owned this orgasm. He controlled her body. He was driving this train and she was not only along for the ride. She was the ride.

  “Oh, God,” she shouted.

  “Tell me you’re coming,” he growled. “Say it.”

  She shuddered as the world around her shattered. “I’m coming, Jack. I’m coming now,” she cried out, as her orgasm crashed through her body like a goddamn force of nature. It was better, stronger, more powerful than the last one.

  “Yes, you are,” he said, his voice rough and dirty as he fucked her hard and ferociously, giving her everything as he took her. His fingers dug into her flesh, gripping her, driving into her with a fierceness that felt like ownership as he came inside her with a loud, deep groan. As he began to slow his pace, he bent over her back, his chest on her, one hand gently looping around her belly, sensing she needed him to keep her from falling. He held her close as he slowed to a leisurely pace, rocking inside her, like a wave rolling back out to sea.

  But even as her orgasm ebbed, she was marked. By his teeth, by his fingers, by his beautiful cock still deep and hard inside her.

  By his voice.

  And by his control.

  He was right about everything. He wanted her badly. He’d shown her how much.

  “Michelle,” he whispered, in a voice that was both savage and tender. And she understood then completely what he’d done. He hadn’t merely won her over. He’d claimed her as his own.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Addictive

  When she hung up the phone after taking a quick call from her brother, Jack pulled the beautiful woman who’d spent Friday and Saturday night with him back onto the couch.

  “Why is ‘Ode to Joy’ your ringtone?” he asked, as he tugged her against him. She’d come home with him on Friday, but then left after midnight. She’d returned on Saturday, but left late that night too. Maybe it was self-protection; maybe his mattress wasn’t her favorite. But he hoped to convince her soon enough to stay the night. He liked having access to her. Being near her eased the ache of guilt that surrounded him. Hell, it did more than ease it. It erased it. It blotted it out. With Michelle, he felt strangely free of that clawing sense of self-condemnation that surrounded him like a bad cologne. The scent of regret.

  “Because it’s a happy piece of music,” she answered as he ran his fingertips along her waist. It was Sunday evening now, and he planned to have her one more time before she left. But for now, he wanted to talk.

  “So’s Jack Johnson. But he’s not your ringtone,” he countered.

  “Are you saying this cigar isn’t just a cigar?”

  He laughed. “Shrink humor?”

  “Of course.”

  “And yes, what I’m saying is most people don’t pick something like Beethoven’s Ninth unless it means something to them. I want to know what it means to you,” he said, running his hand along the fabric of her skirt as it fell on her hip. She’d worn nothing but skirts whenever he’d seen her, and he was ready to build an altar to the absence of those pesky wardrobe items like pants and jeans. Never had he been more grateful to be with a woman in a skirt.

  She pressed a hand against his chest. “I thought this was just sex,” she said, and her tone was playful, but he sensed she was covering something up.

  He brought her hand to his lip and pressed a soft kiss. “Forgive me for asking a question that doesn’t involve your magnificent ability to climax multiple times with me.”

  She swatted him playfully. “You are a cocky bastard. Trying to use all those orgasms against me.”

  “I would never use an orgasm against you. I only use orgasms for good. In fact, I think more orgasms could bring about world peace.”

  “The more you come, the less you fight.”

  He nodded knowingly. “Exactly. Anyway,” he said, returning undeterred to the topic, “your ringtone. What’s the story? Is it because of that guy you liked? Is that why you’re avoiding answering the question?”

  Her eyes widened. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was still in love with him. A kernel of jealousy rooted into his chest. He hadn’t expected to feel that so soon. He’d have to fuck the in-love-with-another-man problem right out of her too.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I swear, it’s not because of him.” She sighed, and ran her hand through her hair, still messy from sex. “My parents liked classical music.”

  Just like that, he felt like a heel. Jealousy, guilt, putting his foot in his mouth—they’d become too familiar to him. He’d like to rid them all from his repertoire of emotions, limited though that repertoire was.

  “Ah. I’m sorry I suggested it was something else,” he said softly, brushing his fingertips gently across her cheek. “I didn’t mean to bring up something that might be hard for you.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know. We don’t know each other, so we’re just guessing at things. It’s better to ask. And it’s not that hard anymore. It was thirteen years ago.”

  “Was ‘Ode to Joy’ special to them?”

  “That was the song they got married to,” she said softly. But her voice wasn’t sad. Maybe wistful. Or perhaps it was the tone of someone who was simply used to missing. Used to longing.

  “That’s beautiful. Was it their favorite song?” he asked, and he was enjoying getting to know her better, liking that she shared some things so easily. So many women he’d dated had played coy, had been flirty all the time. There was something refreshing about her frankness. Maybe it was refreshing too because he’d kept so much of the truth about his last relationship bottled up. Even Nate didn’t know the full truth. Sure, his friend knew he hadn’t been in love with Aubrey, and he and Nate had even talked about the possibility of calling off the wedding, but Nate was traveling for business a lot that fateful year, so he didn’t know the finer details of that weekend in Colorado beyond what everyone else knew.

  Michelle nodded. “They used to play it a lot. My dad would turn up the CD player—back in the day—and pull her in close, and they’d dance. Funny, because it’s not typical dancing music, you know?” she said, her gaze hooking into his and he nodded. “But even so, they’d laugh and dance, and I always felt as if they were remembering their wedding. He’d twirl her around, and they were like some postcard, like a happy black-and-white postcard of two people still in love. And who were still happy about it years later.”

  He smiled against the back of her neck. His parents weren’t like that at all. His memories were of snippy comments, bitter moments, barbs and cut-downs. No happy times. No dancing. He wasn’t envious though. How could he be? Hers were gone. His were simply miserable when he was younger, and happily divorced now. They’d filed for divorce two days after Casey graduated from high school. “And you love it now? The music?”

  “I do,” she said, her lips curving up. “I think it’s beautiful. I could see why they’d get married to it. It is a joyful piece of music. It makes you want to celebrate.” She placed her phone on the coffee table and relaxed back into him. “What about you? Why is a Ravel sonata your ringtone?”

  Here they were, curled up on his couch, the view of Central Park and its lush green trees greeting them through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and they were discussing their phones, for Christ’s sake. But they also weren’t discussing their phones. They were talking about something that seemed to matter.

  “I listened to classical music a lot when I was stationed overseas.”