Page 47 of Devil In A Suit

He was exactly as rough as I wanted him to be, and then he was soft and sensual when it mattered. It felt like he understood and knew my body better than any man I’ve ever been with, hell, better than even I do. At one point during my climax the sensations that gripped me were so intense and overpowering I thought I was dying. I might even have blacked out for a bit. That has never happened to me before. Ever.

And yet, we haven’t even had a proper conversation. Other than mutually wanting to tear each other apart we don’t even have anything in common. And yet here I am wanting his body inside me. Shaking my head at the almost surreal situation I find myself in, I step out of the shower. This constant emotional rollercoaster is driving me crazy, but at this point, I’m more than willing to blame my weakness and frustration on hunger, so I focus entirely on getting on with the day.

On the vanity, there’s an assortment of expensive-looking lotions and creams gathered neatly on the spotless glass surface. I pick up a jar of moisturizer, unscrew the lid and bring it to my nose. It even smells costly. As I lather the sumptuous cream onto my skin, I have to admit, I’m really surprised by the detail and care put into my stay here. Obviously, he’s not the one who personally picked any of these out, so I wonder who did. Was it Muriel?

Heading into the closet to find something to wear, I have to decide that it’s absolutely not her because the style of the clothes doesn’t match what a woman of her age would care for.I wouldn’t call them slutty, because they are clearly exclusive, beautiful and opulent, but they’re all deliberately sexy. Clothes designed to turn a man on. But as I move through the rails I have to admit there are also a multitude of formal and perfectly decent options available. I suppose I should thank whoever had gone shopping for me because never in a million years would I have been able to afford such luxurious and costly outfits.

I choose a black camisole and a classy pair of cream linen trousers. Both are comfortable and when I pair them with a striped pale green linen dress shirt, I feel quite happy with the result.

Grabbing my phone, I head out of the room and make my way down the stairs. In the bright light of day, I can admire the magnificent apartment even more. The sunlight filters through the ceiling-to-floor windows, bringing the place to life like magic.

I also have more time to study the paintings. His collection is exquisite. Each piece is special. From what I can see he is not into modern art. It seems to be mostly impressionist. I almost get carried away inspecting the pieces and trying to identify them. I’m pretty sure the combined value of them could easily buy the house itself.

The air smells like cherries and something else—something warm and inviting. I can’t stop taking deep breaths, savoring the scent for no reason other than that it feels so refreshing. It’s easy to forget that I’m right in the middle of busy New York. This place feels like an escape, a still sanctuary far removed from the city.

As I finally reach the bottom of the stairs, I notice a few maids in uniform cleaning places and items that are already clean. They smile at me politely and nod obsequiously, but don’t utter a word. Not even when I wish them a good morning.

Eventually, I arrive at the kitchen, and everything from the previous night flashes back to me. The wild moments, the slow ones, the ones so sweet I can almost still hear my moans and cries in my own ears.

I’m forced to pause as a particular memory of grinding against him, feeling every ridge of his rock-hard cock, comes rushing back. My entire core tightens. I try to catch my breath as Muriel walks in, carrying a covered dish that looks like a casserole. All I can do is stare at her, unable to meet her eyes, given the filthy images flooding my mind. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to face Ivan himself when he returns.

"Good morning, Miss Fitzpatrick," she greets with a warm smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“Good morning. Yes, thank you,” I reply awkwardly.

She nods. "Good. Where would you like to have breakfast? In the sunroom or in the formal dining room?"

“Uh… Sunroom sounds good.”

She nods again. “I thought you might. I didn’t know what you usually have, so I took the liberty of setting up the buffet table. If you‘d like to follow me…”

"Okay, thanks," I reply, giving her a wide smile. Breakfast is usually a couple of slices of buttered toast or cereal for me, but I follow her willingly as I am ravenous and also very curious as to what kind of food rich people eat.

I gasp as I take in the spread. It looks like one of those heaped tables you see on cruise liners. Every single thing looks delicious. As I walk along the long table, some items are familiar. Finger sandwiches and sliced meats, but others are more exotic. There are the pastries with fruit oozing out of them, itty bitty cupcakes, sausages, bacon, caviar, little eggs, a tureen of porridge, chocolate with churros, congee, a selection of dim sum, and at the end of the table a huge tray of fruit that look so perfect they could be straight out of one of the paintings I’ve justbeen admiring. My eyes are caught by a bunch of dark purple elongated fruit.

"Are those grapes?" I ask, pointing at them.

She nods. “Yes, they are organic moondrop grapes. Sometimes called witches’ fingers. They were flown in from Spain yesterday."

I instantly reach out to pluck one, hesitating briefly as I wonder if it’s rude, but she nods encouragingly.

"It’s okay. Please, feel free," she invites kindly.

She watches me as I bite into the fruit.

“Mmmm. Freaking good."

She smiles. “Help yourself to coffee, tea, or orange juice. If you want anything different please ring.”

“No, this is more than fine, Muriel.” Impulsively, I reach out and lightly touch her arm. "It all looks amazing—thank you so much."

There’s a glint of surprise in her eyes as she straightens her spine. Her voice is formal. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to enjoy your breakfast in peace."

“Thank you for everything,” I say again.

She nods and retreats quietly and I contemplate the array of options laid out before me. With no audience to witness my gluttony, I pick up a plate and begin piling on a little of everything. The fragrant smells coming from the plate make my mouth water and, even though there is no more space on my plate, I heap on top the heirloom tomatoes stuffed with truffle-infused cheese.

Relishing my solitude in the stunning high-ceilinged room I then sit and eat like a Queen. Once my plate is polished clean I lean back and find myself unable to tear my eyes away from a curved staircase. From where I am sitting, I can see lush plants, leafy palms that should be growing in a tropical environment. There must be a conservatory up there.

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