Page 60 of Edge of Secrets

He made a low, harsh sound of negation. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It depresses me. Let’s go upstairs.” He got out of the car.

I flung the door open before he could come around and do it for me, and followed him into his building, miserably aware of having maneuvered him out of that closeness I had felt before. I’d managed to make him tense and defensive. Well, hell. There were ways and ways to sweeten his mood. I was not without my resources.

Duncan stood aside to let me in first and flipped on a small row of track lights near the entry space, leaving the rest of the apartment in shadow but for the glittering cityscape outside. The delicious imminence of sex trapped my air in my lungs. I drifted over to the couches. They were big, oversized. Gray, velvety, plush. An odd choice for him. I would’ve expected gleaming black leather, stainless steel, and glass. I sank into one with a sigh and stared at his perfectly proportioned black silhouette standing there.

A hot sexual energy pulsed off him—all the more potent for his silence, for how fiercely it was controlled. It made me hot, shaky. Unstable inside. I could hardly wait.

“All evening, I’ve been thinking about your bare ass under that skirt,” he said.

I grabbed handfuls of the knit fabric and screwed up my courage. “Do you, um … want to see it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Show me.”

I took my time pulling my skirt up. I drew it out, gathering up folds of fabric inch by inch, until I had an armful of jersey pressed against my belly, and the tops of my stockings showed. A strip of pale thigh above them. The curls of my pubic hair.

But my legs were still clamped together. Duncan sank to his knees in front of me. His hands settled on my knees, pushing them wide. I closed my eyes, my face hot.

“I love the stockings,” he muttered. “You are so fucking beautiful, Nell.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled it down, arranging my fingers so that my clit was gently clasped in the V between my index and middle finger. “Touch yourself,” he said, his voice a husky rasp. “I want to watch you do it. You know … watch and learn.”

I laughed as I parted my slick folds for him. I was so aroused by his intense attention. The feeling of exposure was transforming into something pleasurable. I slowly relaxed into it, like a cat sprawled in a patch of sunlight.

“That’s one area where you don’t need any lessons.”

“Thank God I’ve got at least one piece of the puzzle.”

I ignored his sarcasm and stroked the jut of his cheekbone with my finger. His skin was so hot and supple.

“I’ve been fantasizing about you ever since the first day you started eating lunch at the Grill,” I confessed.

He pressed a hot, lingering kiss to the top of my thigh. “Really? And what did I do to you in those fantasies?”

“Lovely things,” I admitted. “Many varied things.”

He grinned and caressed the crease of my groin. “Such as?”

He waited, but I couldn’t speak. My lips were trembling. “My mouth is watering,” he said, parting my labia tenderly, and slowly penetrating me. “Did I lick you in those fantasies?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Was it good? Did I treat you right?”

“It was amazing,” I said.

He bent lower and lapped the length of my labia with his tongue, slow and voluptuous. “And how do I measure up to my dream fantasy self?”

“You surpass your dream fantasy self,” I admitted. “There’s more of you in real life. More of everything—more feelings, more orgasms. More problems, too.”

“Oh, yeah.” He chuckled silently, the laughter vibrating against my mound, his lips tenderly holding my clit, his tongue fluttering expertly—swirl, flutter, swirl.

“Never mind all the problems,” he suggested. “Let’s just stop at the orgasms. And linger there.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Forever,” he whispered.

That word just set me off. Forever. It made my pleasure crest and then break in great, pulsing ripples of milky foam through the endless ocean of sensation.

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