Page 34 of His Innocent Seduction

I kiss her knee, feather-light, then lift the dress higher, to her thighs, and over her underwear. God, more silk and lace, black this time. My chest kicks inwards. I stand as I push the dress up her body, layering gentle kisses across her flat stomach until I reach her breasts—breasts that aren’t held by a bra.

I groan as I finally push the dress over her head, catching her hair in my hands as I dispense with the fabric, holding her face still for my inspection. The bed behind us beckons but I stay standing, just looking at her.

‘You want to know what it feels like to orgasm at this altitude?’

Her eyes show excitement and anticipation—a tornado of feelings. I reach behind me for her champagne and pass it to her. ‘Try not to spill any.’

Bemused, she sips and I sink to my knees once more, eye height with her sex. She loves it when I go down on her. She’s crazy for it, and I’m crazy for it too—the way she tastes, the way she cries out as she comes. It’s hot, and addictive. I take my time removing the scrap of lace, pushing it down her legs while her breath is the only sound in the bedroom.

When it reaches her ankles she steps out of it and I use my hands to guide her legs apart a little.

‘Michael!’ I love the way she says my name—and especially when she’s close to coming. Like I’m a god, or heaven personified. A relief and a torment, all at once.

I expel a breath gently and she makes a strangled sound of awareness as heat from my mouth fans her.

‘Oh, my God,’ she cries out and I smile against her, smile against her madness and euphoria, and my own madness too. Because since when am I a man who’s hell-bent on slow, torturous seduction? When was the last time I didn’t just take a woman to bed for the pleasure she could give me—and, yes, the pleasure I could give her? Already I am desperate to feel her again, to bury myself deep inside her, to make her cry out with wanting me.

And soon I will.

Her fingers dig into my hair, pulling hard as I move faster, delighting in the feel of her beneath me, of the taste of her excitement.

‘Michael,’ she groans, and something wet lands on my head. Champagne. I laugh, pulling away from her for a moment. But the amusement dies on my face at the sight of Millie in the throes of passion. Christ. In all my life I’ll never forget the perfection of that moment. Her pale skin shines in the evening sunlight that filters through the windows of the jet and the rapture of her face is angelic and breathtaking.

Fuck.

I stand up, taking her champagne flute and putting it down, using my body to guide her back to the bed. She falls into it gratefully and I stare at her for a moment before dropping my mouth to her breast, sucking on it until she’s whimpering beneath me, her body jerking and writhing in a way that has me harder than a rock.

I move my mouth downwards, finding her clit once more. This time she says only, ‘Please.’

I understand. I part her legs with my hands and lash her with my tongue, and when she explodes I feel it, and I push a single finger inside her so her muscles clench hard around me and she bucks her back and then collapses against the bed. Goosebumps cover her skin in a delicate layer.

Her breathing is raspy and then she’s reaching for me, pulling me up towards her. I barely have time to push my pants apart and slide a condom in place before I’m driving into her, desperate for this possession, desperate for her.

Her muscles squeeze me tight and I stare down at her as I thrust deep. She scores her nails down my back, over my shirt, and then cups my arse, holding me tight inside her. I grunt, my balls throbbing, pleasure so close.

‘Fuck.’ I devour her mouth, my lips seeking hers as though she is the answer to every question I’ve ever asked. I kiss her hard and she kisses me right back, the same hunger in her, the same need pounding through her. ‘Fuck,’ I curse into her mouth. Her orgasm is intense; she screams into the cabin and it’s my undoing. I push into her one last time and find my own release—intense, dark, desperate: perfect.

‘Oh, my God,’ she moans a moment later.

I push up, watching her, studying her.

‘So? Are the rumours about the Mile-High Club true? Was that better than the other night?’

‘I couldn’t say with certainty,’ she murmurs after a moment, looking at me from beneath half-shuttered eyes. ‘I think more research might be in order.’

I laugh but, fuck, desire is racing through me. ‘You’re right, Millie. We do want to be thorough, after all...’

* * *

The Manhattan Ballet Guild’s home is just off Broadway. Built in the sixties, of wood and concrete, it would have been cutting-edge in its day, and even now it has a certain Space Age appeal. Space Age as conceived of in The Jetsons.

His chauffeured limousine pulls to a stop in front of it and I take a moment to stare—and to simply breathe.

Since we arrived the night before, New York has been a whirlwind of sightseeing and exploring, and all done in the kind of style I could never have imagined I’d enjoy. I presumed we’d be staying in a hotel, but Michael, of course, has his own penthouse here in Manhattan, and it’s unlike anything I even knew existed. A sky palace would be a better description. ‘My partner and I share it,’ he said, when my awe had obviously overpowered me.

‘Your partner?’

‘Connor. Business partner. We have a separate company that controls our property holdings.’

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