Page 68 of Tied Up in Riches
“Oh. That.” I run my tongue over my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.
“And how you didn’t come for me.”
I attempt to look away, heat flushing my cheeks, but he holds me firmly in place. It’s not forceful, and I like it despite the guilt racking through me. “I’m sor–”
I’m cut off with a slight shake of his head. “I want to know something.” His deep voice rumbles through me, sending a shot of panic through my veins.
“What?” I whisper.
“Do you orgasm on your own?”
“Wh–what?” I don’t know what I expected him to ask, but it wasn’t that.
“Do you?”
“Sometimes . . .”
“How?”
“What do you mean, how?”
“Will you show me?”
My face flames hotter as I shake my head, averting my gaze.
“Then will you let me figure it out?” My eyes shoot straight back to him.
“What?”
“Last night. I promised you the best orgasm of your life. I’d like to deliver.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“If you don’t want to show me, then will you let me try?”
“You don’t have to. I know it’s a pain.”
“There will be no pain involved. Unless that’s how you like it.” He winks and a small smile breaks through my nerves. My brain is fuzzy like it’s retained the effects of the two glasses of wine I drank nearly three hours ago now. Why is he doing this? Should I ask? Should I just see what happens and deal with the ramifications after?
Marcus' hand falls from my hair, his fingers whispering down my neck, along the purple silk strap–all while keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Can I touch you?”
I nod, and his hand slips further. It brushes along the top edge of my shirt, trailing between my breasts, surely feeling the vibration of my heart nearly beating out of my chest. If he does, he shows no sign of it, continuing on his path, the weight of his fingers pressing the silk against my skin. When he reaches my waist, his fingers breeze across the thin elastic waistband before slipping under my shirt. His palm is heavy and warm, flat against my skin as it works its way up my body.
Marcus’ eyes are still locked on mine.
He pulls me closer with his other hand gripped on my hip as he squeezes my breast, rough and controlled. A gasp escapes me, heat rushing through me, knowing what might come next as I flashback to last night and his fingers inside me. His lips are close enough that his breath warms me as I breathe him in.
I prepare for him to kiss me even though nothing could have prepared me for the way kissing him unlocked a new part of me earlier–a piece that wants intimacy with someone after not having it for so long.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
“Get on the bed,” he says against my lips, his tone a hushed demand.
I do as he says, breaking eye contact to crawl to the top of the bed, but I can feel his eyes still on me, tracking my movement. Turning to face him, I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them to protect me from the adrenaline coursing through my body.
Marcus stands at the end of the bed, the top button of his dress shirt undone, his tie still loose at his neck. His black belt rests perfectly at his hips where it’s looped through his slacks, and I want to yank it off. The mattress dips on the edge as his knee sinks into it. Then more when his shin slides forward and his other knee presses into the fluffy white comforter. The maid must have made the bed while we were gone.
His tongue runs over his lip, and I track the movement, wishing he’d say something while also praying he’ll kiss me instead. Kneeling in front of me, my head tips up to keep my gaze on his face as he towers over me. Nothing about this scares me–except that I like it. I like him having the upper hand like this. Maybe because I don’t think he’ll abuse it? Not in the way the last man I was with did, anyway. Still, I’m not with Marcus. The line between real and fake is so blurry, and there’s a chance any of the real could all be imagined. Or we could simply have different definitions of real. Real as in actions backed by emotion versus ones laced with lust.