“When I started working for Presa, I was pretty much just hormones and attitude.” He shrugged. “I was nineteen and she was … I don’t know. Thirty-five? Forty? One night, I worked late and…” His shoulders lifted, and he looked at me like he wasn’t going to finish the sentence, like that dangling morsel was all I was going to get.
“You worked late and?” I pressed.
He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “And she came into the back room in nothing but her underwear, and I fucked her over a crate of paintings.”
I blinked. “Had you had sex before?”
He raised his eyebrow at me. “Yeah. I’d had sex with a few different girls. But Presa…” His hand moved up, rubbing his neck. “Presa was different. Sex with her was different. She taught me a lot, about women, what they like. And about relationships.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “So … she was your sexual mentor?”
He pursed his lips. “If you want to call her that.”
“For how long?”
“About a year. Give or take.”
I sorted through my feelings. “Did you love her?”
Before he even answered, I found the root of my unease. It wasn’t because he’d been nineteen, and she’d been two decades older. It was because she was PRESA LITTLE and I was little ol’ broke Chloe. They’d probably had a sophisticated, sex-filled, worldly affair, while I spent Saturday nights in my apartment crying over gifts from my ex-boyfriend. In the back of my mind, an insecure part of me suggested that Carter only brought me there as a way to rekindle his romance with Presa.
He nodded. “I did.”
“Do you love her now?”
Another response, without pause. “No.”
It was a good answer but I would have loved a few sentences of clarification. Preferably a few lines about how much my killer bedroom skills trumped hers. That would have been a good response.
I bit my bottom lip and looked away. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”
He shrugged. “It’s not the first time a girl has wanted to know.”
Girl. Not girlfriend. I wanted to chase down the distinction and stab it with the heel of my Tom Ford stilettos. Had he called me his girlfriend because that was what he wanted, or was it to ward off Presa? And at the same time, did I want to be his girlfriend? Was I ready for that step?
I liked him—a lot. Almost too much. There was still so much I didn’t know about him, and so much he didn’t know about me.
“Want to go home?”
He held out his hand and I took it, thinking about how I hadn’t yet seen Nicole. I didn’t want to, couldn’t stomach her hanging on Clarke, playing the part of loving wife. Not tonight. And even though we’d only been there fifteen minutes, the thought of seeing any more of Presa made me gag. I smiled up at him. “Yeah.”
Home. I liked the sound of that.
57. Getting Clean Never Felt So Dirty
He stripped me in the bedroom, taking his time, his fingers skimming off my dress, then my bra. I covered myself with my hands, and he smirked, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. Then he dropped to his knees, pulling my thong over my hips and down to the floor, my hands holding his shoulders as he pulled off one of my heels, then the other. “Get in the shower.” He turned me toward his bathroom and grabbed my ass, then growled and smacked it. It was just hard enough to make me jump, just hard enough to make me wet. I glanced over my shoulder as I headed to the bathroom, his eyes on me as he loosened his tie, his belt already undone, dress shoes being kicked off.
I came to a stop at the entrance to his bathroom. My last visit, I had found the bathroom half asleep in the middle of the night with an urgent need to pee. Now, I saw everything I had missed. The shower, big enough for two, a bench on one side, a rain head and a wide window that looked out on the city. Much fancier than mine.
He stepped behind me, reaching past and twisting the shower nozzles, his mouth nipping at my neck as the water came on in a rush. “Wait.” He stopped me from stepping in, his hand testing it, his other hand taking delicious liberties between my legs. I was panting by the time he nudged me forward, under the spray.
It wasn’t fair to compare two men, but Vic and Carter were there, in my mind, almost constantly. And Vic never made love to me like this. Carter worshiped me in that shower. He took his time, his fingers gentle, running over every bit of me, his mouth constantly on mine, or on my skin. He sat me down on the bench and knelt before me, his hot mouth settling in between my legs, his total attention on me.
I was close to coming when he stood up, and HARD was not enough of a description for his cock. Good Lord. Talk about absolute beauty. It stuck straight out and I reached for it, missing. “Wait,” he breathed, his hand yanking the handheld attachment off the wall and rolling the control left, adjusting the spray until it gently pulsed and then he knelt, holding it in between my legs, adjusting the angle and the setting until I gasped. “Right there?” he asked, his eyes on mine, concentration lining his face.
“Yes.” The word hiccupped out of me, the water pulsing on my clit, a drumming patter of liquid that already had my thighs tightening. My eyes followed Carter as he stood back up and put his hands on the back of my head, his cock at a perfect level for what was next.
“Please,” he asked and, really, it was a waste of a word. I grabbed at his waist, pulling him forward and, for the first time, put him in my mouth.
I saw a video once on giving a grapefruit blowjob. It was mind-blowing. Quite possibly the best thing I had ever seen. I didn’t have a grapefruit in Carter’s shower but if I had, I’d have squeegeed the hell out of his perfect, delicious dick with that grapefruit.
So, I had no grapefruit, and I was a little distracted by the water’s stream, a mind-blowing orgasm lifting me off the bench mid-blowjob. But I don’t think Carter minded. In fact, right after I came, he pulled out of my mouth, his breath hard, a moment of pause between us, before he offered it back. “I don’t want to come,” he swore, “but fuck you give amazing head.”
That’s right, bitches. I couldn’t balance my checkbook and didn’t know the capital of Iowa but I apparently gave amazing head. I could die a happy sexpot. I contained my pride and resumed my incredible blowjob skills. And a few minutes later, he knelt back down, pulling me to the edge of the bench, and put that gorgeous cock inside of me. I wrapped my legs around him but he pulled them off. Lifted my feet and put them flat on the bench, so I looked like some squatting catcher but when he pushed back in, I understood the change in position. I also understood that he was a sexual freak of nature, and I should never ever ever ever let him go.
“Can I—?” he gasped out the words and I understood the question.
“Yes.” I grabbed him, held him close, suddenly frantic for him to come inside me. He pushed deeper, groaning when he came, his grip almost painful on my skin. When he finished, he sank against the wall and turned to me, his eyes heavy, his hand reaching out and he pulled me to my feet and against his chest. “Fuck,” he mumbled, pressing his mouth to the top of my wet head. “That was insane.”
I didn’t have enough intelligent thought to form a response, just smiled against his chest, placing a kiss on his skin. We moved out of the shower and he dried me off, then lifted me, carrying me to his bed and dropping me onto the covers. I rolled over, keeping the towel with me, and watched him, studiously avoiding the giant canvas stretched above my head. Now that I knew his connection to Presa Little, his art collection was no longer impressive. Now, it was just a reminder of their relationship.