Authors: Lilli Feisty
His expression was more serious than she’d ever seen it. “I was kidding earlier, in the car. I’d never ask you to trade sex to get some business deal.”
Something inside her softened as she searched his eyes for pretense. She saw none. “Thank you, Mark. I needed to hear that.”
They fell silent and Mark picked up another shrimp, dipped it into the sauce, and brought it to her lips. She opened her mouth, let him feed her. Let him go as slow as he wanted to. She licked her lips, held his gaze. Soon her nipples were hardening under her bra, and her skin felt hot. Suddenly she wanted to feel his fingers on other parts of her body. Her neck. Her breasts. Between her legs.
He picked up her champagne glass and tilted it to her lips. She tasted the bubbly liquid, rolled it around on her tongue. It tickled her nose and she smiled.
“You are so fucking sexy, Ruby.”
Uncomfortable, she waved his words away. “No, I’m not.”
“I told you not to put yourself down.”
“I’m a lot of things, but sexy, or pretty, isn’t any of them.”
“If you think that, why did you pose nude?”
She straightened. “For one thing, I never thought those photographs would be sold. And…”
“And what?”
All these sensations—the food, the view, the scent of the sea—seemed to open her up, and she found herself admitting things she hadn’t ever before, even to Meg. For some reason, maybe because of what they’d done that first night, she felt like she could tell him anything about this part of herself.
She shifted in her seat. “I felt sexy posing that way. Like I was being decorated, celebrated.”
“You should be celebrated, Ruby.”
“No—”
“Don’t argue with me.” His tone was firm, but he was smiling and waved a shrimp in her direction as he spoke.
He glanced out the window to the endless ocean and then at her. “You grow up around here?”
She nodded. “Actually, about one mile from this very spot. Of course, there wasn’t a Ritz-Carlton here then. In fact, I spent many hours on this beach that’s been so neatly tamed. When I was a girl, you took your life in your hands just to get to the water.”
“So, you were a risk-taker, then?”
“No, not really. But my parents loved the ocean, and we spent a lot of time here and at the marina. We were always in the water, always sandy and salty. My mom always said my sister and I were part mermaid.” But Mom had been the one to disappear into that liquid sunset, not Ruby or Claire. While their folks had been off sailing the world, the girls had been landlocked.
“Where are your parents now?”
She sipped another few drops of champagne. “Being a mechanic was just something Dad did to pay the bills. He was really an artist himself, a free spirit; he painted, played music, wrote. Our house was always full of artists. But Dad could never stay in one place very long. He was always going on sailing trips.” She shrugged. “One day he never came back. Mom waited an entire year before going after him.”
“Did she find him?”
“Yeah. But Dad was never happy in one place. The sea was in his blood. So even if they came back, they never stayed long. I think they felt more at home on their boat than anywhere.”
“How old were you when your dad left?”
“Sixteen. Claire was thirteen.”
“Your parents left you to fend for yourselves when you and your sister were teenagers.” He said it as a statement, not a question, and his tone was rough.
“It wasn’t that bad. We were mature for our ages, and we knew how to take care of ourselves.”
“How did you afford to live?”
“Luckily the house was paid off. And they sent checks sporadically. I also had a grandmother in Florida who did what she could.”
“Did you work?”
She nodded. “I got a job assisting an event planner after school.” She tried to smile casually. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“You never thought about doing anything else? For a living?”
“Yes, I went to college and studied photography. But even at school I found I was always planning parties, mainly keggers,” she said with a laugh. “I guess it’s in my blood. I came back to this because I love organizing things, watching a series of plans come together. And it’s always a party; who doesn’t love a party?” She looked away, thinking she’d revealed way too much about herself. “Anyway, enough of that. So, you’ll really do the show for Boxware?”
He paused, and she wondered if he’d ask more personal questions, or say no. But then he smiled. “You took off your panties, even if you did lock them in a loaner car. But a deal’s a deal. We’ll do it.”
“That’s wonderful. Thank you, Mark, really.” She gave him her very best flirty look. “So, what would I have to do to get you to agree to a little preparty with James and some other high rollers?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something, baby.” He took her hand and softly rubbed the pad of his thumbs over her knuckles. A lovely quiver of anticipation rushed through her. “After all,” he said, “we have all night.”
Ruby licked the last bit of butter off her fingertips. Mark had broken open a stack of crab legs and lobster tails and fed them to her in small, butter-dipped bites; she hadn’t been allowed any silverware during the entire meal. Now she was partway through a delicious plate of strawberries and melted chocolate. Thank God it was Sunday, the only day she cheated on her diet.
Mark watched her eat. “You enjoying yourself tonight, Ruby?”
“It’s been tolerable,” she joked, licking a drop of chocolate off her finger.
His eyes were dark, dilated behind his glasses. He liked it, liked watching her eat like this.
Leaning over the table, he handed her a strawberry. The look in his eyes caused an aching throb between her thighs. He said in a low voice, “I want you to dip this in the chocolate sauce and then pretend it’s my cock, Ruby. Lick it like you mean it. Show me what you’d do if it were my own flesh in your mouth.”
Her body temperature spiked up a notch, and her eyes darted around the room. “Mark, no. I can’t.” But the sound of her voice was breathy, high, and revealing.
He grinned in that wicked way of his. “Can’t you? You sure about that?”
Oh, he was so sure of himself. Knew exactly how far to push her. But the gleam in his eyes nailed her right in her core, promising sinful pleasure whether she obeyed or disobeyed.
Fuck it.
She dipped the strawberry in the chocolate. His eyes on her mouth, she brought the fruit to her lips, let her tongue dart out and lick the top. A bit of chocolate dripped and she caught it with her tongue, imagining how his cock would drip when he was excited. The image made her sex pulse and she squeezed her thighs together, painfully aware of her nakedness beneath her dress.
She let her eyelids lower as she tasted the chocolate, leisurely licking around and around the pointed tip until the chocolate had dissolved in her mouth.
“Fuck, Ruby.”
She loved his eyes on her; the only other time she’d felt comfortable under such scrutiny was when Ash had looked at her through the lens of his camera. But this was so different. With Mark, there seemed to be an energy between them that pulsed like electricity.
She took a bite of the strawberry. The sugary fruit burst into her mouth, and she felt a corresponding tug between her legs. Tart, juicy, sweet.
She met his gaze and paused at the look in his eyes. Gone was the playful twenty-nine-year-old musician. Before her was a man, a gorgeous man who radiated confidence. And lust. Lust for her.
Fuck me.
She wanted him. Now. She took another unhurried bite of the strawberry and didn’t care if her eyes were begging for it, for him.
But his hands were steady when he picked up another piece of fruit and dipped it into his glass of champagne. “Spread your legs a little for me, Ruby.”
“W-what?”
He handed her the strawberry. “Do it.”
She was too turned on and too lost in this entire crazy night to deny him. So, pulse hammering, she inched her knees apart.
“Good girl. Now take the strawberry and touch yourself with it. Touch that gorgeous pussy of yours.”
Her fingers trembled as she took the piece of fruit.
“No one is watching, Ruby.”
How had he known she’d been wondering that? He always seemed to know what was on her mind, and she didn’t even look around to see if he spoke the truth. She didn’t need to. Instead she reached between her thighs and gently touched the strawberry to her damp flesh. She nearly moaned.
From a fucking strawberry. But the cold bite of the champagne was a shock against her hot skin and she felt her body react, felt herself melting into the upholstered Ritz-Carlton dining chair.
“Now tell me, baby. Aren’t you glad you took off your panties?”
“Don’t,” she managed, but she loved it and she spread her legs a tiny bit more.
“Then tell me. Tell me I was right.”
She slid the strawberry a bit higher, her legs going slack. “You were right. You were
so
right.”
“Are you wet, then, baby?”
“Yes.” And it was true. She was slippery.
Slippery when wet.
The thought made her giggle, and she touched her clit with the tickly tip of the berry.
“God, Ruby. You go so easily.”
“Go?”
“Yeah. You fight so hard, but then, fuck. You belong to me in an instant.”
“No… I don’t belong to anyone.” But here she was, wearing no panties, masturbating under the table with a strawberry at one of the most formal restaurants in northern California. “You fucking bastard.” She twirled the strawberry in her wetness, coating it, loving the way the tiny bumps caressed her swollen clit, even loving the fact that someone might wonder what she was doing with her hand beneath the table. She could climax from just that, from him getting her to this point.
“Give it to me.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “What?”
“The strawberry. Feed it to me.”
“No,” she said with a smile. “This feels too good to stop.”
“You disobedient girl.”
“Sometimes,” she agreed. Then she waved the fruit under his nose. His shoulders looked tight, his biceps flexed as he watched her. The veins in his neck visibly pulsed. She paused with the strawberry just beyond his lips, and when she finally saw him breathe, she moved as if to feed him. His mouth opened, eager as a baby bird. But then she pulled back. Bringing the strawberry to her own lips, she opened her mouth and bit through the tart flesh of the fruit, tasted her own juices mixed with the sweet berry.
She ate the whole thing, tasting, chewing, swallowing. Smiling. Her lips burned from his gaze. Yeah, she would pay for this later.
And she couldn’t wait.
Y
ou know, I played guitar once.”
After she’d finished the last of the strawberries, she expected him to whisk her into a broom closet or some other nook and ease this need between her thighs. But instead he’d led her outside, past the valet, and away from the hotel. Now they were strolling along a narrow, man-made path.
He liked to torture her, that much was obvious.
Still, part of her was enjoying the easy way they talked as they walked along the smooth cement trail that ran beside the wild coastline. But even the Ritz gardeners hadn’t been able to tame the wild vines of jasmine that still grew along the perfectly rounded edge of the concrete, the flowering vine’s perfume mixing with the sea-salt air. This scent made her nostalgic, made her think of home.
“So you’re a musician, then?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I was never very good, but I got blisters trying. My dad loved music. He taught me how to play.” Growing up, it was one of the few things they did together, one of the limited activities they shared an interest in, so she’d taken advantage and spent as much time as possible learning about music. “I think that was why I always found myself going out with boys who were in bands.”
“You’re a groupie?” he said teasingly.
“No. I swore off musicians when I turned thirty. Along with sculptors, potters, and painters. And writers. They’re the worst.”
“You really have dated quite a few creative types.”
“It’s a disease.” She thought of James Cleaver and wondered if she’d finally found a man who met her requirements. He’d become even more flirtatious on the phone over the past week, yet she’d been unable to get as excited about this turn of events as she thought she should be.
Mark squeezed her hand. “Oh? So you only date photographers now.”
“Nope. I eliminated them, too.”
He chuckled and they kept walking.
“Anyway, my parents were total hippies. Always had people around, playing music. During the summer of ’75 Jerry Garcia would come and jam with my dad. I was only five, but I knew even then that I was witnessing something special.”
“Wow, 1975. I wasn’t even born yet.”
She gave him a playful punch. “Brat.”
“So I’ve been told. The ladies don’t seem to mind my rakish disposition, though.” He tilted his mouth in one of those killer grins of his.
She said, “Speaking of the ladies, I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“When did you know you were… you know? That you liked to be dominant.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him give a start. “Wow. That was a strange conversation segue.”
“I’m known for them. Sorry.”
Slowing his pace, he regarded her dubiously. “Seriously? You want to go there?”
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Seriously.”
“Fuck, I don’t even know. I did tie my girlfriend to my bed when I was sixteen.”
“Why am I not surprised? And you just… kept exploring?”
“Kinda. I really got involved about five years ago.”
“Why then?” she asked.
“I just needed something… more.”
“Like?”
“Christ, Ruby,” he said, running his hand over his scalp.
“Tell me,” she said.
He blew out a gust of air. “Because sex had become routine, easy.”
“Oh.”
“See? You don’t want to know.”