By His Desire (5 page)

It sounded perfect. It sounded like something out of a fantasy.

But it wasn’t
her
fantasy.

In her fantasy about Keith, the one she’d had since she was fourteen, there was some kind of connection between them. They told each other things they didn’t tell other people. They understood each other in ways no one else did.

It was a lonely girl’s fantasy. A fantasy as much about the need for human contact as it was about a teenager’s crush.

Sarah stopped pacing. She found herself in front of a deep leather armchair, and she sank down into it with her feet tucked under her.

She had friends now—good friends. People she’d met in college, or through her writing. She still struggled with social anxiety but she’d fought through it to the point where she was capable of making real friendships.

She didn’t need to visualize Keith in that role anymore. But that wasn’t the only thing she’d imagined about him, in her bed at night with the lights off. She’d also lusted after him. She still did. So how did she see him, sexually speaking?

She leaned back into the butter soft leather as she replayed the events of last night.

Beneath the layers of nervousness and embarrassment, she’d been turned on.

Really, really turned on.

Be honest with yourself, her therapist liked to say. Life’s too short not to know your own heart.

She closed her eyes and let her mind sift through her sexual fantasies, past and present. The truth was, she’d always imagined Keith taking charge like he had last night. So it seemed that her idea of him had some root in reality. Maybe she’d always known that side of him was there, and some equivalent part of her responded to it.

So why did she feel so unsatisfied now? He’d taken charge, hadn’t he? He’d blindfolded her and chained her up, for God’s sakes.

While he hadn’t even gotten naked.

That night at dinner, she’d imagined Keith staying cool while he made a woman lose control. And that’s exactly what had happened.

Another rush of anger swept through her. Why should Keith get to stay safe while she was so vulnerable?

Well...maybe because he was the one who’d set this whole thing up. He was the one who’d made the rules. He assumed that what she wanted was the painting, and in exchange, what happened between them at night would be on his terms.

Suddenly restless, Sarah pushed herself up from the chair and started to pace again.

She didn’t have to stay. She could go. She could pack up and leave right now. That was the control he’d given her—the ability to end their arrangement at any time. The one thing she couldn’t do was try to change the rules, or control anything that happened between them at night. So she couldn’t demand that he have sex with her or anything like that.

The absurdity of that notion made her laugh out loud. Imagine the girl with social anxiety disorder saying to the billionaire, “I insist that you fuck me immediately.”

No. That would never happen. Even if she could find the metaphorical balls to say such a thing—which was, in itself, impossible—it would violate the agreement between them. She could do whatever she wanted during the day, as long as she did whatever he wanted at night.

At night.

She glanced at the windows, hung with drapes to protect the rare books from direct sunlight. But the sunlight was out there. It was daytime.

Nighttime was off-limits—and, by extension, whatever happened between them sexually. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t call him right now. She wouldn’t talk about their bargain or anything sexual. But she could reach out to him.

* * *

Maybe he should just take the week off. Tell his assistant he was unavailable for board meetings and conference calls and business lunches.

Because as long as Sarah Harper was under his roof, he was going to be useless. Completely fucking useless.

She was all he could think about.

Last night, after he’d left her, he’d gone to his suite and straight into the bathroom, where he’d stripped off his pajama bottoms and stepped into the shower to jerk off. Later in bed he’d jerked off again, but he still couldn’t get to sleep. He wanted Sarah so much it felt like his blood was on fire. He wanted to go back to her room and fuck her senseless.

Why the hell hadn’t he when he had the chance?

She’d been lying there waiting for him, chained and naked and flushed with the orgasm he’d given her. She was every wet dream he’d ever had. She was
the
wet dream, the one girl he’d never been able to have, tied down and at his mercy the way he’d imagined so many times. He could drive himself into her and purge all that frustrated lust, all that hopeless longing. Wanting something you couldn’t have made you weak, and now he had that opportunity to take what he’d always wanted.

To take Sarah.

So why hadn’t he?

Going down on her had been intense. Maybe too intense. He’d never been so turned on by turning a woman on, even though he loved to make a woman come and always had.

But this had been different.

Maybe that’s why he’d left when he did. Because this felt different, and he wanted to be sure he had a handle on what was going on before he got in any deeper.

He wanted to be sure he had a handle on himself.

He was in his office downtown, where he was supposed to be meeting the chairman of one of his boards in half an hour. He scrubbed his face with his hands as if he could get Sarah out of his head that way.

Because he had to get her out. He had to stop thinking about her. He had to compartmentalize this, to relegate her to the place she belonged, to—

His cell phone rang, and when he glanced at it he saw his home number on the screen. A sudden chill ran down his spine. Nancy was the only one who ever used that number. Was she calling to tell him that Sarah was gone?

“Yes? What is it?” he asked brusquely.

“Did you ever have a pet?”

It was Sarah’s voice. So she was still there, at his house.

Relief made him sag back in his chair. “What?”

“I was wondering if you ever had a pet. During high school.”

“A pet?”

“Yes. A dog, a cat, a bird, a fish. A pet.”

It was so damn good to hear her voice. But what the hell was she talking about? “I...what?”

“I was wondering, because back in high school the headmaster had that dog, do you remember? I think it was a Jack Russell terrier. And whenever you saw it you’d go down on one knee and let him jump all over you and lick your face, even if you were dressed up. So I wondered if you ever had a pet of your own. Because you don’t now. Or if you do, you keep it in some part of the house I haven’t seen yet.”

He blinked. “You’re calling me to ask if I ever had a pet?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded almost belligerent, as though she might be mad at him. Was this because of last night? Had she not enjoyed herself? It had seemed at the time like she really, really enjoyed herself, but maybe something else was going on.

“Are you upset with me for some reason?” he asked cautiously.

“No. Why? Do I need to be upset with you before I can ask a personal question?”

Definitely belligerent.

“Of course not. I’m just surprised to hear from you, that’s all. And the question’s a little...” He hesitated. The fact was, he didn’t particularly want to talk about pets or the lack of them. Because it
was
a personal question. And talking to Sarah about personal things was not going to help him with his problem—this feeling that he was getting in too deep.

“Now’s not a good time for me.”

“Okay. When should I call back?”

He got up from his desk and walked over to the window. “Sarah.”

“What?”

“I don’t think we need to talk like this. Do you?”

“I don’t know if we
need
to or not. I just know that I want to. If you don’t, of course that’s okay. But if that’s the case then I’ll be heading home today.”

Panic swept through him, and he gripped the phone as if it was a part of Sarah’s body. “If you leave now you won’t get the painting.”

“I know.”

Panic was followed by anger. “Jesus, Sarah. Why does it matter if I had a pet growing up?”

“If you don’t want to talk about that, I’ll ask something else.”

“Like what?”

“Who’s your favorite artist?”

He closed his eyes briefly. Fine. Okay. If this is what it would take to keep her with him, he could put up with it.

He took a deep breath. “Edward Hopper.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I don’t know. You have so many impressionists in your collection, and a lot of medieval art, too. I guess I expected your favorite artist to be more...traditional. Classic.”

“Edward Hopper is classic.”

“I guess you’re right. A modern classic. So why do you like him so much?”

“I don’t know. I just always have.”

“What’s your favorite painting by him?”

“
Nighthawks
,” he said, glancing up at the reproduction framed on his wall.

“I love that painting. Why is that your favorite?”

He was starting to feel uncomfortable. Off-balance. If they hadn’t started a sexual relationship last night, maybe he wouldn’t feel this way. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had conversations like this before. It was like a first date conversation, and God knows he’d had plenty of those in his lifetime.

But this wasn’t a first date. Sarah hadn’t wanted to go on a first date with him, which was why he’d bribed her into their current arrangement. And because it would only last a week, after which he didn’t expect to see her again, he’d figured he might as well indulge himself completely. Give into urges he didn’t usually express.

Most of the women he dated weren’t into what he was, or else they were a lot more hard-core. He hardly ever found the right balance with a bed partner.

He wasn’t into the BDSM scene. He’d visited a club once, and realized immediately that there was nothing there for him. He liked to dominate in bed but he wasn’t into pain—not that much pain, anyway—and what he saw at the club felt staged and artificial.

He didn’t meet many women he clicked with sexually, so his dominant side didn’t come out too often. And on the rare occasions he did click with a woman that way, there had never been any other connection. They’d been short, hot affairs that ended amicably enough, and that was it.

Without realizing it, over the years, he’d put sex and relationships into two different boxes in his mind. Now Sarah was muddying the waters.

Suddenly he felt angry. She’d established her boundaries with him that night at dinner, and that was fine. But then he’d established his boundaries for her, and she was ignoring them.

And threatening to leave.

“I have a meeting in a few minutes. Have we talked enough?” he asked brusquely, without answering her last question.

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to satisfy you. Enough that you’ll be there tonight.”

There was a short silence, which gave him plenty of time to realize exactly how much he cared about the answer.

“Yes, I’ll be here.”

“Fine. You’ll get your instructions at dinner.”

He ended the call, and then immediately regretted his abruptness. There was nothing stopping Sarah from changing her mind.

And no guarantee she’d be there when he got home.

His assistant buzzed him to let him know that his two o’clock appointment had arrived. He thought about cancelling, but that would be unprofessional and he could use the distraction. So he took the meeting even though he felt tense and angry, hoping he’d be less knotted up by the end of it.

He wasn’t.

Once he was alone in his office again he started to pace back and forth. The more he paced, the angrier he got.

After a while he sat down at his desk again, pulled out his stationary and a pen and started to write. He’d left a letter with Nancy that morning, to be given to Sarah at dinner like the night before.

But now he had new instructions for her.

If they scared her off, so be it. But if she stayed, there’d be no holding back tonight. He’d take exactly what he wanted from her.

He called for a messenger to deliver the letter to Nancy and then did everything in his power to forget about Sarah for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

He stayed in his suit this time, and he made her wait. He had a dinner meeting with some people from St. Luke’s hospital, where he was funding a new wing, and he didn’t leave the restaurant until eight forty-five.

It was nine-fifteen when he walked through the front door. Paul and Nancy had already gone home, so he and Sarah were alone—if she was still here.

He strode up the stairs without stopping at his suite, and stood outside her door for a minute. Then he set his jaw and pushed inside.

She was there. Relief flooded through him, followed by a wave of lust so intense it was almost painful.

She had followed his instructions, and was kneeling on the rug in front of the bed, naked and blindfolded. Her mahogany hair tumbled down her back, her lips were parted, and her hands rested on her bare thighs. As he closed the door behind him, he saw her hands fist briefly and then relax.

So she was nervous. Good. Then she knew what he’d been feeling for the last seven hours.

Adrenaline coursed through him as relief, desire, and anger coalesced into raw need. She looked so goddam sexy. Her nipples drove him crazy—small and pink and perfect. He remembered how they’d tasted last night, and the way his girl had shuddered when he bit and pinched them.

His girl? When had he started thinking of her as his girl?

She was his for exactly one week. She was most definitely not his girl.

He strode across the room until he stood right in front of her.

“Undo my belt and my zipper,” he said, keeping his voice cool. He knew he was angry, and that a part of him wanted to punish her, but he didn’t care.

If she decided to leave after tonight—or even during the night—there was nothing he could do to stop her. But if she decided to stay, she would damn sure know who was the boss in the bedroom.