Tycoon

We walk along Gramercy Park until it starts to rain. One second we’re dry, the next we’re getting pounded by raindrops. Christos glances around and motions farther down the block, to a tall skyscraper. “Over there.”

He rushes me to a building where the doorman greets him.

“Penthouse still empty?” He runs his hand through his wet hair as I feel water drip down my legs.

“Sir, yes. They’re putting in the finishing touches until they start showing next month.”

“We need shelter for a moment,” he says with a smirk.

The doorman pulls out a double set of keys. “Of course, sir, go right in. I’ll be sure you’re not disturbed.”

He slides a key into the elevator slot, then uses the second one to open the double doors when we reach the top floor.

We walk into a huge, vacant marble-floored penthouse.

“You own this?”

“Yes.”

“The penthouse or the building?” I gaze out at the panoramic views.

Silence.

I turn. “Wow. You amaze me.”

“You’re amazing,” he husks back. He walks forward. “Did you take off what I told you?”

“Yes.” Flushing, I motion to him. “Seems right that you take off something too. It’s only fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

He smiles, but when he stares at me for a moment, something flickers in his eyes. He starts to unbutton his wet, white shirt, then he shrugs it off his powerful shoulders.

“Are we even?”

I gulp. “Not even close,” I breathe and hold his wicked—w i c k e d—gaze. His tattoo is shining wetly on his shoulder and bicep, and I get wet in places the sunlight doesn’t touch.

His chest is wet. I try not to notice.

But I notice.

Oh boy.

He is speaking to me.

Did he ask me something?

I can’t hear. A drop of water slides down his abs and falls into his belly button.

His pecs are hard, his muscles so defined I could trace them with a pencil. My tongue could act as a pencil, I suppose.

I want to trace the tattoo with my fingers, his whole body with my fingers.

I lick my lips and he is watching me, speculatively.

I take a step, then a few quicker ones, and then I’m pressing my mouth to his nipple. I lick the drop.

He groans.

A low, pained sound as his hand comes to cup the back of my head.

I bend and lick the other drop, close to his belly button, on his strong, ripped abs, and my tongue dips into his belly button even though there’s not a drop there. When I place my hands on his abs, they feel so hard. They constrict beneath my fingers, and I kiss him on each square. My heart pounds as he holds the back of my head, one hand on my skull, the other curving possessively around my neck—exerting the slightest pressure to keep my face where it is. With my lips on his warm, wet skin. I ease up and meet his gaze.

He pulls me up higher with his hand, looking straight at me with devastatingly tender eyes. His jaw starts working, his lips pressing into a grim line. He fists my hair, starts pulling me up. I go willingly.

Pressing my mouth between his pecs. Then as he pulls me up another inch, he dives down, and the wet raindrops are replaced by his wet mouth.

Something overtakes us. My hands on his wet shoulders, twining first and then gripping the wet muscle, nails in his back as his arms go around me and my legs go around him as he devours my mouth.

Christos grabs my ass and boosts me.

Up higher, so I’m almost higher than he is. I’m canting down my head so he can ravage me and massage my butt. His beautiful erection is almost a table for me to sit on. I feel so tiny even when he has me lifted higher, as if I were a little girl and he wanted to show me the world.

“Aaric,” I breathe. My own driving desire shocks me.

He turns me up against the wall, our mouths fused as he jams a hand between our bodies and touches me there.

I’m not wearing any panties—only his slacks separate us, and as he kisses me and strokes his fingers along my wetness, I groan.

He groans too, more undone than I am.

He tears free and hunches down, and he nuzzles my stomach over my dress.

My breath snags in my throat when he rasps something unintelligible, nudging my dress upward with his nose—then his breath is on the skin beneath my belly button.

His fingertips run up the back of my knee, his nose pressing into my abdomen. He smells my skin.

I whimper, my whole body tightening in yearning.

He flicks his tongue out to lick my abs, a wet circle around my belly button, and he groans, as if my taste is addictive.

I’m melting.

His hand continues trailing up the back of my thigh, leisurely shifting to my inner thigh, under my skirt.

His eyes shine as he looks up at me. But that look changes when he touches my sex with the tip of his index finger.

The damp spot is unmistakable.

He clenches his jaw. His gaze? It’s not playful anymore; it’s raw and ridiculously primitive. He tugs the fabric aside.

“You’ve thought of this. Me kissing you here.”

“No.”

“You want this.”

“No…”

He moves his finger over my sex. “This tells me yes.”

He ducks his head and presses his warm tongue and slowly runs it over my sex, tasting me.

I shudder from the shock of the warm flick of his tongue over my wet spot, this time a little slower, a little firmer.

My knees try to snap closed, but he grabs me by the thighs and holds me in place as he kisses me more, angling his head to taste more of me. Lick more of me. Twirl his tongue and caress more of me. “You’re beautiful, Bryn. You taste so good, little bit.”