Roth’s thighs trembled, and I felt his knees dip. He threaded both hands into my hair, gripping handfuls and tugging firmly. He didn’t push me onto him or try to force me to do anything, he just tugged my hair in his fists. A reminder of his strength, of his control, a reminder that he was allowing me to do this.
There was no desire in me to play for control, to play games. I only wanted to feel him come.
I mouthed him again, taking him deep, letting his tip nudge the back of my throat and then backing away, pumping at his root with ever-increasing speed. I loved the way the increase of my tempo around his c**k made his knees bend and dip, and I loved, too, the way his fists in my hair tightened involuntarily as he neared his climax.
I bobbed on him, sucking hard, feeling his sac tense and tighten, feeling his gloriously thick c**k throb, and I knew he was close. I prepared myself for the gush of his release against my throat, but it never came.
Instead, I felt myself pushed backward, felt him above me, heard his breath in scraping gasps, felt his entire body trembling as he held back. “No. Not like that, not the first time.”
“Because that’s not how I want it.”
“Did I…do something wrong?”
“No, Kyrie. No. Not at all. I love the feel of your sweet mouth on my cock. But I don’t want to come in your mouth just yet.”
I still had a firm grip on his cock, and I slid my fist down his length, staring up at him. “Okay. Like this, then.”
He ducked his head, gathering himself. “You really want this?”
I nodded. “Yes. I want to feel you come. You’ve made me come so many times now, and it’s my turn.”
“Where?” He slid his shins beneath his body, sitting up, staring down at my naked body as I lay beneath him. “Tell me where you want me to come.”
“Anywhere you want.”
He straddled me, sliding forward. I leaned up, took him in my mouth, tasted him, then lay back down. “On my stomach?” I said. “On my tits? You tell me where you want to come. I want to know what you want.”
I moved my fist around him, feeling him tense and jerk, and stroked him even faster.
Roth’s breathing grated past his clenched teeth. “I want to come inside you, Kyrie. Not this.”
“Then put your c**k inside me,” I said.
He shook his head. “No. Not yet. In my bed. Only there.”
“Then take me there.” He growled and then wrenched himself away, backing up against the wall, his chest heaving. I followed, wrapped both hands around him, and stroked him gently. Pressed my lips to his and kissed him, demanding, needing. “Please come, Valentine. Come for me.”
He sighed into my mouth and then pressed his forehead to mine. I watched my hands moving on his thick, straining cock, stroking, twisting, plunging. “Kyrie…I’m close.”
“Good,” I whispered. “Give it to me.”
He groaned, thrusting his hips, driving his c**k into my grip. I wrapped my hand around his head and stroked his length with my other hand.
“God…Kyrie…I’m coming, right now.” I felt wet warmth fill my palm, and I kept caressing his length, slowly, gently, milking him.
“Kyrie….” His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. When he was softening in my hands, I let go of him, lifted up on my toes, and kissed him once more. He watched me with glazed, hooded eyes. “You do something to me, Kyrie. You make me lose control.” He put a hand to my face, gripped my chin between finger and thumb.
I held his come in my hand, feeling it drip between my fingers. “Well…maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
He sighed. “In my life, it is.” He shook his head, dismissing the topic. “You are amazing, Kyrie. Go wash up and get dressed. We have a busy day ahead of us.”
He leaned in, kissed me on the lips swiftly, and then backed away, zipping and buttoning his jeans. I waited until I heard the door latch behind him, and then I washed my hands in the bathroom sink before turning on the shower. I washed, shaved myself from armpits to ankles, and let my mind wander.
Valentine Roth. What a name. And what a man. So f**king gorgeous. He could be a superstar actor with his looks. An A-list actor, or a rock star. But he wasn’t. He was a reclusive businessman, über-rich, successful, and intensively, reclusively private.
Something else niggled at me about Roth. He looked familiar; I just couldn’t figure out where I’d seen him.
As soon as I was done in the shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and another around my hair, then perched on the edge of my bed with my phone, typing his name into Google. Nothing. Not a single photograph, no Wikipedia entry, not a single scrap of publicly available information. That, to me, smacked of interference. I mean, I was a nobody, but if you typed my name into Google, you’d find, if you scrolled far enough, at least a Facebook profile, the thumbnail-sized selfie photograph of me, taken on a weekend trip to Chicago with Layla. You could find at least basic info on me, just by a few searches and clicks, and I was no one at all, public-wise. Yet there was nothing at all on Valentine Roth, who had to be in a microscopically small percentage of the population in terms of wealth. Something told me he had paid an exorbitant amount of money to keep himself out of the public eye, to hide any photographs or the like.
So it wasn’t that. I’d never seen him in any gossip rags or on TMZ. But I had seen him before. I knew it. But where? I couldn’t figure it out, no matter how hard I tried to remember.
Eventually, I gave up and got dressed.
I put on a pink-and-black lace push-up bra and a pair of black underwear. Over it, I put on a simple but flattering black sundress and a pair of strappy sandals. I didn’t spend a lot of time on my hair or makeup, just brushing my hair until it shone and fell in golden waves around my shoulders. I snapped a ponytail elastic on my wrist, and applied some light mascara, blush, and lip stain. He said we’d have a busy day, so I wanted to be ready for anything.
Especially the kind of anything that would lead to seeing Valentine Roth totally naked.
I found Roth sipping from a china cup, holding a dainty saucer in his hand. The cup and saucer were so small and delicate-looking that it was almost a comical image. I mean, I knew all too well the strength in his hands; he could crush the cup and saucer with ease if he wanted, yet somehow he looked totally natural, at ease. He was sitting at the breakfast nook, staring out at the Manhattan skyline as the sun rose to shed golden light on the high-rises. He had one calf crossed over his knee, flaxen hair wet and slicked back to one side. He wore a pair of dark jeans with a white T-shirt beneath a slate-gray blazer, Tommy Bahama boat shoes on his feet. The sleeves of the blazer were pulled up just beneath his elbows, his muscular forearms keeping the sleeves in place. The effect was one of casual godliness. I had to remind myself to keep breathing as I slid into the chair next to him.