“Gideon.” I gasped, my fingertips massaging my clit in rapid circles, my hips grinding into my touch.
“Right there with you,” he said hoarsely, his hand jacking his cock with brutal speed and violence in his race to orgasm.
At the first jolting contraction of my core, I cried out, my legs quaking. My palm slapped against the glass enclosure for balance, the climax stealing the strength from my muscles. Gideon was on me in a second, gripping my hipbone in a way that conveyed greed and possession, his fingers flexing with restless agitation.
“Eva!” he growled, as the first thick, hot burst of semen hit my belly. “Fuck.”
Hunching over me, his teeth sank into the tender spot between my shoulder and neck, a painless hold that conveyed the rawness of his pleasure. His groans vibrated against me and he came violently, spurting repeatedly against my stomach.
*
It was a little after six o’clock in the morning when I slipped out of my bedroom. I’d been up for a while, watching Gideon sleep. It was a rare treat, because I hardly ever managed to wake up before he did. I could stare at him without any worries that he’d be weirded out.
I padded down the hallway until it emptied into the expansive open floor plan of the main living area. It was ridiculous that Cary and I lived on the Upper West Side in an apartment large enough for a family, but I’d long ago learned to pick my battles when it came to arguing with my mother and stepfather over my safety. There was no way they were budging on location or security features like a doorman and front desk, but I could exploit my cooperation on my living arrangements to get them to ease up on other points.
I was in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to finish brewing when Cary joined me. He strolled in looking amazing in a pair of gray San Diego State University sweats, sleep-mussed chocolate brown hair, and a day’s worth of stubble along his square jaw.
“Morning, baby girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple as he passed me.
“You’re up early.”
“Look who’s talking.” He grabbed two mugs out of the cupboard, then the half-and-half out of the fridge. He brought them over and studied me. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good. Really,” I insisted, when he shot me a skeptical look. “Gideon took care of me.”
“Okay, but is that really so great if he’s the reason you were stressed enough to have the nightmare to begin with?”
I filled mugs for both of us, adding sugar to mine and cream to both. As I did, I told him about Corinne and the Waldorf dinner, then the argument I’d had with Gideon over her appearance at the Crossfire.
Cary stood with his hip cocked into the counter, his legs crossed at the ankle, and one arm banding his chest. He sipped his coffee. “No explanation, huh?”
I shook my head, feeling the weight of Gideon’s silence. “How about you? How are you doing?”
“You just gonna change the subject?”
“What else is there to say? It’s a one-sided story.”
“You ever stop to think that he might always have secrets?”
Frowning, I lowered my mug. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s the twenty-eight-year-old son of a suicidal Ponzi scheme swindler, and he just happens to own a large chunk of Manhattan.” One brow arched upward in challenge. “Think about it. Can they really be mutually exclusive things?”
Lowering my gaze to my mug, I took a drink and didn’t confess that I’d wondered the same thing once or twice. The extent of Gideon’s fortune and empire was staggering, especially considering his age. “I can’t see Gideon bilking people, not when it’s more of a challenge to accomplish what he has legitimately.”
“With all the secrets he’s got, can you be sure you know him well enough to make that judgment call?”
I thought of the man who’d spent the night with me and felt relief at how sure I was about my answer—at least at that moment. “Yes.”