Right, and you could have paid a hefty deposit to hedge against any damage, Kane.
He could have, but he chose not to. He wanted her here, where he could keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t return to that club. Where other men would ogle and slaver and touch her. Not on his watch. She was safe here—and to ensure he didn’t get any ideas of the kinky variety, he would take care of business with his right hand.
There was something about the steamy spray, not to mention the fact that she was under his roof and protection, that instantly turned him hard. The guys had noticed his attraction, or that he made every effort humanly possible not to notice her. They ragged him about his “crush,” especially when he insisted she become his PA as they expanded and took on more staff. She was his, and sometimes, his brain took that to its illogical conclusion.
His PA. His to mold. His to fantasize about.
And as usual, his cock could be relied upon to step up to the plate. It sprang to attention, practically pointing in the direction of the woman who gave him fits. The things he wanted to do to her. Dirty, beautiful things.
But he couldn’t. Apart from the ethical minefield where he had technically purchased her services from a would-be pimp, the association of sex and money conjured up images of his ex, for whom Brody’s billions weren’t enough, and who swapped him out for a different model. A different billionaire. Good old Kane Sr.
Cuckolded by his own father.
Hello, thoughts of the witch and her warlock. Goodbye, erection.
He fought to get it back, that pleasurable rush through his veins. Only one thing could do it. One person. He imagined that twist of dark hair at the nape of her neck, a knot above creamy, edible skin he would unfurl before he took her. He resumed his stroke.
Now he had a million more lurid images to add to the mix. Not just fantasies, but experiences. That erotic heat pulsing against him when she wrapped her pale thighs around his hips. How she rubbed her body on him, taking her pleasure. So uninhibited, so unlike the demure woman he had imagined. Reality so often cheated the fantasy, but not this time. The experience trumped the fantasy in so many ways.
His cock felt like a pleasure bomb in his hand. The water crashed down on his shoulders as he pumped his fist, imagining it was her tight, beautiful body. Imagining the fantasy of her, so he wouldn’t succumb to the reality once more.
…
Kevin was missing.
Given that he now had a space the size of an airplane hangar at his disposal, this should not have surprised her. But it was worrisome because it could mean only one thing.
Brody was going to find more “gifts” before the day was through.
Last night, he’d gone out for a business dinner with Mr. Smythe-Osborne, that randy British lecher, and she prayed they didn’t continue their tour of Chicago’s strip emporiums. Another woman writhing on Brody? That was not the image Emma wanted drilled into her oversexed imagination. Not that she had any say in how he should spend his time or what lissome beauties he should spend it with.
Before he’d left, Brody had given her the “dime tour,” said with complete seriousness. The penthouse had six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a wine cellar, a full-service kitchen (I never cook, he’d tossed off casually), a dining room for entertaining, and a living room straight out of Architectural Digest with all those white furnishings begging for her and Kevin to contaminate.
“What, no bowling alley?” she had quipped. Which is when he showed her the entertainment room, a ten-seat movie theater with a big-ass screen hooked up to state-of-the-art projection equipment. The shelves of movies were rivaled only by his display cases of action figures, most of them from Star Wars and that science fiction show with the really cute actor in the skinny blue suit, Converse sneakers, and awesome hair.
She didn’t make fun of him. Like her, the man was a mass of contradictions: specs-wearing nerd, strip-club hobbyist, orgasm-producing master. And he looked like the bomb in an Italian suit.
But he rarely smiled. As far as she knew, didn’t date—although there was clearly nothing wrong with his libido or his equipment. What was his deal?
These musings occupied her as she wandered through the space with its bland, tasteful art and bland, expensive furnishings. Other than the entertainment room, it projected little of its owner’s personality. For all his grumpiness when she called, he seemed close to his sister, and there was a picture of her on his desk at work, but nothing here where he lived.
Still no sign of Kevin.
She resisted calling out. Six in the morning and she was sure Brody must still be asleep after a late night of carousing with Mr. S-O. Up ahead, a tawny blur on the chase rocketed by on his way to—oh, no, Brody’s bedroom.