I gripped his thighs on either side of me and pushed my hips up, wanting his finger deeper.
I tugged at my blouse, needing to feel his hands everywhere. The buttons were stiff and I was impatient. His fingers stroked me up and down, as he unfastened the buttons with his free hand. I sank back against him as he took over.
“Why would you think I could do without this any more than you could?” he asked.
And that was why he was so different to anyone that had come before him—we were equals. We’d had very different lives but we wanted each other for the same reasons and just as badly.
He pulled my bra down and I cried out as my nipple grazed against the lace. He groaned from behind me, removing his hand from my underwear. Before I had a chance to complain, he’d stood up, taking me with him, me still facing forward.
“Stand,” he said. And he let go of me and moved away. Starting with my shirt, he peeled everything I was wearing from my body until I was totally naked.
I felt his hands at my feet, sliding up to my ankles. He must be kneeling behind me. “I want every part of you.” His palms pushed up my legs. His movements weren’t fluttering or tantalizing. They were sure and possessive. He ran his hands up the back of my thigh and then gripped my ass—squeezing and kneading. “And your beautiful ass, Grace Astor. That’s mine too.”
As much as it felt good, he was touching me for him, not me. And I loved it.
“Yes,” I breathed.
“And this.” His hands slid over my hips. He was standing now, pressing his cheek against mine. “This beautiful pussy,” he said as he roughly pushed his finger against my clit. “That’s all mine too. Everything. Every part of you.”
My knees weakened. It was true. My body responded as if I’d been waiting for him my whole life and now I’d found him. It was awakening properly for the first time ever.
His other hand grabbed my breasts and I wanted to melt into him, become part of him. “Tell me I have all of you,” he whispered.
I reached over my head behind me, threading my fingers through his hair. “You do.”
His hand left my clit and it was only the sound of his zipper that made me feel better.
“Condom,” I managed to choke out.
He pulled me back toward him. “I got it.”
His fingers slid lengthways between my butt cheeks, skirting the puckered asshole and making me shiver. “So wet, Princess. I get you so wet.” I was over my embarrassment of how much he turned me on. There was no point trying to hide it. As he said, he saw it all.
“You got me so hard.”
And then I felt him. The tip of him. The hot, hard end of him.
Sam just slid his cock along my sex, between my cheeks, making me wait.
“Sam. Don’t torture me. It’s my birthday.”
“Do you want it so bad it hurts yet?” His voice was deep and raw. “That’s what you do to me. I want you so bad right now it hurts.”
Before I had time to absorb what he was saying, he was inside me in one swift movement.
It was relief, pleasure, desire all mixed into one. And my knees buckled.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, holding me at the waist. Me impaled on him. “Is it too much?”
It was.
“Sam,” I said. I couldn’t think of the words in the right order. I couldn’t tell him how good it was.
He pulled out and guided me to the couch. I sat astride him. “We can take it at your pace. We can do it how you like it.”
I realized I had my eyes closed, lost in a trance. I opened them and he was looking at me. He had a slight sheen to his forehead and I reached out and stroked his hair. “I like it every way with you.”
He lifted my hips and pulled me on to him again. My body was still weak, but the couch and his hands supported me, and I placed my palms against his chest.
He blinked lazily as he kept his focus on my face and began to lift my hips, just slightly, and then pull me back onto him. I let him move me, watching his jaw clench when he hit the end of me. He was so deep and it was so good.
I concentrated on the press of his thumbs below my hips, the hard muscles under my palms. Anything to stop myself from coming because I wanted this to last forever.
His eyes flickered from my face to my chest and the sway of my breasts as they lifted with each thrust.
“You look so beautiful,” he said.
I shuddered and he groaned as I involuntarily squeezed him.
“Jesus, Grace.” He picked up his pace, lifting and pulling.
I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying out, but it didn’t work and I screamed out a plea. For more. For Sam. For this moment to never end.
I began to move my hips a little more, increasing the push and the pull, speeding up the pleasure as it circled us both.
I wanted him as much as he wanted me.
I wanted this moment.
I clung to his chest, my fingernails digging into his skin, and he sat up, pulling us chest to chest, his mouth finding mine.
His kisses were jerky and staccato as if he were using any energy he had left to pour into me. His breathing was labored and he groaned. “I can feel you. So tight. You’re almost . . .” Before he had time to finish his sentence, I was spiraling into orgasm and he was following, pumping his hips from the sofa. His expression was equal parts tight and soft as we gazed into each other’s eyes through our climax.
I wanted for nothing with Sam Shaw in my world.
“They’re both great—the perfect combination of soft and firm,” I said, staring at Bergdorf’s ceiling as Sam wriggled next to me. We were furniture shopping—bed shopping more specifically—and we’d narrowed it down to two. “You should make the decision. It’s your bed.”
“You’ll be sleeping in it as much as I will,” Sam replied.
I turned to face him, making no effort to hide my grin. In the weeks since my birthday, there was no longer any discussion of whether we’d see each other that night. We were together every night, but he came to Brooklyn because I refused to sleep on his mattress. I might deny being a princess, but a mattress on the floor was just a step too far. “Well, why not buy both of them? You have four bedrooms to fill, after all.”
Other than not having a bed to sleep on, part of the reason we didn’t spend much time at his apartment was because it felt odd to be back there. Park Avenue was the symbol of everything I hadn’t wanted to become. I didn’t want to be a Park Avenue princess, didn’t want to marry a man I didn’t love because it was a so-called good match. I didn’t want to cheat on him to get an escape, but stay with him because I liked the trappings of my life. Trappings that just didn’t matter.
I didn’t want to turn into my mother.
In so many ways, 740 Park Avenue seemed like my past, not my future.
“My place is closer to work for both of us,” Sam said.
He’d never really brought up the fact that we always stayed at my place in Brooklyn, so I hadn’t realized it was a problem for him. “You’d prefer we stay at yours?”