Faking It Page 10

  “‘No’ what?”

  “No, I don’t want you to stop.”

  God, the way she says those words, I can’t describe it. She’s so innocent, so cute, and yet so inviting. She’s almost virginal, though I know that there’s no way a woman as hot as my wife could possibly be untouched.

  There’s no way a girl this hot could have made it this far in life without the touch of a man. Still, I can’t help but choke back regret that I wasn’t her first.

  “But I’ll be your best,” I whisper.

  Penny’s eyes spring open. “Did –?” she murmurs, a little veil of confusion on her face. “Did you say something?”

  I smile a hungry smile. I can’t help myself. “Just lie back…” I growl.

  I drag myself down Penny’s body, until I’m kneeling on the floor between her legs. She watches me the whole way, barely capable of breathing.

  If I could take a picture of the look in her eyes and frame it, I would. She’s excited, yet uncertain; like a wild animal that’s found a meal in an open clearing.

  She knows she wants it – wants me – and yet she’s not ready to trust. She’s not ready to give herself to me: not completely.

  Not yet.

  I can deal with that. It’s my job to break down her barriers. In my experience the fastest way to a woman’s heart isn’t through her stomach; it’s through a toe-curling, sheet-tugging, back-arching, blackout-inducing orgasm.

  It just so happens that they’re a family specialty.

  “Take off your dress,” I order.

  Penny’s eyelashes flutter. She flinches, and looks at me with nervousness in her eyes.

  “Don’t make me ask you again,” I growl.

  I lace my tone with an unspoken threat, but leave the punishment up in the air. I don’t need to tell Penny what it is. It’s the anticipation that kills. In truth, all I’ll do is undress her with my teeth, but Penny doesn’t need to know that.

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  Her hands slide down her body – inching down the black silk. My cock throbs as I realize what she’s doing – reveling in the feeling of the sparks erupting on her skin. Her tiny fingers clutch the hem of her cocktail dress and start to pull it up.

  “Go slow,” I say.

  I can’t help myself. If Penny was a stripper – not that a fifteen-million-dollar girl like her would ever fall into that line of work – she’d make enough in an hour to never have to work again. I want to see that silk creep up her skin. I want to see her pale goose bumps exposed an inch at a time.

  I want to watch Penny torturing me just like I’m torturing her.

  “Okay,” Penny says again.

  Her eyelashes flutter shut, and her head tips back. Her long, rich, red hair greets the gray suede couch like a wildfire flinging itself at a rock cliff.

  “Okay,” she whispers – this time to herself – talking herself into doing as I ask.

  Penny pulls her dress up millimeter by millimeter. I hold my breath. It climbs up her perfect, thick thighs. She slows before the fabric passes her pussy, and then pushes past that too. She murmurs as the cool air kisses her lips. I think about turning down the penthouse’s AC system, but a wicked grin creeps onto my face.

  There’s no way I’m changing a damn thing.

  “Stop,” I growl.

  Penny does as I say: instantly. She freezes, eyes still shut, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Good girl,” I say. “Stay like that. Don’t move a muscle.”

  “Yes,” Penny whispers.

  I bite my lip. I try to stop myself saying it, but the words spill out of my mouth regardless. “Yes what?”

  Penny’s forehead wrinkles slightly as she tries to decipher what I want, and then the muscles relax. “Yes, boss.” She groans.

  I reward her anyway. I lean forward, placing my palms on her outer thighs, and blow a thin stream of air onto her glistening slit. Penny’s back arches, her hair ripples against the couch like a burning waterfall, and she lets out a sound that’s half way between a murmur and a hiss.

  I stop blowing. Penny freezes once more. And then I kiss her, right down between her legs, in her most private spot.

  “Open up for me,” I say.

  For some reason, Penny’s thighs are still pressed together – not like a vise, but close enough it’s hard for me to get my head in between them. It’s almost as if she’s still nervous – though I don’t know why.

  It’s obvious how turned on she is. Her skin is flushed red and burning hot to the touch, and goose bumps sprout like mountains on every inch of skin.

  Penny does as I ask. It’s slow, and halting, but her legs open up like a rising drawbridge.

  A thin layer of red fur coats Penny’s pubic mound. I prefer my girls were naked, but there’s something kind of sexy about this – almost innocent. I haven’t seen a girl natural like this in as long as I can remember.

  “Go slow,” Penny whispers.

  I don’t reply. I wouldn’t tell a postman how to deliver my post, and I sure as hell don’t need Penny’s tips on how to pleasure her. There are three things in life I’m good at – making money, being a dad, and making women come harder than Niagara Falls.

  I extend my tongue and lick Penny’s pussy from bottom to top.

  If I thought she was moaning before, this is another level. I’m kind of surprised. It’s like she’s never had a man go down on her before, but I’m not complaining. My cock stiffens. There’s something about a woman’s moans that are hard for a man like me to resist.

  I layer Penny’s slit with kisses and blows and licks. I keep going until she’s dripping wet, until out of nowhere her fingernails move to my head and dig into my scalp. I keep going until she grips my head in between her thighs, until she presses my face into her pussy so tight I can barely move. I’m locked in a prison – but what a prison.

  “You still want me to go slow?” I say in a throaty whisper.

  “Please… No…” Penny whimpers.

  God, the sound of that high-pitched crack in her voice does things to me I cannot explain: filthy things; naughty things. It drives me on, pushes me past my limits. My cock’s straining fit to burst against my tuxedo pants, and my self-control is strained to the limit.

  Why fight it? Why fight fate?

  I take Penny’s clit between my lips, and apply a light, gentle pressure – flicking it softly with my tongue. She makes a sound I can’t describe – except I can: it’s pure, unadulterated desire. She rakes her fingernails across my scalp; she clenches her thighs against my head, she grinds herself into me.

  “Omigod, omigod,” Penny whimpers. “Don’t stop!”

  I don’t.

  I scrape my fingernails down the outside of Penny’s legs. I press my lips against her pussy and I go hell for leather. I keep licking and sucking and kissing like I’ve never done before. Penny’s scent, the tangy, musky taste of her pussy, it all drives me on.

  She tastes right. She smells right.

  I don’t know the science behind it, and I don’t care to. I know deep down that Penny’s the right girl for me. Call it pheromones: call it instinct; call it whatever you like: something’s pulling me toward this girl. It’s tying me to her. It’s not letting me let go.

  Penny’s back arches one last time. Every single muscle in her body tenses, radiating the orgasm that’s crashing through her. I feel the vibrations through my head, through the fingers she’s intertwined through my hair.

  I’m right there, with her. I wish I could sense what she’s going through right now. I need it. I need to feel it. I need to feel her tight pussy around my cock, her heat. I need to push myself into her and let myself go.

  I pull myself free of the cage Penny’s created with her legs, and climb up her body, kissing as I go.

  I barely touch the lost, hungry, animal kiss on her mouth, grazing her lower lip between my teeth before I let go.

  “How was that?” I whisper as I nibble her ear.

  Still, I don’t let up
my assault on Penny’s senses. I know better than that. In my experience, a woman’s orgasm is a delicate thing. Unlike a man’s – basically guaranteed – a woman’s is like a balloon with a tiny hole. You need to keep building, keep pumping, keep kissing, keep overpowering her senses, or else all of your hard work will drain away.

  Okay. I’ve strained the metaphor a bit far…

  But you get what I mean.

  I walk my fingers down Penny’s stomach, scrape my fingernails on her mouth, and run them through her pubic fur. I drag my index finger up her pussy, and then inserted, massaging the ribbed spot of skin I know so well.

  Penny opens her eyes. The blue orbs look more like an ocean than they ever have.

  But something’s wrong.

  There’s a storm in her eyes: she’s roiling and uncertain.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, concern – for now at least – overpowering my desire.

  It’s like Penny can’t speak. She glances down, and I follow the direction her eyes are pointing in. Her pussy: I reluctantly remove my finger from inside her. I don’t understand what’s just happened. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.

  “Did I do something –?” I ask, straining my brain for any evidence of what it might be.

  Penny shakes her head. It’s like her tongue is encased in a concrete block.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Don’t worry – you can tell me anything.”

  “Charlie,” Penny whispers, closing her eyes. She squeezes them shut, as if she’s building a wall around her. “I lied to you.”

  I freeze. Was I right? Is there more to Penny than meets the eye?

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not what you think. I – I’m a –”

  12

  Penny

  Virgin.

  You ever wake up cringing with embarrassment over something you did a decade ago? I do: All the time. So you can imagine how much worse it is this morning, when the shame’s only ten hours in my rear-view mirror.

  I wake up.

  My eyelashes flutter open.

  And I’m immediately attacked by a deep, blushing sense of embarrassment. My cheeks burn hotter than the surface of the sun. I pull the sheet covering my body up to hide my face.

  It does little to help.

  I replay last night’s events in my mind. I was a little tipsy – I remember that – but in truth the champagne was only enough to add a little spice to the proceedings, I wasn’t drunk. It would take a heck of a lot more than that!

  I told Charlie the truth.

  Not the whole truth, of course. Not the real reason I’m here – to steal enough money from him to pay for my dad’s cancer treatment.

  No: a smaller truth, and a more shameful one. The truth that what happened with Charlie last night was the furthest I’ve ever been with a man – by a long way. The truth about how I’m still a virgin. I’ve never slept with a man. I’ve never been naked in front of a man.

  I’ve barely gone past a first kiss.

  Last night I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Charlie did things between my legs – made me feel things that I didn’t know were possible.

  I’ve touched myself before. Close my eyes and painted spicy romances in my head. Let my fingers slide past the elastic of my pajama bottoms.

  Of course I have. What woman hasn’t?

  But last night was different. Last night Charlie pushed me past every barrier of pleasure that I even believed possible.

  And still I pushed him away.

  “Why…” I whisper.

  I’m still not sure what happened, or what came over me. I pushed Charlie off my body. He coaxed me to orgasm, and when my knees were still trembling from it, he stood over me, unzipping his tuxedo pants.

  I saw the outline of his cock.

  I saw the desire on his face: the hunger.

  I saw every act he wanted to do to me written on his cheeks, and in those inscrutable iceberg eyes. I wanted it: Him.

  And yet I couldn’t let it happen.

  Shame washed over me –

  – and guilt.

  I made him stop.

  “Please,” I said, hugging a couch cushion and turning away from his inquiring, confused gaze. “Not tonight.”

  Charlie sat down next to me and tried to stroke me, but I flinched from his touch. I know exactly why I did it – because the guilt of what I’m planning to do to him started to eat me up.

  I feel the guilt now, too. In fact, if anything, it’s stronger than it was last night.

  I throw the sheets off, and the cool air of my bedroom raises goose bumps all over my body. I toss on a bathrobe and walk into the hallway.

  I know what I’m like.

  If I let myself, I’ll stay inside and stew all day. I can’t let that happen. I need to work out how I’m going to extricate myself from this situation.

  Because the truth is, I’m beginning to like Charlie. Not love him, or anything crazy like that, but there’s definitely something between us.

  Charlie Thorne isn’t the man I thought he was.

  I’m not the girl he thinks I am.

  Are we the perfect couple or a disaster waiting to happen? I hope it’s the former, but I suspect I’m wrong.

  “You’re up…” Charlie says.

  I jump, half-startled out of my skin. My feet kiss back down onto the thick cream carpet, and I look up. Charlie’s standing behind the kitchen island, toying with something that’s sizzling in a pan on the stovetop. Once again, my cheeks betray me, filling with color.

  “Why aren’t you –?” I squeak.

  “– at work?” Charlie asks.

  I nod. Up and down. Fast. God, I’m such a mess. This is so unsexy. I don’t think I could come across as more naïve and innocent if I tried.

  He shrugs. “One of the perks of being the CEO, I guess. Anyway – I should ask you the same question, shouldn’t I?”

  My mouth goes dry. “What are you talking about?

  “Well,” Charlie says distractedly. He grabs a spatula from a hanging rack behind him, and twirls it in his fingers. “You’re still my PA, aren’t you?”

  I lick my lips. “I guess so. I mean, I thought –”

  Charlie flips a perfectly-brown pancake with a flourish. “Relax, Penny. I can’t exactly have my wife working for me, can I? I’m sure Harper would call it a conflict of interest or something like that.”

  I inch towards him. My legs feel like they are filled with lead. “What about you?”

  “Me?” He repeats, jamming a thumb towards his chest. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It does to me,” I say. I’m not really talking about the PA job. I’m not talking about working for Charlie, and I don’t think he’s talking about that either.

  Charlie takes a different tack, pulling away from discussing the bombshell I dropped last night. I’m glad and I’m not, all at once. Part of me wants to just get it into the open.

  He cocks his head to one side. “Hungry?”

  My brain’s screaming at me to run. Rule number one of being a con girl: don’t fall for your mark. I mean – this is my first time, in a lot of ways – so I’m no expert. But getting feelings involved seems like a losing strategy.

  The problem is, my body is screaming as well: and it’s singing a completely different tune.

  My stomach chooses that precise moment to betray me, and groan loudly.

  Charlie chuckles. “I thought so,” he says. He puts the pancake onto a short, but growing stack, and ladles another small spoon of batter into the pan. “Sit down.”

  I approach the kitchen island slowly. I can’t deal with this Charlie Thorne – this Charlie Thorne who’s so freaking different from the monster I built up in my head all of these months.

  When he was the Big Bad Wolf, I didn’t mind knocking down his walls. But he’s been nothing but kind to me. Even last night, when I told him I was a virgin, he didn’t look at me with pity in those glorious gray eyes, but kin
dness.

  Some men might hold a grudge that I led them on. Not Charlie, even though I know how horny he was. That was last night, and right now is today. In his mind – at least, it seems that way – it’s already forgotten.

  “I said sit,” he grins. “Don’t worry, I don’t fight. Unless…”

  My fingers stroke the back of the stool. “Unless what?”

  Charlie barks with laughter. He flashes me a wink. “… Unless you ask me to.”

  I sit with my cheeks flashing red with embarrassment – and a little bit of heat. I don’t know what Charlie means by that – not really – but I want to find out.

  “Blueberries, or –”

  “Blueberries will do fine,” I say.

  I feel uncomfortable; like I’m on a hot seat. I’m not used to people doing me kindnesses like this. Having a gorgeous man, like Charlie Thorne, cook me breakfast is kind of a dream. I’m afraid that at any moment I might wake up…

  Charlie pushes a short stack of thick pancakes over. They are drizzled with blueberries and syrup. My stomach rumbles with excitement.

  “Thanks.” I say.

  “My pleasure.” He replies.

  “What happened to the private chef?” I ask, cutting my first mouthful.

  Charlie laughs. “Francisco? That guy’s got the easiest job in New York, I tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “To be honest with you, I like cooking. I keep Frankie around for big events, or when I’m entertaining, or –”

  I frown. “– Or?”

  “– Or for when Tilly’s around, needs to eat and I’m not here. It’s probably stupid, but it just doesn’t feel right letting someone else cook for my own daughter. You know?”

  “I don’t think that’s stupid,” I say.

  The silence grows heavy around us. Charlie’s studying me – at least, it feels that way. He stares at me and doesn’t let up, not even when awkward goose bumps begin to prickle on the back of my neck.

  I laugh awkwardly. My cutlery clinks against the plate, and I take my first mouthful of the meal Charlie’s prepared for me. It’s heaven. The blueberries melt on my tongue – little tiny explosions of sweet and sour.

  “This is incredible,” I groan. “Tilly is – I mean, your daughter is – a lucky lady.”