Sex Objects Read online

  She eased back only when he tugged her corset into place, then nudged at her hips to tell her it was time to dismount. Her skirt still covered him as he dealt with the condom, and she felt a pang of regret that they hadn’t had more foreplay, hadn’t undressed.

  She stood on wobbly legs as he tucked himself away and zipped his pants, then stood a little steadier.

  “You want to follow me?”

  “What?”

  “Back to my place.”

  “Do you live in the same place?” Dumb question. Of course he would. He’d saved for the little bungalow on the north side, done much of the work himself.

  He gave her a look. “You’d better not be planning on ditching me, Bridget.”

  The thought had passed through her mind, but the idea of being in his bed, waking in his arms, had more appeal than she cared to admit, even to herself.

  “I’ll be there,” she promised, and felt another little bubble of hope rise when he smiled.

  Coming back to his place had not been in her plan, so walking into the little house where they’d spent so much time—romantic dinners, long evenings on the porch, even nights with him watching the Spurs game while she worked at the desk by the window—felt too intimate. She found her earlier words about missing him held too much truth. She missed him and all this. She’d been happy then. She was successful now, but she’d been happy then.

  “Want something to eat?” he asked, easing past her and flicking on the light in the kitchen. “I thought I’d make an omelet. Need some energy, you know.”

  He flashed her a grin that would have melted her panties, if she’d been wearing any. “Maybe I’ll have a bite of yours.”

  He gave her a chiding look. “I’ve heard that before. Then you eat the whole thing. I’ll make you your own.”

  He opened the fridge and pulled out tomatoes and chives and a bag with already-cooked-and-crumbled bacon, then went back for the eggs and cheese. She sat at the counter and watched the skillful way he scrambled and folded and flipped.

  “Is there anything you aren’t good at?” she asked to break the silence as he plated the food and placed it in front of her.

  Another grin before he took a bite. “Plumbing.” He glanced up. “And holding on to you.”

  “Nolan.” She squared her shoulders. She wasn’t here for relationship talk. She wasn’t good at relationships.

  He arched a brow. “If I’d said yes to the threesome, you think we’d still be together?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted.

  “Right. And you think you’d be coming back to look for me if we’d done that?”

  She hadn’t considered. “I don’t know.”

  He braced his hands on either side of the stove and looked at her. “You wouldn’t have. You liked me because I didn’t let you boss me around too much. We had respect, in bed and out of it. Until you asked me to bring another man into our bed.”

  “To be fair, I suggested a hotel.”

  “It was still our bed, what was between the two of us, the connection we had. The connection we still have. Do you feel it, Bridget?”

  Her throat swelled suspiciously. “I do.”

  “Good.”

  He pushed his plate away, his omelet not even half-finished, and she hadn’t started hers. But she put her hand in his anyway and let him lead her from the kitchen, into the bedroom.

  Everything in here was the same, the dark nautical blues against the brightness of the pine furniture and floors. Pressure built at the backs of her eyes. How had she let herself walk away from this place where she’d been so happy?

  He stepped behind her and unfastened the corset, easing it from her, tracing the lines it had left in her skin with gentle fingers. She closed her eyes to everything but the sensation of his touch. He untied the waist of her skirt and loosened it so it would pool around her ankles, and she was naked to him, but he didn’t let her turn around, not yet. Eyes still closed, she listened as he unsnapped his shirt, shucked his boots and jeans, then pressed against her back, his cock resting against the small of her back, hot and hard and ready.

  His fingers started in her hair, tucking it behind her ears, then stroking the shell of her ears, down her throat, over her shoulders before cupping her breasts. She gasped at the tenderness of his touch on her aching nipples, the way he followed the curve down, over her waist and belly, picking up speed as if gravity took over. He gave a little hum of approval when he encountered her neatly trimmed pussy, but he didn’t linger there, instead sliding his fingertips down her thighs before sliding back up. She parted her legs at his silent urging, leaning back just enough to keep his cock in contact with her skin as he parted her folds. They both moaned as he slid his fingers through her wetness, dipping them inside. He thrust them in and out of her quickly, so hot, making her wetter, making his fingers wetter. She pushed back and he released her, turning her to face him.

  She took advantage, sliding her hands down his muscular chest, teasing his nipples, gliding her fingertips over his ribs, then over his abs. Then, at last, she curled her fingers around his arching erection. He drew in a breath and held perfectly still as she stroked both hands up and down his length, feeling him grow harder beneath her caress. Her pussy ached to feel him again, to feel his weight over her this time, either on top of her or behind her. Which would he choose?

  When she bent her knees to take him into her mouth, he caught her shoulders.

  “Get on the bed.” He reached past her to yank down the comforter and stretched out his hand in invitation.

  She positioned herself in the center of the bed, legs spread so he could enjoy the view.

  He did, for a moment, gazing at the petals of her pussy while she appreciated his fine hard-on. Then he knelt over her, again trailing his featherlight touch over her skin from her collarbone to her knees.

  “My way this time,” he said, plucking a condom from the nightstand.

  She nodded, so eager to feel his way, in this bed where they’d tried so many ways. Their bed. She got it now, understood his resistance to bringing anyone else into their space. He sheathed himself, lifted her hips so her thighs draped over his, and pushed into her, slowly, shallow at first before pulling out, repeating the stroke when she whimpered her frustration. He rested his hand on her mons, his thumb riding just above her clit as he tortured her with his short thrusts. She was trembling all over, dying to push against him, but she had promised. His way. His next stroke was a little deeper, his next deeper, all the time his gaze on hers, his thumb on her cunt.

  And then he pushed all the way inside her, to the hilt, circling his hips and his thumb in opposite directions. As wet as she was, as hot as she was, as focused as her entire body was on her pussy, she didn’t see the orgasm coming, and it rolled through her, leaving her boneless.

  He didn’t stop, continued those slow strokes, continued watching her, a small smile playing on his lips as he fucked her, driving her desire back up until she couldn’t stay still, couldn’t leave him in control.

  He pulled out and removed his touch, just as she was on the verge of the perfect orgasm. “On your knees.”

  She wished for more grace as she flipped and rose up, presenting him with her ass, wishing for a brief second he’d consider breaching her second hole. They’d both enjoyed it the times they’d tried it, but she had promised to let him do this his way.

  He trailed his fingers down the slope of her back, followed the curve of her ass, tapping against her rosette before guiding his cock to her channel and sliding deep.

  Everything in her went tight at the change in angle, but he kept the same maddening pace, like a slow dance.

  Oh, yes.

  The head of his cock rubbed against her sensitive walls, his hips slapped against her ass and she squeezed around him, holding him deep before she melted into a blissful orgasm, everything inside her softening, everything but him.

  But it only took him a few more strokes to follow her.

  When
they stretched out side by side on the bed, his breathing was surprisingly labored for the pace he’d set. She pressed her hand to his chest and looked up at him.

  “I’ve decided I don’t think I want this to be just one night,” she murmured.

  The smile again, wicked this time. “That was my plan.” And he flipped her onto her back to kiss her, just like he used to.

  Hush

  Cathy Gold

  Silence falls as I walk into the vast ballroom of the stately home that has been hired at great expense. It was probably built at great expense too, a vulgar phallic symbol for some duke or other who was most likely fat and impotent. The man I am here to see is neither of those things, but he is costing me far too much regardless.

  There are eighteen people in the room, and all of them stop talking the second they see me. They all know who I am, and they’re all most likely terrified they’re about to lose their jobs. And so they should be. It is ten at night. This place should be empty. All of them look at the floor, like they think I can’t see them if they don’t look at me. And they’re right, in a way, because there is only one person in the room as far as I am concerned.

  ‘‘Ms. Nicholl.’’ He nods at me. The move is deferential, but not afraid. We’ve played this game before. ‘‘Is there a problem?’’

  Liam Brady, so young, so very fit and beautiful, commanding the spotlight simply by existing. What power, I think. ‘‘You bet your fucking life there’s a problem.’’ I walk toward him, my heels clicking loudly on the white marble floor. ‘‘I have just had a phone call from the legal department. You didn’t sign. Why not?’’

  He shrugs, indecently handsome in tailoring that fits like a glove. Stark black on perfect white, a silk bow tie hanging unfastened around his shirt collar. ‘‘The terms don’t work for me. You have too much power.’’

  ‘‘Damn right I do.’’ I’m within touching distance now. His skin is smooth, lightly tanned, his eyes wickedly dark. He hasn’t shaved. ‘‘Two years ago you were busking in the underground. You were nothing. I made you, Liam Brady. Don’t you forget that.’’ I don’t want anyone else in the room to forget it either, which is why I take such care to point it out. Not the makeup artist, or the cameraman, or the trio of hair-flicking models with their fashionably plump pouts and deliciously young breasts.

  ‘‘But this isn’t two years ago,’’ he points out. ‘‘This is here, and now, and ten million album sales later.’’

  ‘‘You’re only as good as your next album.’’ I dismiss that figure easily, as if it means nothing. I set my briefcase on the floor by my feet, letting them know I won’t be leaving anytime soon. ‘‘Which isn’t going to happen unless you sign the bloody papers. And you will sign them.’’

  ‘‘So sure,’’ he says. ‘‘Always so sure.’’ That smooth Irish lilt rides over my skin like the stroke of a hand as he moves away from me and sits down at the white baby grand. His hands lift to the keys, his fingers square-tipped from years of playing, the ring he wears on the thumb of his left hand reflecting the light.

  I watch as he finds A, C, stroking out a melody that makes my spine tingle. His voice mixes with it, a gentle hum. It was that voice that first pulled me in two years ago, when he was nothing, and I was one outstanding artist away from the executive position I so desperately wanted in the A&R department at the record company.

  It could pull me in now, if I let it. I glance at my watch, a gorgeous Cartier tank with the words I love you engraved on the back. ‘‘This shoot should have been wrapped up hours ago,’’ I say. I try not to think about those words. I can’t let those emotions in right now. I can’t let them show. Around us, people shuffle their feet and busy their hands, the air thick with their discomfort. ‘‘Why wasn’t it?’’

  His fingers still. ‘‘Because I was late,’’ he says, before he starts to play again, this time a different melody. ‘‘I had a busy night last night.’’ He slides a glance at me. ‘‘I didn’t want to get out of bed. And because I want my ten percent, and I’m not going to work until I get it.’’

  He’s right. This isn’t two years ago. The Liam Brady I knew then would never have behaved like this, so arrogant, so self-assured, like a man who has fucked a thousand women and made every single one of them come. That Liam Brady would have signed without hesitation. He would have kissed my patent Louboutins just to hear the word contract, let alone be offered one.

  It’s time to remind him of that.

  I look around at the entranceway of this ridiculous stately home. It has forty-seven rooms, or so I’ve been told, far more than I need. Far more than anyone needs. I lean forward, far enough to make my Elsa Peretti pendant swing forward, the slender platinum ring hanging on it tapping against the edge of the piano. ‘‘I think you’ll find,’’ I say to Liam Brady, ‘‘that you’ll do whatever the hell I tell you to do.’’

  Then I turn my back on him and make my way toward the wide staircase curving around the side of the room.

  The ornate iron balustrade is cold under my hand, cold and hard. I trail my fingers along it as I slowly take the stairs. The polished surface under my feet reflects my image back to me: the red soles of my ankle boots, the swing of my dress, the sway of my backside as I climb higher and higher.

  I don’t turn around when I hear Liam Brady follow me, though I do allow myself a quick, secret smile. ‘‘Good boy,’’ I say softly. He’s hardly a boy, not at twenty-seven, but I’m thirty-nine and calling him that excites me. I have to work hard not to walk any faster.

  At the top of the staircase, I stop. There’s a corridor to my left, long and bright with lots of doors, lots of privacy. To the right, a balcony curves out over the room we have just left, and the beautiful baby grand, and all the video equipment and microphones and people necessary to make a music video. Too many people. Too many models with that hungry look in their eyes. I know they were watching him. I know what they were thinking.

  I walk out across the balcony. There’s no privacy here. Sound carries so beautifully across the space, the acoustics utterly perfect. More polished marble spreads under my feet in a glossy, reflective ocean. The curling ironwork is a mesh of light and dark, no barrier to prying eyes, but a perfect handhold for desperate fingers. I think about a woman in a huge, skirted gown being bent over that railing and ruthlessly fucked, and I bet those women down there are thinking about it too.

  Liam Brady leans against it, spreading his palms along the top. His shoulders look huge and his arse looks delectable.

  ‘‘Are you trying to provoke me?’’ I ask him. ‘‘Because that’s a very provocative stance.’’

  ‘‘I want the extra ten percent,’’ he says. ‘‘And until I get it, everything here is on hold.’’

  ‘‘You can’t have an extra ten percent,’’ I inform him coolly. ‘‘You can have what you’ve been offered.’’

  ‘‘I don’t like what’s being offered,’’ he says, and there it is again, that arrogance. He turns around so that he’s facing me, and that wicked, dark gaze burns my skin. ‘‘It isn’t enough.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to like it,’’ I say. ‘‘You simply have to remember who’s in charge here.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. ‘‘I remember.’’ He lifts his gaze to my face then lets it slowly drift lower. ‘‘I want more, Ms. Nicholl. The question is, what are you going to make me do in order to get it?’’

  I press my lips together for a moment, as if I’m thinking about my answer, as if I don’t already know what it is going to be. I think about that woman in her full-skirted gown, with her knees trembling and her breasts heaving against the hard grip of a corset, but she’s not young and inexperienced. She’s me. And I don’t think about a fat, impotent duke burying his face between my thighs. I think about Liam Brady. ‘‘It’s quite simple, really,’’ I say. ‘‘I want you to get on your knees and beg.’’

  ‘‘You would reduce me to that?’’ he says. His voice is ro
ugh, low. If I wanted to, I could hear excitement in it. ‘‘You want me to humiliate myself in front of you?’’

  ‘‘You’re too arrogant,’’ I tell him. ‘‘Too proud. It’s time you fell from that pedestal you put yourself on, Mr. Brady.’’

  ‘‘And you think you’re the one to make me fall,’’ he says. He glances over his shoulder, down at the people waiting below us.

  They’re listening. I can feel it. But I don’t let it stop me. I want him to understand who I am, here. What this is. That he can never, will never say no to me, no matter what it costs him. ‘‘Yes,’’ I tell him. ‘‘It will be easy. And I’ll enjoy it so very, very much.’’

  He moves toward me, slowly. Circles me, slowly. I stiffen my spine, pulling up every inch of my five feet two inches plus heels. Even in them, I barely reach his shoulder.

  ‘‘And how,’’ he says softly, ‘‘are you going execute my downfall?’’ He fills the words with suggestion. He’s brilliant at it. It’s what has made him a star.

  ‘‘I have a task for you,’’ I say. ‘‘A challenge, if you will.’’

  He stops. ‘‘Lay down your terms.’’

  ‘‘You’re going to make me come,’’ I whisper. ‘‘Without anyone else here knowing that I have.’’

  A faint smile pulls at the corner of his luscious mouth. He walks across the balcony, toward the corridor with the doors and the rooms and the privacy.

  I stay exactly where I am.

  He reaches the edge of the balcony, where the marble turns to thick, Prussian blue carpet, the kind that will swallow every footstep. Then he turns, pauses, lifts one talented hand and beckons me to follow him.

  I shake my head.

  The air seems to thicken around me as he pauses and stares at me. I’m standing perfectly still, but my entire body feels like it’s trembling, so strong is the rush of power. I can hear the people below, chatting, moving equipment, drinking bottled water and costing thousands as they think about how to get Liam Brady into bed.