The Dare Collection November 2018. Christy McKellenЧитать онлайн книгу.
now I had two limos heading to two private airports. It wasn’t a big deal—my business could easily absorb the costs—it didn’t augur well for ignoring the temptation to throw him overboard at the first opportunity.
Just a little longer.
By this time next month, the yacht would either be sold or the rental commission would be a huge boost to my firm’s profile and hopefully attract more clients like Gideon Mortimer.
Then I could be rid of the lingering sense of unworthiness I’d never been truly able to shake since Adam—
Dammit, why was I thinking about Adam again when he hadn’t crossed my mind in weeks? I hated that he’d compounded feelings my father had engendered within me by his blatant dismissal of me as a child.
But then, your fiancé running off with a rich heiress weeks before your wedding had a way of totally sideswiping you. And as much as I tried I couldn’t rid myself of the hollow sensation inside me.
Enough!
I was probably thinking about the past because Gideon’s air of entitlement triggered traits I’d seen in my father before I’d cut off all contact with the man.
As for Adam...it’d been a relief that six months ago he’d finally stopped opening dummy accounts in the hopes of friending me on Facebook. Not so much the hang-ups I’d been getting on my mobile phone lately, forcing me to change my phone number.
Whatever he was selling, I wasn’t buying.
Being rejected once by your own flesh and blood was bad enough. A repeat by the man you’d thought you’d spend the rest of your life with had a way of sharpening your perspective on men and relationships.
These days I was much more discerning of men to the point where the occasional one night was more than enough for me. The rest of the time, my battery-operated boyfriends sufficed just fine.
I turned off the shower, dried off and sprawled out on my bed. Unbidden, the conversation with Gideon Mortimer replayed in my mind, especially the naughty bits, uttered in that unbelievably sexy voice of his.
Find a way to get us both what we want. Tell me you can accommodate my wishes.
Did he use suggestive words like that in the bedroom? Or was he an outright dirty talker?
What the hell did that matter to me?
I flipped over, my body growing hot and clammy as his deep voice continued to echo through my head. Clamping my eyes shut, I growled in frustration and tugged open the drawer of my bedside table. I hadn’t touched my vibrator in a while, not since the preparation for the busy season had kicked in. Usually I was too tired from a hard day’s work and crashed the moment my head touched the pillow.
Today I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep without a little carnal therapy.
With an anticipatory shiver, I turned on the device. I slid it over my belly and between my legs, my breath catching at how wet I was already. At the first touch of the vibrator against my clit, my nipples pebbled, pleasure radiating from my groin. As a resident of a place that boasted more beautiful people per square metre than anywhere else on earth, I never lacked visual fodder for my sexual fantasies.
A French count with a hot accent.
An Australian bodybuilder here for the summer.
A Californian surfer crewing on a catamaran while learning French.
They were a dime a dozen along the coast.
But of course, the moment I found my groove and my hips began to move in pleasurable rhythm, the deep, sinfully cultured tones of a minor British aristocrat invaded my brain.
Miss Branson...
I need a little more than that...
Accommodate my wishes...
Say the words, Miss Branson...
With a broken gasp, my orgasm tore through me. My back arched off the bed and my whole body shook as I came harder than I had in a long time. I dropped the vibrator and boldly cupped myself, eager to hold on to the release for a little longer as my body continued to convulse, my gasps growing louder as I teased out of the last of my climax.
The descent was slow and languid, my body humming contentedly as I regained my breath.
And then with a groan, I buried my face in the pillow.
Hell.
Gideon Mortimer hadn’t made an appearance yet and he was already more than a pain in my arse. He’d just elevated himself to an ache in my pussy.
Leonie
AT A QUARTER to seven I stood by the limo in the private airstrip that serviced Nice airport. A few more phone calls this morning had finally furnished me with the info of at which airport Gideon would be landing.
As his private jet landed and taxied closer, I eyed the gleaming silver Aston Martin DB11 parked next to the limo.
Although currently driverless, it still evoked irritation. There were no other planes scheduled to land for another hour—I checked with VIP staff. Which most likely meant one thing.
The client I’d risen at the crack of dawn to pick up had arranged his own ride.
Deep breaths...
I despised the careless waste of money his unreasonableness triggered. Which was a little ironic considering the line of business I was in but still... I shrugged away my ire and watched the sleek private jet come to a standstill.
Two minutes later, the jet’s engines powered down and short steps dropped onto the tarmac.
And from fifty feet away I caught my first glimpse of Gideon Mortimer.
Holy God.
I’d thought his sex-stroking voice was sinfully aggravating. But the man’s face, lean hips and long-limbed body...everything about him was captivating enough to make my jaw sag in wonder for three embarrassing seconds before I caught myself.
Still I couldn’t look away.
Dark brown wavy hair, glossy beneath the resplendent sunshine, tossed about in the morning breeze. As I watched him approach in a slow saunter, I could’ve sworn every movement he made was precisely choreographed by the director of a perfume ad.
Aviator shades perched on a patrician nose stopped me from seeing his eyes, but that didn’t even matter. I was already preoccupied with the square jaw that held an I-didn’t-bother-to-shave-deal-with-it stubble that prompted fingers—not mine—to test its roughness.
As he drew nearer, my gaze dropped to his mouth.
Dear heaven. Every millimetre of that mouth was built for filthy, decadent sin. For making fast and furious friends with a woman’s lady business, and not disengaging until someone was clawing at silk sheets, screaming for mercy.
Thank God I took the edge off last night, otherwise I’d have a hard time functioning right now. Gideon Mortimer was the epitome of everything I’d thought him to be—sinfully handsome and very much aware of his power over women.
Just like the man whose blood unfortunately ran through my veins; the man I’d never called Dad because he didn’t deserve the title. A no-good son of a bitch I’d never forgiven for what he did to my mother. To me.
Those reminders helped shore up my foundations as I briskly tugged on my bespoke Armani jacket and pinned a cool professional smile on my face. ‘Mr Mortimer?’
He ignored me, peering first into the limo and then, frowning, at his immediate surroundings before his jaw clenched.