Hanson while the ad hoc board met. Elise was a chef, and liked observing and learning from the experienced housekeeper.
“Well she’ll come, too. I’d consider us lucky to have that delightful, vibrant girl with us. I’ve met her before today, you know,” Anne said as an aside to Lucien and Francesca, a teasing sparkle in her eyes. “Louis Martin’s daughter is always a breath of fresh air to any stuffy function. Life of the party, guaranteed.”
“If a breath of fresh air means a cyclone of gossip, you’ve hit the nail on the head as far as my wife,” Lucien murmured, his lips twitching to break free in a smile.
Francesca caught Gerard’s amused glance and laughed aloud for the first time in what felt like ages.
They all went over to Noble Enterprises that afternoon to meet with various Noble executives and members of the mergers and acquisitions team. They paused only for a brief, very enjoyable dinner together at Catch 35, where Gerard entertained them with family stories. Apparently, Gerard’s father Cedric had been good friends with James since their early days at Cambridge, and it’d been James who introduced his friend to James’s considerably younger sister, Simone. Gerard played raconteur, regaling them with stories about James and his father as young men. He painted a picture of Cedric Sinoit as sort of a cheerful clown, always contriving hilarious, inevitably failed attempts to outdo James. Francesca laughed with them all yet again, the shadows of her grief pushed aside for a few bright, vibrant moments.
The complexities of the acquisition continued to be trying for Francesca, who had to struggle to understand concepts that were second nature to people like Lucien and Gerard. They went back to work until late, putting together the skeleton of a plan that could be carried out methodically even if the board wasn’t on-site in Chicago.
By the time she entered Ian’s suite again it was past midnight and she was good and exhausted. After she’d forced herself into Ian’s dressing room to hurriedly extract a nightgown and change of underwear from a drawer, she realized it was best to be worn out. If she was fatigued, there was less of a chance she would feel too deeply.
By the time she padded barefoot to bed after a shower and her bedtime ritual, she was dead on her feet. Despite her appreciation of her weariness, the sight of Ian’s bed and the process of peeling back the luxurious bedding seem to send a jolt of unwelcome adrenaline through her.
She retrieved a book from her purse, determined to escape her ruminations about the business deal, not to mention her evocative memories that sprang up being in Ian’s bed.
She reread the same paragraph four times, unable to absorb what the words meant. The sheets felt cool and sensual against her shower-heated skin. She vividly recalled how divine they felt when Ian had carried her from their private room on several different occasions after a round of challenging, intense lovemaking. She glanced at the closed paneled door at the left side of the room. Gerard had stayed in this suite. Had he tried to enter that locked refuge? she wondered uncomfortably. Did he suspect what was on the other side?
Once—even a year ago—she would have dismissed such thoughts as ridiculous. Why would a man suspect such intimate, sexual things when coming upon a locked door? Ian had broadened her horizons, however.
She remembered one evening last March when Ian had tried to explain things to her.
They were scheduled to meet Lin and a new man she was dating for dinner at Lucien’s fashionable restaurant, Fusion. Ian had led her into the private room beforehand. She’d followed him with a familiar sense of mounting excitement spiced with just a hint of trepidation. He’d instructed her to strip naked, and then restrained her wrists to the straps that hung from hooks on the wall.
She’d waited in anxious excitement after he’d positioned her, standing with her back slightly bent forward, her knees straight, her spine arched slightly, her feet planted about a foot and a half apart, her bottom protruding, the wrist restraints stretched tight. He’d used a black leather flogger on her—not cruelly, never that—but using the leather straps to awaken and fire the nerves on the surface of her ass, hips and thighs, his dominance over her carefully controlled and deliberate, designed to arouse, not harm. His occasional gentle reminders to maintain her rather awkward position with her breasts thrust forward and her ass made conspicuous for the flogger had not offended, only aroused her.
As always, he’d frequently pause to rub her prickling, stinging skin soothingly with his open palm. Sometimes he’d use a finger vibrator on her clit or massage the tiny bundle of burning nerves with a bare finger in a bull’s-eye fashion while he plunged another into her pussy. Closing her eyes in the present, she could still hear his low, raspy voice through her whimpers and cries, telling her how beautiful she was . . . how desirable.
Toward the end, after he’d allowed her to climax several times, he’d told her to straighten completely. He’d come beside her and she’d seen for the first time that his cock protruded from his open pants. She’d kept her eyes glued to it as he stroked his heavy, swollen erection and gently used the flogger on her breasts. She could still hear how rough his voice had gotten as he stimulated them, turning the pale globes a pale pink, pausing to occasionally caress and pinch the tips until they were almost painfully erect and sensitive. When she’d been unable to stop herself from coming from the precise nipple stimulation, his need had overtaken him. He’d taken her from behind, his scalding, forceful possession thrilling her.
She loved it when he finally lost control.
Afterward, he’d carried her out to the bed. She could recall how good the cool sheets had felt next to her overheated, sensitive body, so delicious sliding against the hot, prickly skin of her ass, hips, and breasts. It’d felt wonderful to sink into the mattress, even more so when he came down next to her on his side and took her into his arms.
He’d touched her heated cheeks with a fingertip.
“You need a moment to cool down before we get ready,” he’d said with a small smile. “You still wear your passion.”
“It will fade by the time I shower and dress,” she’d murmured, stroking dense, swelling biceps.
“Not as easily as you might imagine. A woman always shows telltale signs of good sex. For you, it’s far more blatant. You radiate like a beacon. I don’t like strangers to see you this way,” he’d said thoughtfully, still brushing her cheek and brow. “The vision of you after lovemaking is mine, and mine alone.”
She’d laughed softly, not fully understanding him.
“Don’t be ridiculous. People aren’t mind readers. They can’t know what we were doing before we go out in public.”
One raven-dark brow had risen. “You’re mistaken. Men know. Many of them anyway.”
She’d opened her mouth to argue, but sensed he wasn’t engaging in his typical dry teasing. “How?” she’d asked, mesmerized by his touch on her face and his somber expression. “
“By the amplified color here and here and here,” he said slowly, touching her chest, cheeks, and lips in turn. “Even after it fades, it still leaves a telltale glow. By your muscles, your overall level of relaxation, and seeming satisfaction with life. By some indefinable sense of comfort in your body, the way you move and carry yourself . . . your sensual awareness, I guess you’d call it. You show it most here,” he said huskily, brushing a fingertip over her eyelid gently. “Your eyes slay me always,” he’d said, his mouth tilted in wry self-amusement at his poetic turn of phrase. “But during and after lovemaking, your soul shines out of them,” he finished, his small smile fading.
She’d swallowed thickly, moved by his gruff, unrehearsed anthem.
“I can’t believe men can really see all those subtleties. Are you sure it’s not just you?”
His abrupt smile awakened her body with a jolt. “No. Most men can immediately spot a sexually satisfied woman, whether they put it in concrete, conscious terms or not. We’re much more practical than women. We lack finesse as a whole, but in matters that are crucial, we’re forced to learn early on the meanings of the subtle signs on the trail.”
“The trail of sexual conquest, you mean,” she said, rolling her eyes.
His mouth twitched. “Men’s goals are simple and blatant enough when it comes to sex, even if the means of pursuing them isn’t. Women, now,” he mused thoughtfully, still stroking her. “Aren’t always so aware of their goals. They’re a mystery to themselves, so men have little hope in figuring them out. You’re very inward. Secretive. A real conundrum.”
She bit her lip to stifle a moan when he put his hand between her legs and gently probed between
