Losing Control(48)

“They feel heavy. They ache,” I say.

He bites softly in the same spot. “Good girl.” I’m rewarded when his hands cup my breasts, one for each hand. He holds them loosely, almost as if weighing them to see if they are, indeed, heavier. “What do they ache for?”

“Your hands.” I place my own hands over his and press them harder against my chest. “Your fingers.”

“My mouth?” He sucks lightly on my neck. There’ll be a mark there, but I don’t care at this moment.

“Your mouth,” I agree breathlessly. His fingers begin to pinch my nipples all the while palming the sensitive flesh. His mouth leaves my neck to place kisses and bites all along the back of my shoulders. My panties are getting damp, and I’m squeezing my thighs together, both to increase friction and assuage the ache that’s growing.

I don’t understand how he can affect me this way—make me so hot just by touching my chest or running his mouth along my shoulders—but I’m so turned on that I think I could come, given enough time and maybe just a little touch of his fingers between my legs. I can feel the rigid length of his erection press against my butt.

A car door slams shut and the lights flicker on again, just for a moment. “Ready, boss?”

Ian drops his head against my shoulder, and I almost cry out in frustration. “Ready,” he replies. He places a soft kiss against my neck and then pulls his hands out from underneath my shirt.

“What exactly are we doing tonight?” I slump against the seat.

“Baiting the hook.”

At the mention of being the bait, I draw away from him.

“Tiny.” He grabs my hand. “No matter what happens tonight, it’s only part of the job. The rest of this between us is separate. Whatever you think is happening between us is entirely real. Don’t forget that.”

I don’t understand how he can separate business from pleasure. One minute he’s telling me he can’t wait to be inside me and the next he’s saying I’m bait for something. But this is how I’m to earn my keep. I just need to remember that. It’d be a lot easier if he kept his hands to himself.

He hands me The Observer, one of the local city gossip papers. On page six, there is a picture of Richard Howe, son of mayoral candidate Edward Howe, his arm wrapped around his wife, whose name I can't recall.

“Our project involves Edward Howe?” I gasp.

“No, his son, Richard. Richard is a forty-seven-year-old going on eighteen. He's rumored to be in the throes of a serious mid-life crisis and is spending his family money faster than the Treasury Department can print it.”

I run a finger along the edge of the paper. Edward Howe was in his late sixties and came from old money. He was the type of guy whose family rubbed shoulders with the Rockefellers and Astors. While his name wasn’t on landmarks around the city, his ancestors’ buddies were. The city’s residents weren’t sure if they loved him because he was an institution or hated him because he was so wealthy.

Unlike most politicians, he seemed to have no skeletons in his closet, and despite his posh Fifth Avenue address, he lived austerely and without unseemly extravagance. The fact that he was wealthy meant that he would be shielded from graft and corruption—or so the thinking went. He has only one wife and one and campaigns on the promise that he’ll be a solid, if unexciting choice. Whether he’d be the next mayor is hard to say. His campaign is running smoothly so far.

“You said that I wouldn’t have to sleep with anyone,” I accuse. My voice is reaching perilously high levels. “You want me to have sex with him and take pictures or something? Because I'm not going to do that.”

“Calm down. No. Nothing like that.”

“What is it then? What do you want me to do that will cost you so much money?”

Shaking the paper, Ian taps his finger on Howe’s face.

“Howe is no innocent. About fifteen years ago, he was an up-and-coming trader but he had expensive tastes and decided that company funds would be used to finance his adventures. A friend of mine helped him out, and that friend ultimately got blamed for Howe’s embezzlement.

I don’t know how many people Richard Howe has managed to ruin in the intervening fifteen years, but I've decided that he's a blight on this earth and needs to be stamped out. The Howe household is built on sticks. And one little gust will topple it over.”

“You've decided?”

“Yes.” His voice is implacable and as unemotional as if he's asked whether I want cream and sugar in my coffee. “There are rumors abounding that Howe has developed a taste for young women. That alone is neither surprising nor scandalous. But he’s married.”