Dirty Rich Cinderella Story Read online

  She pulls away from me, a sweet swoosh of her perfume teasing my nostrils as she enters the suite. My fingers curl into my fists as I resist reaching for her. I inhale for control and let out a breath before I follow her into the luxury suite, seeing what she sees. Gray hardwood floors. An oriental rug beneath gray leather couches that frame a stone fireplace with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side. A stone and glass table to our left. Winding stairs to our right.

  She stops just outside the line of the living area and I could step behind her, pull her skirt up and lean her over the couch. My cock presses against my zipper, thick and hard with the thought of it. I’d be inside her in about thirty seconds, which includes rolling on the condom, and she’d be wet and hot and tight, and holy fuck, I’ve had this woman on my mind all day; this isn’t ending that fast.

  I step to her side, close enough to inhale another addictive whiff of her scent, but not quite close enough to touch her. “This is the hotel’s version of the penthouse suite, isn’t it?” she asks, glancing over at me.

  “It is,” I say. “I’ve been here off and on for a few months, and it just made sense to be comfortable.”

  She glances over at me. “The mid-size firm isn’t a mid-size firm, is it?”

  “Not that mid-size,” I confirm.

  She rotates to face me. “You’re rich.”

  I turn to face her as well. “Rich is a term that can be defined in many ways, but setting that aside, do I have money? Yes. I have a comfortable amount of money.”

  She stares at me, her expression unreadable, but there is this sharp bite of energy before she turns away from me and leans against the couch, her fingers grabbing onto the cushion. Tense, shutting me out, or rather, trying to. I have a typical guy moment, where I consider the answer to her mood by way of how much I want to fuck her. If I repeat the hallway fantasy against the couch, we could be fucking, and fucking every thought she has away. Puzzle solved. We are fucking great at fucking together, only that’s not the puzzle. She is.

  I move to stand in front of her, close, but I still don’t touch her. “Why does me having money bother you?” I ask.

  Her chin lifts, eyes glinting almost defiantly. “Who says it bothers me?”

  “Me,” I say, “I do. I felt it in your reaction. I feel it now. I see it in your eyes.”

  “You see nothing in my eyes,” she counters. “Your courtroom read might be good, but my courtroom mask is just as good.”

  “We aren’t in a courtroom,” I point out. “We’re in a hotel room. My money bothers you.”

  “You having money is a non-factor. This is one night. We’re fucking or we’re supposed to be. We’re not proposing marriage.”

  “Most women start plotting the wedding when they find out I have money.”

  “I can make my own money.”

  My hands come down on her waist while hers immediately come down on mine. A sign that she is out of her element, seeking control that I’m going to demand she give up. “Is that the issue?” I demand softly, my head low, a lean in from kissing her. “You feel competitive?”

  “No,” she says immediately, pulling back to look at me, her hand flattening on my chest. “Not at all. I don’t feel competitive. We aren’t competing.”

  “No?” I challenge.

  “No,” she repeats.

  “Any second thoughts about coming here?”

  “No,” she says again.

  “Then you still want me to fuck you,” I say.

  “No,” she says. “I want to fuck you.”

  I laugh because she isn’t being bold and sexy. She’s playing tug of war. “No competition though, right?”

  “That’s not competing. It’s stating a fact.”

  “You can fuck me when I tell you to fuck me.”

  She laughs. “You’re competitive.”

  “And I always win.”

  “Not with me.”

  “Interesting,” I say, damn glad I didn’t just fuck her hard and fast. I’m going to enjoy this tug of war she’s playing. And I’m going to make sure she not only enjoys it, but that she wants more. “Come with me,” I say, releasing her and starting to walk toward the bedroom. My tug. Her war.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lori

  I watch Cole walk away, and I know he’s pulling a power play on me. I work with attorneys. I went to Stanford. I get it. I also know that he’s intentionally given me the gift of freedom. I’m alone by the front door. I can leave if I want to leave. That, along with the fact that this man is really pure hotness, affects me. Makes me not want to leave. Makes me want to stay. Makes me want him all the more. I like that he wants me to choose to be here. I like that I know that while he will battle me for control, that he’s also sent me an important message. It’s always my choice what I give him. Not that “always” is an appropriate word. This is about tonight, one night, and tonight it’s my choice.

  I force myself to take my time in making that choice. He’s in the legal profession. He’s well established in that profession. He’s powerful and rich. He could know people that I know and that could damage my reputation, but he’s also in a hotel. He’s not from here. He’s not of the New York legal world. And thinking that we’d actually meet again is certainly possible, but why would it matter to him? He is rich and powerful, and I’m a fresh face, with no power or control, not in that world.

  I can do this with him tonight without consequence. This is not a problem and it’s been so long since I’ve been with anyone and I’ve never been with anyone like this, with no tomorrow and complete freedom. Tomorrow I’m back to all work and no play. Tomorrow there is no him which means I better do everything I might ever want to do with him and to him, right here and now. I choose to stay. I choose to do this for me and to follow him.

  I push off the couch, pick up my bag, and walk to my right, following the path he’s created. This leads me to a hallway that presents a set of steps, because obviously, this place needs another set of steps. It’s all bells and whistles, displayed in thousands of square feet, in a city known for closet-sized everything. The steps are stone, the railing steel, and the panels between the two are glass. Fancy. Expensive. I grab the railing and start the upward climb, my heart thundering in my ears as I do. I’m nervous and I really don’t get nervous. Law school did that for me. A lot of things did that for me, actually. Life just doesn’t have a lot of patience for nerves and the hesitation that comes with them.

  I reach the next level of the suite and there is only one open door. Inhaling, I enter the bedroom to find myself inside a huge master with a huge bed and a gray headboard directly behind it to my left. Beyond that massive bed is a sitting area, complete with a teal blue couch and two matching chairs. Cole is on the couch, an oval gray coffee table in front of him and on top of it is a bottle of wine with two glasses.

  I don’t let myself inhale or prepare myself for what comes next. I embrace the moment, round the bed and stop on the opposite side of the table, setting my bag down on the floor beside it. He’s standing, towering high and broad by the time I arrive. “You stayed,” he says.

  “You thought I’d leave?”

  “I considered it an option.”

  “I don’t feel competitive with you,” I say. “Not professionally.”

  That firm, sexy mouth of his curves. “But when our clothes come off, all bets are off?”

  My cheeks heat and I laugh. “Something like that.” I almost revert to pre-law school and add “I guess” but cut it off. I know better. Indecisive words tear away your control and your power.

  His eyes darken, smoldering with heat, so much heat that I can barely breathe. “Why are you over there?” he challenges. “You can’t do ‘something like that’ or anything at all from there.”

  He’s wrong. I can admire the fact that he personifies tall, dark, and good-looking, but why would I? Why am I over here, when I could be there? “You haven’t invited me over there,” I say.

  “I didn’t know I
had to.”

  “You do,” I say, trying to turn my hesitation into my control.

  “Then I am.” He holds out a hand to me. “Come over here.”

  My belly tenses in anticipation of the touch he’s invited and that I plan to accept, but I do not hesitate. I want him. I want this. I reach out and rest my palm against his, warmth darting up my arm and over my chest, tightening my nipples. He closes his hands around mine, and for a moment, we just look at each other. And maybe I just want to live a Cinderella fantasy tonight, but it feels like something passes between us, something that trembles through me in some indescribable way.

  “Come over here,” he orders softly again, and while I do not like being ordered around, there is a rough, affected quality to his voice that I like very much.

  He guides me around the table and when I’m there with him, between it and the couch, I’m once again aware of just how tall and broad he is. It’s a fleeting thought lost when his hand slides under my hair to my neck. “We don’t have to do this,” he says. “We can drink wine and I’ll take you home or you can stay here with me and when I get back—”

  “Not when you get back,” I say. “Now. Tonight. Just tonight.”

  “You say that, but I sense—”

  “That I’ve never done this before.” I press my hands to his chest. “Do you make a habit of this kind of thing?”

  He laughs. “I’m not a manwhore. Stop calling me a manwhore.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” I ask. “Because you left me down there and keep giving me opportunities to change my mind.”

  “And you took five full minutes to come up.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” I demand again.

  His hand caresses my neck, his mouth lowering, breath warm on my lips, lingering there a moment before his tongue strokes deep and he kisses me, a deep, drugging, over too soon kiss, before he says, “Do I taste like I want you to leave?”

  “You taste like trouble,” I say, the pure need I feel for him, when I’ve disallowed myself that feeling for so long, is dangerous, and yet addictive.

  “I am,” he assures me. “But that’s my job. You are not my job. You’re—”

  “A one-night stand,” I say, before I can stop myself, before I let him say something more that makes me forget that this is my Cinderella story, and Cinderella has a night. Just a night. My Prince is later, if ever. My glass slipper is my mom living, not dying.

  “You’re Lori,” he says, brushing his lips over mine, and with that, he’s torn down that protective wall I’ve just placed between me and him. He’s made sure he knows who I am rather than allow it to be about what I am. It shakes me, and arouses me, and when I might turn and leave, because it shakes me all over again, he kisses me once more. God, how he kisses me, a deep, drugging, curl my toes kiss that leaves me breathless when his lips part mine and he releases me to shrug out of his jacket.

  I am all about touching Cole, ready for my fingers, and my tongue, to explore this man, every which way, but I have learned from my past, from another powerful man. A man that was a mistake, but I learn from my mistakes. I know when to push, pull, and hold back in ways I once did not, and so, for now, I wait on Cole. For now, I just enjoy watching him, observing him, admiring the flex of his muscles beneath his fitted white shirt as he neatly folds his jacket and sets it on the arm of the chair. It’s the message I was waiting on, the read on him, that I understand easily: He’s all about control and no matter how much I have declared it to be mine, this man is intense. He’s powerful. He’s demanding. The kind of man who will demand, take, push my limits. The kind I would run from, if he had my name, because somewhere down the road, he could be trouble. But I’m in control no matter what happens tonight, because there is no tomorrow.

  Which is exactly why when he reaches for his tie, as much as I want to help him take it off, to press my hand to his chest, I do not. That would tell him how wet I am right now with anticipation, and I am. How hard and tight my nipples are pressed against the bra that I know will soon be gone, replaced by his hands. Because I’m not giving him that knowledge. I’m not giving him control.

  He folds the tie, just like he did the jacket and once he’s neatly set it on the arm rest, he straightens and fixes me in a blue-eyed stare that says, “Take off your jacket.”

  My sex clenches with that silent command because despite my designed control tonight, some part of me is ridiculously aroused by the idea of his control. Some part of me also knows that the more I challenge him, the more he will demand. I realize then that there is more to this night than me simply wanting an escape. There is me craving the battle of wills with a man like this one, the adrenaline rush of battling an equal, and winning, or at least, not falling. For the first time in what feels like forever, Cole is giving me that rush and I had no idea how much I needed it.

  And so, I push back. I don’t take off my jacket. I kick off my shoes instead, my toes curling in the soft pile carpet beneath the table. In an instant, I’ve won. I make him come to me. In one stride, he’s in front of me, but he doesn’t touch me, which is his power play. He stands there, a sway together from touching, and I have no doubt that he knows he’s suffocating me with the anticipation of that touch, the spicy, masculine, perfect scent of him, assaulting my senses.

  Our eyes meet, a collision of heat and a battle of wills, a challenge between us that I cannot even fully define, but it’s there, a crackle of electricity with a life of its own. It lives, it breathes, it drives this night, or at the very least, the here and now. Seconds tick by in which my hands want to reach for him, in which my nipples pebble and ache, heat pooling low in my belly. I’m back to moments before. I’m back to the list of wants.

  I want his hands on my body.

  I want my hands on his body.

  I want to lick him—everywhere.

  I want him to lick me—everywhere.

  I want and I want and I want and I haven’t allowed myself to want in so long. Not anything at all.

  The idea that I’m here, with him, because I want him, because I choose to be here, feels powerful. But the idea that despite all my drive to stay focused on my mission to secure my future and that of my mother’s, I’m still here, that he has that much control over me makes him powerful. I love and hate this about him to the point that despite all the high and rush of the challenge I’ve professed, I am most likely a little fucked up, but he doesn’t give me time to let that idea mess with my head.

  His hands shackle my waist and he drags me to him. “Are we really doing this? The whole push and pull?”

  “I’m enjoying it,” I say, my palms flattening on the hard wall of his chest, the heat of his skin hot beneath my touch, seeping through his expensive white shirt, and radiating up my arm, and across my chest. “Aren’t you?”

  “I am,” he says, sliding his hand to my hair, yanking away the clasp there, and the instant my hair is free, he tangles rough fingers in the long strands. “And with good reason. I have a plan for you, Lori whoever-you-are. Since I don’t get a promise of a last name and a phone number,” he says, dragging my mouth to his. “I get everything else.”

  “Everything?” I ask, my belly clenching with all the possibilities that word holds.

  “All of you,” he says.

  “Define all of me.”

  “For this one night,” he says, leaning in, his lips near my ear, the rasp of his light stubble scraping erotically along the delicate skin of my cheek. “I own you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cole

  I own you.

  With those words, my words, my intent in the air, and my fingers still tangled in Lori’s hair, I kiss her, a deep, possessive kiss meant to claim her, take her, make her mine, if only for this night. And she knows it too, because when my lips part hers, she pants out, “No one owns me.”

  “Then, sweetheart, you’ve never been properly fucked.” I slide my hands under her jacket, settling my palms on her shoulders.

  “I
guess that depends on how you define properly.”

  I turn her to face in the opposite direction, dragging the jacket down her arms and tangling it around her wrists, and then I lean in close. “As dirty as possible,” I promise. “And with you on my tongue, in as many ways as we both find possible.”

  “Is this how you own me?” she demands. “By binding my arms?”

  “As much as I’d like to have you at my mercy, sweetheart,” I say, tossing the jacket aside, and turning her to face me, “I’m selfish enough to want your hands and mouth fully available, in any way, shape, or place you so choose to use them.” I walk us backward, toward the oversized chair made perfectly for the kind of hot, wild fuck in our near future, before my hands fall from her waist. “I want to watch you undress.”

  “When do you undress?” she challenges.

  “We have one condom, sweetheart. Let’s make it last. Undress for me, Lori.”

  Her teeth scrape her bottom lip, and for just a moment, her eyes cut, but not before I see the flicker of nerves in her stare. And right then, I know that I’ve read her accurately up to this point. I know that her control is both a necessity and a wall that protects her. I know that no one has made it safe for her to leave those things at the door. No one has ever seen her really truly naked and the only way that happens, is to do exactly what I’m doing. Push her out of her comfort zone, pull her into the moment, where she forgets the walls, and lives nowhere but here in the moment. That’s the place where nothing exists but the two of us.

  Her eyes meet mine again, and I see the decision in them. She’s not going to run like she did on the street tonight. She unzips her skirt, and caresses it down her slender, but curvy hips. It pools at her feet, and she kicks it aside, allowing me to admire her long legs in lacy thigh-high hose, my gaze catching on the slender strip of lace in the vee of her body.

  Her fingers catch on the hem of her blouse, and she tries to hide the small, inhaled breath of courage she draws before pulling it and her loose bra over her head. She tosses it, and stands before me, creamy pale perfection in nothing but silk and lace, her breasts high, full, nipples puckered to a pretty pink that will soon be in my mouth. “You’re beautiful,” I say. “Come here.”