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She cried out with the strength of her climax, but his shout was louder. He pounded into her, engulfing her in a fire that should have incinerated her but only licked and burned and melded her so indelibly with him, she didn’t imagine how they could ever be separated.
Saint left later than he should have and had to sleep on the flight rather than using the time to prepare his presentation as he’d originally planned. That was his first misstep.
He hadn’t meant to crash on impact, but the dubious thrill of creating slides of market analysis tables was no match for his lack of sleep and abundance of energetic sex.
What the hell had even happened to him? He’d been wrung dry in those first moments in the living room. He’d been emptied of thought and strength and purpose by an orgasm that had bordered on pain it had been so powerful.
He should have soothed them both with a cuddle on the couch and a glass of wine. He’d felt inordinately tender, given how she’d been trembling, but when he’d withdrawn and turned her, their lazy kisses had caught fire again as quickly as their first.
His dumb stick had hardened, and his hunger for her had sharpened to acute. When he’d drawn back, both of them gasping for air, he’d been half barbarian, ordering her gruffly,Get into my bed. I want to do that again.
She had said exactly what she’d been saying to him all night.Yes.
What a drug. What a night. His orgasms had gotten better and better every time. He couldn’t even count how many she’d had. He would’ve been delivering another several right now if he’d stayed, which he’d been very tempted to do.
That was why he’d made himself leave—while she’d been sound asleep. Otherwise, he suspected he wouldn’t have been able to. But this meeting with his father and the rest of the board was too important. The fact that he’d considered risking their ire by rescheduling so he could stay and make love with Fliss had been enough of a caution light that he’d decided it was better to put space between him and the spell she’d cast over him.
Even so, he was still reliving that incredible sex when he arrived in New York and jumped into the shower of the hospitality suite below his office. He wasrecovering, he noted ruefully, and turned the tap of the shower to cold, then downed a hot coffee while he dressed in a clean shirt and suit.
Saint ought to have been mentally preparing for what would be a typically abrasive encounter with his father, but his libido was pacing restlessly inside him, griping,When can I see her again?
Never, if he was a jerk about it and failed to express his appreciation for their very exceptional night.
It wasn’t like him to be so punch-drunk from any woman, let alone one he’d just met. Hell, he still barely knew her. Most of their conversation later in the night had revolved around,Does this feel good?
“Sir?” His assistant, Willow, poked their head in. They were nonbinary, usually wearing a suit and tie for work while keeping their long red hair in a tidy bun. Occasionally they wore eyeshadow behind the ever-changing frames of their glasses, and they changed their colorful shades of nail polish almost daily. “The board is assembled and ready for you.”
“One minute.” He handed Willow the notes he’d scribbled as he’d made his way from the jet to the helipad on top of this tower.
He should have been first to the meeting and was already ten minutes late, but he took out his phone and found the number for Smythe’s in his contacts.
“Mr. Montgomery.” The smooth, feminine voice of Ms. Smythe greeted him in her cool boarding-school accent. “How may I serve you today? I have an opening in an hour.”
“I’m in New York,” he replied. “But I’d like to purchase some earrings. Something like you showed me last time.” He’d intended to give Julie a pair to wear to the gala, but Fliss deserved something he picked out especially for her. “Something with blue in them.” The shade of her gown was imprinted in his memory forever.
“Contemporary? Let me text you a few photos. One moment.”
Smythe’s was a mystery—both shop and owner—but Saint had been warned that prying would result in his no longer receiving invitations to shop there, which would be a pity. He’d dealt with many high-end jewelry merchants throughout his adult life, and Ms. Smythe of Knightsbridge was the best. She was professional and discreet. Her gemstones were ethically sourced and always of the highest quality, the settings one of a kind. Saint occasionally bought investment pieces but more often purchased a parting gift when a liaison was wrapping up.
Today he was looking for more of a welcome gift.
His phone pinged. He flicked through the photos. One showed a chandelier of blue sapphires in yellow gold; another was a platinum cuff with alternate rows of diamonds and sapphires.
“The ones with the marquis diamonds,” he told Ms. Smythe. The earrings were the size of a silver dollar. The leaf-shaped white diamonds formed a laurel wreath around an eye-catching twist of round-cut blue sapphires. They radiated elegance and graceful artistry but maintained a playful quality that he thought suited Fliss.
“A lovely choice. Are these for delivery, or shall I hold them for you?”
“Delivery. Her name is Fliss.” His inner beast had been too focused on sex to ask for her number before she’d fallen asleep. “She’s a fashion designer, but you’ll have to do some legwork for me.”
Saint had peeked into her purse on his way out the door. He’d found a twenty-pound note, her smartphone, which had been locked, a pair of physical door keys—who even used those anymore?—an invitation to the gala, an Oyster card and a lip gloss. Not even a driver’s license or a debit card to give him her full name.
The gala invitation had had Delia Chevron’s name on it, which made sense. A model would have friends in fashion. He’d written his number on the card, then slipped away.
“Check the hotel,” he said to Ms. Smythe, mentioning the one he always used when visiting London. “If she’s still in the room, you can deliver to her there.” He had meant to take care of this while he’d been flying to ensure he wouldn’t miss her, but so much for that. She’d worn him out, and he’d needed his beauty sleep. “If she’s already gone, contact Delia Chevron. They were supposed to attend last night’s art gala together, so she’ll know how to reach her.”
Actually, Fliss had said she had known her date wouldn’t be there. Saint spared a moment to ponder that. He’d been so taken with her, he’d glossed over how cagey she’d been about her reason for attending and leaving before it had really started.
“I’d love an excuse to connect with Ms. Chevron.” Ms. Smythe’s warm voice redirected his thoughts back to the business at hand. “I’ll be in touch once your gift has been delivered.”
