Adam's Apple (Touch of Tantra #1) (3 page)

"I take cocky, rich boys like you and teach them how to make love to women until they're barely able to mutter a word. Completely and utterly blissed. That's really what separates the men from the boys, Mr. Kingsley. Sex as an art form versus fucking for a release.”

I find myself unable to respond, completely tongue-tied. Something I’m not used to experiencing. I always have a slick comeback. Always. I see fire in her eyes and notice her lips starting to move again, and good God, I realize she’s not done with me yet.

“You see, Mr. Kingsley, when I said you were a pretty billionaire boy I meant every damn word. You’re very pretty indeed, striking really, but still just a boy.”

Staring at Kathryn intensely, I can’t miss the spark in her eyes as they challenge me. I have no words as my mind processes her declared opinion of me. It’s a slight meant to sting and wound me, and I’m not sure why she feels the need to be so sharp and cutting.

But I’m silent and allow the silence to linger in hopes of staying in control. One thing I’ve learned in business: The first person to speak during an intense confrontation usually loses the deal. Capitulates. And I’d like to win at whatever game she’s playing with me. So my silence plays into my hand, as she finally breaks it.

"Cat got your tongue?" The words she finally purrs at me are smooth and seductive. I twirl the melting ice around in my glass and eye the dripping condensation. I try to appear disinterested but I’ve never wanted to engage with a woman like I do with her. Oh what I’d love to do with my tongue. I sweep my eyes across her barely concealed breasts. They’re full and real, which is quite to my liking.

Kathryn clears her throat, catching me appreciating her breasts, and I look up from her chest. Collecting myself, I respond. "Actually, I'm very selective about which
pussy
," I pause, "…
cat
gets my tongue." I watch her reaction and notice a wicked twinkle in her eye. She thinks I'm stepping into her trap, in reach of her claws. She is very mistaken.

"Rumors say otherwise. I think the worn leather in the backseat of your vehicle can attest to that." A smug look of satisfaction flashes across her face. A face remarkable in its beauty. I fight the urge to allow my fingers to pass along her cheekbones, feel her skin and touch her.

"You seem to know a lot about what happens in my backseat. Yes, there might be some mileage, but I’ve never had a complaint." I raise the watered scotch to my lips, tilt my head, and down the rest of the drink, swallowing my medicine. Leaning back against the bar, I sit the empty glass down with a thud, eye the bartender, and nod for another.

"No complaints?" She licks her cherry-stained lips. The color contrasts starkly against her flawless, pale skin. The combination stirs something deep within me. Dark. Licentious. I imagine her kneeling in front of me. Lips enclosed and sucking on my cock, but my thoughts are regretfully cut short.

"I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm acquainted with one of your backseat
warmers
. Her views of your sexual exploits are not flattering." I wonder who the hell she’s been talking to, because I’ve never had a single complaint. Just the opposite, in fact.

"Were they looking for, what did you call it, an 'art form' type of fucking’?” As I speak I wonder if she truly knows one of my conquests, or if it’s another attempt at catching me off guard. “I possess many forms of art. They sit on a shelf for display or hang unceremoniously on a wall. Illusions of beauty created by artists. Fucking is raw, animalistic, and sweat inducing. There is no beauty. Just selfish needs seeking to be met.”

My words have a surprising effect on her. Instead of making her recoil, she draws closer to me, sneaking her hand up my arm. She brushes slowly, lingers slightly, until she guides her hand up my shoulder. Her feather-like touch contains an odd but powerful energy as my skin tingles beneath the layers of my clothes.

I feel the softness of her fingers caress the skin above my collar. I look down at her as she threads her fingers through the hair at my nape and brings my head toward her. Kathryn traces her lips across my jaw as she pulls me even closer.

"I wonder,” she whispers in my ear, “Mr. Kingsley. Do the women you frolic with have a release? Do you make them come so hard they forget their name? Or did you leave them with nothing? Not even a parting gift or their dignity as you shuffle them out of your limo onto the sidewalk.”

I draw back and stare into her eyes. She’s pegged me like she’s seen every one of my indiscretions, and she knows it.

Kathryn looks from my eyes to my lips and then leans again toward my ear. “The truth is all the money you possess can't make you a man." She brushes her lips against my ear and pulls away, gauging my reaction.

Deflecting the conversation away from her obviously incorrect observations, I say, "But it does make me irresistible." Teasing her and making light of her pointed questions is the only response I can think of. But my attempt doesn’t ease the sting I feel from her unflattering accusations. “But not as irresistible as you. There isn’t a man here who doesn’t want to be with you. Single or attached. And I happen to be the lucky one who has your attention.”

“Oh, you’re very smooth, Mr. Kingsley.” Kathryn doesn’t address my comments any more than I addressed hers. We are dancing around each other in a circle of our words. A game of verbal foreplay.

“I imagine resisting you is impossible for many women here. They probably fall into your gravitational pull without even knowing. Completely succumbing to your charms. However, I’ve been rightly warned about you. I do wish you luck here tonight, though. Surely, there’s some pretty young thing who is willing to serve you.” She removes her hand from me, and surprisingly I miss the feel of her touch.

Wondering who warned her about me, I tap my chin and look her up and down. There is no way I’m going to let her see how affected I am by her remarks, and how they compound upon my already hellish day. It’s exhausting, and I feel like a boxer who needs to go to his corner and tend to his wounds.

So I decide to play into her idea of my shallowness. I scan the room and spot a pleasant-looking brunette glancing my way. I return her gaze, smile, and nod. Kathryn watches the exchange, and I hear her laughter.

"Good luck, little
boy
." Her remark is laced with disdain, and she turns to the bar, placing her palms flat against the polished wood. She flags down the bartender and orders a new glass of white wine. She picks up the glass and starts to walk away without even a sideways glance back at me. Somehow her avoidance stings more than her sharp debate about my perversity.

“Wait a second, Kathryn. I endured being grilled on a rather intimate subject, surely you can tell me your last name.”

I try to sound cool even though I feel a little desperate to know more about her. A fact I’m not happy with at all. However, my request isn’t completely ignored as I watch her stop and look over her shoulder at me.

“My last name is Delcour.” She replies in a very dismissive and cool tone. I don’t like it one bit, but I can’t for the life of me let her keep walking away.

“So you’re French, then?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“My
late
husband was. Good evening, Mr. Kingsley.”

She turns away, and I’m surprised by her comment. She’s left me speechless once again. Her late husband? It’s just a little peek into who she is, possibly where she’s from, but in the end it explains so little about her. And I want to know more. I need to know more.

I’m tempted to pull her back to me at the bar and resume our banter, but I refrain. Instead I watch her every movement as she leaves me. 

She saunters across the carpeted floor, and every man she passes follows her with wide eyes. They’re like me, taken aback by her beauty. Her path is like a promenade of sorts. Men appear to hold their breath until she passes them by, perhaps hoping she would dare to stop and speak to them. Disappointment shows on their faces as she passes. Now they contently gaze at the movement of her sweet, round ass. A tantalizing focal point that’s tucked tightly into her little green dress, gathered lightly at the back to display the perfection of her curves.

At the edge of the room, Kathryn approaches a young man, possibly her next conquest to toy with or shamelessly torture. He's roughly my height, around six feet two inches. As she nears him, a welcoming smile graces his baby face and their arms link together. Whispering into his ear, she shifts him slightly to bring me into their view. I’m leaning against the bar and make eye contact with them both.

I raise my freshly poured scotch in their direction. A salute of acknowledgement. "To being a man," I mumble under my breath and laugh at the lunacy of her words. But there are two things I can't deny, the lusciousness of her body and a lingering disappointment since she’s moved on to another man.

As Kathryn and her new
toy
walk toward the banquet’s ballroom, I notice the rest of the attendees loosely scattered about the room following their lead. The main event must be starting shortly, so I need to plan my after-party. The day I’ve had requires one, and my audience with Kathryn Delcour has left my cock needy. Besides, knowing I have something to look forward to should make the evening ahead more tolerable. It’s a pity Dr. Kathryn is preoccupied. Perhaps another time.

I need to find out more about her and get a better angle on who she is and what makes her tick. But mostly I need to define what she means by teaching sex as an art form. The scenarios in my head have me wondering. Dominatrix, perhaps? That’s one kink I’ve not submitted to, literally. But there was something different in her touch. A phantom ghost of it remains from my arm to the back of my neck, it lingers.

I find the pleasant-looking brunette who held my gaze earlier. She's moved closer to where I'm standing, almost within hearing distance. I motion for her to join me. She walks over and I enjoy the view as she inches my way. I focus on her mouth; after all, that will be the host for tonight's party. It appears wide, red and, most importantly, willing.

Her perfumed scent hits me before her words do. “Mr. Kingsley, I've wanted to meet you for some time. My name is Lizzie. Lizzie Woodward. The Woodward's from the Navistar Fund."

I could care less who she is. "Please, skip the formalities and call me Adam." Moving almost flush against her, I stare down into her hazel eyes. Towering over her in size, I get to the point of my intentions. "I'd like to meet you after tonight's affair for a party of our own. Would that fit into your plans, Ms. Woods?"

“Woodward.” She corrects me as I’ve mispronounced her name.

“Oh, yes, Ms. Woodward. My apologies. What do you think about my idea?” I give her a sexy smile, knowing the power it has to get the answers I want.

"I don't know if I'm brave enough to be alone with you," she replies innocently, winking at me.

"Feisty one, aren't you?"

Her smile communicates more than her words, and an approval of my request is reflected in her eyes. "I
have
been called lively."

"Well, Lively Lizzie, meet me at the coat check after the wealthy have released their wallets and eased their guilt." Confusion from my words traverses her face; not a very lively brain would be my guess. "I meant when the event's over, darling."

"Oh, at the coat check, right? I'll be there."

"See you then." I conclude my invitation with a swift exit.

After leaving her, I move through the crowd with ease. The seas part. Whispers follow behind my path. Several pathetic well-wishers try to get my attention, but I ignore their attempts, enjoying their scowls to my overt rejection.

Stepping away from the herd beginning to fill the empty tables, I make a quick phone call to the one person I trust. In New York City, trust is an expensive luxury, and Peters Investigative Services comes with a steep price. Peters operates as my personal ear to the ground. His skills often skate on the edges of the law. Which serve me well. 

"Peters, I need a background.”

“Anything, sir. What is the name?”

“Last name, Delcour, first name, Kathryn. Caucasian. Age likely early thirties. Widowed. She’s attending tonight's dinner for The Swanson Foundation. Basic info tonight. Extensive details tomorrow morning."

“Got it. I’ll get back to you.”

I disconnect without a direct response and proceed to the head table, where I'm greeted by Kathryn's large blue eyes and ruby lips pinched into a disapproving grimace. Her brow furrows as I near.

Finding her at the head table seated next to Ava Swanson confuses me. Mrs. Swanson is the executive director of The Swanson Foundation. Her name graces everything connected with the group. After a quick glance to Kathryn's right, I see the young man who escorted her out of the reception.

Kathryn turns her head toward me as I stand to the side of her chair. Fortunately for me her sweet boy toy rises up from his chair and walks to the next table to greet a fellow patron. Kathryn stares up at me with big doe eyes, captivating. Smiling down at her, I speak. "We meet again, Mrs. Delcour."

"Small world. Or are you following me?" Her face relaxes into a smile. Surprisingly putting me at ease, too.

"Maybe a little bit of both." I trail my fingers along the top of her satin-covered chair and lightly graze across her bare shoulder. She shivers as my touch drifts past the last inch of her skin. I imagine her nipples taut and pebbling awaiting my touch. She continues to peek over her shoulder, our eyes meet, and I see an undeniable look of…
lust.
So a soft touch turns this vixen on? I hope to put this theory into practice more and prove whether I’m right.

I bend to whisper softly in her ear; my lips press gently against her earlobe. "A sweet, selfish release might do you good, Kathryn. Leave the 'art form' fucking to the idealists."

Observing her reaction, I watch her grab the edge of the table, clawing like a kitten into the white tablecloth. Avoiding me, she stiffens and faces frontward. I continue to nuzzle into her shiny, black curls as my nose becomes lost in them. The slight movement by her releases the scent of her perfume, and I detect a hint of spice, rich and exotic, like Shalimar. I take a long, deep breath as I remember the last time I smelled that fragrance. A childhood memory long forgotten.