Haze (11 page)

Isla

"You wouldn't stand close to the edge." I tap his chest lightly. "Does the world know that Gabriel Foster is scared of heights?"

He laughs deeply, the sound bouncing against the steel walls of the elevator. "I'm not scared of heights, Isla. I was watching you enjoy the view."

"Is that your story?" I giggle. "I can play along for the press if they ask."

His brows shoot up. "You would do that for me, Ms. Lane? You won't tell the media hounds that I took you up to the roof of the Foster Enterprises building so you could see the stars while I stood far away from the edge, trembling in my boots?"

"They're not boots." I point to his feet. "They're fancy Foster shoes."

"Fancy Foster shoes?" His hand jumps to my chin before he runs his fingertip over my bottom lip. "That just may be the hashtag we use on social media when we launch the new men's shoe collection."

I part my lips slightly, pushing my tongue out so it can touch his finger. "You're not in charge of marketing are you? If you are, you shouldn't be."

Tipping his chin, his eyes rake me slowly from head-to-toe just as the elevator chimes its arrival on the top floor. "You're certain you want to join me for a bottle of sparkling water?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sure."

His gaze meets mine and I see something shift. The playful parts of him have slipped into the background again. The intensity that is almost always there is present now.

The doors of the lift open. His head turns slightly towards the expansive space, complete with large windows that give an unobstructed view of the city. "I did promise to make this a day you'll never forget, Isla. Come with me."

***

The entire time that Gabriel and I were on the roof of the Foster Enterprises building I was completely aware of the way he was looking at me. Even when I was near the edge and he was ten feet behind me, I could feel his eyes trained on my back.

I was hoping, when we got into the car, that he'd kiss me again. I wanted that but instead he'd pulled my hand onto his thigh and covered it with his own while he talked about all the things he loved about Manhattan.

Gabriel Foster radiates confidence. He garners attention when he passes people on the street. I saw it for myself when we walked out of the building towards where Charles had parked the car. Several people turned just to look at him. He's handsome in a way that makes you wonder what it's like to kiss him, or touch him. I know now what both of those things feel like and as we sat in the car and I listened to him telling me about the brownstone he grew up in, I saw a flash of something vulnerable in his eyes. He turned quickly to look out at the slow moving traffic but it was there.

I see it again now as he turns towards where I'm standing near the bank of windows that overlook lower Manhattan. "I have something for you, Isla."

It's not what I imagined when he asked if I wanted to join him to cap off the night with a bottle of sparkling water.  My lust filled mind thought he'd push me hard against the wall of the elevator, before he kissed me so deeply that my toes curled within the shoes I'm wearing. Then I pictured his hands falling to the hem of my dress before he pulled it over my head in one fluid swoop so he could ravish me. 

The something he has for me clearly isn't rock hard and hidden beneath the cover of his expensive pants. It's in the envelope he picked up from a long counter after he poured us each a glass of water.

"What is it?" I ask cautiously.

He tucks the envelope under his arm as he scoops the two glasses of water in his palms. I watch in silence as he walks towards me.  He'd slid his suit jacket off once we entered the apartment before he'd loosened his tie. It's only a slight adjustment but it changes him. His hair had caught the wind when we'd stood on the roof and even though he'd raked his hand through it in the elevator, it did nothing to tame it. He looks different now than every other time I've seen him. He's softer, less in control.

I take the glass of water when he offers it, downing half of it. He watches me carefully before he pulls the glass away from me and sets it next to his on a large steel coffee table.

"Open it." He pushes the envelope in my hand.

I stare down at it.

Ms. Lane.

That's all that's written on it. The ink is black; the handwriting masculine. It's obvious he wrote this and not the card that arrived with the elaborate floral bouquet that was delivered to the boutique this afternoon. As desperate as I was to shield the card from Cicely, she had caught sight of it over my shoulder. Her bitchy attitude for the remainder of my shift was evidence of that.

I look up and into his dark eyes before I drop my gaze back to the envelope. I flip it over in my hands, pulling my fingernail across the seal.

The card slides out easily. It's breathtaking. The artwork on the front as striking as anything you'd see displayed in a museum. The colors are vibrant and the design captivating. I scan it, my eyes resting on the unmistakable signature scrawled across the bottom corner.

"This is beautiful," I begin before I pull my gaze up to his face. "This is a Brighton Beck print, isn't it?"

His right brow cocks with the subtle movement of his head as he tilts it ever so slightly. "You're familiar with Brighton Beck's work?"

I run my fingers across my chin. "Yes. This is a print of Voyage. He painted this after the birth of his son. He donated it to a children's hospital in Paris, I think. They sell cards of the prints in the gift shop there to raise money for equipment."

He studies my face, his expression unreadable. I should tell him that I know all of this because my grandmother loved Brighton Beck with a passion that was only matched by her adoration for her music and her thirst for literature. When she bought one of his watercolor paintings at an auction, she'd been giddy. She had it hung over the worn leather chair in the library of her house. Each time I walked in there to talk to her, I'd catch her staring at it. I've followed his career since her death.

"Can I open the card?" I ask tentatively, wanting to break the silence.

"Please," he says as he motions towards my hands with his chin.

I smile softly before I cast my eyes back down to the card and the surprise that waits inside.

Gabriel

Compared to the notable relationships I've had in my life, I don't even know Isla Lane yet. We've spent no more than a few hours together in total. She's years younger than I am. She has an entry level position at one of the many boutiques my company owns. She was honest on her employment application when she mentioned that her community college career was limited to just a year. She was in pursuit of a Bachelor of Music degree but apparently she's put that on hold.

I earned dual degrees at Princeton. I know many of the world's most influential people on a first name basis. I own several apartments on different continents and I covet art because I find it captivating in a way that many people don't.

Yet, now, as I watch Isla staring at the greeting card I purchased months ago I'm in awe. I'd walked into the gift shop of the hospital in Paris after I'd visited one of our executives. She was there, with her husband, standing watch over their newborn daughter who had a simple procedure. 

The cards had caught my eye immediately. I'm not a friend of Brighton Beck's but we share common acquaintances and the experience of walking through the corridors of that facility, on my way towards the exit, had been humbling. I've always had my health and to see children struggling with theirs had been enough to prompt me to purchase all the cards they had in stock.

I'd shoved them into a cabinet in my office when I returned to New York but today, thinking of Isla's birthday, I wanted to give her one.

The extent of my gift giving is typically delegated to my assistant, but with Isla I wanted something more. I wanted it be personal. I wanted her face to light up when she saw the card even if I thought her reaction would be restricted to a comment about the beauty of the design.

How the hell could I have known that she'd not only recognize Brighton Beck's work but that she'd understand and appreciate the meaning in the print?

"These are symphony tickets." She cradles the two tickets in her fingers. "These are close to the stage. They're orchestra tickets, aren't they?"

The smile on her face is genuine. It's what I anticipated when I called the box office and tossed out a few well-respected names with the hope of securing two tickets to the sold out performance next week. "I know that your seat last night was in the third balcony. I wanted you to have the experience of being close to the stage."

"My seat was practically outside the building," she says under her breath. "This is amazing."

"You can take whoever you'd like." I brush my fingertips over her hand. "Perhaps Davis Benoit would like to go with you or your roommate."

Her face softens as she looks up at me. Her lips part slightly before she closes them again, her eyes falling back to her hands. "This is a generous gift. Thank you."

"You belong at every performance," I say as I reach down to grab the glass of water I'd poured earlier. "You actually belong on the stage."

She doesn't break my gaze as she absorbs the compliment. I know instinctively that's because she believes there's as much truth in my words as I do. I swallow the water in one long gulp, all the while regretting not pouring myself something stronger.

"Will you go with me?"

It's the invitation I had hoped she'd offer. I could have easily invited her to the performance straightaway but I wanted her to choose. I want her to crave my presence next to her, just as much as I crave hers.

I set the glass on the table before I take a measured step closer to her. "I'd be honored to go with you, Isla. A late dinner after the performance would make for a perfect evening."

"A late dinner here?" Her eyes scan the dimly lit room before they settle on the view of the city.

I lessen the space between us again as I move even closer to her. The distance separating us now is little more than mere inches. "I can arrange that. Is that what you want? To come back here after we watch the performance?"

She places the card and envelope on the table before she turns so her back is against the window. Her heels shift slightly, ever so slightly, as she laces her fingers together in front of her. "Yes, I want that."

I stare at her face, entranced with how utterly beautiful she is. Her nose is delicate, her lips full and pink. Her blue eyes are wide and framed by long lashes. She's breathtaking, even though her lipstick has smudged slightly and her hair is even more tousled than it was earlier.

I slowly unclasp the cuff link on my left wrist, sliding it into the pocket of my pants before I roll the sleeve of my white dress shirt to the elbow. Her eyes watch my every movement as I do the same with my right arm.

"Has it been a birthday to remember?" My hand darts to the sash around her waist. "Will you remember this day?"

Her eyes are fastened on my fingers. I pull on the sash softly. It offers little resistance before it gives and releases into my hand.

"I think I'll remember it always, sir."

I step forward, my hands leaping to her neck, cradling her face in my palms. I float the pad of my thumb over her lower lip. I lean down to kiss her softly, tasting the sweetness of her breath. "I'm going to make certain you never forget it."
 

Isla

Enjoy, Gabriel.

They're just two words. They were all he'd written in the card he'd given to me. He might have known the literal meaning they'd hold. He couldn't have known what it would feel like when he lowered his face to mine and kissed me. I'd melted. I'd held fast to his hands as they cupped my cheeks when he licked his tongue over my bottom lip and I'd moaned, so loud, when his hand dropped to my thigh.

"You're so perfect." His lips trace a path along my cheek. "I've thought about this for days."

I want to say something in return; something poetic and thoughtful so that his memory will cling to this night just as long as mine will.  I doubt that's possible.

I will never forget the scent of his skin as he bows his head to brush his lips across my neck. I will never forget the softness of his hair as I wrap my fingers through it and I'm never going to forget how it will feel to come beneath his touch.

He pulls back just enough that it tugs a whimper from somewhere deep within me. My hand darts to my mouth, my cheeks flushing instantly with the knowledge that my body is responding to him on a basic, primal level.

"You're going to think I say this…" he stops himself mid-thought to lean forward to kiss me softly. "You looked so beautiful when you walked into the bar tonight, Isla. I've never wanted to touch a woman more."

The words push me back on my feet but his arms circle me, holding me in place.

"You want me," I say breathlessly, realizing that it sounds more like a question than a statement.

His lips press hard against mine in response. I push my body into his, wanting to lessen the distance. My hands jump to his chest, my fingers fumbling aimlessly for the buttons.

"No," he whispers the word into our kiss. "Turn around."

I ignore his words. In my desperation to feel his skin touching mine, I grab hold of his tie, pulling at it, trying to wrench the knot free.

His hands are on mine before I have time to think. He bites my bottom lip, his tongue immediately tracing a path over the spot to soothe it.

I step back, not just from the sudden burst of pain but from the action. My fingers jump to my lip, instinctively covering what I know will be a swollen bruise.

"That hurt," I say softly. "You hurt me."

He steadies his stance as he cradles my chin in his hand tilting my head back so our eyes meet.  It's then that he leans forward, his breath a soft whisper against my ear. "That's a prelude of what's to come, Isla. Tell me if you want me to stop. Just say the word."

I take a half step back wanting the distance to catch my breath as much as to look in his eyes. "Haze."

"Haze?" His brow furrows. "What is haze?"

I felt it the moment I saw him in the boutique. That feeling only intensified when I was alone with him in his office and he stood next to me. When I was in his lap in the car, he wanted me.  His body couldn't hide his desire. It was there in the way he touched my thighs. I could sense it in his kiss. He's offering exactly what I want.

I exhale softly as I look up and into his eyes. "Haze is my safeword. If it's too much and I want you to stop, I'll say it."

The growl that emanates from him almost drives me to my knees. It pushes him to his and as he turns me towards the glass, hikes my dress up to my hips, and slowly pulls my panties off, I know that my life will never be the same again.

***

"Brace yourself," he says in a deep, firm tone; his voice the only sound in the room.

I lean my cheek into the cool glass of the window. I can feel his breath on my tender flesh. I've felt exposed with lovers before but it's never been like this. I'm standing in my heels, my pussy on ripe display with his mouth and tongue so close. He's so close I can feel every movement of his lips when he speaks.

"You're beautiful, Isla." His tongue slowly grazes my smooth folds. "You're so wet. You've been wet all night, haven't you?"

"I've been wet since you walked into the boutique weeks ago."

I feel quick movement behind me as he rises to his feet and pulls down the zipper at the back of my dress before he yanks it over my head and tosses it on the floor. "You wanted me then? It was the day you propositioned me."

I nod my head as a meek, "yes," falls from my lips. I push back, feeling his rock hard cock pressing into my ass through the fabric of his pants.

"Tell me what you were going to do." His fingers trace a path around my bare nipples before he pinches first the right, and then the left, hard.

"Ah, please." I rub my thighs together, my right hand dropping from the glass to my pussy.

His shoes kick at my feet, forcing them farther apart as his hand grabs my wrist, pushing it back to the window. "Keep your hands on the glass or I'll tie them behind your back."

I move them both quickly towards my thighs.

He reacts instantly. His hands find mine, pulling them back up. "Don't do that. I mean it."

"I want it. I want you to tie me up."

"Christ," he mutters into my neck as he grinds himself into me. "This is too much. You're too much."

My cheeks heat as I feel his body pressed against mine. I lean forward, resting my forehead against the glass.

"Tell me," he hisses. "Tell me what you were going to do that first day. If you came to my office tell me what would have happened."

I turn my head to the left to catch sight of his face. The sweat on his upper lip matches the want in his eyes. He's as lost to this as I am.

"I'll show you," I offer with a raise of my brow. "I want to show you."

His eyes close briefly as he swallows hard. "No, not tonight."

"Please," I whine, wanting to show him.

I may not have had a set plan that day in Liore when I offered to show up at his office, but I do now. I want to taste him. I want to slide his cock between my lips so I can hear the sounds he makes when he's chasing his release. I want to give that to him. I want to please him more than I've ever wanted to please any man before.

"I need this." His hand snakes between my legs to cup my pussy. "I want this tonight."

I moan as I grind myself into his fingers.

"Don't move, Isla. Keep your hands on this glass."

I nod faintly before the room falls silent. The only sound is my labored breathing and a soft rustling behind me.