Polished (3 page)

Daniels’s shoulders danced up and down. “I’m not going to ask too many questions. Believe me, I don’t want to know.”

“We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.” Jack wanted to tell them both to go fuck themselves.

“You’ve got a good one here, Jackson,” Daniels said, holding up his tumbler and swishing the forty-year-old single malt scotch.

Jack took the hint and poured himself a glass. The searing gaze of the one-time Hollywood sensation turned aging politician made a shiver run down his spine. Silver-haired and debonair, Thaddeus Daniels was every bit as smug as the tabloids claimed, every bit as kinky as the rumor mill hinted. Jack would never get used to being looked at that way. Like raw meat. Daniels cleared his throat and a crooked grin eased onto his lips. Jack averted his eyes toward the newly carpeted floor.

Daniels wasn’t deterred. “Pull this off, Jack, and I bet I can scare up a board position on the engineering council for someone with your smarts. It would mean a lot for your dad’s firm to have you in place there.”

Jackson clapped his son on the back, making him jump. He hadn’t even realized he was standing so close. That smooth-like-an-oil-slick voice tore into the air around him. “That’s mighty generous of you, Mr. Mayor. He’d be delighted for the opportunity.”

The swig of scotch in Jack’s mouth took an unfortunate detour. He coughed into the glass, managed a quick breath, and coughed again. Powerful stuff to have go down the wrong way.

“Excuse me,” he sputtered, making a quick and less than gracious exit. So what if he looked like an ass who couldn’t man up to his liquor? He was suffocating and it wasn’t from the fire in his trachea. He had to get out of there.

He burst through the building’s doors in desperate need of fresh air.

A wave of his hand at the corner and he was headed downtown in one of those new eco-friendly hybrid cabs. “Greenwich and Franklin.” Jack knew he would find the freedom to breathe in one of his favorite watering holes—or rather, the illusion of freedom. He would settle for that.

He loosened his tie and scratched at the shadow appearing on his chin. The soft blond hairs weren’t noticeable to most. Only someone in his intimate space would see the long day on his face. That was exactly what Jack was looking for—intimacy. It would fill that pit in his gut, that haunting feeling he was powerless against, despite his so-called perfect life.

No sooner had they pulled from the curb than he received a text from Daniels:
Don’t be a stranger.
Jack cursed and put his phone back in his pocket. There was that stifling feeling licking at his heels again.

They turned into Tribeca, where Jack was certain he’d find a willing playmate in one of the trendy lounges. He tossed the driver a fifty and didn’t bother to wait for the change. The cabbie yelled after him with a heavily accented “Thank you,” but Jack hadn’t really intended to be generous; he was simply eager to get to a comfortable seat at the edge of the bar, where he could survey his options and make a beeline to his apartment a few blocks away in SoHo once he found the right body to fill his bed.

Grey Flannel was an architectural masterpiece inside, attracting a snooty crowd that liked to feel down-to-earth when they ventured below Fourteenth Street. Iron trusses ran across the vaulted ceiling and contrasted with the polished chrome joinery on the bar. A rough brick wall spanned the back, with tufted chocolate velvet banquettes set against it, adding an air of comfort. Jack surveyed the crowd. It was still early; a few small parties huddled in light conversation around him. He tapped his credit card on the counter and got the attention of the bartender. Lately every lounge in Manhattan seemed to be favoring pretty young brunettes with straining buttons and kohl-lined eyes. The young man who had served him the last time was nowhere to be seen. It suited Jack fine, since he’d already had all the fun he intended on having with that guy.

“Belvedere, dirty,” he said to her. The grit in his voice betrayed his desire. The bartender nodded and obliged with an eyeful of cleavage along with the martini. He appreciated it—appreciated the momentary distraction from his life.

By the time the tight-looking blonde settled into the seat next to him and ordered a Cosmo, he was all in and determined not to leave there alone that night.

It started, like always, with a simple question. “Alone?”

She sighed. “My friend is meeting me, but she’s going to be late.”

“That’s a shame,” Jack said with a disarming grin. He knew very well how angelic he could look when he tried. “Have one on me while you wait.”

The blonde sized him up. He could see the dollar signs in her eyes as she estimated his worth. His custom-tailored suit plus the black card on the counter provided Jack with the keys to the castle and all the treasures she kept hidden within. She was his for the night or a few hours, or however long it took before he started feeling empty again. When the emptiness returned, he’d send her on her way.

“I’m Jack.”

She told him her name and he knew he’d have a hard time remembering it next week.

He made her laugh, watched her eyes turn smoky as he feigned an interest in her bracelet. He tugged on it slightly, toying with the charm that dangled from it. She made no protest, offering her arm simply because he’d requested it. “It was a gift,” she told him.

“From a boyfriend?”

“Does it matter?” The husk in her tone was unmistakable.

“You want to get out of here?”

“My friend…”

“Tell her something came up.” He waited, and when she didn’t respond, he shrugged softly, coaxing her with just enough indifference to make her worry that he might just give up and tell her never mind. That was always the clincher. Women wanted to be wanted.

In a matter of minutes they were headed to his place and he didn’t even have a clue what her last name was; he didn’t care. The guilt of that crept through his mind, barely detected, like a scorpion.

She acted suitably impressed with his professionally decorated apartment, designed to feel like a home even if it really wasn’t much of one. She sat in the large, structured sofa, among a smattering of gunmetal-and-copper-hued pillows.

“Can I make you more comfortable?” Jack asked, unknotting his tie.

She shook her head, suddenly bashful now that she was in his domain.

“Can I make you more
un
comfortable?” he inquired with a wink.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” she said.

He sat opposite her on the industrial-looking stone-and-steel coffee table, which the decorator had insisted he spend a small fortune on, and circled her knee with his fingers. “No? Not even just a little?”

Her breathing changed slightly, enough for Jack to notice. He pulled the tie from his neck and draped it across her wrist, letting the silk drag over her skin. “Would you like it if I tied your hands with this?”

She shrugged. Inwardly Jack wanted to yawn. He was so tired of the “I’m into what you’re into” games these gold-digger types played.

He arched an eyebrow, questioning her one last time. “Only if you’re into it.”

“I’m yours,” she said. Something about the simplicity of her words, the looseness with which she tossed them into the air, made it an obvious lie. She wasn’t his, no matter how tight he made the knot in the silk around her wrists.

“Just say the word…” he whispered in her ear, sweeping his lips over the soft skin of her neck. She responded with a nod. He pressed his lips to her collarbone and began to unbutton her blouse, peeling it from her shoulders. Her bra was sheer with lacy edges, perfectly feminine. Jack enjoyed the sight of a woman in fine lingerie. He kept her bra intact, licking a nipple with languid strokes through the thin fabric. Reaching down, he pulled at the zipper on her skirt, and eased it over her long legs. The visual was right—a beautiful woman with her hands tied behind her delicate neck, writhing with anticipation on his sofa in little more than her bra and panties.

“You look beautiful,” he said, drawing aside the sliver of lace that covered her cunt, and pressing two fingers to her, sampling her readiness. “I want to see what you look like when I make you come.”

Soon, he’d fuck her hard and watch her bite her lip and scream out for more. Yes, the visual was good. It would do the trick for a few hours and help him forget about the trapped feeling he carried with him so much of the time. He grinned as she arched against his fingers and he added his thumb to make slow work of her clit. With his other hand he reached into his pocket for a condom, about ready to rid himself of his pants and be inside her.

He’d gotten exactly what he wanted, hadn’t he? So why did it feel less and less like it was what he needed?

Chapter Three

Five o’clock. Not even the birds were awake yet. Spencer kissed Rory on the bit of forehead still visible among the swirling sea of auburn scattered across her face and pillow. Rory usually slept like the dead, but that morning she caught his thigh with seeking fingers.

“Be careful,” she slurred, her mouth full of marbles.

“Sure thing, sleepyhead.” He kissed her cheek and nibbled his way to her lips.

“You gotta go right now?”

He felt her lips purse against his as she spoke. Darkness blanketed the room, but he couldn’t miss that pretty little pout that always made him melt.

“Maybe I can steal a few more minutes if I skip picking up breakfast.”

Rory giggled through her yawn. “I wouldn’t want you to go hungry.”

Spencer lowered himself onto the bed. “Never that, baby.”

When could he ever say no to her? When did he ever want to? Cream cheese bagels were overrated. A mouthful of Rory was the best way to start his morning.

She kicked off the covers and stretched her long body against the mattress. He didn’t wait for her to finish yawning. He dived between those long, supple legs and saturated his taste buds. With a measured pace that disguised the frenzy boiling in his jeans, he ate her as if the nectar she spilled on his tongue would fuel him for the next twenty-four hours. She started to buck under his mouth when his teeth grazed past her clit. The only thing to do was to hook his hands under her ass and hold on tight. He latched his lips onto her clit, massaging her naked bud with the rough tip of his tongue. She grabbed his shoulder, driving her fingertips into his flexed muscle.

He could make it last a little longer if he backed off his pace, took her to the place where she moaned long and heavy with the desire to come. Rory arched her back and Spencer slurped slowly, dipping his tongue into her channel a little deeper every time. She started to hum and croon. He swirled his tongue in a circle over her sensitive opening, savoring the taste of her.

“Oooh, you’re teasing me,” she cried.

“I am.”

“You’re going to be late.”

“Don’t worry about me, babe. I got it all under control.” Spencer slipped two fingers inside her, guiding them smoothly against her walls. “I know what you need, and I’m not leaving until you get it.”

She giggled, and he redoubled his efforts, focusing on her subtle cues. Two more strokes and she was teetering on the edge. Steady flicks of his tongue against her clit drove her home. She broke in his grasp, shuddering with the slow burn of her orgasm. She had many different kinds; Spencer knew every one.

“Mmmm. That should hold me,” she said with a sigh.

“You know I’ll be seeing that sexy look in my head all day today. Gonna make it kind of hard to focus.”

Rory poked out her bottom lip. “Sorry,” she said, her eyes full of mischief. She popped up on her knees and grabbed a handful of his erection. Her lips were still pursed, calling him without shame toward the temptation. “I’ll be taking good care of you later.”

“You always do, baby.” Spencer laid a kiss on her lips and then another on her forehead. If he didn’t pull away now, he would be late for sure.

* * *

Traffic started to thicken by the GW Bridge. Spencer grew up in Queens, but he’d outgrown the city at twenty and headed up north to be closer to more trees and fewer people. The only thing that got him downtown anymore was work.

By seven that morning he’d parked the car in a garage on Fourteenth Street and was already sick of the noise.

“Trailers are over on Fifteenth.” Spencer recognized the voice behind him, but couldn’t place it at first. He turned around to see Jack Rothman sipping on a tall cup of fancy-man’s coffee. “You have any gear you want help with?”

“Thanks, no. Everything is in here, in my bag. I’m good.” Spencer gave the sandy blond man with the Hamptons suntan a once-over. They’d only met on one other occasion, bent over a worktable while studying reams of schematics. Jack’s powder blue oxford shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing toned forearms that Spencer could only guess were a result of long hours on the tennis court.

“We need to go over the changes to the plans that we discussed on the phone,” Jack said, giving Spencer a firm handshake. “Do you want to grab a cup of coffee before we get started? I should have thought to bring you one.”

Spencer cocked his head and pondered the man in front of him. The fluster in his voice seemed out of character. Still it was a nice gesture, even if the delivery was odd. “No thanks. Not into the gourmet stuff anyway.”

“Well, then let’s get to it. I’ll walk with you,” Jack said.

Spencer hadn’t planned on the company. Idle chitchat with a know-it-all consultant wasn’t exactly something he found amusing. Not even with one who looked like sex on a stick. Correction,
especially
with one who looked like sex on a stick. Spencer walked briskly, like he was on a mission.

Jack fell into step with him. “So, how was your ride into the city?”

Spencer tried not to roll his eyes. “Not too bad, I guess.” An awkward moment passed as they walked among the swarm of people hustling to work. Spencer forced himself to be cordial. “How ’bout you?”

Jack smiled, revealing his perfect teeth. “I’ve got a place in SoHo. This is the best commute I could ask for.”