His breathing continued, his mouth hovering over my sex while his hands moved to my nipples. He squeezed with a fierce intensity. My stomach shuddered from the ripple of pleasure.
“Please,” I repeated. “I need your tongue.”
“If I give you my tongue…” His voice startled me. Up until that point, I hadn’t heard him speak. I hadn’t seen his face, either, now that I thought about it. “You’ll be moaning too loud to answer your phone.”
My back straightened, and I glanced between my spread legs and bent knees. The night’s darkness casted a shadow over half his face hiding everything but his parted lips and wide tongue. Both dove forward and traced the inside of my folds, flicking across the middle and sucking slowly.
“Screw my phone,” I grunted.
Lick, suck…breathe. Lick, suck…breathe.
My hips bowed to his pattern, his rhythm. The wetness he created mixed with my own arousal and it began to drip down my thighs and onto the sheet. The pressure he was using wasn’t strong enough to give me an orgasm. He was gentle—too gentle. That was all I’d ever had…I needed more now.
“Harder,” I said. As soon as the word left my mouth, he stopped touching me. I wanted him back and even closer. I reached for his hair, but there was nothing. The tongue that teased me so delicately was gone, and the fingers that had squeezed my nipples. Darkness filled the space where he had been.
“What the…” My voice trailed off when I heard the ringing.
You’ll be moaning too loud to answer your phone.
The ringtone was a siren, a sound that wouldn’t blend into background noise, and one I had specifically chosen for my father so I would never miss his calls.
Where the hell had this man disappeared to? How could his tongue and fingers simply vanish in seconds?
I sat up and pushed my back against the headboard, a movement that made me gasp. My eyelids popped open.
My eyes…hadn’t been open before?
I scanned the room for evidence of this mysterious man who had pleased me in the middle of the night. From what I could see, nothing looked out of place and there weren’t any clothes on the floor. My blanket and sheet were still on the bed, and I was wearing my pajamas. I turned toward my nightstand and felt the wetness…a small spot on the bottom of my cotton shorts and a dampness between my thighs. I knew if I smelled my fingers, my scent would be all over them...
And it was.
He was just a dream.
I lifted my phone and cleared my throat. “Isn’t it a little early to be calling?”
“Business doesn’t sleep, therefore neither do I. You know this about me, probably better than anyone else.” I said nothing. “Technically, it’s quarter to five.”
“This had better be an emergency, then.”
“Call it what you’d like. Be at the office in an hour, Frankie.”
“Wait…” I needed caffeine and a scalding shower—and for the wetness that still clung to my sex to be completely dry—before my brain would really start to work. He would hang up before I had time for any of that, so I forced myself to recount yesterday’s hot items. Everything had been settled prior to me leaving the office from what I recalled. Why else would he call? It was too early to open escrow on any of our accounts as none of the lenders were open yet, and funds only processed during banking hours. Emails could wait. It had to be a meeting with one of our international clients. Their trips to the States tended to be so short, they didn’t bother getting acclimated to our time zone so this wasn’t uncommon. I was just surprised by the short notice. “Who’s the appointment with? Giovanni? Hamad?”
“On your way in, why don’t you grab me a bagel with the veggie cream cheese I like. And a latte, extra hot, with that foam stuff on top and real sugar, none of that artificial crap. Oh, and Frankie, don’t be late.”
He disconnected the call before I had a chance to repeat my question or say good-bye. That didn’t matter. He knew I’d be there within the next forty-five minutes with his bagel and coffee exactly the way he had requested it. That was how he had raised me to act, and that was one of the reasons he would soon be handing me his company.
“Take a look at those papers,” my father said, pointing to the folder at the end of his desk. His peppered hair was longer than usual, swept back and sprayed, almost like a headband that framed his crown—a suggestion from his most recent fling, I suspected.
I set his bagel and coffee in front of him and sat in one of the chairs. I opened the folder to find Block Development printed at the top of the first sheet, the words encircled with long, sleek, winding branches that added warmth to the contemporary logo. Derek Block was known for using wood and naturalistic aspects in all his architectural designs. His overstated earthy elements were what set his work apart. Under the logo was a press release that highlighted his most recent venture: an apartment conversion in the Back Bay where he was renovating one hundred and eighty-one units. The development, listed as Timber Towers, was an exclusive, state-of-the-art green building with an array of amenities that included underground parking. This was his first project in Boston; his prior build-outs had been in intimate beach towns throughout New England. Thanks to the connections I had at the building division office, I’d been notified over a year ago that Block had filed permit applications and that the city had awarded them. I only lived a few blocks from the site, and I’d been watching its progress.
“So?” my father said, wiping a glob of cream cheese from the corner of his lip.
“My research shows he employs a full-time agent and handles all sales in-house,” I answered. “It’s a dead-end.”
“Your research is correct, except for this building.”
The papers dropped from my hand, and a smile spread over my face. “He’s shopping for an agent?”
“Not just any agent, my dear. He wants the best agent in Boston…and she just so happens to be my daughter.”
I felt my cheeks turn red. My father was a hard and often ruthless businessman, and his compliments were rare. When they came, I cherished them.
“I certainly can’t be the only candidate. There must be others vying for the job?”
“Correct again.” He sifted through several sheets until he found the one he was looking for and rattled off the names of my competitors. I wasn’t surprised by the agents Block had chosen to interview; they were all competent—one with more experience than me, another who was known for sleeping with her clients. None had Jordan International, a forty-year-old agency backing them, or the mentorship and knowledge of my father, Garrett Jordan, the man who’d built the company from the ground up—or the connections we had secured over the years, or our database of buyers. Our reputation in this city was flawless, all of which Block undoubtedly knew.
“When’s the meeting?”
“At seven.”
My steel and yellow gold Rolex showed I had a little time to prepare. The watch was five years old; I’d bought it right out of college after closing my first large sale. My father always said that in order to successfully sell luxury real estate, you had to experience fine luxury for yourself. Our agency didn’t represent knock-offs, and our clients weren’t looking to buy them, either.