Seconds later her phone vibrated with a call. DORIAN REDTHORNE flashed on her screen, and the angel on her shoulder shouted a firm warning.
Don’t fucking answer it. Hit ignore, delete his number, block him, erase him from your mind…
But in the end, the devil won out, and Charley hit the answer button, a grin spreading on her face. “Good evening, Mr. Redthorne.”
“Yes,” the man said firmly.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I would like to know. I would very much like to know if you’re in bed alone.”
“I am,” she admitted. “Unfortunately. And before you get your hopes up about what I’m wearing, it’s just boxer shorts and an old T-shirt from—”
“Take them off. Now.”
The command, so firm and delicious after all their earlier jokes, made her instantly hot. She set the phone on the bed and stripped off every last scrap of fabric. She thought about closing the blinds, but decided against it, her body basking in the glow from the neighboring towers. With her bedroom lights turned off, no one could see inside, but the thought that someone might be watching anyway sent a forbidding thrill to her core.
Charley grabbed the phone. “Okay. I’m here.”
“Are you naked?”
She lay back on her bed, stretched out over the top of her soft down comforter, grateful that Sasha’s room was on the other side of the penthouse. “Naked and alone on this huge king bed, and I’m very, very wet.”
“Bloody hell,” Dorian said. “Do you have any idea what I’d do to you if I were there right now?”
“I’m a little hazy on the details.” Charley was playing with serious fire, but she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t just the museum run-in; she hadn’t stopped thinking about Dorian for more than five minutes since she’d first seen him in the Salvatore lobby. After that, he’d rescued her from that Duchanes dickweed, bought her drinks, made her laugh, touched her in ways that no other man had ever dared, and saved her from a mugging in Central Park.
Just seeing his name light up her phone made Charley ache with a desire that pulsed hot through her veins.
Now, Charley’s fantasies would never let her be free of him.
She didn’t want to be free of him.
“Tell me,” she whispered, her hand trailing over her belly, down to the smooth mound below. She stroked a finger lightly over her clit, shocked at how wet she really was. “Tell me what you’d do to me if you were here right now.”
He groaned in her ear, a deep vibration that made her stomach flip.
“Are you touching yourself?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you touch yourself last night, all alone in that great big bed without me?”
“Yes,” Charley moaned, her fingers slipping inside. “I thought of you, your face buried between my thighs, fucking me with your dirty mouth.”
“I’d tie you to the bed first, though, good and tight. Then I’d lick every inch of your flesh, sucking and tasting until I had my fill, until you were writhing on the bed, begging me to let you come. Would you like that, Charlotte?”
“So much,” Charley breathed. She stroked herself, slipping her fingers in and out of her pussy as she pictured his face, his lips, imagining him sucking her nipples, licking a hot path down her belly. “You have no idea.”
“You’re getting close, love. I can hear it in your voice.”
Dorian moaned softly, a sound that raised goosebumps on Charley’s skin as she drove her fingers inside, then pulled out, massaging her clit in slow, tantalizing circles as the sound of his deep, delicious voice made her even wetter.
She was almost there, her muscles clenching, her heart beating wildly as she stroked faster and harder…
“That’s it, gorgeous,” he purred. “I want you to come hard for me, come like it’s my tongue between your thighs, sucking that exquisite—”
“Dorian! Oh fuck, yes!”
The orgasm hit her hard and fast, and Charley damn near exploded, gasping into the phone as waves of white-hot pleasure slammed through her body.
It took her a few minutes to come back down, and when she finally did, Dorian was still on the phone, waiting patiently for her return. In the neon blaze of the city lights, her skin glistened, her body warm and relaxed.
Charley let out a deep sigh, thinking again of the ocean. Dorian was the tide, pushing her past her limits, dragging her to the very edge, making her feel powerful and alive.
It was terrifying.
It was beautiful.
It was addicting, and now that she’d gotten another taste, Charley didn’t think she’d ever be able to stop.
“I wish you were here,” she whispered, an unplanned admission that felt a hell of a lot more needy than sexy, but Charley didn’t care. She did wish he was there, lying next to her in that great big bed, whispering about all the naughty things he wanted to do to her. Kissing her. Holding her close as she drifted into a dreamless, worry-less sleep, carried away by the surging sea.
“Me, too.” Dorian’s breath was slow and even, his voice gentle and a little sad when he finally spoke again, the last words she heard before she finally passed out. “Sweet dreams, love.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Thank you for accommodating me on such short notice, Marlys.” Dorian held open the door, ushering the Darkmoon witch into Luna del Mar, a witch-owned café in Staten Island that served as neutral territory for all supernaturals.
She flashed a radiant grin. “You know I’m always honored to serve House Redthorne, Dorian.”
Yes, and he’d just paid $150,000 and a good amount of his own blood for that honor. It was extortion, plain and simple, but Dorian couldn’t proceed without a high-level witch at his side.
Chernikov had finally requested an audience. Playing politics with the demon lord was the very last place Dorian wanted to be, especially with all the preparations he still had to do for tomorrow’s ridiculous fundraiser, but refusing the demon’s invitation would’ve been taken as a slight.
For now, Dorian was eager to keep the peace.
He followed Marlys to the private room at the back of the café, where Chernikov sat alone, looking every bit the Russian mobster he fancied himself—dark, slicked-back hair, graying at the temples. Bespoke suit. No tie. The demon kept the top three buttons on his shirt open, making sure everyone could see the snake tattoo wrapped around his neck, eating its own tail.
“Ah, Mr. Redthorne. Is good to see you,” Chernikov said in his thick Russian accent. He rose from his chair, gesturing for Dorian to take the seat across from him. “Or do I call you highness now? So many titles, I lose track.”
“Call me Dorian. I insist.” Dorian took a seat, Marlys standing right by his side, ready to smoke the demon’s ass to oblivion if he made a wrong move.
“You are Dorian—fine. Then I am Nikolai. Yes?” He picked up a half-spent bottle of Russian vodka from a healthy stash beside him and gave it a swirl. “Let us drink to our newfound camaraderie.”
“I would be honored. But first, precautions.”
At this, Marlys stepped forward, placing her ritual case on the end of the table.