The Heat Between Pages

The Penthouse Key

The key felt like a live wire in Noelle's fingers, its cold, thick brass trembling with a warmth of its own. It was a functional, brutal piece, all hard angles and bulk, nothing like the light keys to her own apartment building. It was the key to Damian Croft's penthouse, and he'd given it to her with an expression that was not a challenge or a command, but a dare.

"For the Henderson files," he'd instructed her, his deep voice vibrating through the highly glossy mahogany of his desk. "They're on the console in the foyer. I won't be there. Consider it a test of trust." He smiled mischievously. He was aware. He knew the files were merely a cover, a charade so blatant it was almost insulting. The actual document that they signed was the one not uttered, so much more dangerous.

Three days went by, and the key burned a hole in her purse, then on her nightstand. She'd bring it out, its teeth biting into her skin, and imagine the empty, still room of his apartment far up in the city. She reminded herself she was taking it back, that showing up uninvited was the right thing to do, her declaration that she was not some obedient pet to be summoned with a bright bribe. But as the elevator climbed in quiet, with hunterlike velocity, her heart thudded against the cage of her ribs now with fear but a raging, starving anticipation that robbed her of breath.

The doors led directly into the penthouse, and her words of carefully practiced banter melted away. It wasn't empty. The vast, open space was dimly lit, the only illumination the shining lights of the city reflected on the glass wall of windows that ringed it. And there he stood, turned toward that stunning view, a silhouette of strength and coolness.

Damian turned around, clutching in his hand a crystal tumbler of pale-colored liquid. He was not his usual razor-sharp business suit. Dark, tight-fitting pants hugging his long legs and an open-at-the-collar blouse with rolled sleeves on his forearms displayed the corded muscle beneath the business platemail. His face was one of sheer, unadulterated happiness.

Noelle, the sound of her name a gentle caress in the quiet room. "I was starting to think I underestimated you."

She tried to level her voice, her fingers tightening around the key as if it were an amulet. "You said you wouldn't be here. I'm just returning it." She held it out to him, and the gesture felt small and foolish.

He didn't step forward to take it. He only took a sip from his drink, his eyes locked on hers. Black and sipping the soft light, observing everything. "Did I? Perhaps you heard what you wanted to hear." He moved, putting his glass on a low slate table and gliding the distance between them with killer ease. "The thing is, what did you want to hear?"

He was inches from her. She could scent the high, faint cost of his cologne, dark and newly opened like night air and sandalwood. It swirled around her, and she reeled.

"I wanted to know that my boss trusted me with his property," she said, jutting out her chin in a defiant pose that felt perilously breakable.

A vengeful, abandoned smile spread over his face. "This never had anything to do with property." His gaze dropped to the key still wedged in her hand. And then, with a slow, agonizing slowness that made her pulse thrash, he extended his hand. But he did not close his fingers over the key. His fingers closed around her wrist, his thumb on the aching pulse that throbbed there. "It was about access. And desire."

His touch was electric, searing through the silk of her blouse. Every rational thought, every professional boundary, was shattered under the weight of that single contact. This was why she had come. This was the real test, and she was failing gloriously.

“You knew I’d come,” she breathed, not a question but a surrender.

"I knew you couldn't help yourself," he rephrased, his voice husky. "Just as I couldn't help but remember the way you chew on your lips when you're in game mode. Or the way your eye shines when you think I'm insane." His other hand lifted, not to touch her, but to hover next to the corner of her jaw. "This... This current running between us. It's the most appealing deal I've made all year."

He took the key from between her limp fingers, his against hers, causing her body to shudder. He threw it onto the table next to his glass with a careless clink. Its job was done. It didn't matter anymore.

"So what are the terms?" she said, her voice sultry by accident.

"The words are easy," he breathed, his hand at last settling on hers, his knuckles mapping down the line of her neck. She shivered, her body convulsing all over with desire. "Complete honesty. No more deception about being here for any reason at all except this."

His fingers followed the curve of her collarbone before traveling to the first button of her shirt. Her breath caught. His gaze met hers, silently questioning. She nodded almost imperceptibly, the same craving that raged within her brain, silencing any remaining doubt.

With painful slowness, he unbuttoned the first. And then the second. The knuckles of his palms brushed the swell of her breasts against her lace bra, and she sighed deep in her throat. He smiled, hard, dark, possessive.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice as soft as velvet. "No more being stubborn for stubbornness' sake. Just feel."

He untucked her shirt, his fingers slipping in to wrap around the curve of her waist, his thumbs stroking the sensitive flesh there. He leaned forward, and his mouth nestled into the dip of her throat, his tongue sending a burning, wet path that made her knees melt like water. He supported her with ease, his strength an incredible turn-on.

"My turn," she breathed, her hand rising to his chest. She batted the shirt down over the slope of his shoulders, her fingers craving the touch of the skin she'd always dreamed of. It was warm and silky over hard muscle. She rasped down his chest with a soft scratch, and he growled, the noise raw and ruthlessly satisfying. The power balance tipped, tilting toward her.

He countered by spinning her around, pulling her back against him. His arm was clasped about her waist, holding her prisoner, and his other hand curved over her breast under the lace, tracing her n****e until it was a hard, aching peak. He bit at her earlobe, his warm breath on her skin.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to tear you apart like this," he growled. "To watch the driven, controlled Noelle break."

He picked her up and carried her back, to the broad leather sofa before the windows. The city lay out below them, a shining sheet of light, unaware of the storm brewing in this glass cell. He laid her down, following, his body enveloping hers. His weight was exactly right, grounding her to the moment.

There was no slow stripping anymore. There was frenzied, mutual stripping. There was removal of garments and tossing them onto the floor. His lips roamed everywhere—on her breasts, leaving deep, rose-colored tracing on the white skin of her inner thigh, kissing the bend of her foot until she twisted beneath him, begging for a release.

When he finally lay between her thighs, he paused, his eyes dark with savage hunger. "Tell me you want this," he demanded, the CEO requesting total compliance.

"I want you," she panted, pushing her hips against him, all of her afire with him. "Damian, now. Please."

The 'please' broke his hold. He rammed into her one smooth, powerful stroke, filling her to bursting. She screamed, a yell of raw shock and delight, her hands raking down his back. He held still, allowing her to adjust to the all-encompassing feel of being so absolutely taken.

And then he began to move.

It wasn't gentle. It was very rough. Every thrust was deliberate, deep, and terrifyingly accurate. He observed her face, counting each of her gasps, each flutter of her eyelashes, each pleading cry he dragged out of her. She matched him blow for blow, her hips curving to greet him, her legs around his waist pulling him in deeper. The surrender was there, the manner in which she yielded to the mood, but so too was the rebellion, the manner in which she nibbled at him, the manner in which she whispered dirty, exciting things into his ear and made him lose his rhythm.

He rolled over, bringing her across him. "Your turn," he granted, his arms wrapped about her waist. "Do what you please."

She engulfed him, looming over him, discovering a rhythm that was exquisite and torture. She rode him with slowness, rolling with rage, her head thrown back, her body radiating under the city lights. She witnessed the tough Damian Croft crumble under her, his pride shattering into fractured breathing and raw moans. The image was more powerful than any commercial.

The climax was building like a wave, slow and enormous. She could feel it coiling deep within her, tightening with each shift. He could feel it too, his hands coming up to where their bodies joined, his thumb outlining the shape of her c**t and rubbing with an exquisite, relentless pressure.

It exploded over her, a h*******t that tore a scream from her lips. Her body bucked around him, milking, pulling him over the edge with her. His was a release of a roar, her name a broken prayer on his lips as he came into her, his body jerking spasmodically in her hands.

For what seemed like a lifetime, all she could hear was the rasping harshness of his struggling breaths and the distant wail of the city. She sprawled upon his chest, her cheek pressed into the mad beat of his heart. His hands clasped around her, holding tight with a crazed, protective grip, not as a master, but as a man utterly and completely shattered.

He finally shifted, his lips tracing the shape of her hair. "The Henderson files," he grumbles, his voice low with spent passion, "are in the top left drawer of my desk. They've been there the whole time."

Noelle laughed, a laugh of pure satisfaction. She leaned against him and looked down at him, her hair a veil around their faces. "I know."

His eyes widened with genuine amazement, then creased at the edges with a fresh, profound respect. The game was far from over. It had merely become something far more dangerous, and far more thrilling. The penthouse key had unlocked more than an entrance; it had released them.