The Proposition

CHAPTER THREE

Orla

I RISE FROM the desk chair in my hotel suite, a triumphant smile making my cheeks ache while a surge of adrenaline leaves me searching the bed for Cam. I want to share my news with someone. With him. Jensen’s made up their mind and signed on the dotted line this morning.

Then I remember that he’s gone. After the sex marathon, I spent half the night working while he slept. He woke around six, crept up behind me where I worked and kissed me goodbye. Such a gallant, old-fashioned gesture, I practically swooned…

As I look at the debauched but empty bed, my sense of achievement dwindles a fraction. It shouldn’t matter—I don’t need to share my success in order to feel its validation, but a celebratory orgasm might have been nice…

I stretch out my back muscles, frowning when I realise how long I’ve been sitting in one place. I’ve hustled this deal for the past three months, a deal snatched from under the nose of my main competitors—the firm now run, rather sloppily, in my opinion, by my younger brother under the critical tutelage of my father. A firm that should have been mine to run by rights after my years of hard work and the long hours that cost me my marriage. Another casualty of my father’s expectations…

Thinking of my ex, and how he bailed after seven short months because he couldn’t handle a wife who worked harder than him, sours my mood further.

I ignore the well-worn path of anger and rejection that courses through my body every time I think about how I was overlooked, passed over on the basis of my sex, as if my years of commitment and my qualifications counted for nothing in the eyes of my old-school father. What century does he even inhabit? I’m the eldest. I put in the most work. I’m the best qualified—the company was mine by rights.

When the sting in my lip tells me I’m taking out my frustration with my own teeth, I relax my jaw and sigh. Even this success with Jensen’s feels somehow tainted by the past. No matter how hard I work, I can never quite reach the finishing line.

Casting a look of longing at the empty bed, I head for the shower, recalling the pleasure I shared with a stranger to sweeten this morning’s professional victory.

Cam—my reward.

Yearning builds in the pit of my stomach. He claimed my body, used it and his to drive us both mindless with desire. His obscene stamina. His wicked, inventive challenges and almost impossible positions… I’ve never experienced anything like it. He effortlessly brought out the sexy side I wanted to embrace the minute we stepped into the lift.

Who even was I with him?

I ache, aware of every step I take, every muscular twinge—all Cam’s fault…

But he was gentle too. Thorough and attentive and considerate. My breath catches as a feeling of invincibility courses through me. After a night like that, I can accomplish anything. Alone and without validation.

The hot water spray buffets my skin, reminding me of Cam’s rough, calloused hands gripping and possessing. The water on my breasts and between my legs mimics the glide of his demanding tongue, the caress of his dirty mouth, and when I press my fingers to my clit, trying to banish the renewed flutter of hunger, I relive every single orgasm of our decadent night together.

This is what well-fucked truly feels like.

I sigh a happy, sated sigh, the emotional impulse as unexpected as the man himself. Perhaps he’s a good-luck charm, if I believed in luck. Perhaps letting loose, embracing my wild side, is good for me, allowing me to achieve some much-needed work-life perspective. Either way, I can’t deny I feel more alive, more enthused for the months ahead than I have in years.

I shampoo my hair, hair that Cam wrapped around his fist as he pounded us both to oblivion that last time, sometime in the dark early hours. He fell asleep soon after, splayed on his stomach, his muscular back and tight buttocks a visual feast I struggled to tear my eyes from. I was so energised, my mind so focused, I worked through the rest of the night. Even now I’m in no way tired, although pulling all-nighters isn’t that unusual for me. When you run an international firm, sleep is an expensive luxury.

But could I afford another luxury, one in the form of a sexy Australian with grey eyes who reminds me I have needs? I slide my soapy hands over my skin, an idea forming. He said he was free and easy. No work commitments, money clearly no issue. The way he threw it around last night, almost as if trying to offload as much as possible, perhaps he’d be up for a whirlwind tour of the globe with stopovers at all the international M Club establishments? We could continue this arrangement for a few weeks… A way to explore the sexy side he’s unleashed in me. A way for me to keep this feeling, this newfound perspective, alive.

My proposition takes form in my mind as I towel dry and comb through my hair. A month, six weeks ought to be enough time to work my man toy, as he put it, from my system. I’d have to make the sex-only proviso crystal-clear. My one trip down the aisle confirmed that relationships and I definitely don’t mix. I have no desire to repeat that mistake. I don’t need a relationship, which in my experience is just another way to fall short of someone’s expectations.

If Cam agrees, if he too wanted more than just one fantastic night, he could accompany me while I toured my international offices to ensure everything is as I like it—ticking along like clockwork and expanding on our year-by-year profits.

A sex-only arrangement.

‘Amazing sex,’ I say aloud, catching my laughing reflection in the fogged-up mirror—eyes bright with excitement, hair tousled and damp the way it was last night after our first shower, when Cam fucked me from behind in this very spot, ordering me to tweak my nipples hard until I saw stars right before I came.

The man was some sort of sex god, a G-spot genius, and I his willing, eager-to-excel pupil. But I didn’t simply want to excel. I wanted to be top of the class.

I smile at my reflection—a feline smile.

I’d show him I could let go.

I’d ruin him.

Dressed in my favourite floaty Capri pants and a silk spaghetti-strap top in deference to another stunning Monaco day, I make discreet enquiries at Reception for Cam’s whereabouts. There was no answer when I knocked on the door to his suite, just down the hall from mine. Even if he hadn’t made a splash in the gaming room last night, he’s pretty unforgettable—his height, his commanding presence, not to mention his fuck you air of flouting convention and living the good life.

I find him in the club’s gym, the sole occupant. He’s ignoring the Shirts must be worn at all times sign, performing chin-ups on a bar facing a wall of mirrors. And I don’t blame him. If I had his body, every inch cut slabs of muscle draped in golden skin, a gorgeous, intricate tattoo covering one shoulder, I’d watch myself move too. I’m instantly damp between my legs just from one glance at his sweaty torso.

In fact, there’s no reason I can’t enjoy the show for a few hedonistic seconds. My pulse throbs through my sex while I watch, hypnotised. His back muscles flex in unison to drag his long, built frame up the foot or so required to place his chin above the bar. Sweat runs in rivulets down the bumps of those muscles. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, keen for another taste of the skin I sampled last night.

That happy sigh is back, thankfully silent and in my head, but again it strikes me I haven’t felt this rejuvenated in years. Cam’s the kind of man who makes a woman feel feminine. It’s effortless for him—his sheer size, those calloused hands, the formidable sexual prowess I’ve now experienced, plus his nurturing, caring side and impeccable manners.

Enough looking.

I’m on a plane out of here shortly. Time is money. I want his answer.

I approach with confident steps, although my belly twists with uncharacteristic nerves. What if he turns me down, or has a life to get back to in Sydney, or thinks I’m too old for him beyond one anonymous night? The pinch of disappointment speaks of the calibre of Cam’s brand of fucking. But I’m a big girl. A grown woman. I tell myself his refusal would be no big deal, that there are plenty of other Cams in the sea, although the shaky quality of my breathing confirms it’s a lie.

But I’m not giving up yet. I’m used to getting what I want, and this will be no exception.

I meet his eyes in the mirror, and just like last night the eye contact feels like a physical waveform buffeting me with his aura. With all the eye contact we’ve shared since, the physical intimacy, I should be over the starry-eyed phase by now. Bloody hell, I’m not sixteen.

Cam drops to the ground, not a hint of surprise on his face, as if he’d been aware of me staring from the doorway. He’s probably used to women hounding him for more sex the morning after.

My brain scrambles to recall exactly why I’m here, other than to watch his ripped body work out while I drool.

‘Has working all night refreshed your appetite?’ he says, grabbing a towel. He wipes sweat from his face and chest and then slings the lucky piece of towelling around his neck. ‘Women don’t usually hunt me down before breakfast.’

I drag my eyes away from the bulge of his cock, visible through the thin fabric of his workout shorts, all but panting at the memories of that spectacular part of his anatomy. ‘I only worked half the night. The other half—’

‘I remember what you did the other half,’ he interrupts, flashing that grin that reminds me he’s in his twenties.

‘And I didn’t need to hunt you down,’ I say, stepping closer. ‘After your antics at the roulette table last night, purchasing a bright yellow supercar, you’re something of a celebrity—all I did was ask for your whereabouts at Reception.’

He tilts his head in acknowledgement of my statement, his own stare taking a similar swoop of appraisal down the length of my body. ‘Did you receive the replacement dress and lingerie?’ I can tell that, like me, he’s remembering what he did while my ruined dress and torn panties shackled my waist.

I free a groan in my head, the remembered sound of fabric ripping sending delicious spikes of pleasure to my core. I fight the urge to kiss him in that way that seems to drive him crazy—my tongue surging against his, a scrape of my teeth along his decadent lower lip.

‘I did. Thank you.’ At the crack of dawn this morning, shortly after he left, there was a knock at my door. I rushed to open it, secretly hoping to find Cam on the other side, but it was a hotel porter delivering a garment bag. ‘The replacement wasn’t necessary—how did you even do that? It’s Sunday morning.’

He arches one brow in that noncommittal way of his. ‘I have my methods. As you know, money opens doors.’ His mouth flattens, a hint of cynicism in his expression.

‘So, did we leave something unfinished? Did I leave my boxers in your room…?’ He laughs and I join him, more certain than ever that spending time with him will be good for me and therefore good for business. It’s been an age since a man made me laugh, since I laughed full stop. I deserve to celebrate such a landmark victory over my father’s firm, and I want to celebrate with Cam.

‘I have a proposition for you,’ I say, letting him have it straight between the eyes. Now I’ve seen him again in the flesh, I’m even more set on my course of action. I need the next few weeks to run as smoothly as clockwork, professionally speaking, and, with Cam around as an after-hours distraction, my mind would be clear, my focus sharp and my energy restored.

Bloody hell, Orla, he’s not a multivitamin!

‘Oh? Sounds intriguing,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we discuss it over breakfast? I’ll just jump in the shower and meet you in the restaurant.’

My body clamours to join him in the shower, my mouth parched for another taste of his talented, thick cock. I swallow, suddenly ravenous. ‘I don’t eat breakfast, and I’m flying out to Zurich in—’ I check my watch ‘—ninety minutes.’

He’s not remotely disappointed with this news. My stomach plummets. No woman wants to be so easily forgotten.

‘Okay—well, shoot, then.’ He leans one hip against a nearby weights machine, the fabric of his shorts stretching across his crotch leaving nothing to the imagination, and grips the ends of the towel around his neck. A perfect pin-up pose for a raunchy, get-you-wet calendar. And I don’t need my imagination—I have fresh and vivid memories to keep me warm.

Of course, I’d rather have the real thing…

‘You said last night you were on a pleasure spree of luxury travel. Does that mean you’re free of other commitments at the moment?’ We haven’t talked about what we do for a living. We haven’t talked about anything.

‘I’m free as a bird. What do you have in mind?’

‘I wondered if you’d like to join me on a tour of some of the other M Clubs. I’ll be travelling for work for the next five-to-six weeks… Perhaps we could have some fun along the way…?’ I trail off from my perfect sales pitch, concealing most of the desperation from my voice, and I silently thank every single business proposition I’ve ever made for getting me through this sexy proposition without so much as a voice wobble.

‘Well, that’s intriguing.’ His eyes glow. ‘So you enjoyed your walk on the wild side, huh?’

I arch my brows. ‘And you didn’t?’ He couldn’t keep his hands off me. I have the soreness between my legs as a trophy of his insatiable stamina.

‘Fair point.’ He grins. ‘But aside from the obvious pleasures,’ he looks me up and down, ‘what’s in it for me?’

I splutter. Gape. I didn’t expect him to play hardball. I’m used to telling people how high to jump.

‘You said it yourself—you spent half the night working. Have you even slept? You don’t have time for breakfast…’ He shrugs, his point illustrated.

I roll my shoulders back, defensive—his censure reminds me a little too closely of my ex-husband’s complaints. ‘I don’t need more than a couple of hours’ sleep.’ But he’s right; my work habits do make me rather a dull travelling companion.

‘As good as last night was,’ his eyebrows flick up in that roguish way, ‘I’m not interested in spending the next six weeks watching you working in between snatched naps only punctuated by the odd fuck. I prefer my dates—’

‘We wouldn’t be dating.’ My temperature soars. How dare he see me so…clearly?

He ignores my interruption. ‘I prefer my hook-ups to have a pulse, to have the energy to offer me a few scraps of attention and to be awake long enough for us to have a good time.’ His lip curls in that playful way he’s so good at. ‘I’m old-fashioned like that.’

I bristle, lifting my chin. ‘I know how to have a good time. You just said so yourself about last night.’ It wouldn’t sting quite so much if his assumption wasn’t true, but I’d never admit such a thing.

He steps closer, his beautiful eyes holding me captive. ‘You’re right,’ he looks me up and down in a way that makes me feel naked again, ‘you look too put together to be as hot as you are, but once you let your hair down the sex part was great.’

‘But…’ I say, because I know it’s coming, despite his compliments.

‘But, when I woke up and reached for you because I wanted more, you weren’t there.’

I fist my hand on my hip. ‘I work odd hours because of international time zones.’

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