“Yes,” he said slowly, drawing it out. “A second job.Mycontract with Sidewinder doesn’t forbid it.”
He was bringing in an extraordinary amount of sales. Nicole had peeked again that week, and his numbers had remained astounding and had increased.
Anyway, Nicole was R&D, and this seemed like an HR or Sales department problem. “I guess that’s okay, then.”
“Indeed, and rather than discuss employment contract details, how about we discuss what activities we will be partaking in this weekend?”
He smiled that sultry smile at her, half-smirk and half fire, and Nicole suddenly wondered just how many mimosas he was going to ply her with on this rather long private plane flight, and to what end.
Three.
It took three mimosas until Kingston chaperoned a very giggly Nicole past the air hostess who studiously avoided looking up at them into the private plane’s lavatory, where he sealed his hand over her mouth as he spun her around, flipped her sundress up to her waist, and angled himself inside her with one slick thrust.
The way his demeanor changed from charming and good-natured to darkly commanding took her breath away.
His growls in her ear from behind as he ground up into her, his muscular arm encircling her waist, his cologne’s dark musk, his finger between her legs massaging her clit, and then his teeth sharp on her shoulder avalanched her into an orgasm that shook her so hard she couldn’t see.
Maybe her reaction wasn’t so much adrenaline or serotonin, but Pavlovian.
When she was a limp octopus afterward, her limbs dangling like ribbons in a breeze with Kingston still hard inside her, he growled in her ear, “You areminefor the week, my little engineer.”
“Yes, please,” she whimpered.
“On the way back, I’ll book a flight without a cabin staff and with a locked-door pilot. I’ll bend you over and make you orgasm so hard youscream.”
Against all odds, her body managed one last pulse of ecstasy.“Yes, please.”
And her mind stopped thinking, for just a while, about how the new sales guy could summon up a private plane and fly her to New York.
37
The Baccarat
NICOLE LAMB
Flying east over the North American continent, coast to coast, ate up the hours as they flew against the sun’s path.
After four hours of airtime, a sumptuous lunch that was definitely unlike any standard airplane food that Nicole had ever been served back in steerage, plus two lattes later, they landed at seven o’clock at night in White Plains, New York.
As Kingston had said, a waiting car drove them, their luggage, and her backpack into New York City, through the squared-off maze of Manhattan, to a building that seemed to be encased in gold-glowing crystal. Dark marble slabs jutted out over the doorways above the sidewalk.
Instead of a pumpkin magicked into a stagecoach, this was a chandelier transformed into a skyscraper.
The chauffeur held the door for Nicole as she got out.
Kingston met her on the sidewalk, casually buttoning his suit jacket.
“Who stays in a place like this?” she asked. “Celebrities? Kardashians?”
“Celebrities tend to stay at the Mark or the Carlyle. This is quieter.”
They went inside the hotel lobby, dark wood paneling the walls contrasted the crystal-encrusted chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, frosted crystal candlesticks on coffee tables, and a crystal chessboard. As Nicole went by, she picked up a pawn, which was sharp glass and heavy in her palm.
She put it down quickly.
The answer as to who stayed in a place like this occurred to her.
Money.
