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“In a way. I see you differently now than I did a day before. I see how scared you are. That doesn’t lower yourself in my eyes. That means you’re human.”

“Was I somehow not human before?” I can’t tell if she’s patronizing me or not. For her sake, she better not be.

Ira slowly moves her hand from my shoulder to my neck, to my face. The woman doesn’t have the biggest hands in the world, but they’re more than enough to cover my skin and make me feel the strength within her. I want to shudder but refrain.

I think she’s going to speak, but instead, she comes down on me. Kisses me.

There’s no pressure behind it. Just a kiss. A sweet, melting kiss that parts my lips and caresses my tongue. My hand is in her hair. Hers are on my sides, arms curling around me as she brings me in closer. How can one person be so warm?

Betwixt relief and anxiety, that’s me. I’m relieved that I can still feel safe with her, but I’m anxious because my body aches – and not from my sore ass and thighs.

We make love, but it’s not what you think. It’s not sex. She never touches me below the waist. She barely touches my breasts, letting my nipples peak before brushing her lips against them through her T-shirt I’ve borrowed. Thrusts are coming at me, but she’s barely touching me, and I never think she’s going farther. I don’t want that right now, anyway.

Is she reading me?

I read my submissive partners. They are open with what they want. When a man is put into a submissive position, he tends to be the most open book he’s ever been. You’d think it was the same for all women, but if you’re like me, then you know that sharing your “fee-fees” is akin to career and social suicide. Sometimes I feel like such a man.

No, what Ira and I are doing isn’t sex. It’s… lovemaking.

“You feel pretty human to me,” she whispers into my ear, her chest pressing against mine and the strength in her hips keeping me trapped against her bed. “A human who deserves to feel good and worshiped.”

She keeps her eyes on me as she descends my stomach, hands pushing up the shirt until I’m completely bare. When her tongue hits my slit, I’m ready.

It’s slow, it’s gentle. She never asks for anything in return, and when I come from her tongue five minutes later, I know I’m in deep, deep trouble.

Deep fucking trouble.

Chapter 28

Ira

“I’ve solved our funding discrepancy!”

I let my father pour me a scotch before settling back into my leather chair. He’s invited me out to his favorite club. A real good ol’ boys abode where cigar smoke is thick and all the waiters wear bowties. We’re here in the corner of a lounge, a few other men in their finest suits laughing it up when it comes to wives, daughters, and mistresses. My father is the only one bringing up business, and since he’s so happy it must be public knowledge.

“Oh?” The scotch isn’t my favorite, but I let it cleanse my throat. “And where are you picking up an extra fifteen million dollars?”

Chuckling, my father swings one leg over the other and raises his eyebrows in that know-how way. He’s done that my whole life. When he knows something that I don’t or is about to lay on something I would have never thought of. “Let’s say our pal Ravenwood has come through for us as our final investor.”

Now I raise my brows, and it’s not because I’m about to impart some knowledge to my father. Far from it. If anything, I’m a tad concerned. “Xan Ravenwood from Black Crow Pharmaceuticals?”

“That’s the one.”

“Surprised you’re getting in bed with that guy.”

“Anyone who is anyone is getting into bed with Ravenwood. What? The only other alternative was Jacqueline Love, and nobody will touch her money for at least a year until the whole to-do with the Warners dies down. We can’t risk offending them.”

“No. We can’t.” My father’s courting of Helen Warner played out, and the woman threw down five million for The Ace. She’ll probably want the Honeymoon Suite for her and the bride. “Still, a pharmaceutical man?”

“Ravenwood is about real estate on the side. He owns half of the Pacific Northwest now.”

“So I’ve heard. He’s also pissing people off in Portland because most of his buying leads to some of the fastest gentrification this country has ever seen.”

“Kid, that’s Portland. It’s three thousand miles away. People around here don’t give a rat’s ass about West Coast real estate unless they have a hand in it. Besides, that whole presentation you gave was all about how we’re not further gentrifying the old district. I don’t know what you have against this. Ravenwood is known for being right in line with your lifestyle. In fact, he runs the most exclusive club on the West Coast.”

I stiffen. My father knows about my “lifestyle” insofar as people talk about seeing me at Midnight, and he’s met a few of my past girlfriends when I needed a date for dinner. Plus, my mother knows everything, because she’s a nosy woman who is always up in my love life. When she’s drunk, she’s liable to tell my father everything about me. It’s a problem I ignore.

Until now.