Mary McBride - The Magnate's Takeover - The Magnate's Takeover

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “But I already knew that from the first moment I saw you.”

His hand moved to her breast, cupping it, a perfect fit for his smooth wet palm, a perfect distance to her nipple for his thumb to circle and explore. Libby gave a little shudder, and leaned her head back onto the rim of the tub as he covered her neck with languid kisses.

He murmured against her skin. “I’ve wanted this…I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you clinging to that silly lamppost like a fallen angel.”

“Emphasis on fallen,” she said with a little sigh, then blew a puff of air upward to dislodge a damp stray curl from her forehead.

“No.” His hand eased from her breast and then smoothed slowly, thrillingly down, over her hip to her inner thigh. “Emphasis on want. I want you, Libby. All of you. Now.”

There was a great whoosh of water, and then she was high in his arms, clinging to his hard, wet neck as he carried her down a dimly lit hallway and into the bedroom where only the night before she’d watched the traffic flow like a river of jewels out the western window. He put her gently on the bed and left her for a brief moment to open a drawer, tear open a little square package, then returned to gather her into his arms.

“Tell me how to please you,” he said, his fingertips drifting up and down her arm, setting off little shock waves of desire all over her. Then his hand strayed to her leg and the shock waves increased. “Anything you want. Anywhere.”

Libby pressed closer to the hard length of his body, placing the palm of her hand to his cheek and tracing the now barely visible smile lines with her thumb. “Everything about you pleases me,” she said. “I just want you. All of you.”

They made slow, sensuous love while the diamond and ruby traffic lights flickered far below. In Libby’s experience—which admittedly wasn’t vast or all that recent—men tended to go for the gusto, returning to the lady’s pleasure only after crossing the finish line alone. David, however, was in no rush at all. His every touch was leisurely, languid and absolutely divine. He seemed to have infinite pleasure in giving her pleasure.

Then it was Libby, when David at last entered her, who revved up the pace considerably, lifting her hips to meet each thrust of his, wanting almost desperately to capture all of him inside her and to keep him there forever. Their soft murmurs only moments earlier quickened to mutual groans of pleasure.

Everything in Libby’s body curled tighter and tighter, wound up in itself, as she moved toward climax and then…

And then it felt as if her every cell suddenly let go in wave after wave of pleasure so intense she thought she might either laugh or cry or both. Within seconds, David followed her with a final powerful thrust, his whole hard body shuddering in his release.

They simply lay there then, locked in each other’s arms, sated and waiting for their breathing to return to something that resembled normal, if indeed it ever would.

It was nearly nine-thirty before they could rouse themselves from the big bed on the west side of the penthouse. But when David heard a distinct and hungry rumbling coming from the direction of Libby’s stomach, he reached for his phone and called downstairs. The chef, of course, had long ago retired from the kitchen, but an eager sous chef—now in line for a rather hefty raise, David decided—was more than happy to prepare his “special” omelette and a vegetable stir-fry.

When he turned to consult Libby on the meal, her eyes glittered like a wolf just spying a lamb.

“Send it up as quickly as you can,” David told the sous chef.

They ate, quite ravenously, in bed. Libby wore a Marquis bathrobe, and with her tangled hair and her lips still flushed with his kisses, she reminded him of Venus, come to life right here in the Midwest.

“I should probably be getting back to the Haven View,” she said after finishing one of the hotel’s signature amaretto and chocolate-chip cookies.

David frowned. “I thought you said you put a sign on the door saying it’s closed for the duration.”

“I did, but…”

“Well?”

It seemed to dawn on her then that she had no other obligations, at least not at the motel, and there was no one to please for a change but herself. The notion apparently surprised her because she blinked and, for once, since the first time he’d met her, she appeared to be at a loss for words.

But David wasn’t.

“Stay with me, Libby.”

He brushed aside the silver trays, the empty dishes and the glassware, then drew her once more into his arms. “Stay.”

And she did.

When Libby got back to the Haven View at a little after nine the following morning, David’s kisses continued to linger on her lips, on her throat, on…Well, everywhere. She felt such a warm and nearly tangible glow inside. It was like a fire that seemed to burn and caress at the same time.

By ten o’clock, however, the fire had fizzled out, most likely because of her tears. The roofing inspector had arrived, looked at all the cabin roofs and then handed her an estimate for forty thousand dollars plus tax.

“Keep in mind,” he’d said while shaking his head, “that’s just for the roofing, Miss Jost. It doesn’t include the new gutters and downspouts this old place badly needs. Otherwise, you’re going to see more damage in the future. You can count on it.”

After he left, Libby walked inside the apartment behind the office and crumpled on the floor of the shower, letting the hot spray from above blend with her tears. It had been a long, long time since she’d wallowed in self-pity. The last, and probably the only other time she’d given herself permission to break apart, had been when she was ten years old and her cat, Joey, went missing. This morning she felt the way she had when she was ten, as if something so very close to her heart had just been run over or blown to smithereens.

She cried for a long, long time, until she had no more tears to shed, then she dried off, got dressed and went out to the main room of the office where she found Doug wearing his favorite and ancient St. Louis Cardinals sweatshirt while he flipped through a stack of mail. Funny, she thought. If her memory was correct, he’d been wearing a Cardinals T-shirt all those years ago when he’d consoled her about the loss of Joey.

“Morning, honey,” he said cheerfully. “Did you have a good time in Hannibal?”

“I had a great time in Hannibal.” Libby walked around to the other side of the desk, wrapped her arms around the elderly man’s neck and planted a loud kiss on his balding head. “I love you so much, Doug,” she said.

“Well, I love you, too, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “But what’d I do to deserve such an enthusiastic greeting?”

She flopped onto the ratty floral couch across from the desk. “You were so sweet to me when my little Joey ran away.”

Doug scratched his head with the sword-shaped letter opener he’d been using. “Joey. Just a minute. Now let me think back. Was Joey the gerbil or the cat?”

Oh, jeez. She’d completely forgotten about George the gerbil who’d scampered beneath her bed one day, never to be seen again. Well, now she really was depressed.

“Joey was the cat,” she said. “He was black with little white slippers on his feet.”

“That’s right.” Doug’s whole face seemed to sadden, every line and wrinkle turning downward. “I’m sorry about that, Lib. I remember. You were so unhappy, honey. I’m just glad I managed to soothe your heart a little bit.”

Libby let out a long and weary sigh, thinking her heart could surely use a bit of soothing right now. When she was a little girl, she’d always gone to Doug for his comfort as well as his advice. He was patient and kind and incredibly smart. So why not seek his advice now, she wondered. She wasn’t exactly doing a stellar job all on her own. She probably should have consulted him from the very beginning of this fifty-thousand dollar debacle.