Just Once More

Book : Just One Night

by Kyra Davis

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

Picking up shortly after the events in the sizzling New York Times bestseller Just One Night —which the New York Journal of Books declared “gives Fifty Shades of Grey a run for its money”—this sexy e-short, told from the perspective of Robert Dade, delves further into his tumultuous love affair with Kasie Fitzgerald. “If you won’t be ruthless for love, how valuable is that love?” Robert Dade is a man who knows what he wants and never hesitates to go after it. Money, power, and—at long last—the woman he loves, Kasie Fitzgerald, are now his. But after so many years of living by his own rules will he really make the compromises necessary to keep Kasie by his side? And when a man even richer and more ruthless than he is takes an interest in Kasie, will Dade be able to protect her? Or will his controlling nature drive her toward the very danger he seeks to shield her from? The seductive second tale in the New York Times bestselling Just One Night series, Just Once More introduces some of the fascinating characters from the wild new Kyra Davis novel, Just One Lie —the long-awaited next full-length work in the internationally beloved series.

Release date: June 22, 2015

Publisher: Pocket Star

Print pages: 80

Sample

Just One Lie



IT’S SAID THAT we are all products of our upbringing. Parents mold people the way the army molds soldiers: with discipline, training, and copious amounts of rules and regulations, all with the understanding that their efforts will make the difference between a Pulitzer Prize and a twenty-year sentence.

Of course, it’s all utter bullshit.

Fine, I was affected by my experiences as a boy, and I certainly learned from my parents’ mistakes, but I’m not a product of anything. My name is Robert Dade, and I am a self-made man. I never aspired to be a rebel—and I sure as hell was not going to be a follower. To take on either of those identities would be to bind myself to other people’s definitions, definitions that have never interested me. I’ve simply chosen to be the person I am. I created my business, I continue to achieve the success I covet, I live in the city I want to live in, and if I choose to spend my limited free time with someone, it’s not out of obligation, and it’s certainly not because I think I can use them for networking or anything else. No, if I spend time with someone it can only be because I genuinely enjoy their company—and there are very few people whose company I enjoy.

Kasie Fitzgerald is the major exception. I don’t just enjoy her company. I’m in love with her.

I’ve had salt-and-pepper hair for almost half a decade now, I’ve traveled to more than twenty countries, and yet this is my first experience with love. I believe I’m the first person who has ever loved Kasie for who she really is.

Kasie’s parents did try to mold her, using the excesses of Melody, her older sister, to scare her into submission and turn her into an uptight Stepford Wife with an Ivy League education used only to elevate the men around her. Melody died of an overdose a little over fifteen years ago, when Kasie was only fourteen. And that did scare her. So she tried to be the person her parents wanted her to be for a while.

But I saw right through that.

Now she doesn’t even try to hide her true self and I’m the only one she’ll submit to; even then it’s only in the bedroom.

I stand now in the doorframe of my living room, quietly studying her as she lounges across my antique leather sofa, taking in the lean curvature of her legs as she stretches them out across the cushions, the waves of dark hair that brush against her back, the swift movement of her brown eyes as she reads her book, a scholarly account of the vicious love affair between money and war. She’s . . . she’s more than lovely. She’s the personification of what art is. Everything from her perfectly toned body to her razor-sharp mind has been finely crafted with the skill and training of a master, and she is that master and the canvas.

She raises her head from her book, her gaze now mine. “You’re staring,” she says, her voice sensuous, teasing.

“As long as you’re near me, I’ll be looking,” I say simply. “Because I can.”

“Rather entitled.” She places her book on the oak coffee table, careful to put her bookmark in place.

I walk over to her, between the coffee table and the sofa, and place two fingers under her chin, raising her face toward mine. “You’re in my house,” I remind her. “Everything here is mine to look at.”

“I could leave,” she says lightly, a smile playing on the edges of her lips.

“You could. But you won’t.”

“No.” She takes a deep breath, causing her breasts to press against the thin silk of her blouse, tempting me, inviting me. “I won’t.”

It wasn’t that long ago that she would have answered differently. When I met Kasie, she was with someone else, someone unsuited and unworthy of her. I ensured our proximity by devising a way to work with her. I fought for her, won her, and then I fought everyone who wanted to hurt her. I was ruthless; Kasie would say too much so. She’s probably right, but then let’s face it, it’s not as if she hasn’t crossed a few lines herself. And if you won’t be ruthless for love, then how valuable is that love? My real mistake was having underestimated her. She didn’t need my protection, only my partnership. She even left me for a while because I failed to see that.

I won’t make that mistake again.

At least I’ll try not to.

But as I caress her smooth cheek with the back-and-forth motion of my thumb, it’s hard to believe that I would be able to restrain myself if anyone tried to hurt her again.

She rises to her feet, her toes pressing into my silk and wool Persian rug as she lifts herself, bringing her mouth to mine. She tastes like vanilla ice cream and Irish whiskey. Placing my palm on the small of her back I pull her closer, feeling her heat as I open her mouth with my tongue. I move my hands up, then down, to the bottom of her skirt, and then lifting it I find the thin cotton of her panties and run my fingers across the fabric until she trembles against me.

“Can you feel how much I want you?” I ask, bringing her hand down to my cock.

“Yes.” She whispers the word against my neck, and then slowly she lowers herself to her knees. She uses those long, dexterous fingers of hers to unbuckle my belt, pulling it off before moving to the other items of clothing that block her way. When she takes me in her mouth she brings me to a different plane. No woman has made me quiver before, but she does. I reach down, tangling my fingers in her hair as she massages me with her tongue. This Harvard summa cum laude power player is now on her knees, her lips wrapped around me, tasting me, pulling my strength from me as if she were a devilish enchantress.

“Kasie,” I whisper.

I feel the involuntary twitch of my cock as she continues to pleasure and torment. I’m losing control.

Swiftly I pull her away, picking her up and placing her firmly on the sofa. Her lips are pink and swollen; her hair spreads beneath her, a halo of black. I reach forward, taking hold of both sides of her blouse, and then without hesitation I tear it open, letting the buttons scatter. I don’t care about her clothes. There are days when I consider feeding her entire wardrobe to a bonfire, righteously condemning it for the unforgivable sin of concealing her from me.

The white bra she’s wearing is sheer and her hardened nipples are straining against the fabric. When I touch them she moans . . . so sensitive, this one, so irresistibly responsive. I reach forward and lower the straps over her shoulders, then even lower until her breasts are freed from the translucent material and completely exposed. Her arms are bound to her side by the bra but she doesn’t struggle. I remove her skirt, her panties, and still her gaze doesn’t waver. She shed her last remnants of modesty months ago.

“Spread your legs,” I instruct.

Again she takes a deep breath, but she doesn’t refuse. Slowly her legs open, showing me her world. I touch her, gently toying with her clit, watching her tremble and writhe as her arms remain restrained. She’s incredibly wet. Seeing her react to me is almost as arousing as her oral ministrations. I have as much power over her as she has over me. Meeting her mind to mind, body to body, it’s such a scintillating game of will and desire. I slip my finger inside of her and she arches her back and thrusts her hips forward, clearly desperate for relief. She’s still so tight and so very ready for me.

I pull my hand away as she protests with a moan. Slowly I remove what’s left of my clothes as she watches with greedy, demanding eyes. I climb on top of her, hovering just above her, making us both wait, savoring this moment of anticipation as I once again study her. I have never questioned if I had the right to any of my achievements or fortune, but looking at her now, her breathing erratic, her body perfect and needing, I wonder how on earth I was lucky enough to find her.

I squeeze one hand between her back and the sofa, a thin layer of her sweat now on my palm as I carefully undo her bra, releasing its makeshift binds.

In an instant she has freed herself, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me down, thrusting her hips forward, joining us completely. Jesus, it feels so good to be inside this woman. She’s throbbing against me as her nails run up and down my back violently. I love that I bring this out in her, that I have the authority and the permission. I bite her neck and press myself forward, deeper, lost in her, increasing the intensity of our kiss, wanting to be connected to her in every way. And still I want more. I pull her legs over my shoulders and then get up on my knees, leaning over her, pressing her into a V as I take advantage of my new leverage to go even deeper, feeling her absorb me in full, watching her go wild beneath me. She grabs on to my arm, squeezing it, seeming to delight in the bulge of my biceps, as her other hand strokes my shoulders, my back, my chest. It’s everything I can do not to lose it immediately—but I want this to last. I want the release to be earned and potent. I can feel her getting wetter, I can see her eyes widening as her movements become more frantic. I know she’s about to come. I increase my pace, making this a little rougher until she’s overcome. She cries out, her pussy contracting around me . . . I can actually feel her come, watch her climax . . .

It’s got to be the most magnificent and inspiring sight in the world.

It’s also emboldening.

I separate myself from her just long enough to sit up, my feet against the soft carpet, and then swiftly I pull her onto my lap, her feet planted solidly against the sofa on either side of my hips. Without a moment’s hesitation I dive into her again. Her forehead is against mine, her hair falls forward around my shoulders. Nirvana. And then she begins to lean back, further and further, bringing to mind the feats of gymnasts. I grab on to her thighs, supporting her as she finally lowers her back against the tops of my legs. Her head falls back as she reaches behind her and grasps the edge of the table with both hands. I can’t say I disapprove of the view. And now she uses her arms to push herself into me, then pull away. Ah, now she is the one who is setting the pace as she thrusts against me over and over again, letting her legs fall open, then bringing them back up. Her breasts are pert and her nipples hard, her stomach lean with just the right amount of definition. It’s almost too much, this feeling matched with this vision. When I run my fingers up the inside of her thigh she gasps, then bites down on her lower lip. When I lean forward, bringing myself to even further depths, she whimpers with pleasure. And when I pull her back up to me, so we are once again eye to eye, I know she’s ready to orgasm for the second time.

So soon, Kasie? I can’t help but smile. But my own restraint is weakening, and so as she grinds against me, clinging to me, I manage to lift her once more, this time not breaking our connection. Again laying her back against the sofa, thrusting with such force that it comes—that wave of pleasure for her and that spike of total bliss for me.

My mind leaves me as I fill her, pulsing inside her as she cries out in a fully realized state of ecstasy . . .

“Robert!”

My name has never sounded more beautiful.

LATER, WHEN THERE are flames crackling in the fire and her head is on my shoulder, it’s hard not to dwell on the well-worn clichés of love. Who was it that said it first? That the air feels fresher, that food tastes better. Who coined the phrase there’s a song in my heart? And when people first heard it, those who had never been in love must have shaken their heads in confusion. They must have laughed, as I used to laugh at such a moronic sentiment, while those who had felt love must have stopped, awed by the accuracy, the perfection of the metaphor.

But why aren’t there more songs and poetry that acknowledge that to experience the joy you have to accept the fear of its loss?

I can only assume it’s because most people haven’t learned to romanticize fear. They don’t know how to embrace it and use it.

But then, I’m not most people.

The fear of losing Kasie is with me constantly. It’s the kind of fear that spurs men into action.

I look down at her fingers as they gently pull on my chest hair. They’re bare. Not a single ring on them. I want to change that.

“There’s a resort in Saint Barts I’d like to take you to.” Names of jewelry designers flash through my mind in rapid succession—Lorraine Schwartz, Graff Diamonds, Fred Leighton. “We can go next month, on the first—”

“I’ll be in New York.” She stretches her arms above her head, causing her body to tighten and then relax against mine. “There’s a prospective client I’ve agreed to meet.”

“New York?” Kasie has her own small but rapidly growing consulting company. She advises entrepreneurs and small corporations on how to market, refocus, restructure, and attract the best talent, while cutting loose the people and things that obstruct the path to increased power and wealth. The annual revenues of those businesses have thus far ranged between three million and thirty million, approximately. But if she’s going to New York, she must be on the verge of hooking a much bigger fish, one that would make all the traveling expenses required to maintain a cross-country client worth her while.

“Anyone I know?”

“Not sure.” She pulls herself up, reaches for her bra and blouse. “He’s a banker . . . or former banker. Actually, he may be straddling that space between leadership and retirement at the moment. He’s looking to launch a nonprofit and he wants some advice on what kind and where to begin.”

“What bank?” I ask, already reformulating my plan. St. Barts is elegant, but a proposal in New York could be nice, in a top-floor penthouse or roof deck, skyscrapers at our feet. “What’s his name?”

She pulls on her panties, gets up to retrieve her skirt. “Travis Gable.”

I laugh and reach for my own clothes, pulling them on as she fastens the few buttons and hooks I haven’t destroyed. “Is that your way of telling me you don’t want to tell me? Or have you forgotten it?”

She turns to me and I note the hint of confusion as she furrows her brow. “I’m not joking. The client is Travis Gable of HGVB bank.”

For a moment I don’t move, my feet still bare, my shirt unbuttoned to my waist as I try to make sense of this information. “Travis Gable of Forbes’s top billionaires list?” I ask. “The man who’s currently facing down a slew of white-collar crimes on top of—what was the charge, conspiracy to commit murder, or was it just straightforward murder?”

She smiles and nods in acknowledgment as if I’ve just recited a list of eccentricities rather than crimes. “I believe it’s all of the above. I’ll have to trust the justice system to decide if he’s guilty or innocent, and so far they’re not saying he’s guilty. The ugliest charges have resulted in nothing more than a mistrial. They’ll try him again, of course, but if the prosecutors weren’t able to prove their case the first time . . .” She shrugs, implying the conclusion is obvious.

“And the charges against HGVB?”

She bends her neck and laughs, her already tousled hair falling forward around her shoulders. “Name a bank that hasn’t been accused of misdeeds in the last decade. HGVB’s transgressions are the rule, not the exception.”

How the hell can someone so bright be this dense? “He could be dangerous.”

“He could be,” she acknowledges, her tone softer. “Like I said, I have to trust the justice system to decide his guilt or innocence. Or at least I choose to trust the justice system. But if he wants to start over, do some good?” She spreads her hands before her, palms facing up. “Why shouldn’t I be part of that? If I’m able to help Mr. Gable remake himself, his purpose, his image, people will learn my name. This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.”

I take a large step forward, place my hand on her shoulder, hoping that such a light touch may be all that’s necessary to break through her denial. “He could be dangerous to you,” I clarify.

Again she laughs. “What’s he going to do? Assault me during the meeting? Right when the eyes of the world are on him and he awaits his next trial? I’ve never met the man, but he isn’t known for being reckless or stupid. If anything it’s the opposite.”

My grip tightens. Flashes of memory; three minutes of coverage on the evening news, a headline here and there as I made my way through the pages of the Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times, the Washington Post. I hadn’t focused on the details, only the premise: that a man whom few had met but most had heard of had crossed lines no one should ever cross. I vaguely recall seeing him sit across from Anderson Cooper, Diane Sawyer, Greta Van Susteren, icy blue eyes and practiced sincerity filling the screen as he declared his innocence, his ignorance of the supposed wrongdoings, his convenient indignation and sadness. I remember glimpsing at quotes buried in the articles; terms like witch-hunt and class warfare had popped up more than once.

I remove my hand, take a step back. “I don’t want you to do this.”

“Robert, really, you’re being silly—”

“I won’t let you do this.”

Her mouth falls open, her eyes trained on mine. “You shouldn’t say that.” She whispers the words so softly I can easily pretend not to hear them.

“This is a man with the means and the temperament to do people harm.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You cannot get involved with him. Not in any way.”

She hesitates, then shakes her head and steps forward, brushing her lips against mine. “You’re tired,” she says lightly, “and we have more immediate issues to deal with. For instance, I’m going to need another shirt, perhaps one that still has a button or two over the bustline, for decency’s sake.” And then she kisses me again and slips past me to find something to wear, indicating that the topic is closed.

But it’s not closed, not for me. Not by a long shot.

LONG AFTER SHE’S left and midnight has come and gone, I lie alone in my bed, staring at nothing but unoccupied space. I hadn’t invited Kasie to stay over, but when the night began we had both seen that as a given. And yet, she’s not here. When I tried to press her about Travis again, she glanced apologetically at her watch and explained that she had work to do, needed to check her mail, had laundry and dishes: all the canned excuses lovers use when searching for an exit.

Kasie and I should be above that.

Already Travis Gable has diminished us.

How could she think she could align herself with him without risk, without sullying herself with his corruption?

I get up, flip on the light, storm into the bathroom, where I stare at the image in the mirror. I’ve always taken care of myself. Forty-six isn’t far away, but my body is as strong and defined as it was in my twenties. Only the coarseness of my skin, the creases around my eyes, the silver that is scattered randomly over my chest and scalp give away my age. But still, they do give it away. No one has ever looked at me and thought I was young, not even when I was young.

How old is Travis Gable? Forty? Younger? I couldn’t begin to guess. There’s something mildly inhuman about him. Something alien.

I curl my fingers into a fist and then flex them, pressing them into the countertop. My name is not on the tip of every tongue. The average housewife would have no idea who I am. But in the boardrooms, in the offices with views of the Pacific and the Atlantic, the men’s clubs where the best cigars are smoked without apology—there they know me, and they fear me. I have influence and I am not kind to my enemies. Yes, Kasie, I can be ruthless.

But Travis Gable . . . he takes it to another level, doesn’t he? The Gable name was legendary even before the recent scandals. It’s up there with Bloomberg and Koch. An eighth-grader might recognize it. Only the least informed among us are unaware of the power Travis Gable wields. And when someone that rich and that powerful wants to hurt someone, he can. Kasie suggesting that she can trust the courts to deal with this man is a joke. Justice has never been blind. It isn’t even color-blind, and the color it likes most is green.

“You won’t work for him, Kasie.” I say the words, using them as a way of soothing my own agitated mind. She won’t do this. That’s it. Simply, it’s been decided.

I take a deep breath, fill a ceramic cup by the sink with water, and swallow it in a rough gulp. It’s been decided. It’s as easy as that.

It takes me another hour to finally fall asleep, whispering words of conviction to myself until the world goes dark.

THE NEXT DAY I travel to her office. She hadn’t been expecting me, and when I walk in she starts, clutching the edge of her desk as if she needs support even as her face brightens with happy surprise.

“My secretary didn’t offer to announce you?” she asks.

“She’s away from her desk.” I walk along the walls of the room. Art is scarce; an original oil painting with a cubist bent on the left wall, across from it a large, dramatic black-and-white photograph of the sand dunes of Japan under a stormy sky.

“Most people would have waited for her to return,” she says, then after I give her a look she laughs. “I know, I know, you’re not most people.” Then, in a warm, somewhat sultry tone she adds, “You’re Robert Dade, the moon to my ocean.”

I smile at the metaphor; it’s one she’s been using for some time now and it still appeals to me. Two separate entities that are always connected. I like to think that I influence her tides of temperament, increase her power, while she connects me to everything that’s real. Because, as I once told her, what is the moon without the ocean?

Nothing but a remote and barren rock.

I walk to the window and take a moment to stare through the glass. The view is decent if not grand. Still, she should take pride in the modest luxuries of this space, from the view to the art. She earned them all without the help of anyone else. She’s stumbled a few times on her path to success, but each time she rises it’s swift, and each rise brings her higher than the last.

The soft click of her heels tells me she’s approaching. I feel the gentle pressure of her hand as she rests it between my shoulder blades.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks quietly.

“You,” I reply simply. “Who you are, who you used to be. When I first met you, you were . . .” I pause as I try to find a word that is accurate without sounding condescending.

“Lost,” she supplies. She steps up so she is now standing by my side, her eyes scanning the same landscape. “It’s not that it seems so long ago, it wasn’t. But . . . it seems like that time, those experiences . . . they must have happened in an alternate universe. It just seems so ridiculous that I could have let anyone convince me that I had to somehow compensate for my sister’s mistakes, those faults that led to her death. I was so caught up in trying not to be her, I had completely lost track of who I actually was.”

“Yes, well, the very fact that you were willing to tie yourself to that insipid little asshole you were dating when we met proves you didn’t know your worth,” I note. “I went after him because he tried to hurt you, but he was never competition. He was too common and weak to hold anyone’s interest for long. The only person I had to fight in order to win you was you.”

“Yes, well I was fighting myself, too.”

I turn to her, bending my head even as she lifts hers toward mine. I run my finger along her throat, then down and to the delicate area where I can feel the beat of her gradually accelerating pulse.

“You can always have the best, Kasie,” I say quietly. “A woman like you never has to settle for anything.”

I mean it as a compliment, but for some reason when the sentence leaves my lips I experience a stab of unease that I can’t explain.

“Well, fortunately I know what the best looks like now,” she says as she links her arms around my neck. Then she lifts herself enough for the kiss, biting down gently on my lower lip as she pulls away. “I know what it tastes like, too. I’ll never settle for less again.”

“Do you remember the first time I tasted you,” I ask, “in my suite at the Venetian?”

She nods, her pulse vibrating beneath my fingertip.

“Your secretary must be back at her desk by now,” I continue. “Call her, tell her to hold your calls. You have one more meeting you need to take before lunch.”

She smiles and gently pulls away. I watch as she goes to her phone, listen as she follows my instructions.

“Jen, I’m going to need you to hold any calls that come in for . . .”—her voice fades out as she feels me behind her, lifting her skirt to her waist—“for . . . I mean, it might be a little while . . . I . . .” My hand is between her legs, lifting up, applying a delicate pressure. I have her panties down to her knees, her ankles. “I’ll let you know when I can walk—talk, I mean talk.”

She places the phone down in the cradle and allows herself a nervous laugh, her cheeks flushed as she turns to me. “Robert,” she says, breathless, chastening even as she reaches for me.

“Get on your desk,” I say simply. And without another word she does, perched on the edge, shuddering as I pull her knees apart. “Do you remember what it felt like?” I ask as I sit in her chair, positioning myself between her thighs. “That first experience?”

“Yes,” she whispers again.

“Tell me.” With each caress I can feel the warming of her skin, hear the increased pace of her breathing.

“It was like something happened to me,” she murmurs. “There was this ache and . . . and every part of my body was suddenly so much more sensitive and . . . it was . . . intense. It was ecstasy.”

“And now?” I ask and I lean forward, let my tongue flick across her clit before pressing it flat against it, massaging it with a circular motion.

“Everything,” she gasps, “all of it . . . but more . . . now everything is . . . more—oh!” She gasps again as I add my fingers to the fun, slipping them inside of her as my tongue continues its work. I love the way she tastes, I love the very scent of her arousal. I use my free hand to hold her waist as she leans back on her arms, her head now fallen back, her gaze pointed upward as if she’s searching for God in this moment of rapture. I change the pace and pattern of my service, giving her new sensations until she finally has to put her hand against her mouth, muffling her cry. But before she can recover, I have my hand on my belt, removing the impediments that separate us. I enter her, slowly grinding against her as I support her weight with my hands and tilt her back until her body is pressed against the hardness of her desk, papers crinkling underneath her as I hold her legs over my shoulder, keeping her tight as I lose myself in the warmth of her. I hadn’t planned on this, but being so close to her, reflecting on the confident woman she has become . . . I just know that I need this now. I need to feel my place with her, my place inside of her. Feeling her quivering for me, wanting me right here in the center of her success, in this off