Read Restoring Jordan Online

Authors: Elizabeth Finn

Restoring Jordan

Restoring Jordan

Elizabeth Finn

Published 2012

ISBN: 978-1-93176-111-6

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2012, Elizabeth Finn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

 

Manufactured in the United States of America

Liquid Silver Books

http://LSbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Blurb

When Adeline Parker decides to celebrate landing a coveted internship at one of Chicago’s most prestigious architectural firms by indulging in a brutally dark and handsome man, she gets more than she bargained for.

Lost in a maze of hallways on the first day of her new position, she stumbles headlong into a boardroom of suits. Very expensive suits. They are the somebodies of this prestigious firm, and she is, by all accounts, the very definition of a nobody. And sitting at the table with the rest of the principals from the firm is a man—the very man who unwittingly deflowered her only days before.

From the look of it, Jordan Ellinwood is none too happy to see her again; by his own admission, he’s a one-night-stand man, and the fact she conned him into taking her virginity isn’t sitting well with him either. But as her path is inextricably attached to his, their closeness will no longer be a choice.

As an intern, she’s off-limits, and that says nothing of the fact he’s twelve years older than she is. But when coworkers bent on jealousy and resentment threaten her reputation and internship, the long-dormant emotions Jordan has so effectively stifled fight to break free. And as he struggles to get out of his own way long enough to let her see his compassion, her career is jeopardized and leaves him fighting with every last ounce of himself to save her.

Will it be enough? Can he overcome his emotional shortcomings in time to rescue her future and his own—now so very attached to hers?

Dedication

Thank you, dearest J, for allowing me to share your humiliation with my readers. What can I say; I needed to humiliate my girl, Adeline, and your humiliation will never be forgotten by those of us who were there. Always remember your slips, ladies, if you intend to tear your skirt off on a stage…

Chapter 1

“Do you want to fuck me?”

His words stop me cold in my tracks. Can you just ask someone something like that and expect them to answer? Well I certainly couldn’t, but this man … I’m sure he gets away with it all the time.

I caught sight of him instantly upon entering the bar with my girlfriends. Far too old for me—I’m guessing mid-to-late thirties at least. But he’s gorgeous, dressed like a man with money. And obviously puts the cock in cocky. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. But while my gaze followed him from the moment I caught sight of him, his gaze did not find me. Of course it didn’t; I’m me, and he is … breathtaking. He was with a group of other men of similar age and, I’m guessing, stature. But he takes the cake on looks.

It appears more business meeting than men out on the town, especially given it’s only three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Just because my closest friends think this is an appropriate time to celebrate my new internship doesn’t mean the rest of the world is on our clock. And as we chat, laugh, joke, and behave in ways no respectable women should in the middle of the day, I continue to sneak glimpses. But like I said, he does not appear to even know I exist. For that matter, he doesn’t realize our group of young women is even there at all. He’s most enthralled with the conversation of his group, and while the other men at their table have taken turns glancing our way, he glanced at us perhaps once before dismissing us and returning to his group.

When I exit the restroom and come face to face with the man and his oh-so inappropriate question, I freeze. He’s more handsome than I initially thought from forty or so feet away. In fact, he’s incredible to look at. Why a man like him would proposition a girl like me is beyond my comprehension. And in my frozen state, I take in his calm and impassive expression. The question deserves an answer—hell, it deserves a swift slap across the face—but instead, I just stare. And he stares back—waiting.

As his hand reaches out to my body, I don’t stop him. My heart pounds, my brain panics and demands I run, but my body betrays me and flushes and tingles. It’s as if his very masculine, long-fingered hand moves in slow motion as it closes the space between our bodies. When his unfamiliar fingers touch my blouse right above the waist of my pants, my stomach muscles instantly clench and quiver, but I still don’t move. When he undoes the button of my pants with only the fingers of his one hand, I maintain my position. When he slides the zipper of my pants down, moving far slower than necessary, my breaths come in quick desperate gasps, but I still don’t move an inch.

His eyes are smoldering, wide, dark, and intense. I have no good reason to let this complete stranger touch my body, but at the moment, it’s the only thing my body wants. At any moment, someone could enter the small corridor we are standing in, but he isn’t concerned in the least. And as his hand slips past the waist of my underwear, pushing its way to my sex, I stop breathing altogether. His hand is warm and demanding, and I should stop him, I should scream, anything at all to keep this from happening. But he knows I won’t; he knows I have no intention of stopping what is to come. I want his fingers on my skin. I have from the moment I caught sight of him upon entering the bar. Wasn’t this what I was imagining while sitting with my best gal pals celebrating? It’s my celebration after all. Shouldn’t I be able to have a little fun? But the truth of the matter is this isn’t me! I don’t have fun; I don’t fuck around with strangers in narrow corridors of swanky downtown bars. This isn’t me … but still, I won’t stop him. I want to be exactly the type of girl who fucks about with a man like him.

When his finger touches the top of my sex, my hips instantly thrust toward him, and a gasp escapes my lips in my want for more. But his finger doesn’t linger there for longer than a second before sliding between the lips of my vagina, passing over my clitoris as it makes its way to my entry. This man has no idea just how inept I am, and at the moment, I’m far too in heat to stop his touch, slow his movements, or challenge him in any way. I’m without doubt the oldest virgin in the near vicinity, and in the cover of anonymity I won’t be announcing just how inexperienced I am. He is anything but inexperienced, and with any luck my pathetic naïveté won’t be too obvious.

He smells amazing. It’s the smell of expensive cologne, but it’s light and subtle. It isn’t musky, but clean, earthy, and warm. He’s clean-shaven, and his dark hair is tousled but professional. His suit is wool and probably cost more than my rent for the better portion of the year. His teeth are perfectly straight and white. And when I use his arm to steady myself while his fingers explore and invade the most private part of my body, the well-developed muscles of his upper arms ripple and contract at my touch. The quiet, husky moan that emanates from his lips reveals what his impassive and dark eyes don’t: he wants this just as much as I do. That’s impossible, and yet it’s as true as my own desire.

“Come home with me.” He speaks with a warm, purring voice that has my knees shaking.

There’s nothing purring about my voice as I respond, “You could be a serial killer.”

“And yet oddly enough, I’m not…” The slight smile that crosses his delicious-looking mouth assures me he’s not offended by my question … but I’m not sure I should care. This is reckless. But his fingers still tease and linger between my legs; his palm is snug against my skin, brushing over my most sensitive nub and held tight to my body by the clothing that is still firmly in place. I swear I’ll cry if he pulls away from me. But this isn’t me. I don’t do this. I can’t do this. I’m responsible, not reckless. I’m frigid, not a slut. I care about my career, not sex. But still, this man…

His finger plunges into my entry, filling me and releasing a groan so unfamiliar I clasp my hand to my mouth. His eyes watch me. He’s waiting for my response … as though my moan weren’t enough. Didn’t I remain chaste for a reason? Wasn’t there a purpose to it? But even as the questions enter my mind, so too does his finger enter my tight, virgin sheath once more. And I’m reminded I’ve thought often and with intense longing of an experience such as this. Remaining a virgin was nothing more than my immersion in my studies, my fear of becoming attached to something other than my goal. My friends have cried; they’ve languished away at ended relationships. I’ve never had such a problem. Instead, I’ve been focused, driven to the point of obsession on my studies. It’s how I managed to remain at the top of my class. It’s how I managed to land the best internship my grades could buy.

Foster Architectural Designs, to be exact. They award one internship per year for the second half of the spring term, and in two short days I’ll be walking through their doors to my new, albeit temporary, place there. It’s the final hurdle between me and my diploma. They rate brutally, but if you survive … moreover, if you thrive, you will be assured the very best job offers at the very best firms. So, it’s all a reason to celebrate; there is no doubt about this fact. And so the question remains:
why not him?

His mouth moves to my neck, and when his gaze passes beyond my periphery, my body clenches in waiting anticipation. The warmth of his breath is the first I feel of his impending touch, and it sends a searing warmth and wetness flooding to my core. When his lips touch my neck there is little I can do to stop the gasp from my throat and the quiver that runs through my body. When his tongue flicks across my neck, my gasp turns into a cry as the pleasure courses through my veins and straight to the pulsing warmth between my legs. I will absolutely be going home with this man.

* * * *

Entering his home is intimidating. It’s a beautifully restored mansion in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago, and it’s expensive. Far more so than my renovated old turn-of-the-century house that’s been broken up into a fourplex. Where my apartment has old, lumpy, plaster lattice walls, his house has perfectly leveled, pristine ones with an impossibly flat finish. Where mine has old, worn hardwood with dinks and grooves aplenty, his are as pristine as the walls—smooth, satin finish, unblemished, and shimmering. His fixtures are restored to perfect original working order, as is nearly every other aspect of his home. Mine are original as well and haven’t been touched since the home was built … a gazillion years ago. His home smells of him—clean, warm, enticing, and my intimidation may be just as much for the impressive surroundings I’m standing in than what I’m getting into.

The ride over was just as erotic as our time in the corridor. His hand remained on my leg, stroking, caressing as he maneuvered his equally expensive car through the streets of downtown. I tried my best to act normal, but my stomach was fluttering in anticipation. I’m not immune to sexual desire, even if I’ve managed to avoid it for the most part. My virginity, if you’re wondering, is not something I have a particular attachment to. I never have. I didn’t set out to avoid relationships, but my introversion certainly didn’t attract them. I’ve wanted to be done with it for a while now, but where every other man I came across simply failed to catch my attention, this one for some reason did not. Was it his looks? Perhaps his smell, or more than likely his maturity. There’s something so very arousing about a calm, controlled, confident man—qualities most often found in an older man. He’s hardly old, but when you’re twenty-two, it doesn’t take much for your age to be dwarfed.

When his hand catches the strap of my purse and eases it off my shoulder and to the floor of the entryway, I pause. He steps closer to my back as I hear the strap of my bag gently fall to the floor. And I wait in pathetic excitement for his next touch. I do not care what this man does to my body; I just want it to be him. I have no excuse for my want. I have no cause for my sudden uncontrollable urge to give myself to this stranger. I have no purpose but my long overdue need for this. I’ve set this part of my life aside for so very long. I’ve denied and refused to pay it any attention, and now it yearns, begs to get out. Was it the celebration, the culmination of my years of hard work that have unleashed this part of my soul? Do I care? My skin is on fire. My body is suddenly hypersensitive to every touch, every wisp of air, every glance raking over my skin. I will take my needs from him. He will serve my purpose and release me from my want.

His hand meets my shoulder with a gentle unexpected touch, and his words follow. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he warns.

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