"Stop it," she demands, trying not to smile at his antics.
"Stop what?" he asks, oozing male chauvinistic charm.
"Stop fantasizing."
"Why, Diamond, just because your mind's in the gutter doesn't necessarily mean mine is as well."
She joyfully laughs, and the sound fills the limousine and leeches into his heart.
"My mind's mulling over the fact that I'm sitting in the back of a limo with my fav - " she quickly corrects herself, "with a famous author."
"What kind of author am I?" he prods.
"One who thinks he's better than he actually is."
"My book sales happen to back up my superior skills."
"Your book sales prove that Americans happen to be grossly fascinated with murder."
His eyes meld with hers. "This American happens to be grossly fascinated with you."
Their bodies are perpendicular to one another in the back of the limo; their knees barely an inch apart and he has to consciously keep reminding himself to only look at her face, not be a complete douche by drooling over her legs. Those fuckin toned legs he can see far too much of, which he envisions wrapping around his waist and squeezing his ass as she grinds down sinfully.
She gazes at him as if he's the first man she's come across that she can't quite figure out and it makes her uncomfortable as well as extremely hmm . . . if he had to put a word to it, he'd say 'hot.'
And most definitely bothered.
Her stare pierces every pore on his skin and his blood boils and thrums in response to her heated gaze; her lips part while she's unconsciously thinking, making him wonder what will come out of her sultry mouth next.
"You are certainly a red-blooded American male as you're NOT fantasizing very loudly."
His answering smarmy grin would give Robert De Niro a run for his money. "Now I'm not admitting to anything. . . "
"Of course not."
"But if I were, what do you think I'm fantasizing about?"
"You're wondering, - " and the toe of her pump glides along his Ferragamo loafers, "if I'm wearing my birthday suit beneath this trench coat and exactly how long it would take to find out."
"3.3 seconds flat," flies out of his mouth without a thought and her answering, I-love-a-man-who's-quick-with-his-hands, smirk keeps his cock achingly aware of her.
"I'm not, you know," she sighs, looking as stunningly brilliant as her name.
"Not what?"
"Stark naked beneath this coat."
"Hmm, I didn't think you were."
"You're a terrible liar."
He plays affronted, all droopy eyelids and down turned lips. "I'm envisioning you wearing an elegant silk, lilac negligee with cream lace trim, a sweetheart neckline and barely long enough to skim that magnificent ass."
"Let me guess. . . With a matching thong?"
"Of course," he chuckles, "Because you dressed like a Victoria Secret model would make even a devoted Monk rethink his vows."
"Interesting. I would have pegged you more as a slutty-black-leather-kind-of-guy."
"I'm officially offended," but from his, I-get-off-on-verbal-sword-play tone of voice, he's anything but. . . "I prefer a woman to look beautifully classy with just a hint of bad-girl edge, rather than if she walked straight out of 'Lady Irena's House of Pain'."
"So you prefer the girl-next-door type compared to the sexually liberated woman?"
"No, not necessarily. A promiscuous woman who knows who she is and exactly what she wants from a man is extremely appealing. . . Let's just say my type of woman is the perfect combination of both."
A slight flush rises to the apple of her cheeks and he can tell by the way her fingers nervously smooth down the coat, she's interpreted correctly he's hoping she's that woman.
"I have a prediction about tonight," he husks out, moving his body more towards her so their knees graze one another.
"So in addition to being a creative author, you also dabble in fortune telling?"
"I'm a man of many talents. I'm hoping you'll let me demonstrate a few tonight."
"Woah, down boy," she chuckles, and those multi-colored eyes leer at him from head to toe. "I'm the one who's in charge this evening, remember? . . . I owe you a tour. Where would you like to umm," and her tongue snakes out and licks her lower lip, "start?"
Glorious fuck, everything about her infers she'd like to give him a tour of her body, the, I-prefer-to-stay-naked-all-day-long voice, the fluttering of her thick as molasses lashes, her Heidi Klum gams crossing one over the other, purposefully allowing him to catch a glimpse of black chiffon beneath the coat.
He wants to tour so many places on her delectable flesh, - lift up her straight hair and start at the sweet spot on the nape of her neck, nibble at the smooth juncture of her neck and shoulder, taste every freckle, every blemish and mole as his lips map out her back, down her spinal column until he reaches. . .
"I'd like to start by learning your name."
"Castle," she says with teasing exasperation. "That's not going to happen, so STOP asking."
"Wow. You're sure being demanding tonight." A smile creeps into his voice to match his frisky mood. "Castle, stop fantasizing," he mimics her. "Castle, stop asking my name. . . When do I get the chance to ask you to 'stop' something?"
"Well that would be a first," and her eyes light up devilishly. "No man has ever asked me to stop anything before."
"I plan on being your first in MANY different things."
"Hypothetically speaking, if I were to give you permission, - and that's a Biiiig If, - what would you ask of me?"
His eyes hone in on her exotic face, his hand following suit, and he brushes the back of it across her silky cheek, fingers delving in the layers of her hair.
"Stop being Diamond for just a couple of hours and let me be with you. . . The girl who was most likely raised in an upper class family because she exudes stellar manners and grace, but who suffered a deep tragedy which affected every facet of her life. The woman whose heart of gold was once an open book but is now hidden inside a steel safe, just waiting for the right man to come along and figure out the combination to unlock it. The woman who hopes one day she can put back together the pieces of her shattered life. . . Let me be privy to her," he pleads, "the one who's striving for inner peace but wonders if she'll ever find it."
He knows he's hit close to home by her quick intake of breath and her eyes darting away from his.
He has to strain to hear her as she says barely above a whisper, "I may have underestimated you, Richard Edgar Castle."
Castle swears under his breath as Brandon's voice floats over the intercom, interrupting them.
"Mister Castle, we're five minutes away from our destination."
She pulls away from his touch and glares at him teasingly. "Five minutes away? I thought I was in charge of this date. What exactly do you have planned for us because I happen to hate surprises."
"That's impossible. No woman hates surprises."
"I'm not like most women."
"So I've noticed," he drawls, before hitting the intercom and telling Brandon to head towards the rear hangar. "I want to be your tour guide tonight. Show you the city I love through my eyes."
"Really now? And what if I refuse?"
"You won't."
"And why not?"
He sits back and interlocks his fingers behind his head, grinning outrageously, emitting a raunchy Don-Juan vibe. "Because you've finally met your match in a man."
"Mmm, the tabloids didn't embellish your cocky nature."
"They also didn't embellish my other fine, manly attributes."
"You sure do seem anxious to show me those," and her eyes fall daringly to his crotch, "attributes, Writer Boy."
He chuckles, "That's the understatement of the year, but I happen to be a very patient man."
"I doubt you even know the meaning of the word."
"I'd love to prove to you just how patient I can be, - especially in the bedroom."
Her leg starts swinging back and forth, back and forth, those fuck-me-heels skimming along his pant leg. "I may have to go against my better judgement and test you someday."
The hidden promise behind her words has his cock throbbing in cadence with his galloping heart.
"I predict you're going to have the most memorable time of your life tonight," his eyes skim to the zipper at the top of the trench coat, "and by the time the night ends," then fall to the knot at her waist, "you'll gladly give me your name."
He finally zeros in on those gorgeous gams; I-am-undoubtedly-a-leg-man, radiating from every fiber of his being.
"Dream on," she laughs. "Many men have tried," but her 'come hither' voice tells him she's hoping he's the one to get past all her barriers and extract the information.
So many possibilities and they all end up with the same outcome.
Him.
Her.
Uncontrollable, out of this world passion.
Naked, slick bodies.
Hours of immense, carnal pleasure.
Rick determines to win this round, no matter what the cost. This woman who's in his veins and fueling his deepest fantasies doesn't stand a chance if he brings his 'A game', but as he takes in her svelte form and lovely pink mouth, which has the power to unhinge a man, he's worried he just might be the one who doesn't stand a chance.
She's honestly can't believe where she is. . . Sitting next to her favorite author with a headset on, helicopter blades whirring loudly overhead, looking down at the captivating city blanketed in a sea of lights.
She has to admit she's pretty impressed with his ingenuity as no man's ever thought before to take her on a helicopter tour.
The view from the chopper's stunning. . . The setting sun's spewing red and pink rays into the darkened sky, creating an artist's dream of color.
"Oh my God, Castle, this is just incredible." She looks around in awe at the brilliance of New York. "I've always known how blessed I am to be living in such a beautiful city but from this view, it literally takes my breath away."
His voice deepens, rasps out, "Yes, absolutely incredible, utterly breathtaking," and she doesn't have to see his eyes caressing her face to know he's talking about her.
Gawd, the way he's looking at her, - possessive, covetous, - she's seriously thinking about throwing caution to the wind and just owning the man.
She pictures himself kneeling in front of him, placing one hand on his strong thigh, the other between his legs, fingers slightly grazing his manhood. She'll tip forward, her mouth millimeters away from his and beg, "Take me, Castle," before her lips slide across his large mouth, finally tasting him.
She can practically taste the dark roast coffee and sinful desire rolling off his tongue, feel the growth of his cock as she deepens the kiss, feel. . .
"Alright folks," Dave, their pilot, speaks to them through the headset, "off to the right is New York Harbor and Liberty Island. And there she is, the ever-impressive Statue of Liberty. She was a gift from France back in 1886 representing Libertas, the Roman Goddess of Freedom. . . She stands 151 feet tall and is a welcoming sight to all who arrive from abroad."
"Have you ever visited Ellis Island?" he asks.
"Yes, I've been on the Statue of Liberty tour twice before. Both times were in my youth."
"So were you born and raised here?"
"Yes, Manhattan born and bred," she chuckles, "I'm afraid I'll never leave. New York is officially my home."
No need to divulge she has to stay close to her father to keep an eye on him, make sure he attends his AA meetings and doesn't fall off the wagon, - again, and she isn't about to reveal she wants to be near her mother's gravestone so she can visit often.
"Where did you go to high school?"
"Stuyvesant High."
"I'd bet in addition to taking all AP courses," he teases, "you were on the Minority Rights Council as well as the debate team, and had the reputation of being a heart breaker."
"Close," she grins, sighing dramatically. "Yes, I took several AP classes but I'll have you know I was head of the drama team and on the fund-raising committee. Our school worked with a couple of local charities to help underprivileged families."
"Ahh, you were the Principal's pet."
"Hardly," she chuckles, "but I did spend a fair amount of time in his office."
"Why Diamond, are you hinting you were a troublemaker in school?" By the bold, Oh-my-God, look in his eyes, he's seriously hoping she'll confirm his theory and relay a scandalous secret.
"Let's just say he didn't appreciate it when I started driving my Harley to school every day."
His peony-blue eyes grow wide as saucers at the same time his mouth drops open in an, Unbelieveable,-I-didn't-think-it-was-possible-but-you-just-became-fuckin-hotter-in-my-eyes, kind of way.
"Stop visualizing me in skin tight leather, straddling a motorcycle, Castle. . . And here I thought you weren't a leather-type-of-guy."
"Where you're concerned, I'm-any-type-of-guy," he says sheepishly. "But there goes my fantasy of you being head cheerleader right out the window."
"Head cheerleader, really? . . . I wouldn't have pegged you as that cliche high school boy. I picture you being drawn more to the shy brainiac; the girl who dreams of numbers and a guy who can sweep her off her romantic feet with just his vocabulary."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I fell into the category of the shallow, typical guy falling for the snooty, popular girl, the one who never paid any attention to the four-eyed bookworm."
"A typical guy, huh? I get the impression you're anything but typical."
His gaze is melting her from the inside out; imprinting on her flesh as he looks solely at her instead of the scenery around them.
They fly over the Manhattan Bridge, as well as the Empire State Building, all the while listening to the Pilot's energetic voice giving them facts and figures about each of the monuments, and if she were a betting woman, she'd bet a month's salary he won't remember a thing on the tour because his concentration is solely on her.
How has this man in a span of barely a week been able to turn her life upside down and make her hope for the unattainable dream?
She's hyper aware of him as they're sitting on a small bench seat, only a few inches separating their thighs from touching. The heat radiating from off his body is almost palpable. His eyes are spewing desire, filling her with unsurpassed need, drugging her with the possibilities of unseen pleasures, the possibility of burning alive under his touch.
She wonders what his reaction would be if she got the courage to just mount him, - jump on those massive thighs and splay herself wantonly over him, inhale his scent, breathe through his kisses, survive the inferno through him.
"The last place on our tour is Central Park," Dave says. "It's beauty covers over 800 acres of land and is the most visited Park in the entire U.S.A."
"Oh God," she whispers, gazing out the window at the scenic park below.
Unexpected tears prick at her eyes as she catches a glimpse of a landmark she's familiar with.
A memory assails her of when she was a young girl, holding her mother's hand while walking along the pedestrian path.
Her throat starts to clog as she sees the metal swing set and merry-go-round Johanna nicknamed, 'Katie's place."
A wave of emotion claws at her chest when she notices the bike trail leading to the lake. She sees herself at 13, bubbling over with happiness, not a care in the world, with her mother at her side, biking along the path until they come to an empty bench to rest upon. . . How she loved throwing stale pieces of bread to the ducks and geese, watching them amble their way up to shore where her mother would laughingly try to pet one.
"Diamond, what's wrong?" Castle asks, reaching for her hand.
"It's nothing really. It's just been such a long time since, - " she swipes embarrassingly at the corner of her eye, "since I've seen the park."
"There's obviously something more," he says soothingly, trying to coax her to open up to him.
She nibbles briefly on her lip, tears glistening in her hazel eyes and with her heart on her sleeve says, "Thank you, Rick. You've done something I thought was near impossible."
"Who me?" he jests, rubbing his thumb enticingly over the back of her palm. "An egotistical author who believes you've finally met your match? A writer who knows he needs a woman like you in his life to ground him?"
His words swirl around her in a vortex of yearning, whipping through her battered heart, - making her wish for more with this man who has the ability to completely undo her, make her believe in fate and destiny and forever.
Oh fuck, he's doing it again, looking at her as if she's the most tempting dessert on the planet and he can't wait to sink his teeth into her flesh and enjoy one sweet morsel at a time.
"Yes you, Writer boy," and she flashes him her thousand-watt smile. "You made this happen," and her hand squeezes his lovingly. "You brought back some beautiful memories for me that I thought were long forgotten."
"I did, huh?" and his smarmy, I-am-so-going-to-take-advantage-of-this-situation grin, tells her what he's going to say next. "How do you plan on thanking me?"
"The night's still young and it depends on whether you're a good boy or not."
"Define 'good'."
"'Good' can have multiple meanings," she purrs, "and I'm afraid you'll fall short in a few of the categories."
He'd better fall short as I need the master of, I-can-make-you-scream-all-night-long, to come out and play.
"I'll make it easy for you," and his bad-boy vibe has her thinking about pulling down the zipper of her coat and showing him what's beneath. "There's only one thing I want from you."
"Only one?"
"One," he says firmly, and from the honorable, stalwart look in his eyes she almost believes him.
"In my experience, no man EVER just wants one thing from me."
"Hey, have I ever lied to you?" and his hand cups her face gently, raising her eyes to his.
"I don't believe so."
"Good" and his sexy-as-a-Chippendale-dancer smile makes her want to grab his metro sexual collar and yank him towards her, losing herself inside his witty mouth. "Because I haven't. . . The only thing I want from you, Diamond, is to know your real name."
"Damn Castle," and her eyes roll of their own accord. "You sound like a broken record. Why is it so important to you?"
"Be - cause," he says throatily, placing a tendril of hair behind her ear, "I'm not going to fuck Diamond. . . I'm going to make love to the woman with the beautiful, damaged soul."