Play Me #2: Play Me Hot is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 9780804177825
Cover design: Georgia Morrissey
Cover photograph: MarishaSha/Shutterstock
www.readloveswept.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One: Sebastian
Chapter Two: Aria
Chapter Three: Sebastian
Chapter Four: Aria
Chapter Five: Sebastian
By Tracy Wolff
About the Author
The Editor’s Corner
Chapter One
Sebastian
Aria is trembling. Whether from fear or desire I don’t know, but it’s a question I need answered before I go any further. And we are going further—there’s no doubt as to that. The only question is when. Now, if she’s ready. Later, if she needs time to get used to what I want from her, used to where I want to take her.
I want to give her the world, not make her afraid of it.
She sighs, a quiet, intoxicating thing that I might have overlooked if I wasn’t pressed up against her, my body crowding hers, the back of her head resting against my shoulder. I press a kiss to her temple and she responds by burrowing closer. Turning her head so that her face is buried in my neck. We fit together perfectly, thanks to the four inch heels she wears for work, her back resting against my front. Her sweet ass cradling my rock-hard dick.
“You didn’t answer me,” I tell her, left hand stroking her hip while my right slides around her torso, cupping her left breast. I pull her even closer.
“I don’t—” Her voice breaks and she clears her throat before starting again. “I don’t know what to say.”
Of course she doesn’t. She can take a rich bastard down without breaking a sweat, can let the most blatant, unwanted advances roll right off her back. But one glimpse of real desire, real need, and she’s lost. It’s just one more reason why I want to be the one who takes her on this journey. Who opens her eyes to the myriad possibilities and pleasures she barely knows exist.
Stroking her aching, aroused nipple, I listen for the way her breathing pattern changes. Relish the way her whole body tightens against mine. “Say yes,” I urge as I run my thumb back and forth over the tight bud, a little harder with each pass.
“Sebastian.” Her voice breaks in the middle but her back arches, pressing her breast more firmly into my palm. I give her the pressure, the touch, she’s so blatantly asking for.
“Say you want me to take control.” I slide the hand on her hip down a little, curve it around the upper part of her leg so that my fingers are stroking the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
“Say you want to learn what it means to have total command—of yourself, of your body. Of your pleasure. Of your partner.” There can be no misunderstandings. Not with what I want to do to her.
A part of me thinks I should back off, let her think, but it’s too late for that. Too late for me to just step back and let her go. Not when her every broken sigh makes my dick harder and my focus sharper.
I squeeze her nipple now, roll it between my thumb and forefinger. Not hard enough to hurt, not yet. Just hard enough to make her whimper, make her shake. To remind her of what’s coming if she says yes.
“I want—” Her voice breaks again. This time I don’t help her out. This time I push her a little further, my fingers skimming along the seam of her leg where it meets her hip. Rubbing back and forth against the lace there. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until she’s squirming against me, her breath coming in ragged fits and starts.
“Sebastian.” Her voice is low, husky, nearly unrecognizable and my whole body tightens as I register the tension in it. The surrender she doesn’t yet know how to voice.
“Yes, Aria?” I slip first one finger inside her panties, and then a second. She’s wet and hot and trembling and I want nothing more than to bring her off, bring her over again and again and again. But she’s not there yet, not quite ready for all the things I plan to do to her.
And so I wait, stroking my fingers softly, slowly, along the petals of her sex. She gasps then, her hands coming backward over her head to circle my neck. To hold me closer.
I like the feel of her hands on me, almost as much as I like the feel of my hands on her. I slip my thumb inside her panties now, too, as a reward. I toy with her clit even as I press one finger between her lips and stroke, stroke, stroke.
She trembles, her body jerking against my own. And then she’s burrowing her face more tightly against my neck, licking her way along the edge of my collar.
It feels good, her breath warm and wet against my skin. Her body soft and yielding against the hardness of my own. Knowing she needs the contact—and the small amount of control it gives her—I tilt my head back and let her do her worst.
She does. Jesus Christ, does she.
Her lips skim along my jaw, from my chin up to the sensitive spot behind my ear. She pauses there, sucks gently at my skin. Then bites, one sharp, clean nip of her teeth.
Fuck.
Her tongue is out now, soothing the small hurt, the small bruise that I know she will have left there. Marking me as I so desperately long to mark her.
As I will mark her, as soon as she says—
“Yes.” For the first time since we started this, her voice is strong, steady, sure.
It’s my turn to shake, something that never happens to me anymore. Relief, I realize, slowly pulling my hands from her body before she notices. A breach in my control is not what either of us need right now.
Except—
“Sebastian?” Her voice is quiet, her body searching as she turns a little into me..
I stop her with a hand on her hip, keep her facing the window. A glance at the clock on the wall tells me we have twenty minutes before she’s supposed to be back on the casino floor. And while everything inside me revolts at the idea of letting her go back down there now that she’s mine, of standing by and watching other men grab and grope the sweet body that is even now moving against my own, it’s not my choice. Not now.
Not yet.
I want to do so much to her, want to take her apart like a puzzle, until I’m holding each individual piece of her in my hand. Until I can see inside her, around her, between the cracks I recognize but don’t yet understand.
Twenty minutes isn’t nearly enough time. But it’s a start.
“Put your hands on the window.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Your hands. The window,” I tell her again, making sure to keep my voice dark and stern despite my overwhelming need to cuddle her close to me.
For long seconds she doesn’t move, as if she’s contemplating whether she should do what I’ve instructed. I wait patiently, let her decide. Other Doms, other men, would do something to persuade her—maybe even punish her for her hesitation. Setting the precedent. Beginning how they plan to go on.
But I’m not those guys and my goals are very different from theirs. I don’t want a slave, don’t want her to obey my every whim inside the bedroom and out.
No, what I want from Aria is something
completely different. In the end, I want to build her up, not break her down. I want to give her control, not take it away.
I want her strength, not her submission.
And so I wait, to see how she’ll respond. To see what she’ll do. Already I have plans for her, so, so many plans. Plans that include taking her to the very edge of cataclysmic pleasure and then hurling her over. Again and again and again.
But not until she’s ready. Not until she takes this first small but imperative step.
She’s watching me, her head turned toward me even as her body faces away, the look in her eyes dark and dangerous and delicious. She’s taking my measure, deciding how far she wants to go. How far she’s willing to let me push her—how far she’s willing to push me. Too bad she can’t yet imagine the depths we’re going to explore.
Long seconds tick by while neither of us moves. We just stand there, eyes locked. Breathing in sync. I think about repeating the command, but no. She heard me. Saying it again is a sign of weakness, a loss of control that I just won’t give her. Can’t give her.
But there’s an uncertainty in her eyes, a fear that I don’t like to see. Keeping her off-balance is one thing, pushing her boundaries, her limits, far past where she thinks they should be. But genuine fear? That’s not what either of us is here for.
I reach out, stroke the back of my hand softly down her spine. The contact must be what she’s waiting for because she shudders, arches back into my touch. And then does what I tell her, turning her face back toward the window and moving the final step forward before pressing her hands against the window in front of her.
Muscles I didn’t even know were tense relax, and I move that one extra step, too, until our bodies are once again flush against each other. She made the move I needed her to and now I can help her.
I pull her hands out a little and up, so that her arms are spread wide above her head. And nudge a knee between her legs, waiting patiently as she relaxes and opens to me.
She does—of course she does—and I slip my hands between her inner thighs, pressing outward until her legs are as open as her arms.
Aria moans a little, a deep, throaty sound that has me longing to shove up her skirt, yank down her panties and thrust inside of her. She’s close, I can feel it. It wouldn’t take long to get us both off.
But here, now, when her body is trembling and her breathing is erratic and she’s nervous, so nervous but trusting me anyway…now is the time to reward her. To show her a little bit of what her trust will get her.
“You’re gorgeous like this,” I tell her, leaning forward so my breath is hot against her ear. She shivers, but she doesn’t duck her head, doesn’t shy away. Good girl.
“I want you like this always.” I slide her panties down her legs—of course they’re black lace—wait for her to step out of them. “Open to me. Ready for me.” I move my hand back up to the juncture of her thighs. “Wet for me.”
“Sebastian—”
“Yes,” I murmur, in between pressing soft kisses to her temple, her cheek, the nape of her neck. “I want my name on your lips. Almost as much as I want your taste on mine.”
I drop to my knees then, shove my hands beneath her skirt and grab her hips, pull them back so that she’s canted forward at an angle, her back arched, ass up, her sex on display.
Pink and wet and beautiful. So beautiful.
There’s so much I want to do to her, want to do for her. I ache to touch, to smell, to taste, so badly that for a moment I’m paralyzed. My mind is a red haze of want, of need.
But that’s not what this is about. Not here. Not this time.
And so I force the need back, sublimate it and lock it down until it’s just her. Just Aria, with her broken breaths and trembling thighs. Her closed eyes and open sex.
I reach forward, slide my fingers along her slit.
She cries out, a dark and fractured sound. But she doesn’t move, doesn’t lower her arms or shift her hips. Doesn’t do anything but stand there, locked in the position I placed her in, and wait for what I’m going to do next.
Her strength shatters my resolve to make this last. Leaning forward, I deliver one long, slow lick to her sex before thrusting my tongue hard and deep inside her.
She screams then, a wild, desperate sound that rakes down my spine and burrows deep inside of me. I grab her hips, hold her still, take her higher. She’s so far gone it doesn’t take much. A stroke here, a lick there, a few slow, steady circles of my tongue around her clit and she’s fracturing, breaking apart.
Breaking wide open. For me.
I take her through her orgasm, stretching it out, making it last as long as possible. Only when she’s drained, her body sinking still and silent against the window, do I relinquish my hold on her.
She whimpers once, at the loss of contact, shifts restlessly as she searches for warmth. For reassurance. “Sebastian. Please.”
I freeze, not at the words so much as the tone she delivers them in. Already her voice drips with a soft honey that calls to me and there’s a part of me that’s shocked at how easily she’s gone under.
Subspace.
The word dances around the edge of my mind. Fuck. I hadn’t planned on taking her there yet. Not now, when we’re on the clock. But it’s too late. I can tell by the soft, mewling sounds she makes. By the way she can’t settle without my touch.
Biting back a curse at my own carelessness, I stroke a reassuring hand over the gentle curve of her ass before pushing to my feet. Leaving her exactly where she is, I stride over to the desk, punch two numbers into my phone. When Linda answers, I bark, “Call David downstairs. Tell him HR has got Aria filling out some paperwork regarding the incident two nights ago. She’ll be down when she’s through.”
When I turn back, she’s watching me, those black magic eyes of hers a little hazy and out of focus. I can tell she’s trying to surface, trying to think. To hell with that.
Forcing a coldness into my voice I’m far from feeling, I ask, “Did I tell you you could turn around?”
Chapter Two
Aria
I freeze at Sebastian’s words.
At his tone.
At the look in his eyes.
His eyes.
When I was fifteen, I bought a malachite rock for luck at a new age store and have kept it in my nightstand ever since. I’ve held that stone in my hand a million times, have worried it between my thumb and fingers so much that I’ve actually worn it smooth on one side. And yet never—in all those years, in all the times I held it and studied it and wished over it—have I seen eyes the same deep, mysterious color.
Until now. Sebastian’s eyes are exactly the same shade as that stone—an odd, grayish green with rings of dark forest around the pupil and the outside rim of the iris. They’re breathtaking, spellbinding. Exciting as all hell. And the look in them, right now, is twice as hard as any malachite ever could be.
It’s a startling revelation, one that yanks me abruptly out of the strange fuzziness I’m feeling. My body shudders at the abrupt wrenching and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to reach for him. Not to give in to the craving building inside of me, a craving that’s for something I can’t quite name but that I know is about more than sex. More than getting off.
I don’t know how I feel about that and the knowledge brings me all the way back from whatever the hell head trip I was starting to take. Because, honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about any of this.
I mean, after living pretty much my entire life in Vegas, I’m no stranger to kink. BDSM, breathplay, voyeurism, pay-to-play. I’ve heard of them all. But knowing what they are is a far cry from experiencing one of them for myself. And while I just enjoyed the hell out of what Sebastian did to me—I don’t think I’ve ever come that fast in my life—that doesn’t mean I’m ready to take this any further.
Except the way he’s looking at me is turning me on. Making me wet all over again, even as my knees continue to tremble from the orgasm he just gav
e me.
I’m not sure how I feel about that, either. I’m not usually so easy—to get in bed, to fuck senseless or to make soft and trembly afterward.
Even worse, Sebastian knows exactly how shaky I still am. I can tell by the way he’s holding himself, body taut, jaw clenched, hands curled into loose fists by his sides. And by the way he’s still halfway across the room, watching me, instead of coming back over here and fucking me. Or whatever it is he plans on doing to me.
It’s not that he doesn’t want me. I’m not vain, but I’m not naïve, either, and I know when a guy wants to do a whole range of unmentionable things to me. No, Sebastian Caine definitely wants me. But he also thinks I’m weak. Fragile. The knowledge grates, has my knees locking and my spine stiffening when two minutes ago I would have sworn I’d never be tense again. But there’s something about being pitied that sets me off like nothing else can.
Turning around and facing the window might be the smart thing to do, but it’s also the cowardly thing. And I’m nobody’s coward. Nobody’s yes-girl. Not anymore.
Which is why I very deliberately tilt my chin up, narrow my eyes at him. And very, very deliberately turn around so that my back is now pressed to the window and I’m facing him head-on.
I’m not sure what I expect from him, how I think he’s going to react to my blatant bit of defiance. I do know, though, that I’m not expecting the raised brow. The darkly wicked grin. The sensual tension that somehow becomes even more dense between us, until the very air I breathe is laden with it.
And then he’s prowling toward me. I feel ridiculous even thinking the word—he’s a man, not a jaguar—and yet there’s no other descriptor I can use to explain what he looks like as he crosses the room. Sleek, powerful, his muscles moving with a stealthy coordination that manages somehow to be both beautiful and predatory.
I can feel my heart rate picking up again, my breathing becoming even more disjointed, and for a second—just a second—I want to say to hell with it and flee. To say to hell with being brave, to hell with my underwear which is even now crumpled into a ball on the floor, to hell with making a point to him and myself and instead just make a run for the office door.