She pulls a folder from her purse and opens it. I walk over to her and stop beside her, just shy of our shoulders touching. She hands me a pen, and I take it without looking at her—and I damn sure don’t touch her. Touching her would be bad. I sign the purchase order and then look at the hundred-thousand-dollar check.
Now I look at her, and her mouth is mere inches away—an easy lean in to meet her lips with mine. The burn to kiss her is intense. I don’t kiss women. I fuck them. I please them. I like to please them. To drive them to the edge and make them want and want, until release is sweet bliss. But I don’t kiss them.
I tap the pen on the check. “This is what I call trust.” I sign the check and drop the pen, turning to face her. “Make sure you deserve it.”
She lifts her chin. “You’re insured if I don’t, but you wouldn’t have signed it if you didn’t believe I was worth the risk.”
There’s a subtle challenge in her voice. There’s a less subtle challenge in her eyes, a message. I grab her and turn her backside to the desk, my hips framing hers, my fingers wrapping her slender waist. “What did you think would happen between us if you came here tonight?”
Her hands settle on my arms. “I thought we’d end up naked.”
I wonder if her directness will ever fail to surprise me, as much as I wonder what it is about her that gets to me. “And you don’t see the problem in that?”
“I see a million problems with that. Do I care? At his very moment, with you half naked already, I can’t seem to, no.”
And neither can I. Therein lies the problem, but I can’t stop myself from touching her, caressing a path up her sides and skimming the lush curves of her breasts. That I can’t stop myself is a red flag, a sign I am not myself, and that I have no business doing this. But I watch Crystal’s lashes flutter and her lips, those damn lips I want to taste, part. To possess this woman is like a drug I have to have. And I do have to have her.
Desire overcomes me, and it’s a welcome replacement for what I’ve felt these past few days. Without conscious thought, I lace my fingers into the silky strands of her hair, and my mouth closes down on hers. The taste of her explodes on my tongue—addictive, sweet, with a hint of coffee. Her hands are all over me, her touch feeding the hunger in me, and I don’t know why I don’t stop her. Or maybe I do. Control means thinking, and thinking is more dangerous than this woman. Thinking is making me crazy, it’s making me doubt, it’s making me question all that I am or ever have been.
My hands hug her backside and I pull her hard against my thick erection. She moans, a seductive, wanton sound, and I am instantly harder, hotter. I am lost in her, in kissing her, in touching her, and I can feel how lost she is, too. I want her like I’ve never wanted anyone. She answers an invisible something inside me, and I don’t know why or how.
She shrugs out of her jacket and I keep kissing her, hungering for more of her and ready to have her naked, to feel her soft skin next to mine. To bury myself in her and have her wet heat wrapped about my cock, taking me away to some oblivion that will never last long enough. My hands work her shirt up from her sides, my fingers finding her bra and shoving down the lace to tug at her nipples. She makes a tormented sound, tears her mouth from mine, and our eyes collide.
And holy hell—I don’t know why, but the impact punches me in the chest again. For a moment we’re frozen, looking at each other, and I’m not sure what I feel. It’s unfamiliar, like everything this woman does to me. And the very fact that I crave more of it tells me I’m in trouble. I don’t have control. She has it.
Crystal moves first, tugging her shirt over her head, and the broken connection of our stare is just enough to shake some clarity back into my mind. I step back and sit on the bed to watch her undress. I study every inch of her with a penetrating boldness that would make most women nervous. Not Crystal. She watches me watch her—desire, even challenge, in the depths of her stare as she unhooks her bra, as if she’s telling me she knows what I’m trying to do. She knows I’m trying to rattle her, and it won’t work.
Just when I’m about to order her to caress her breasts, her hands close around them, shoving them together, her thumbs moving over her nipples. My cock pulses at the sight of her, all wanton and eager to please. Or maybe she doesn’t want to please me. Maybe she wants to control me with her body. It is not a pleasing thought. She’s everything I don’t like in a woman, and yet I can’t take my eyes off her.
My gaze strokes over her body, watching her take off the remainder of her clothes. I’m not even attracted to blondes, usually. Yet every inch of her—from her pale hair to her pale skin, to the pale neatly trimmed V of her body—arouses me and spawns a million fantasies of what I could to do her if I had more than one night.
In some far part of my mind, I grapple to be myself, to take charge. I need to control this woman before she does what no other woman has, and truly controls me.
As if she wants to prove she can do that and more, she drops to her knees in front of me, her hands sliding up my thighs. “I’ve thought about”—she runs her teeth over her bottom lip—“what it would be like to make you—”
I don’t let her finish the sentence. Warning bells go off in my head. She’s just a few licks from taking me where I don’t want to go. To have me at her mercy, not the other way around. I have her on her feet, backed against the desk again, before she knows what’s happened. I press her hands to the desk. “Don’t move them until I say you can move them.”
Her lips curve into a smile. “You can fuck me, Mark, but you don’t get to control me.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, and this time I drop to my knees, sliding my fingers over the slick center of her body.
She gazes down at me. “What does that prove?” she challenges, sounding breathless.
I slip a finger inside her. “You tell me.”
Her lashes lower, then lift. “That you can make me feel good.”
I press another finger inside her and stroke her. “And does that feel good?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispers. “That feels good.”
“And if I lick you? Will that feel good?”
Her thighs tense as if in anticipation. “Why don’t you try it and see?”
I can’t get this woman to back down. I’m going to make her back down. I run my tongue over her clit several times and then suckle her. Her hands go to my head and I shove them back on the desk. “Touch me and I’ll stop.”
“I’m going to touch you, Mark. If you don’t like it, you picked the wrong girl to bury your troubles in.”
I pull my fingers from inside her.
She groans. “That was rude.”
“That was necessary,” I assure her. My hands go to her hips and I stand up, lifting her to the desk at the same time. I move to step away from her, and she wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her breasts against my bare chest.
“Why can’t you just fuck me?” Her hand slides to the top of my pajama bottoms. “Why can’t you forget all the games just for one night?”
“There’s no such thing as just fucking,” I say, but it doesn’t stop my mouth from closing over hers, and damn if she doesn’t take that as an invitation. She all but climbs on me, wrapping her legs around me and lifting herself off the desk.
Her body molds to mine, her fingers delicately framing my face as she pants into my mouth, “You can just fuck me. Tomorrow you’re still my boss.”
I stand there holding her, telling myself she’s wrong—but suddenly, I just don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything but being inside her. Not who has control, not how this will end badly. There’s only the need to be inside her. To “just” fuck her.
I set her back on the desk, one hand under her backside, and I’m not sure if she or I pull my shaft from the pajama bottoms, but I’m already thick between her thighs.
“Wait,” she pleads urgently, and reaches into her purse, digging frantically until she pulls out a condom.
I stiffen, but
it doesn’t stop her from tearing the condom open. “My brother stuffed it in my purse a few weekends ago. He said I needed to get lucky.”
It’s all I need to hear. Already reality is sliding back into my mind, and I don’t want it there. I snatch the condom from her, roll it over me, and press inside her. The warm heat of her body surrounds me, and I sink deep into her sex, groaning as she tightens around me, taking all of me.
“Just fuck me,” she whispers against my ear.
Pulling back, I look at her, and heat expands between us, combustible, explosive. Suddenly, I’m kissing her again—or she is kissing me. I don’t know which, but I’ve lifted her from the desk and I’m holding her against me and I barely remember doing it. I pump into her and she clings to me, making sexy little sounds that make me want to fuck her even harder, deeper. I can’t get enough.
Turning her, I lay her on the bed and press her back into the mattress, lifting her legs over my shoulders. In some sane part of my mind, it’s a safer position. She’s more at a distance. She’s just a fuck. But damn it, now she’s looking at me, and every time I drive into her, I see her pleasure, and I see more. I see this woman who is more than just a fuck, and it’s making me insane. And hot. And then even hotter. I can’t thrust hard enough or get deep enough.
“Harder,” she pants. “Harder.”
I give her harder. I give her deeper.
“More,” she demands. “More.”
I have never had a woman demand anything from me. They beg. They plead. They call out “Master,” as I command they do. But right now I would kill to have her say my real name. To plead for more from me. The real me I show no one.
But she doesn’t. She moans loudly and stiffens, her sex closing down on me in a tight clamp a moment before the spasms overtake her and me. Damn it, I’m going to come. I don’t want to come; I don’t want to return to reality.
But I do. I come. There’s a tugging sensation in my balls, and then I shake with the fierceness of my release. The world goes dark for a moment that’s both eternal and too short.
Somehow her legs are no longer over my shoulders and my weight is on my elbows, my head buried in her hair. And her delicate little fingers are caressing the back of my neck. I don’t want to move.
Then my cell phone rings, and the reality I’ve tried to escape slams into me like a concrete block. I jerk my head up, instantly worried that something is wrong with my mother. By the third ring, I’ve pulled out of Crystal, rounded the bed, and answered my phone. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine, son,” my father assures me. “I just wanted to be sure Crystal got hold of you.”
I can hear her in the background, grabbing her clothes. “Yes,” I say. “She got hold of me.”
“She seemed fretful. What was going on?”
“She’s flying out in the morning to make a large purchase.”
“Tomorrow? Your mother will be upset she won’t be here.”
“The customer wouldn’t have it any other way. How is Mom?”
“She’s awake and in pain and asking for chocolate. She says it cures all. I don’t want to leave her. Can you—”
“If you can get me past the nurses, I’ll bring her some.” A door opens and shuts, and I jerk around to find Crystal out of sight. “Let me call you back, Dad.”
I walk to the bathroom to find it empty. Then a note pops under the front door, and I bend and pick it up.
Mr. Compton:
I’m sparing you the awkward morning after. This never happened. Okay, maybe it did. But this really was “just” a fuck.
Ms. Smith
Was it just a fuck? I’m not so sure. With Crystal, I’d lost the steely control I pride myself on, despite my guilt over Rebecca and my worry over my mother’s surgery.
No. What happened tonight wasn’t just sex. It was something else. Something very dangerous. Something I will never let happen again.
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One
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Dangerous.
For months I’ve had dreams and nightmares about how perfectly he personifies the word. Sleep-laden, alternate realities where I can vividly smell his musky male scent, feel his hard body against mine. Taste the sweet and sensuous flavor of him—like milk chocolate with its silky demand that I indulge in one more bite. And another. So good I’d forgotten there’s a price for overindulgence. And there is a price. There is always a price. I was reminded of this life lesson on Saturday night. And I know now, no matter what he says, no matter what he does, I cannot—will not—see him again.
It started out as any other erotic adventure with him. Unpredictable. Exciting. I barely remember where it all went wrong. How it took such a dark turn.
He’d ordered me to undress and sit on the mattress, against the headboard, my legs spread wide for his viewing. Naked before him, open to him, I was vulnerable and quivering with need. Never in my life had I taken orders from a man; most certainly I had never thought I would quiver with anything. But I did for him.
If Saturday night proved anything, it was that once I was with him, under his spell, he could demand anything of me, and I’d comply. He could push me to the edge, to unbelievable places I’d never thought I would go. Exactly why I can’t see him again. He makes me feel possessed, and what is so disconcerting about this feeling is that I like it. I can hardly wrap my mind around allowing such a thing, though I burn for it. But when I saw him standing at the end of the bed Saturday night, all broad and thick with sinewy muscle, his cock jutting forward, there was nothing but that need.
He was magnificent. Really, truly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. Instant lust exploded inside me. I wanted to feel him close to me, to feel him touch me. To touch him. But I know now not to touch him without his permission. And I know not to beg him to let me.
I’ve learned my lesson from past encounters. He enjoys the vulnerability of a plea far too much. Enjoys withholding his pleasures until I am nearly quaking with the burn of my body. Until I am liquid heat and tears. He likes that power over me. He likes full control. I should hate him. Sometimes, I think I love him.
It was the blindfold that should have warned me I was headed toward a place of no return. Thinking back, I believe it did. He tossed it on the bed, a dare, and instantly a shiver chased a path up and down my spine. The idea of not being able to see what was happening to me should have aroused me—it did arouse me. But for reasons I didn’t understand at the time, it also frightened me. I was scared and I hesitated.
This did not please him. He told me so, in that deep, rich, baritone voice that makes me quiver uncontrollably. The need to please him had been so compelling. I put on the blindfold.
I was rewarded by the shift of the mattress. He was coming to me. Soon I knew I would come, too. His hands slid possessively up my calves, over my thighs. And damn him, stopped just before my place of need.
What came next was a shadowy whirlwind of sensation. He pulled me to my back, flat against the mattress. I knew satisfaction was seconds away. Soon he would enter me. Soon I would have what I needed. But to my distress, he moved away.
It was then that I was sure I’d heard the click of a lock. It jolted me to a sitting position, and I called out his name, fearful he was leaving. Certain that I’d done something wrong. Then relieved when his hand flattened on my stomach. I’d imagined the sound of the lock. I must have. But I couldn’t shake the subtle shift in the air then, the raw lust and menace consuming the room that didn’t feel like him. It was a thought easily forgotten when he settled heavy between my thighs, his strong hands lifting my arms over my head, his breath warm on my neck—his body heavy, perfect.
Somehow, a silk tie wrapped around my wrists and my arms were tied to the bed frame. It never occurred to me that he could not have done this on his own
. That he was on top of me, unable to manipulate my arms. But then, he was manipulating my body, my mind, and I was his willing victim.
He lifted his body from mine, and I whimpered, unable to reach for him. Again silence. And the whisk of fabric. More strange sounds. Long seconds ticked by, and I remember the chill that snaked across my skin. The feeling of dread that had balled in my stomach.
And then, the moment I know I will die remembering. The moment when the steel of a blade touched my lips. The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain. The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous. Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared . . .
A knock on my apartment door jolts me from the seductive words of the journal I’ve been reading to the point I darn near toss the notebook over my shoulder. Guiltily, I slam it shut and set it back on the simple oak coffee table where it had been left by my neighbor and close friend Ella Ferguson the night before. I hadn’t meant to read it. It was just . . . there. On my table. Absently, I’d opened it, and I’d been so shocked at what I found that I hadn’t believed it could really be my sweet, close friend Ella’s writing. So I’d kept reading. I couldn’t stop reading, and I don’t know why. It makes no sense. I, Sara McMillan, am a high school teacher, and I do not invade people’s privacy, nor do I enjoy this kind of reading. I’m still telling myself that as I reach the door, but I can’t ignore the burn low in my belly.
I pause before greeting my visitor and rest my hands on my cheeks, certain they’re flaming red, hoping whoever is here will just go away. I promise myself if they do, I won’t read the journal again, but deep down, I know the temptation will be strong. Good Lord, I feel like Ella seemed to feel when living out the scene in the journal—like I am the one hanging on for one more titillating moment and then another. Clearly, twenty-eight-year-old women are not supposed to go eighteen months without sex. The worst part is that I’ve invaded the privacy of someone I care about.