Into Her Fire (Fantasy Heights) (4 page)

She crossed to the far side of the table and turned one of the chairs around to face the view. She sat and, crossing one leg over the other, indulged herself in another long look over the lake. Instead of fantasizing about unmasking her client, she wondered how many other people had looked out these windows at a gorgeous view. Who were they? How long ago? What had they thought about or longed for? Who had they loved or feared or wanted or needed?

Her mind perched, precariously, upon Josh Taylor. She missed him, yet shrank from the idea of seeing him again. She still had no idea what to say about the loss of his beautiful wife. No idea what to say about Fiona’s Internet search, about The Thomas Disclosure, about anything at all.

From behind her, Amanda heard the front door of Haynes House open and close. It was time. She slipped the black satin blindfold into place.

Safely blinded, she listened to approaching footsteps followed by the soft scrape of chair legs against aged parquet flooring. The sound travelled from her right to the front. Her mystery client had swung the chair between her and the glass.

He did not sit down. He came around instead to place something over the blindfold and secure it behind her head.

Reinforcement.

He must know, she thought, how strong the temptation had grown to unmask him, to challenge him about his disappearing act, and the things he’d said last time.

She desperately wanted to, but he was still a client, and the Accord was on their way. Another client complaint would not be good. And besides. If she truly meant to unmask him, the best time would come later. She knew when to catch him at his most unguarded. Helping him reach that point would hardly be a chore.

Memory and a gentle touch teamed up to awaken the signature chemical thrill he could always elicit. All he did was trail a finger down the side of her neck from earlobe to collarbone, but the hint of a playful mood set kindling instantly alight in her nipples and between her thighs.

Strong, strong chemistry. Automatically all her senses tuned into him, listening for the slightest sound, anticipating his touch and imagining his next move.

She heard a metallic scrape and soft clang near the table. He’d taken the lid off something. The tart scent of oranges hit a moment later. She took in a deep breath of it, filling herself with the clean, tangy smell.

Another cover scraped against silver. And another. What was he doing?

She found out quickly when he held something cool and firm against her bottom lip, prompting her to open her mouth. Once she did, the flavor of chocolate overtook her senses.

For a time, she forgot all about unmasking him as she zeroed in on him again, imagining. She couldn’t hear anything now. He couldn’t be far away but he was so silent and still it set her nerves on edge.

She did very nearly jump when she placed him again. He was close now. She felt the soft brush of fabric and a draught of cool air as he lifted the hem of her skirt, draping it up near her hipbones, exposing most of her thighs. He picked up her left hand and set it on the fabric, a silent order for her to hold the skirt out of his way.

A shaky breath rattled her lungs as the arousal took hold. She didn’t know what he was planning, but knowing him, it would set her on fire.

This time, she did jump when something hard and ice cold touched the inside of her left thigh. Multiple somethings. Sharp and chilled, and very close together. A fork, she guessed. A chilled fork to the inside of her thigh.

Melting a little, she tried to center herself, tried to stem the tide of the chemicals gushing into her system. Calm. Keep cool. Let him play, she chanted to herself. He wanted to play. He was the client. He was in charge.

His next move made her eyes squeeze shut behind the blindfold. In warm, pleasing opposition to the fork, he slid his palm and fingers slowly up the inside of her right thigh.

It was pure reflex to tense up her muscles and part her legs wider. When she did, she heard a faint catch in his breathing. A certain quality to it tripped her senses. There was a gruffness, a gravelly finish to the sound she hadn’t heard before. He had a cold, perhaps, or maybe he felt especially impatient.

Filing the variance away, she paid attention instead to the relentless path his hand took, squeezing that fleshy, ultrasensitive bulge at the peak of her inner thigh between his thumb and palm. He carried on until he was cupping her mound. Already she could feel the damp heat from her pussy radiating against his hand, and she held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t let the panties stop him.

She whimpered when he took his hand away and disappeared again. He must have ditched his shoes because she couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore. She lost him completely until noises from the table gave his location away. More scraping. A couple knocking sounds, and then there he was, taking her by the hands and pulling her to her feet.

Next he went after the dress. The zip came down with a quickness that proved he was on the usual track, cool and calculated starting out, but losing patience for games once his arousal grew past a certain point. She wished he’d stop playing to kiss. He was really good at it, and they could both stand to apply the brakes for a moment or two.

No brakes. He drew the dress down and helped her step out of it. He circled behind her again, hands at her hips. His fingers slipped beneath panties and slid them down until she’d stepped out of those as well. With one hand on the front of her left thigh and one hand in the middle of her back, he guided her to bend at the waist.

She nearly lost her balance when his next touch caught her off guard. He applied his tongue between her buttocks, wiggling a firm, pointed tongue directly against her anus. The stinging pleasure attacked her spine with hot, tingling sensation as if he were holding a sparkler too close to her skin.

Another flicker of surprise hit, then ballooned into a sharply inhaled breath as something ice cold pressed against the stretch of ultra-sensitive skin between anus and vagina. He was holding something against her. Or trying to. It had to be an ice chip, but the piece was so small, the heat of her body melted the surface, making it slide around.

She could hardly believe what he was doing or how strong the sensation when he worked the ice between her labia and pressed it into her vagina. The cold inside was sharp and uncomfortable but as the tiny shard began to melt and the water drip around his finger, a surge of purely wicked, erotic pleasure made her want to reach back, grab his wrist and help him bang her deep.

Her body quickened, desire for him billowing like a mushroom cloud. Again, he made a sound that didn’t quite match her memory. A growled undertone, deeper and gruffer.

She nearly said something aloud then, but he stole her attention back by granting her wish. He stood and slipped two fingers deeply into her cunt and held them still. Resting his other hand on her back, he pushed down to show what he wanted. She was supposed to pump against him, controlling the pace. She kept the rocking gentle, enjoying the pressure of his thick fingers against the sensitive ring of nerves inside her cunt lips.

Another sound, a light exhale revealed more arousal and less impatience. He slid his other hand up her back to unclasp her bra, and while she stripped it away, he drew his fingers out of her pussy.

There might have been a small twinge of triumph in her belly when, as he gripped her waist, she felt a tremor in his hands. Her veins were completely awash in some of the most volatile chemicals she’d felt yet, and to know he was similarly affected added an extra peppery kick to the cocktail. She wanted to fuck. Fuck his brains out and be the one in charge, for a change. Let him be the bound one, the one who had to tiptoe around the anonymous-client landmines.

Though her mind felt like a compressed roar, she had no way of gaining the upper hand unless she stripped off the blindfold. That would be no easy task, thanks to his reinforcement. And he kept forging ever onward, guiding her to the table and helping her onto it. When she lay flat on the hard, cold surface, he lifted her head to slip something—her dress, she thought—beneath it for comfort.

The next several moments left her nearly breathless with charged desire. He’d hardly touched her, simply bound all four of her limbs to the table legs with something soft but sturdy enough to withstand a few desperate tugs.

“Please…” she whimpered.

His answer was swift. He leaned down to close his teeth over the point of her hipbone, a spot so sensitive the bite had her arching off the table and crying out.

Then she heard a sound that definitely did not belong to her mystery client. Barely audible, but the low, raspy hum gave the imposter away.

Thomas. This was Thomas. Not her mystery client. As if her anti-submission response hadn’t been enough evidence, she knew that raspy hum. And now that she knew her client had been usurped by her trainer, the knowledge changed everything. It heightened the arousal to the point she found herself panting, undulating, struggling to tame a ferocious response.

It wasn’t anger. More like confusion and weapons-grade arousal.

A tiny grain of rational thought battled its way forward to issue a warning. The last time she’d seen Thomas, he’d just been outed as an FBI agent. He had left for several days without a word of explanation. Shouldn’t she be barking questions and yelling at him about the Josh threat? Shouldn’t she be grilling him about why he was here instead of her mystery client? Asking what, exactly, he planned to do if her client should show up and find her tied down to the table begging another man to fuck her?

Yes, she probably should be doing all those things, but it wouldn’t be wise. Thomas would not do this without a reason. The smart thing to do was submit. Let it play out. See how far he’d carry the ruse before revealing himself on purpose.

Apparently he did not intend to do so anytime soon, and she braced herself. All along, she’d prepared herself for the usual sexy and affectionate outcome her mystery client preferred. But this was Thomas—unpredictable, much more experienced Thomas—who did know how to incite a reaction. She nearly jumped out of her skin when his fingers closed over her earlobe and pulled until the earring came off in his hand.

He removed its mate with his teeth.

She could feel her heart pounding now. Keep cool, she reminded herself while fear, uncertainty and elation grappled to predict what he might do next.

Her
back arched reflexively as Thomas reached out to pinch her right nipple. The pang travelled at light speed to her pussy, renewing that sultry ache for him. When he pulled, stretching her nipple, a heated murmur escaped, then choked off into a squeak when something made a snapping sound and clamped hard onto her nipple. It didn’t let go.

The earring. He’d clamped one of those damned clip earrings onto her nipple, and it hurt. Not in an injury-type way, but the constant pressure singed her nerves with fiery current. Every time she took a breath, the very tip of her nipple would throb.

Thomas repeated the act on the other side. The twin clamps pushed her beyond some limit where stimulation overcame spatial awareness. She willingly turned herself over to it, lost in Thomas’s carefully constructed storm.

She’d thought the pressure of the improvised clamps was a strong, tantalizing sensation. But it could not compare to what followed when Thomas took hold of both earrings. He gave them a light tug, pulled them out and then back in again. Not hard enough to pull them off. He used only enough force to make her boil with bottomless pleasure and desire.

After a time she felt his fingers wiggle their way back into her pussy. She welcomed the penetration. In a way, those fingers contact felt like the only thing attaching her to reality. To him. But he brought her ever closer by kissing her, hard and long. Branding her. Connecting. If she hadn’t already known he wasn’t her mystery client, she would have known instantly then. No one kissed like Thomas. He could communicate passion and possession via lips and teeth and tongue better than anyone.

And heaven help her but she kissed him back with all the longing and persuasion she usually held back. He soon took his mouth away. It made her regret the lack of restraint, but then he was back again, transferring something held between his teeth into her mouth.

Cold. Ice again. She caught and held it between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Shivered a little. Then moaned with delight as the smoky-sweet taste of the melting liquid registered. Latte. Some kind of frozen coffee. He was feeding her coffee ice chips.

She felt a smile take root and didn’t rein it in. Asshole or not, this man knew how to elicit pleasure. And share it. He pressed his mouth over hers, sealing their lips, and then slowly, gently, carefully sucked some of the coffee back into his mouth.

That did it. She truly did want to fuck this man senseless. When he lifted his head again, her brain shut off completely. And caused her to make a dreadful, dreadful mistake.

“Thomas, please. Please don’t stop this time.”

She felt him pause, unable to tell if he was surprised that she knew him without seeing him, or whether he was caught off guard by what she said. And she still wasn’t sure after he withdrew his hand to reach up once more and give the earrings another tug, as if he knew it would flood her with sensation again. Make her stop talking.

Whimpered, pleading sounds had no effect on him but after a couple of tugs, he changed course utterly. With one large hand he curled his fingers under her head, lifting, until he could untie his reinforced blindfolds.

She had to blink a couple times to clear her vision. It was quite dark in the room. No candles, no lights on. Nothing but weak, natural light leaked in from outside. Too early for moonlight, and the twilight had long since faded. The wan glow turned Thomas’s skin a dark bluish silver hue. His hair seemed black as a void against the stark white of his button-down shirt.

Head turned to the side, she watched him pull a chair alongside the table and sit down. He propped his elbows on the tabletop and reached over with a withdrawn, absent expression to trace a fingertip over one aureole, then over the earring.