Temptation’s Edge (23 page)

“I’m saying that sometimes we do, despite ourselves. Even if it’s in some small way that we ultimately have a handle on. Even then, at that point we have to be careful…”

She stopped, bit her lip. She’d said too much. She was either talking in circles now, or she was about to take the discussion one step too far in a direction she didn’t want to go in.

Except that some small part of her did.

“You’re not saying much,” she said more defensively than she’d meant to.

“Yeah. Well. I’m thinking about everything you’ve said.”

She wanted to prompt him to tell her what he was thinking. Instead she said, “Anyway…I hope this is the last of the Greyson inquisition?”

“Ha. Hardly an inquisition, my girl. I’d do that with the aid of about thirty feet of chain and some hot wax, at the very least.”

Her pulse heated and she leaned further into him, batted her lashes for good measure. “I might like that,” she said, glad for the shift in conversation.

“You would, I promise you. I’ll have to get you back to the club sometime soon.”

“I’d like that, too.”

Their food arrived, a fragrant pasta with chunky tomatoes and capers tossed in olive oil. She caught the slight scent of anchovies as she brought the fork to her mouth and tasted.

“Well?” he asked.

She chewed for a moment, savoring the flavors. “Light and fresh and perfect.”

He nodded, self-satisfaction in his expression. Which was one he wore often. It was cocky, no denying it. But something about him…even when he was being cocky, it was as though he
deserved
to be, and she never found it obnoxious. Only a man like Connor—that truly self-assured, that naturally powerful—could get away with it.

They finished dinner, relaxed, talking about movies and art, the places they’d each traveled to, the places they’d still like to go. Japan was at the top of the list for them both. Mischa had always wanted to go to watch the Japanese masters tattoo.

“Which reminds me,” she said, “we have to finish your tattoo. How is it healing?”

“Doing fine, I think. Itches like mad, of course.”

“When do you want me to work on it?”

He shrugged. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Tomorrow? No, tomorrow I have a dress fitting. And on Wednesday Dylan and I are going to a day spa, then having dinner with the girls. What about Thursday? Greyson and I are meeting with a contractor he knows about the build-out on the new shop, but I’m free later on. Or do you have work to do?”

“My work is by contract. I’m not currently on a big project. Thursday it is.”

She liked that they were making plans, even if it was to finish his tattoo. Even if it was only three days ahead. There was something nice about it—not leaving things totally open-ended, which was how she usually operated. She was normally too busy to tie herself down to plans with a man. And frankly, she hadn’t met anyone she wanted to spend this much time with.

She picked up her glass, swallowed against the strange lump forming in her throat.

It doesn’t mean anything.

So they liked each other? So what?

So, the point at which they decided to cut this thing off, whenever it was, was going to be hard. Which was exactly the sort of thing staying busy, working so hard, had always kept her safe from.

She took a good, long gulp of her wine, nodded when Connor offered to refill her glass.

She was liking him more and more. Enjoying their conversation, their easy banter, as much as she did the sex. Well, almost as much. Because the sex was frankly off-the-charts mind-blowing.

If she could just stay focused on that, everything would be okay.

After dinner they got into Connor’s Hummer and he drove back to his place. They chatted during the drive, while they made their way up the stairs. The evening had seemed to be going at a more relaxed pace, maybe because they’d sort of rubbed one off before dinner. But now that they were about to be alone she couldn’t get to him soon enough, her body burning with need the moment he shut the door behind him.

He took her coat from her just inside the door, held it in his hand as he took off his own.

He gave a small nod.

“Strip.”

“What?” She laughed a little, totally taken by surprise after their casual evening together.

He remained silent, watching her, his green and gold eyes gleaming in the dim light of the one lamp burning in the living room. She could tell by his expression that casual time was over. That the mood had shifted and they were suddenly in the roles of dominant and submissive. And something in her responded to it as easily as if he’d placed his hand behind her neck, exerting that gentle pressure, as he so often did.

She licked her lips, kept her gaze on his and untied her wrap dress, let it fall to the floor. She paused, waiting for some cue. All she got was another brief nod of his sculpted chin. She wanted to make some little joke. She wanted to make him fight her for it. But she knew damn well she wasn’t going to do either of those things. She was soaking, aching, already.

She brought her hands to her breasts, smoothing her fingertips over the red lace of her bra before undoing the clasp in the front. She pulled off the bra, reveling in the weight of her freed breasts, the way the cool air touched her nipples, making them go hard instantly. She held the bra out, let it dangle from her fingers before dropping it next to her dress on the floor.

She was about to remove the red lace garter belt that held up her black fishnets, but Connor put a hand on hers, stilling her.

“Leave those. And the shoes. Come with me.”

He turned, and she followed him, her heels clicking on the wood floor. He paused to drop their coats on the sofa, then he continued toward the bedroom. He didn’t turn around for one moment, simply assuming she would follow. She did, of course. There was no question about it, even though she had yet to conquer that small part of her that still thought she
should
question it:
his absolute command of her once they were in role. But most of her was ready to simply turn herself over to him. Eager to.

Once there he gestured to her to stand at the foot of his bed, facing him. He hadn’t touched her yet, which was making her shiver with need. The need to feel his hands on her skin. For him to come closer.

He was watching her in that way he had. His eyes were burning with gold and heat and something else she didn’t understand. Intriguing. Yet she couldn’t get her mind to work enough to figure it out.

“Mischa,” he said, his tone low, “tonight is going to be about pinching. The sensation is different from any other, yes?”

“Yes.”

Her breath was catching in her throat already, heat melting between her thighs.

“Have you ever played with clothespins?” he asked, stepping back to the tall dresser behind him. Without taking his eyes from her, he reached for a bag made of red velvet sitting on top of the dresser. Her glance flicked to it, then quickly back to him. She knew he didn’t want her to look away, to stay focused on him.

There was something insanely sexual about the fact that a man of his sheer size and strength, a man with his thoroughly dominant attitude, would possess an item like a red velvet bag. Not that he wasn’t a sensualist. But it seemed in direct opposition to who he was sexually. Raw. Primal.

She licked her lips. “I’ve seen it done. I haven’t done it myself,” she answered.

“And what about these?” he asked, pulling a pair of nipple clamps from the bag, a long chain dangling between them. They were tipped in black rubber, she could see, although beneath that soft rubber was, she knew, a row of evil little teeth.

She swallowed. “I’ve only used them on others. When I was topping.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like…the idea of them. They seem like such a submissive thing to me.”

“And what are you doing, standing here mostly naked at my command, if not submitting to me?”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She felt her eyes blazing. “I am submitting to you. But I don’t like the idea of the damn clamps.”

He grinned at her, which surprised her. “We’ll have to use them tonight, then, won’t we?”

“Connor…”

But she didn’t know what she wanted to say. She wanted to argue. Yet she didn’t want to, at the same time.

“Tell me, Mischa. Are these a no for you? Or a maybe?”

“They’re…a maybe,” she said, keeping her gaze on his, feeling the fire in it. She would give in to him. But she could still let him know she wasn’t happy about it.

He stepped closer, until she swore she could feel the heat emanating from his body, even though he was still a good foot away. He reached out, stroked his fingertip over her cheek, trailed it down the side of her neck.

He said, his voice soft, “Do you remember when I talked about pushing you on some of those maybes?”

She nodded.

“Say it, Mischa.”

“I remember.”

“This is one of those things. Particularly because you seem so pissed about it. We’ll find a way to work through that. To work it out of you.”

God, why was her body heating at that thought? Betraying her. Her sex was going wet. And she realized only then that she
wanted
to be pushed. That no one had ever done that with her before. No one had dared. And certainly no one she’d ever trusted.

Had she ever really trusted anyone?

No one but Connor. Not like this.

His finger had paused at her collarbone, but he moved in now, using his whole hand to cup her breast, making her draw in a breath as pleasure hit her, simmered in her blood.

“You have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. “I can’t wait to torture them. But we’ll start with the pins.”

He gave one nipple a tweak, resulting in the tiniest bit of pain. But it was enough to excite her. To make her want to clench her thighs to ease the ache between them. She clenched her jaw instead.

“Don’t move,” he told her.

He opened the bag and she heard the sound of him spilling the clothespins out on the bed. She was starting to shiver all over, just a small trembling that was adrenaline, maybe. But also partly the desire coursing through her at a dizzying pace.

He was standing behind her now, pressing his body against hers, and it was all she could do not to press back against him, into the firm, muscular planes against her back. The hard ridge of his erection beneath his jeans that was at the small of her back.

One hand came around her waist, held her tight enough to give her that sense of his absolute authority. His breath was warm in her hair.

“I need to prepare you,” he said quietly. “To make your body ready to handle the pain. I would do it, regardless. But all through dinner I was thinking of the feel of your wet slit. How the soft lips of your cunt swell when you’re excited. How they swell even
more when I touch them. When I put my hands on you. My mouth.”

She flexed her fingers, her knees, wanting—needing—him to touch her.

“And when I was drinking my wine, I was remembering the way you taste, your sweet pussy. How fucking wet you get. It makes me a little crazy, I’m not ashamed to tell you—that you get so soaking wet for me.”

She bit her lip, her entire body throbbing with need as he spoke.

He splayed his hand on her stomach, sliding it lower, inch by inch.

“Tell me, darlin’. Are you wet yet?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes closing.

“Shall I feel it for myself?”

“Yes,” she said more loudly, spreading her legs wider for him.

“Ah, I love that you’re so eager for me. Perfect, that you spread without me even having to ask.”

She waited while he kept his hand poised at the edge of her lacy garter belt. Her clitoris pulsed.

Touch me…

“You want my hand on you,” he said. “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes…”

“You want me to fuck you with my fingers. Tell me.”

She swallowed. “Yes. I want you to fuck me. With your hand. Any way you want to.”

It was all she could do not to arch her hips as he slid his palm lower.

He waited. She drew in a breath.

“Say please, Mischa.”

“Please,” she breathed.

He brushed just the tip of her needy clit and she gasped.

He stopped.

Her pussy, her entire body, clenched. She shook her head, her hair sweeping her shoulders.

“What is it, Mischa?”

“Nothing.” She bit her lip, squeezed her eyes tighter.

He feathered his fingertips over her tight clitoris again, and she moaned.

He stopped again.

“This is making you wetter, isn’t it?”

“Yes, damn it,” she muttered.

There was a low chuckle from him. “I know it is. Which is exactly why I’m doing it. When will you learn to trust me? To turn yourself over to me entirely? I’ll take care of everything. I do everything with intention. Surely you’ve come to see that by now. You don’t need to make any decisions here. This is the key in what we do together. It’s all about trust. Now. Tell me please like you mean it.”

Why were tears stinging behind her eyelids? But she did as he wanted. As
she
wanted. Strange that it was the same thing. “Connor,
please
.”

“Ah, that was nice, darlin’ girl.”

He slipped his fingers inside her, and she was panting immediately. He began to pump.

“You feel so damn good,” he murmured against her ear. “Like silk. So fucking hot. I could throw you on the bed and fuck you until you scream.”

“Yes…”

“But we have other games to play first.”

He pulled his hand away and she stumbled. He caught her, his arm around her. She leaned against him, trying to catch her breath.

“I’m going to have you sit on the end of the bed,” he said after a few moments.

She nodded.

He helped her sit down and stood in front of her.

“Open your eyes, Mischa.”

She did. It was almost a shock to see him. His beautiful, rugged face. His lush mouth. Those penetrating eyes. She noticed the small, ragged scar beneath his eye, felt the pure masculinity of it.

“This is what I’m going to use on you,” he said, holding up a handful of colored plastic clothespins. “They’re going to hurt going on. They’re going to hurt much worse coming off as the blood rushes back into the areas that have been deprived of circulation while the pins are on. Which will entertain me greatly. But you should also get an enormous rush of endorphins. Here we go.”