His foot slid between mine and knocked at my feet so I was suddenly and unwillingly standing with my feet shoulder-width apart. Another nudge, and my stance widened a bit more. Unnatural, uncomfortable, vulnerable. I bit my lip and forced myself to remain calm. I’d asked for this, after all.
“At any time, answer my question, and we’ll go sailing. That really was my intention, you know. But you’ve sidetracked us.” He slid his hand over my hip, curled his palm over my belly, pulled my ass against his crotch so I felt his erection. “You’re not getting what you wanted, you know. I’m not going to alter my plans. Right now I’m going to torture you, just a bit. Nothing painful, mind you. Just a bit of…teasing.”
He pulled away, took a handful of my hair, gripping at my nape, and shoved my head down so I was bent over double.
“Hands on your knees.” I needed to brace myself for balance, so I had no choice but to do as he’d told me. “Now, I’ll ask you again, Kyrie. Who is in control?”
I remained silent.
He laughed, and trailed a finger down the knobs of my spine, between the globes of my buttocks, over the bud of muscle. He hesitated there. “No answer?” His fingertip touched me, and I flinched, tensed. “I wonder if I could make you come, just by touching you here? Let’s find out, shall we?”
A pause, and I heard him spit. Wetness touched me; the pressure increased slightly. I felt the knot give just a bit, and his lubricated fingertip slid in. I bit back a gasp, forced my hips to remain still. He would get no help from me, not this time. Roth’s fingertip wiggled, and I felt a tension in my core, heat building. I squeezed my eyes shut, bit my lip, tried to hold back the thrill of pleasure at his touch. I shouldn’t like this. But I did. I couldn’t let him know, though.
He withdrew his finger a bit, so there was only the very smallest edge left in me. His other hand released my hair and reached down to cup my boob, squeezing, holding, and then letting go to pinch my nipple. I felt the heat and pressure rise at his touch, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he got what he wanted from me. I’d come, but I wouldn’t admit what he wanted.
Roth pushed his finger in deeper, and a gasp was torn from me. I felt full, felt his thick finger penetrating me, creating a boiling well of fiery pressure at my core. A faint tinge of desperation touched me. He flicked my nipple, pulled his finger back, and my stomach muscles contracted, my hips rolling of their own accord. Another push, deeper now. Most of his finger had to be inside me now. I gritted my teeth to hold back the gasps and moans that threatened at my lips. He withdrew almost all the way, and then slid in again, repeating the motion, and I had to exert every ounce of will to stop myself from moving with him. His finger fucked my asshole in smooth, slow strokes, and his hand caressed and kneaded and pinched at my breast and nipples, and I was growing needy, feeling frantic. I needed more than this. I needed him. I needed him to put his fingers in my pussy, I needed his cock, I needed his mouth, I needed something. What I got, though, was desperation flooding through me, his finger in my ass bringing me to the verge of a dark and primal climax.
And then…he stopped. Pulled his finger out of me, left me bent over in the middle of his bedroom. I straightened and pulled my feet back together, gasping, frantic and angry with need and frustration and shame, aching, and watched him go through a door, where I heard water running as he washed his hands.
I shook all over, hair messed up, lip throbbing where I’d nearly bit through it. I tried to gather myself, to compose myself, but it was a vain effort. Roth sauntered back toward me, a slight grin curving his lips. He stopped in front of me. Waited, eyes searching me.
“Anything to say?” he asked. I could only shake my head. “No?”
I needed him to finish me, but he wouldn’t, and I knew it. That was his ploy. I was pissed off, too, feeling degraded. Bent over in the middle of his room, finger-fucked in the ass, all to get me to admit he was in control? Left hanging? Doucheknob.
I turned away from him, knelt to gather my clothes.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I heard Roth say behind me. “You don’t get away that easily.”
He wrapped an arm under my middle, lifted me bodily, scooped his other arm under my knees, and flipped me to my back, catching my head with the crook of his arm. I writhed in his grip, pissed off at his behavior and now at his brazen manhandling of me.
I stilled, realized struggling was futile, settling instead for glaring at him, spitting fire from my eyes. He only grinned at me, carrying me to his bed. He tossed me like a doll, and I bounced on the soft mattress. Before I could so much as blink, he was on top of me. I caught my breath as his mouth crashed down on mine. I forgot to struggle as the surprising heat and tenderness of the kiss caught me off guard. My hands stole up to his back, grabbed at him, but he pulled away and caught both my wrists in one hand, held my hands over my head, and then resumed the kiss.
“Is this where you wanted to be, Kyrie? Naked, beneath me, in my bed?” He whispered, his lips moving against mine. “Well, here you are. A few moves, and I’d be inside you.”
My mouth quivered against his. “Yes….” Fucking stupid desperate ho, I chastised myself. I was exactly where I wanted to be, and exactly where he wanted me. Flushed, aroused, desperate, naked. But it had happened on his terms, and he was winning.
“If I let one of your wrists go, will you do what I tell you?” I nodded, and he released one of my hands. “Good. Unzip me.”
I undid his pants, reached into his underwear, and freed his heavy cock. I almost came just from the feel of his thick shaft in my hand, knowing he was inches from my core, seconds from satisfying me the way I needed.
“Push my pants down.” I did so, shoving his pants and underwear down around his thighs.
I held my breath as he lowered his hips, touched the broad head of his cock to my entrance. I bit my lip, watching his expression tighten, harden, eyes narrow, and then he pushed in. I wanted to weep. It was just the tip, but it spread me apart, filled me already. I gasped in relief, threading my hand between our bodies to grasp his erection by the root, my knuckles against his body, holding him, pulling him toward me.
“Kyrie….” he growled. “You’re so fucking tight.”
“Valentine…God…more.”
He growled again, a wordless rumble in his chest. He grabbed my hand and pulled it away, caught both of my hands in one of his again. And then pulled out of me, sitting back on his haunches.
I did cry out then. “NO! Valentine, please—” I bit off my words, realizing his game.
“Say it, Kyrie.”
I closed my eyes. I ached. I’d had him inside me, and that brief moment of fullness had been glorious, a fragmentary glimpse of what it would be like with him inside me. I wanted it. I needed it. I felt something inside me give way, capitulating. “You, Valentine. You are in control.”
He leaned over me, kissed me. “Good. Don’t forget it.” And then he was rolling off the bed, tugging his pants back in place.
“Wait! I thought—”
He turned to face me. “Not yet, Kyrie. Not that, not yet.” He put his hand in his pocket and adjusted himself. “I’m torturing myself just as much, you know. But do you remember what I told you when you first met me?”
I closed my eyes. “That I’d beg you for it.” I opened my eyes and pinned him with an angry glare. “I did, Roth. Just now. Last night. I asked. I told you I wanted it. I’ve played your game. If you knew me at all, you’d know how hard that was for me. But you’re still playing goddamn games.”
He took a step toward the bed. “You tried to make it happen on your terms, love. That’s not how this works.” His eyes roved over my naked body. “You’re frustrated, aren’t you?”
I nodded, pressing my thighs together. “You know I am.”
“You have two choices, in this moment. You can ask me to make you come, right now, with my hand. Or you can wait until I’m ready. Tonight, if all goes well.” He moved to sit on the bed beside me.
> I sat up, pressing my knees together and folding my legs to one side, using my arm as a bra. “Why tonight? What’s so special about tonight?”
“Nothing in particular.” He shrugged, tracing the line of my leg from heel to hip with a finger. “I’ve dreamed of that moment, Kyrie. The moment when I take you. Would you like to hear the dream?”
I nodded. “Yes. Tell me, please.”
He let out a long breath. “It’s at night. This room is dark, lit by candles. You have lingerie on. Something red and silky. I’ve got you tied up. Not tight, just a scrap of lace around your wrists. You’re lying here, right where you are, and you’re looking at me with those soft blue eyes of yours. You’re so bloody beautiful, Kyrie. All wrapped up like a gift. Just begging me with your eyes to tear the clothes off you. You can’t hold still, because you want me. I make you wait, though. And when you can’t take it anymore, you open those sweet plump lips and speak, and your musical voice fills my room. You ask me to make love to you. You don’t beg, because that’s beneath you. You merely…ask. And you reach for me. Your quick, soft little hands peel my clothes off me and you pull me down to you, and you kiss me. And when I slide my cock into your tight wet cunt” —his voice lowers, rasps, and I gasp at the way he emphasizes that dirty, unexpected word “—you make such sweet little sounds. You wrap yourself around me with your arms and legs, and you don’t let go until I’m buried deep inside you.”
I shook all over, eyes closed, imagining the scene he’s setting with his words. I pressed my thighs tight together, seeking pressure, seeking relief, hot and wet from his teasing, and now made all the more desperate by his sexy, expressive voice murmuring in my ear, describing exactly what I’ve envisioned myself.
“You’re so tight, Kyrie. I can almost feel you, clenched around my cock. You’ll feel so good, Kyrie. So tight. Almost too tight. You can barely take me, but you do, and it drives both of us mad.” His voice is barely audible, and his accent seems a bit thicker, more noticeable. “I’ve had this dream a thousand times, Kyrie, love. I’ve imagined feeling your tight little cunt around my cock and…feeling it just then, I know it’ll be even more perfect than dreams could ever show. You tempt me, Kyrie. Sitting there, naked, so composed. I want you right now. Bare, skin to skin. I was just inside you. I had you. But…I want to make that dream come true. I want to see the moonlight on your skin. I want to tear that lingerie off your body. I want to lick every sweet curve of your body until you’re mad with desire. That’s why I’m waiting, Kyrie.”
I was tensed, on the verge of coming just from his words. I was there, right there, just from the sound of his voice, the promise, the scene he’d set in my mind. If he were to touch me, slip one finger inside me, I’d explode.
I pushed away my pride and rebellious streak, reached out to grab his hand. Rolled to my back, let my legs fall apart. Brought his hand to my soaked folds. “Please….”
He groaned. “Kyrie…you tempt me. You make me so crazy.” He, unconsciously it seemed, stroked my cleft with a finger. “If I touch you, I’ll not be able to stop.” He backed several steps away from me, ran his hands through his hair. “I want you desperate, Kyrie.” He eyed me, chest heaving. “Don’t think this is easy for me. It’s not.”
I slid off the bed and gathered my clothes, tossed them on the bed. Getting dressed again only took a moment. When my dress was zipped and I felt somewhat composed, I turned to him. “Let’s go sailing, Valentine.” I held my hand out to him, threaded my fingers through his. But I pulled him back when he started walking, met his eyes. “You’d better follow through.”
“What do you mean?”
I gestured at his bed. “What you described just now? You’d better give me that.”
He pulled me against him. “I promise you. That…and then some.”
The Date
Roth’s private elevator took us down to an underground garage. It was a cavernous space, well lit, eight-foot ceilings, shiny blue epoxy floor, whitewashed walls lined with ’20s and ’30s-style vintage posters depicting a day at the beach, race cars, cruise liners, now-defunct cigarette brands and Italian wine companies. There were rows of red and silver Craftsman tool cabinets, several racks full of yet more tools, a work bench scattered with greasy parts and disassembled engine bones.
I counted nine vehicles: a Maybach, a boxy Mercedes-Benz SUV, a Maserati, a Tesla, a Bentley convertible, two different kind of motorcycle—a crotch rocket and a chopper—a civilian-model military Hummer, and an older-model black BMW, the last the car his father had given him, I assumed. It was an impressive array of vehicles, and I didn’t even want to contemplate how much it was all worth.
On the wall beside the tool chests was a small metal cabinet with a fingerprint-scan locking mechanism. Roth put his thumb to the pad and opened the cabinet when the lock beeped, revealing two sets of keys for each vehicle hanging from hooks. He glanced at me. “Which car do you want to take?”
I was a fairly typical girl in that to me, for the most part, a car was a car. I knew enough to know that these were supremely expensive, top-of-the-line cars, but yet there weren’t any of the usual rich-guy sports cars. No Ferraris or Lamborghinis or Corvettes in this garage, which I found interesting. Those cars didn’t suit him, though, I realized when I thought about it. He was wealthy, but not showy or flashy.
I shrugged and pointed at the convertible. “That one looks fun.”
Roth grinned. “Good choice.”
The elevator door opened behind us, revealing Eliza carrying an insulated cooler. “The lunch you requested, Mr. Roth.”
“Thank you, Eliza.”
“My pleasure, sir. Shall I expect you for dinner?”
Roth shook his head, taking the cooler from Eliza and setting it in the back seat of the Bentley. “No, I think we’ll find something in the city. You can go, if you like.”
“Thank you, sir. Tomorrow, then.” She smiled at me and let the elevator door close in front of her.
A few moments later, Roth was guiding the quiet, powerful car up a ramp and out into the brilliant late morning sunlight. Roth pulled a pair of Ray-Bans from the inside pocket of his coat, pointing with them at the glove box. “I think there’s another pair in there.”
I opened the glove compartment and found a spare pair of sunglasses, slipped them on, and tied my hair back with the ponytail elastic I had on my wrist. The drive through Manhattan to the marina was brief but pleasant, the wind in my face, sun bright and warm, Roth beside me, holding my hand.
When Roth had said “go sailing,” I’d envisioned a little boat just big enough for the two of us. I should have known better. The boat Roth owned was long and low, a sleek and sexy thing, all gleaming silver and polished wood, masculine lines and smooth curves. I knew less about sailboats than I did about cars but, knowing Roth, it had to be the most expensive and highest-quality sailboat money could buy. Roth carried the cooler by the strap over one shoulder, never letting go of my hand.
He helped me from the dock onto the boat, pointing at a seat beside the steering wheel. “Sit.”
I sat, watching him untie ropes and coil them neatly on the deck. He sat down, started the engine, and backed us out of the slip and pointed the bow toward open water. When we were clear of the marina, he cut the engine and unfurled the sail, tied the line, and then did the same to the smaller triangular sail in the front of the boat.
“Can I help?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’ve got it.”
“I’d like to, if I could. I didn’t come to just sit here and do nothing.”
Roth nodded, ducking under the horizontal bar of the big sail and taking the wheel. The wind was stiff, blowing at us at an angle, making the sails flap. “All right. First, a quick lesson. The small sail in front is called the jib. The big one is the mainsail. The big bar is called the boom. The ropes are called ‘lines.’ The next thing is to know that modern sailboats don’t travel in a straight line, and they don’t work with the wind coming from direc
tly behind. You sail in a zigzag pattern, which is called ‘tacking,’ keeping the wind at an angle. So when I tell you we’re ‘coming about,’ the boom, the big bar holding the bottom of the mainsail, is going to swing around. You have to pay attention and make sure the boom doesn’t knock you overboard when we’re coming about. I’ll warn you before I bring us about, but just be aware, all right, love?” He gestured at the line leading to the mainsail. “Untie that, then pull the line until the sail is taut.”
We were moving slightly, the sail flapping, the bow angled toward the New Jersey shoreline. We were heading south, away from Manhattan and toward Staten Island. I loosened the line he’d indicated, wrapped both hands around it, and pulled hard. As I pulled, the mainsail tightened, and the line grew taut, becoming harder and harder to pull as the wind caught it. A gust of wind blasted the sail, nearly jerking the line from me and pulling me off-balance. I pulled again, but another gust hit, this one pulling me clear off my feet. I wrapped the line around my fists, braced one foot against the side of the boat, and pulled as hard as I could, then wrapped the line around the tie-off bracket thing. The sail was bellied out but firm, not flapping in the wind anymore, and I felt the sailboat pick up speed immediately. I glanced at Roth who gave me a bright grin and a thumbs-up.
“Perfect!” He patted the seat beside his own, and I sat down.
“When did you learn to sail?” I asked.
“I’ve been sailing my whole life. I grew up summering in Greece, and spent nearly every day during the summers sailing with Dad or with my friends when I got older. After I left home at eighteen, I ended up working on a fishing boat in the Aegean for a while. It was fun. Hard work, but fun. That was my first business. I bought that boat, hired the same crew that had taught me the business. Eventually, I bought a second boat, and then a third. I still own several boats in the Mediterranean, actually. Some are commercial fishing boats, some are private charters. Coming about.” He loosened the mainsail line, held on to it with one hand, and spun the wheel with the other, bringing the bow around, and then he re-tied the line again. He made it look easy, but I remembered how hard the wind had pulled at the sail, and thus the line, nearly jerking me off my feet, yet he’d held it in place with one hand while operating the wheel. “No matter how busy I get, I make time to sail. It’s my one real escape.”
The Naughty Boxset Page 45
