by Roxy Sloane
he was doing at the club himself. I wonder, is he into that kind of stuff, too?
Cam carefully applies a cool ointment to my wrists, then bandages them. His touch is firm, but gentle.
“He’s not my brother,” I blurt suddenly. My cheeks burn up. “Brent. He’s not... We were adopted.”
Cam looks up. His eyes are dark, intense. They seem to see right through me.
My heart beats faster.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“I know, I just...” I can’t look away. Something about him is so magnetic: the confidence that exudes from every pore. The quiet control in every movement.
Who is this man?
“All done.” Cam suddenly sets my hands down, breaking the moment. “Do you need anything else?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. Thank you. You’ve already done so much. I’m just going to take a bath, and then sleep. I’m worn out.”
“It’s been a long night.”
The guest room I pick is huge, decorated in soothing pale blues and grays. There’s an equally big bathroom attached, with a deep tub. Cam turns on the faucets for me, running the water into the huge tub.
“You should have everything right here,” he says, nodding to the stack of towels and counter of expensive bath products. “But if you need me, just yell.”
“Thanks,” I mumble again. “Goodnight.”
He closes the door behind him, and suddenly it hits me, how alone I am. But I won’t let myself dwell on that right now.
I grab a bottle from the rack and pour it in. Frothy bubbles billow up around me, and the scent of lavender fills the room. Soon, the tub is full.
I quickly strip off his jacket and my lingerie and slip into the steaming hot water. Ah.
I sink back, relaxing for the first time all night. My back stings a little from the flogging, but I remember what Cam said—Brent clearly didn’t know what he was doing with that thing.
I wonder briefly what the right way would have been. What it would have felt like with someone experienced standing over me. There was a moment when I first arrived at the club that I was excited, intrigued to experiment a little. Then it all went horribly wrong.
I duck my head under the faucet to wet my hair, but too late I remember my wrists are bandaged. As the hot water stings the tender flesh, I quickly pull my arms up and back—and to my utter embarrassment, knock over a beautiful crystal jar of bath salts. Before I can catch it, it practically leaps off the side of the tub.
It crashes to the floor, shattering.
FOUR: CAM
I’m downing a shot of whiskey, trying to distract myself from the woman in my apartment, when I hear a crash from the guest bathroom.
“Isabelle? I’m coming,” I yell. I shouldn’t have left her alone.
I rush to the door and open it without a thought. Thank god, she’s okay. But the sight of her sets my blood on fire. Isabelle is a vision of loveliness, laying in the bath under a blanket of bubbles, water running down her wet hair. Then I see the broken crystal all over the floor.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident,” she says.
Walking through the fragrant, steamy room toward the tub, I have to pull my eyes from the curves of her glistening wet body, artfully concealed beneath mounds of white foam.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I soothe her. “It’s fine. Really.”
As I clean up the glass and scattered bath salt, I can feel her eyes on me, and I have to clench my jaw to ignore my arousal. She’s been through hell tonight, I remind myself. The last thing she wants is another asshole trying to take advantage.
Once I’m sure the floor is clear, I rinse my hands at the sink, trying not to look at Isabelle’s reflection in the vanity mirror. Even though every part of me wants to stay here with her, I finally dry my hands and turn to go.
“Wait,” she says.
I stop, and my pulse races again.
“I was trying to wash my hair, before. But my wrists—”
She holds them out, and seeing the wet bandages wrapped around them, I realize: she needs help.
“I just wanted to wash that place off me...” Her voice almost breaks.
“And you need a hand,” I finish. She nods.
She’s a friend in need, I tell myself. Nothing more. In fact, she’s not even a friend. She’s just the daughter of my deceased boss, and Charles Ashcroft certainly wouldn’t approve of the thoughts running through my head.
But although I hadn’t expected to see Isabelle tonight, I know I can’t turn my back on her. It would be ungentlemanly.
I can maintain control. It’s what I do best.
“Anything the lady needs,” I reply lightly, unbuttoning my cuffs and rolling up my shirt sleeves.
I settle on the edge of the tub, catching sight of flushed, pink skin draped in bubbles. Isabelle looks nervous. Awaiting my approval. I’ve seen that look before. Raw, yearning and eager to please. That same expression has decorated the faces of the many women who have writhed and moaned beneath the teasing touch of my leather riding crop.
I hadn’t expected to see it on Isabelle’s face and I’m caught off guard by the intense surge of lust that rises in response.
What would she be like under my control?
No. I can’t think that way—not about her. I busy myself with her request instead: turning on the water, and checking to be sure the temperature is perfect. I lift the shower attachment and carefully hold it up to her head, letting the water soak her long, golden hair.
Isabelle tips her head back as the hot water pours over her scalp. Squeezing a dollop of creamy shampoo into my palms, I slide my fingers into her hair. I try to work quickly, detached, but Isabelle sighs with pleasure.
“That feels like heaven,” she says softly. I can’t resist touching her more, massaging her scalp in slow strokes. From my position behind her, I can see her lips part sensuously. I fight the urge to bend down and kiss them, take her plump rosy bottom lip between my teeth.
I’ve never done this for a woman before, and I’m surprised to find how pleasurable the experience is. I work my fingers through her hair and down her neck, stroking softly as I go.
She surrenders to my touch, lost in the magic of the moment as I knead her shoulders. I’m painfully aware of the closeness of her full breasts to the tips of my fingers. Wet hair tumbles over her head and neck, clinging to her slick skin.
It’s torture. All I want to do is slide my soapy hands down into the warm water, caress her breasts and pinch her pink nipples between my thumbs. Hear those moans deepen. Watch her arch her back as she thrusts her breasts into my hands. I can see it now, how she’d part her legs and slide her fingers down to rub her swollen clit. I’d watch it all, commanding her to stroke fast or slow, depending on my whims. I’d lead her to the edge of release and take it away from her, again and again. She’d beg and plead for me to let her finish, to end that aching torture.
But I can’t let that happen. She just needs me to take care of her tonight. To help her feel safe.
I stop my massage and rinse the shampoo from her hair, my movements brisk and clinical.
“All done, now.” I keep my tone light, forcing a smile. I don’t want her to know how turned on I am. My cock is throbbing.
Isabelle twists to look at me. Her blue eyes are wide, and water spikes her dark lashes.
“Really? No conditioner?” she teases, handing me a second bottle.
Fuck. Here we go again. I force myself to stay cool. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But this time, I can’t help my fantasies. I find myself wrapping her long hair around my fist, thinking how much I’d like to tug her head back. Push my stiff cock into her hot, wet, willing mouth. How I’d fuck her throat, how good her soft lips would feel teasing the head of my cock. Her tongue flicking against the sensitive ridge, her lush mouth working my cock into ecstasy.
“Don’t stop,” Isabelle sighs. “It feels so good.”
It’s all I can do to r
esist pulling her to me.
Her slick wet body offers itself to my touch. My fingers tighten in her hair. I pull.
She gasps. Her mouth opens, her eyes close. It’s perfect. She’s perfect.
She reaches for me, rising from the water. Soap suds pour from her skin and reveal perfect breasts, nipples taut with excitement. Steaming water drips from her firm buttocks and toned body, running down toward her delicious pussy.
My cock shudders.
Isabelle’s eyes flutter open. “Cam?” she murmurs, and the breathless note in her voice hits me.
It’s like nothing else in this world matters. Nothing else exists but this moment. This exquisite desire. A tension so electric that the air between us vibrates with passion.
I can think of nothing but fucking her into endless orgasms, sliding my stiff cock into her tight, dripping pussy. Isabelle thrashing beneath me, scratching her nails down my back as I thrust against her aching clit. Harder. Deeper. Over and over, until—
“Can you rinse it out now?” Isabelle asks. I realize I’ve left her waiting.
Working my fingers through her silky hair one last time, I try to banish my illicit thoughts. I can’t believe I’m thinking these things after the night she’s just had, and I realize I need to step away from the tempting closeness of her naked skin. What the hell has gotten into me? This isn’t who I am. I’m not some spotty schoolboy creaming in his pants at the sight of a hot blonde. I’ve commanded dozens of women, dominated them with unyielding control.
But this woman… she is rocking my carefully crafted discipline.
I twist the water off and turn toward the door. “I’ve got some calls to make,”
