by Liz Crowe
Try to behave. Or barring that, be polite.
All right already, brother. I gotta go.
***
Andreas was early—normal for him. He liked to get a handle on his surroundings, and frankly, nervousness made him even earlier. Blind dates were not usually his style. He liked to meet women on his own terms, not as part of some elaborate set up, like this one. He nursed his scotch. The previous night had been a late one. He’d stayed sober, enjoyed the expensive attentions of some lovely ladies at the club, and fallen into bed around three a.m. A long morning workout had helped dispel some of his tension. Hopefully this little dream date thing would not only get his sister off his back, but would force the dark-skinned sultry girl from the club out of his brain.
He counted punctuality as one of his pet peeves so by the time a female figure appeared alone in the doorway of the exclusive restaurant, back lit so he couldn’t see her face, and nearly twenty minutes late, he frowned. Dressed in a short skirt, her long legs were fit, but not skinny. She had womanly curves exactly where he liked them. The cinched in, wide belt accentuated her hips and the very appealing swell of her breasts. Her sleeveless and filmy shirt allowed just enough of her rich olive skin to show. His eyes traveled up the long expanse of her long neck and came to rest right on the very eyes that had haunted him since the night before. She took a step into the restaurant’s dim interior. His cock sprang to instant, painful attention. He gulped down the remainder of his drink and watched her take a few more steps inside, using the time to really assess her perfection. The patent leather stilettos made him groan. He was fucked, well and truly. And the girl had serious attitude to match her good looks if he remembered correctly. He sensed his natural Dom rear up, take control for the first time in months, maybe even years. He stood, buttoned his jacket over the bulge in his trousers and made a decision. He’d tell her everything, exactly what he wanted, and let her decide.
The dim light forced Lale to take a few moments and figure out where everything was in the restaurant. Her ears buzzed with nervousness. Something in the room shifted, a puff of cool air blew past her, ruffling her hair as she took a further step inside. Within seconds, she locked eyes with the Greek. Taking an involuntary step back, Lale immediately realized he had to be her date. Mas allah…. She put a hand to her throat. But then he smiled at her—an amazing, beautiful thing that lit up his entire, incredible face. When he shrugged and held out a hand, an eerie, unfamiliar calm settled over her psyche.
She took a deep breath and walked to the table where he stood, holding out her chair. She glanced down, unable to meet his eyes for some reason and sat. The moment he joined her, a plate of succulent fruits, nuts, olives, cheese, and some smoked salmon appeared in front of them. Her wine glass got filled with something red and rich smelling. Lale blinked then looked up. Dear God, he is gorgeous. And something else…something dark, yet lovely…just out of reach….
“Cheers.” He lifted his glass. “Nice to meet you.”
She raised hers, clinked his and took a sip. Realizing she had yet to speak, she cleared her throat, touched a soft napkin to her lips, stalling.
“So, I guess I should know your name, otherwise you are going to be ‘the Greek’ to me all night.” Lale winced at herself. “I’m, um, Lale.” She held her hand out over the small table.
The electric spark that crawled up her arm to the base of her brain when he touched her nearly made her moan. Sweat beaded her upper lip but the rest of her body shivered. She gulped as his huge hand engulfed hers.
“Beautiful Tulip, eh? Nice. Very apt. You are lovely.” He let go. Lale frowned. He stayed quiet, munching on an olive, staring holes into her. She sipped more wine. The silence stretched out beyond anything resembling comfortable or even polite.
“Okay then.” She reached out for an olive, popped it in her mouth, and nearly choked on it. He stood and pounded her back. She grabbed water, mortified. After she regained her breath, he sat back down and motioned for the waiter without taking his eyes off her.
“The lady will have the Circassian Chicken, no bread, with a spinach salad, hold the onions and blue cheese. I’ll have the osso buco, extra bread, no salad,” he ordered in textbook perfect French. Lale gaped at the man, amazed, pissed at his assumptions and suddenly starving at the thought of the chicken dish. Easily one of her favorites; she hadn’t had it since leaving Turkey.
“How did you know I…?”
He held up a hand. “Let me clarify this for you now, my dear. I like to be in control. I expect it, frankly.” He took a sip of wine. Lale’s core continued its dangerous meltdown. She had no idea what he meant, but something in her already responded in ways she couldn’t fathom. “I take pride in knowing what my, um, partner needs from me. I noticed you didn’t eat a bite of the cheese. I have some other Turkish friends—although I loathe to admit it—who are lactose intolerant. I think it is common in your country, this digestive weakness.”
“But—” Lale’s face burned and her temper rose to meet the lust that roiled through her, keeping her skin pebbled and her heart thudding.
“I’m not finished.” His voice stayed low, firm, sexy. “Yes, I played football. In Miami. For seven years, I hit the center of the opposing team as hard as I could, trying to get to the quarterback. I played this position well because I’d been the center in college at Arizona. After my third major concussion I retired.” He refilled Lale’s wine glass. She kept staring at him, transfixed by his face, his eyes, the soft cadence of his voice. “Yes, I have been married. My ex-wife started out as my sub, or my submissive, then transformed into a slave. Our relationship was very complex, exciting and as it turns out, a complete lie.”
“Uh, your ‘slave’ did you say?” Lale’s face flushed again. If this Greek thought she had it in her to bow down and let herself be treated like shit by the hottest thing with a swinging dick she’d encountered in a while, he’d better think twice. He put a hand over hers. Lale stared at it as her pounding heart calmed, and she could suddenly take a deep breath, seemingly at his touch. Dark hair dusted his bronzed skin. Her eyes travelled up the expanse of his light blue shirt, to the tie around his neck, noted his clenched jaw, and came to rest on his shining green eyes. She had to cross her legs to keep from trembling.
“Yes, I did. But once I left the NFL and moved here to take a job as the athletic director for UNLV, her real self emerged. Selfish, spoiled, suddenly immune to punishment, but I had let myself be weakened by her. I loved her, but she loved the limelight from being the wife of a big football star—and living in the desert didn’t appear on her to-do list, apparently.”
Lale watched his throat as he swallowed his wine. He removed his hand from hers. She had never felt more abandoned, although the man still sat right across from her. She shivered.
“Until I came home early one day and saw my neighbor’s cock in her ass, I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. Some slaves are unredeemable, especially the ones who are merely posing for some sort of gain. So I dismissed her. In my lifestyle, that is more final than any legal statement of divorce. And my neighbor may be able to walk again by now.”
“Wow, um that’s….” Lale pecked at her spinach salad.
“Eat that. You need the iron.”
She glanced up at him. “What, you’re a doctor, too?”
“No, I can tell. It’s my job.”
Something like anger shot through her. “Look, Greek, you have no job as it relates to me, okay? Just put that out of your head. I mean, you’re, ah, interesting and all, but I think there’s been some mistake.”
“Do you?”
Lale had to admit the spinach tasted good. She had never been the best eater and these last few days, she had not ingested much more than granola bars, coffee, and alcohol. “Yeah, I do.”
He stayed quiet a minute while she wolfed down the dark greens.
“So you are perfectly happy with the men in your life?”
“What men?” She dabbed at her lips
again. “I mean, I am on a blind date with you, after all.”
“What I mean is, I think you might be perfect for me. But I don’t know if I have the energy or inclination to make you understand that.”
Lale sat back. What the hell did he mean? “I thought relationships were supposed to be fun, you know, not work that required a lot of energy. Just so you know, my brother met his wife through this little setup and one of my best friends found his new boyfriend thanks to this Madame Eve person as well.”
The huge Greek hunk chuckled and removed a card from of his pocket, wrote something on the back, and pushed it across the table at her. She picked it up. Andreas Michos, Athletic Director The University of Nevada Las Vegas. She flipped it over. 4770 North Cumberland Drive, Summerlin She stared at him.
“Gee, I thought we’d exchange email addresses first.”
He leaned forward and held out his hands. Against her better judgment, she placed hers in them, trying not to flinch at the heat that passed from him straight to her lap. Her throat clenched, making it hard to swallow as she studied how small her hands seemed in his again, unable to meet his gaze.
“Look at me now.” She lifted her eyes to his which blazed with intensity. “I want you, Lale. I wanted you last night. I want…more than you know. But I’m not sure you can handle what I have to offer. It’s a complex relationship between a Dom and a sub, and I don’t know if you’re ready, although….” He stopped and shrugged, his face settling into noncommittal lines. Her skin heated alarmingly. Rage surged through her brain, and she yanked her hands out of his large, warm ones.
“You know what, you have got to be the cockiest man on the planet. What makes you think I even want what you have to offer, hmm?”
“You do. I can tell.”
Lale pushed her chair back and stood. She had to get out of there. This Greek…Andreas…did something to her she had no frame of reference for. She needed air. She needed space. But at the same time, she had to ball her hands into fists to keep from flinging herself into his strong arms. What the hell? Since when did she want someone to dominate her? That was utter bullshit.
He looked up at her, one dark eyebrow raised. “Your move, beautiful tulip. I’ve laid it out for you. Shall we finish our dinner? I think you should.” He gestured toward her chair, an eyebrow raised as if in question.
She shut her eyes against the weird compulsion to obey him. To sit down and eat the meal that sat before her, tempting with the familiar smells of home. Slipping back into her seat, she took a bite and let the silence gather some force between them.
“I am not interested in being anyone’s ‘slave,’” she finally said as casually as if she were discussing the weather. “So I guess this will be our first and last date.”
The lovely man smiled and his face transformed once again into something she wouldn’t mind seeing every morning of her life, next to her on a pillow. “I know that. Believe me, I’ve been doing this long enough to spot a woman as capable as I am of being a Dom.”
She tried not to smile back at him. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Greek.” She got a small bit of satisfaction at the frustration that passed over his strong features.
“Lale, the Dom/sub relationship is not about anything but trust. Something tells me you don’t trust anyone. Not anymore. Am I right?”
She blinked. “Maybe. What difference does that make?”
“All the difference in the world to me. I want to be the man you trust—with everything. With your body, your safety, your very soul. That requires relinquishing an amount of control I’m not sure you’re capable of handing over…yet.” He motioned for the waiter to take away his empty plate. She hadn’t even registered he’d been eating. “So, perhaps you’re right. This should be our last encounter. We will only frustrate each other. Although….” He licked his upper lip, which sent Lale right over the edge. She grabbed her water glass and tried not to hold it to her flushed face. “The process would indeed be gratifying, that I promise you.” Lale had heard of women having an orgasm from the sound of a voice, without any physical contact. But until that moment, she had dismissed it as virginal bullshit—the stuff of overheated romance novels. The dampness between her legs and the quick second of bliss she had at his words proved otherwise. She had to get away from him before she did something ridiculous.
“I think we should call it a night.” She stood, wobbly in her shoes. He joined her and her eyes were drawn directly to the huge lump under his zipper that he made no effort to hide. He took her arm and steered her toward the door.
“You see the affect you have on me. I’ve nursed this hard on since you walked in the room, Lale. But I need more from you than the quick lay you would no doubt allow me.” She yanked her arm out of his grip. Her anger finally allowed her to speak.
“Fuck off, asshole. Take your Master and slave bullshit and find yourself a brainless bimbo. This town has got to be full of them, hot for your bod, no?”
He put his hands in pockets as they stood in the cavernous lobby. His gaze remained inscrutable. Lale glared at him, the twin compulsions to smack him and wrap her entire body around his and never let go warring in her brain. She sucked in a deep breath.
“Well, thanks for an interesting night.” She put out a hand to shake his. This is crazy. I need to go home, see my niece, take some control of my life. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, then suddenly tugged her close to put a possessive arm around her waist. Her body immediately responded. Trying to keep standing as her knees gave out, she kept her face averted. His lips brushed her ear, already familiar, his lilting voice filling her head. “You are not a slut, that’s not what I meant. You should treat yourself better. Take some pride in more than your appearance. You are strong and special. Don’t forget it.” She closed her eyes at the touch of his lips to her cheek then he released her. “Farewell, my beautiful Turk. My dead grandmother thanks you for blowing me off.” Lale wanted nothing more than to run her tongue over his crooked, ironic smile. Her body jangled with need for his touch again.
“My very much alive, very Turkish brother and father feel the same way, Greek.” She took one step back, then turned and stalked over to the bank of elevators.
Chapter Seven
Andreas threw another punch at the bag. It jarred his entire arm in a pleasant fashion he’d pay for in coming days. His shoulder couldn’t take the pounding he used to give it. But pure insanity hovered on his horizon and he had to do something, anything, to get Lale out of his head. It had taken one hundred percent of his willpower not to drag her outside, throw her on his bike, and drive home with her. Jesus. He hit the bag again, and again. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes, stinging just enough to distract him. Damn the woman. How in the hell did he manage to get tangled with such wholly inappropriate ones anyway? Shelley had been a real catch at one time, but as her personality emerged the longer they were together, he’d realized the whole thing had been a mistake. But the sex and the play stayed mind-blowing, making him forget what an utter, grasping bitch she was outside of the bedroom or dungeon. Hadn’t he learned his lesson? Why would this Turk be any different?
Wham. His shoulder throbbed but he didn’t care. It made him feel alive. As he started to land one more punch, the distinct sound of a footfall on the front porch made him stop. He ran down the hallway of his sprawling house and looked out the large front windows. A shadow loomed over the steps. A Lale-shaped shadow. He groaned. He had to face this thing, but he couldn’t be sure how he would handle it. His body let him know how it wanted to proceed, already hardening at the thought of her, bent over his knee for the paddling she deserved for snooping around.
He yanked the door open, unprepared for the sight of her, still in the sexy skirt and heels, standing with her hands on her hips in his doorway. She glared at him, as if he were the Peeping Tom. Scowling, hoping she couldn’t hear his pounding heart, he grabbed her slender wrist and pulled her not-so-gently inside. He held onto her, fire snapping between t
hem at the touch, and slammed the door shut with his foot.
“Get your hand off me,” the sultry woman demanded. He grinned and tightened his grip.
“No. I think you want me to do this, don’t you, Turk?” His voice sounded hoarse even to him. The distinct sensation of impending orgasm was not a pleasant one. The feel of her squirming, trying to pull away, while her eyes told him something else didn’t help. He had to have her, now. Sweat rolled down his face. He tugged her close, enveloped her with his body.
“I’m gonna show you what you came here to see. Don’t worry.” His lips touched her ear before he grabbed her hair and forced her to tilt her head back. She didn’t fight him. Her heart fluttered in her chest against his. She presented a tough shell—one he had to crack. Enough years in the service of submissives had taught him how to spot one, sense one and sort out their needs immediately. But he had to make her understand this didn’t involve her getting hurt. Quite the opposite. Her need for control fought with her desire to be controlled. Classic, he thought, as he smiled into her beautiful, angry face.
They stood, bodies touching, the only sounds that of their rapid breathing. His arms were wrapped around her as she stood, stiff and tense. When he touched the tip of his tongue to her neck, she shuddered. He brought his lips to her intoxicating flesh, ran one hand down her arm and cupped her sweet ass, pressing his desire against her. The extreme urge to shove her up against the wall and take her right then was a serious one. The need to go fast and hard, show her she belonged to him was foreign and he fought it, realizing it meant a lot more than just something physical. He kept his touch light, his lips merely teasing, licking and tasting his way down her long neck, to the dip between her collarbones.
When her body finally relaxed into his, he smiled into her delicious, vanilla-scented flesh. She went up on her tiptoes and curled her bare arms around his neck, lifted her face to his, eyes closed. She wore a mask of lust. Pheromones encircled him, and he had to grit his teeth against their compulsion—take, own, show, dominate. Taking her chin between thumb and forefinger, he laughed low in his throat. Her eyes flew open. Anger quickly replaced passion. Precisely as he had expected.
