“Do you feel it, Scarlet? Do you feel the way our needs compliment each other so completely?” She’d surrender and he’d take control, every time, fitting as concisely as music fit to air, filling the silence that didn’t seem lonely until one understood how incomplete it was without sound. She was the music that filled the hollowness inside of him.
Appraising her carefully, he focused on the apex of her thighs, fascinated by the darkened spot of fabric. “I can see where your arousal has seeped through the silk of your panties.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. Her command of herself was truly impressive. What would make a woman relinquish such control? But she wasn’t really relinquishing it, was she? No, she was voluntarily entrusting him with all the authority.
“Let’s discuss your past relationships. Tell me about your longest relationship as an adult.”
Her mouth parted as she slowly licked her lips. “I dated a man for eight months when I was in my early twenties.”
“How often did you fuck?”
She jerked back at his crass choice of words. Perhaps that term didn’t apply to her, or have the same effect as when he spoke the word pussy. He quickly covered his tracks. “Do you prefer the term making love?”
“With him, it was neither. We had sex.”
“Interesting. Explain the difference.”
“Um, I think making love refers to a special bond shared between two people, which he and I didn’t have.” She cleared her throat. “Fucking…I think of as passionate. We weren’t very passionate.”
“I’m curious how you define sex.”
“Sex is sex. There’s a man and a woman, part A goes into part B.”
“Did he bring you to orgasm often?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
Her face lowered and her voice turned small. “No.”
“Why are you lowering your face, Ms. Farrow? If a man fails to bring his lover to orgasm the failure’s his, not yours.”
“I guess.”
“Back to my original question. How often did you two have sex?”
“In the beginning, once we got to that stage, it was about once a week. After that it sort of dwindled. Then sex seemed the only thing we’d get together for so I broke it off.”
“Tell me about one particular memory of having sex with this man.” Her nose crinkled. “Is the idea of sharing such personal anecdotes distasteful or is it the actual memory that has you making that expression?”
“Both.”
“I want to know.”
Her posture wilted and she sighed. “He was always on top. It was always faster than I would have liked. And it was so unremarkable I can’t think of any memory in particular.”
So honest and so easy to transfer to his own fears. “I see. Tell me about the last time you had sex. Or was it fucking?”
Her feet shifted. She was likely growing tired of standing.
“He was the best man at my friend’s wedding. I was a bridesmaid. We both had too much to drink and I don’t really remember much more than we never even got our clothes completely off.”
“How long ago was that?”
She bit her lip. “Two years.”
His brows shot up. Two years? Scarlet Farrow had been celibate for two years? He tried to recall the last time he’d had sex. He’d received a decent blowjob from a woman at the last ComicCon. Did that count?
“Does it bother you going so long without sex?”
Her face lifted. “It didn’t…”
“Meaning?”
“That changed when I met you.”
He sat back, letting her confession sink in. Holy shit. How had he done this? They’d been talking for less than a month, only been in each other’s presence five times. It was too tempting not to explore her confession, see where the evening might lead.
“Do you need release, Ms. Farrow?”
Her breast slightly jostled as her breathing turned labored. “If that’s what you want, Mr. Stone.”
Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine them reaching this point. The more commanding he became the more she seemed to bend—and willingly. It was as if they were feeding off each other, him needing the authoritative role and her requiring his dominance, their opposing preferences creating a sort of perfect symmetry.
He placed his glass on the table with an intentional click and made a mental note to conduct more in depth research regarding dominance and submission. Perhaps that had been what he was searching for earlier that day. Though he’d read novels grazing the subject, he needed information from non-fiction sources if he truly intended to explore this dynamic.
Standing, he took slow steps to the center of the room. Her body appeared to draw tight the closer he came. “Do I make you nervous, Ms. Farrow?”
“Yes, but in a good way.”
Standing only a few inches across from her, he brushed the waves of hair behind her shoulders. She shivered and he breathed in the soft scent of her skin.
Carefully observing her, he brushed the backs of his nails along her jaw and down the side of her throat. “You’re pulse is accelerated, Ms. Farrow. That tells me you’re either excited or scared. Which is it?”
“Excited.”
Her breasts filled out the cups of her bra, heaving with every slow breath and stealing his attention. Dancing his fingers down her shoulder, he carefully traced the strap, and her breasts seemed to swell more.
His other hand repeated the motion to the other strap, this time dragging it off her shoulder. The elastic hung loose over her narrow upper arm. He slid the other strap down, leaving her breasts quivering inside of those delicate lace cups. Several freckles sprinkled along her cleavage and he wanted to taste every single one.
“Scared yet?”
“No.”
He removed his touch and studied her for a solid minute. Her patience and restraint was extraordinary. Glancing down, he blanched at the enormous bulge in his pants begging for attention. There’d be no relief there. Not here at least.
Time to get serious. Reaching both hands forward, he slowly traced the scalloped edging of her bra and yanked the cups down. She gasped as two perfect strawberry nipples pointed sharply forward—better than he’d ever imagined.
Her breasts were extravagant, her nipples tight and dark mauve with the flow of blood, quite a breathtaking contrast to her ivory skin. The aureoles were perfect petite circles.
“Fold your hands behind your back, Ms. Farrow.”
She complied, her motions a bit shaky, but still graceful. Her nipples lifted as the space between her breasts widened. Leaning forward, he crowded one tight bud with a slow open mouth kiss. Her knees jerked, lowering her body for a split second as she moaned.
His gaze went to her face. Lips quivering, she silently panted, definitely aroused. His attention went to the other nipple, tight and begging for attention. His mouth closed over the ruby tip and he sucked.
Her throaty sigh of relief was music to his ears. Gently applying pressure with his teeth and teasing the very edge with his tongue, he continued to suck her nipples, testing various methods of pleasure.
“Oh God.”
His hands never touched her, but he wanted to. He was so close to losing control he should stop, but she had him under some sort of spell.
Returning to the other nipple, he again closed his mouth over her, this time engulfing the whole areola. The harder he sucked, the fiercer she moaned. When he pulled back, he admired how the strawberry shade had darkened to a deep crimson. “Your nipples are almost red, Ms. Farrow. I wonder if that’s from all the wine you drink.”
She laughed and smiled. She had a beautiful smile, shy, but pretty.
“Are they sensitive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like having your breasts fondled softly or do you prefer to have the tips pinched?”
“I… I don’t know.”
It was inexplicable, discovering she wasn’t much more knowledgeable about sex than
him. Unfolding his posture he slowly strode to stand behind her. “Fist your hands at your side and don’t move them until I say so.”
Her fingers unlaced as her arms draped loosely at her side, her palms curling into tight balls. He traced a finger down her spine and she shivered. “I enjoy your freckles, Ms. Farrow.”
As his finger dragged from one sprinkling of marks to the next, her shoulders twitched. He stopped when he reached the twisted clasp of her bra. “May I?”
“Yes.”
Briefly shutting his eyes, he prayed he didn’t fumble. He undid the clasp on the first try and let the garment fall to the floor. Sliding his hands through her arms, he caressed the swell of her hips and ran his palms up her quivering belly. She was soft there, feminine. Some might see her as a woman who carried a few extra pounds, but he saw her as perfect.
His erection brushed the curve of her ass and he nearly came in his pants. “I’m going to touch you now, Ms. Farrow. Keep your hands still.”
Turning his wrists he cupped her heated flesh and she sagged into his hold. Without thinking, he stepped closer. Her bottom pressed into the ridge in his pants as she sighed and he squeezed her breasts.
From this angle he could smell her sweet apple scented shampoo, which only added to his arousal. Whispering in her ear, he asked, “Do you like my hands on you?”
“Yes,” she nearly cried.
He stepped closer, savoring the friction of her body crowded against his. His fingers went to her sharp pink nipples and pinched and plucked. She began to keen with every breath. “Mr. Stone… Oh…please…”
He ground his cock into her bottom, needing the relief of friction. Her cheek brushed his and his eyes briefly shut. The pleasure of holding her weight in his arm was so exquisite it bordered on pain. “Tell me what you feel.”
Her voice pitched with each exhalation. “Pleasure. Pain. You. You’re tall. And I can feel you. Please let me touch you.”
He pinched her nipples a bit harder. “Do you like the pain?”
She was practically sobbing out her words, delirious with pleasure. “Yes. Sometimes. But it’s the desire that hurts more than anything. I want you.”
He rolled her nipples between his fingers and thumbs. “Tell me what else you feel.”
“Wet. I’m very wet. All I can smell is you. Your touch is almost too much, your hair tickling my throat and your breath in my ear. I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“Can you come this way?”
“I don’t know. I never have.”
Releasing her quickly, he took her hand. “Follow me.” He led her to the wall, pressing her back into the antique paper. She gasped, likely from the chill of the wall. It was suddenly imperative that he make her come—at his own hand.
“Lift your arms over your head. Keep them on the wall.” She did as he commanded, her aroused breasts lifting like twin pieces of succulent fruit. Her head tipped back as her mouth opened.
Cupping her roughly, he bent and sucked a nipple deep in his mouth. She cried out, her raspy voice filling the room. His other hand plucked at her nipple, pinching tightly, twisting, and then allowing the blood to flow back to the tip only for a split second before moving his mouth there.
Her knees gave out and he shoved his frame against her, holding her in place, as his pelvis dragged deliciously against her body, separated only by his clothing. His attention became hyper-focused, his mouth, tongue, and fingers solely dedicated to her pleasure.
“Oh my God, it’s happening!” her body trembled in his hold as he continued to tease. Her motions turned erratic as she cried out his name over and over again. Fastening his mouth to the ivory swell of her breast, he sucked, intentionally hoping to mark her porcelain skin as he pinched down on her nipples and tugged hard.
The most feminine, guttural moan filled the hall as she melted in his arms. She trembled as he breathed hard against her shoulder.
Fuck Hunter. I knew I could give a woman an orgasm in person.
Pulling himself back to the present, he slowly stepped back. “You can lower your arms now.” They dropped immediately reaching for him and he gripped her wrist to assure she didn’t fall. He cleared his throat. “I think you’ve earned that glass of wine.”
She giggled, a bit breathlessly, and he slowly escorted her back to the chairs, helping her find her seat. When he pressed the goblet into her hand, she guzzled it. Her breathing remained choppy for several minutes which he spent admiring her nearly naked form.
Her belly naturally creased at her belly button. Her breasts weighed heavily against her ribs. She appeared completely unnerved by her nudity, which was unexpected.
Refilling her glass, he said, “I see you’re coming to terms with your nudity.”
She chuckled. “That’s a first.”
“I’m staring at your body. Does that worry you?”
Smiling, she leaned back in the chair and lifted her arms, putting her breasts on display. “Believe it or not, I love knowing you enjoy looking at me, Mr. Stone. It’s a sort of attention I’ve never had.” Brazenly, she reached for the table and slid her glass onto the surface.
His jaw unhinged. Later, when she returned home, she’d find the souvenir he’d left on her body. The plum blotch his kiss had left showed beautifully against her pale skin. He decided he wanted to leave her with many more, liking his mark on her flesh.
Grinning, he experienced deep satisfaction. He’d claimed her, in a way. Mine.
His smile faltered as reality came hurtling back to his sex-addled-brain. Fuck. None of this was part of his plan. It was far too personal. Artificial, despite the truth of his affection. It wouldn’t be real until she learned who he truly was. And Asher Roan could very easily pale in comparison to Mr. Stone.
“It’s time to say goodnight, Ms. Farrow.”
Her grin fell and her arms slowly closed over her chest. He sensed the moment insecurity took hold. He could easily reassure her, but he didn’t trust his own words at the moment. He needed to get her out of there, before he said or did something they’d both regret.
Standing, he collected her dress and bra. “Please stand up.” She did, keeping her head angled down as he slid the garment back into place and worked to clasp the tiny hooks. Damn bras. Why did they have to be so complicated?
Once her breasts were covered he slid her arms through the sleeves of the dress. Docilely, she allowed him to tie the front, her posture guarded. Once he finished dressing her, he took a moment to fix her hair, and inspect that everything was covered.
“I’ll get your coat.”
As he stepped away he heard her sniffle and stilled. Glancing back, he scrutinized her face. As much as the blindfold protected him, it also protected her. Without seeing her eyes it wasn’t always easy to ascertain her emotions.
Forgetting the coat he stepped in front of her. “Scarlet?”
She sniffled again and nodded.
“Why are you upset?” His chest constricted. What had he done?
“I’m fine.”
Sheclearlywas not fine. “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, surprised at the lash in his voice. His frustration was with himself. He’d pushed too far and crossed a line.
She flinched. “Did I disappoint you?”
What? He shut his eyes and silently sighed. His need to conclude their evening wasn’t an attempt to be coldhearted in the least. On the contrary, he was trying to reel in his control before things spun out of hand, save her from disappointment, but he was fumbling everything.
Brushing a hand over her cheek, he assured, “No, sweet Scarlet, you pleased me very much. I’m merely reacting to the awareness that we have seven nights left.”
Which was also true. They were running out of time. He didn’t disclose that he was panicking about what would happen over the course of those nights—mainly, to him. The more she gave of herself the less control he had over his restraint.
She was breaking down every boundary he’d purposefully built to protect hims
elf. He’d been so worried about playing a part he’d overlooked the fact that this woman was the same woman who basically owned him and thrown him to the wolves twelve years ago. He hadn’t thought he’d fall for her again, but he had. And now the fall, should she toss him away, was so much greater he doubted he’d survive.
Stepping away, he went to retrieve her coat and carefully fastened the buttons, as was their routine. Like the last time, she caught his hand on the last button. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”
He smiled forlornly. “You’re welcome, Scarlet.”
This time when he watched Steve drive her away there wasn’t the familiar sense of accomplishment. Rather, there was cold worry. He decided their next encounter he’d reassess the woman. He’d find out more about her personality—there had to be some guarantee available, something great enough to give him the confidence to end this tiresome charade and trust her enough not to reject him again.
Chapter Thirteen
Control
After three days of contemplating the uninvited emotions regarding Scarlet and their liaison, Asher decided the solution rested in maintaining absolute control—of himself and their situation. He’d let his own desires distort his motive to make this all about her and he needed to refocus. If he continued to please her in a way no other man had, her gratitude might overshadow any shortcomings he hid and perhaps there could be something more in the end.
Control was not necessarily taking what he wanted because he simply had the authority to do so. No. It was a tool used to unravel the many wants and desires that made Scarlet Farrow, thereby presenting the answers to her prayers. In order for his intentions to bear fruit, he must be able to deliver. Serving his own needs and desires should not be part of the immediate plan. She should always come first—literally.
“Tell me about your home,” he asked late one evening as he had her on the phone.
“It’s small. Yellow siding, a small garden in the front that can’t grow more than weeds.”
BLIND: A Mastermind Novel Page 23
