by Lauren Smith
“Apricot,” she decided. Being highly allergic to the fruit made it a word she wouldn’t forget easily.
Her unusual choice of safe word had both men raising their brows. In that instant they could have been brothers. They mirrored each other the way only true friends could. A pang of envious longing cut through Sophie’s heart and she sucked in a breath as she thought of Rachel.
“What’s your name, little sub?”
“Sophie Ryder.” When his brows lowered she hastily added, “Sir.”
Emery patted his thigh with one palm. “Let us begin the contest. You will come and sit on my lap and I will command you.”
Sophie’s stomach pitched so deep it felt like it hit her toes. Emery leaned back, his arms rested on the back of the couch. He looked every bit a prince, a leader of a pride of lions, merely waiting for his conquest, his prey. His relaxed position only made her feel more helpless. She knew he could move fast, catch her in his arms and have her bent for punishment again in seconds if she dared to resist him. Her nipples pearled beneath the unforgiving leather of the corset, rubbing until they ached. She clenched her hands to stop them from shaking.
Here we go, you can do this. Sophie approached him and sat across his lap. She wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position, unable to ignore the feel of his muscular thighs beneath her.
He cocked one eyebrow imperiously, as though her restlessness had somehow offended him.
“Do not squirm.” He issued his first command.
She stilled instantly. Her only movement was her breasts rising and falling with her breaths.
“Look at my eyes, only my eyes.” His tone softened, but the rough edge still scraped over her, making her hungry for the promise she found in his gaze. The voices around them faded and she slipped deeper and deeper into his dark spell.
He would be a rough lover; carnal, quiet. He wouldn’t whisper sweet words, wouldn’t utter harsh arousing statements. He’d simply take her, take her again and again, the grinding, the pounding. The soft silence punctuated by uneven breaths, the stroke of rough hands over her sensitive skin. Everything a sensible, modern woman shouldn’t want from a man in bed. He’d be all animal in all the right ways.
She’d never been with someone like him before, might never be again, and the thought was an intoxicating one. To be at the mercy of such power, such electrifying sexual control and surrender it all to him… Her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulse tapping Morse code for help as she tried to maintain a semblance of calm. Would she be able to give in to him? To let him guide her through the dark lust that so often took hold of her when she had no way of releasing it? Yes… She could let go with him, and the uncertainty of what would happen when she did was half of the excitement that lit a fire in her veins.
His hands settled on her hips, fingers slowly stroking back and forth, teasing her skin beneath the leather mini-skirt. What would it be like to have his hands on her bare flesh? Fingers exploring between her legs.
“Tell me what you’d like, Sophie.” Emery leaned his head down, his brow touching hers, eyes still locked on her face.
She gulped, her mouth dryer than the Gobi Desert.
“What would it take to make you lose control? Do you want a hard fuck? A desperate pounding? Or would you like to have your hands bound, lying face down on a large bed, softness against your belly and my hardness above you, in you?” His erotic whispers were so soft, so low that no one nearby could hear what he was saying to her. The images he painted were wild, vivid, yet blurry—like a strange combination between Van Gogh and Monet. Sweet and sensual, then dark, exotic and barely comprehendible. Emery was an artist in his own way, an erotic painter of words and pictures.
“I’d take you slow, so slow you’d lose all sense of time. You’d focus only on me, on my cock gliding between your thighs, possessing you.” His words were slow and deliberate, as though he’d given them years of thought, but the slight breathless quality to the whisper made her realize she was not the only one affected.
The first quiver between her thighs was inevitable. She shifted, restless on his legs, despite his command not to move.
His breath fanned her lips. “Oh, god,” she murmured.
He smiled, unblinking, and licked his lips. She wanted that tongue in her mouth, tangling with her own. She craved his hands on her bare flesh.
“Please…” she moaned. He moved his hands down from her hips, to her outer thighs, barely exerting any real pressure. That made it worse. The hint of his touch, the promise of the pressure she craved. Sophie wanted him digging his fingers into her skin, holding her legs apart as he slammed deep into her.
“Take a deep breath,” he issued another command.
She obeyed. Her heartbeat seemed to expand outward from her chest until the pulse pounded through her entire body so hard she swore he could feel it beat through her skin wherever he touched her. The throb between her thighs nearly stung now—her need so great, his effect so potent.
“When I take you, no matter the position, you will like it. I’ll bend you over a couch.” He stroked one finger on her outer thigh, made circular patterns. “I’ll push you up against a wall.”
With little panting breaths she wriggled, trying to rock her hips against his lap, but he held her still. She nearly screamed in frustration at being denied what her body frantically needed.
The finger moved higher, past her hip, up to her ribcage. “Spread and bound open on my bed.” His fingertip quested up past the laces of her corset. “You’ll twist and writhe, unable to get free. At my mercy, Sophie, my mercy. You will beg and when I’m ready, I will grant your every desire, just as I take mine.”
She couldn’t breathe. The orgasm was so close. She could feel it, like a shadow inside her body, breathing, panting, waiting to be set free. She was ready; she wanted to climax in his arms, wanted to forge that connection which would tie her to him. Terrifying, shocking, intimate, but damn if she didn’t want it more than anything in the world at that moment. Wanted it more than her story, more than the interview, more than easing her pain from the past. She needed pleasure. His pleasure.
The feathering touch of his fingers, Emery’s erotic murmurs now incoherent with breathless anticipation against her neck as they both strained toward the great cliff, eagerly craving the fall back to earth. Why wouldn’t he touch her where she needed it? The slightest pressure on her inner thighs, the rhythmic stroke of his hand against her clit, anything would do it if he could only…
“Time!” Royce’s triumphant call shattered the glass bubble that had cocooned them for the last two minutes. Murmurs of shock from the surrounding crowd broke through.
“Damn.” Emery’s eyes darkened. Anger, but not at her, flared at the lines of his mouth. He bent to press his lips against her ear. “You were close, weren’t you, darling? So close I almost had you.” His body was trembling beneath hers, the little movements wracking his arms and chest. The press of his arousal beneath her bottom far too evident. He’d been there, right alongside her, dying to come. Together. And it hadn’t happened for either of them; two minutes hadn’t been enough time.
Sophie’s legs shook as cold reality slashed through her. The climax her body had been prepared to give Emery faded away. In its wake little tremors reverberated along her limbs, made worse by the tension in her entire body that hadn’t found release. She tried to breathe, to let her shoulders drop and her muscles relax. It was going to take a while to come down from this.
Almost had her? No. He definitely had her, practically wrapped up with a bow on top, totally and completely his. No question.
Chapter 3
The kitchen is now the official crime scene where the abduction is believed to have occurred. The crime scene was littered with broken coke bottles, blood, and half-eaten sandwiches on the boys’ plates.
—New York Times, June 10, 1990
“So, my best case of bourbon?” Emery raised his face to look at Royce, who stood in front of the couch.
>
“If you don’t mind.” Royce’s eyes twinkled with devilish merriment, but he clapped a palm on Emery’s shoulder with gentle camaraderie. “I’ll be by the house later to pick it up.”
“I’ll have it ready for you,” Emery assured him, and then turned his attention back to Sophie. “Now, little sub, let’s see about that punishment.”
A sensuous light flickered at the back of his eyes, like a lighthouse’s beacon fighting to shine through the depths of a storm. Every emotion—a thousand of them—shuttered and then exploded behind his gaze. To Sophie it felt as if she was seeing the entire world captured in one rapid blink…and then it was gone. His eyes were heavy with desire and nothing else.
Oh dear. “I…uh…” How inadequate words were! What could she say to persuade him against punishing her?
Emery rose from the couch in a fluid movement with Sophie still clasped in his arms. She had only a moment to marvel that her weight didn’t seem to bother him at all before he was carrying her through the group of people. There was a door ajar halfway down one of the halls that branched off the center room. He nudged it open with his foot. It was completely empty save for a thick rug spanning the entire room and a wooden piece of furniture that she knew from her research was a spanking bench.
At the sight of the bench Sophie went rigid; her limbs locked up, her hands balled into fists. Only a sliver of her panic came from fear. The rest of her wanted to know too badly how it felt to be bent over that, with his hand smacking her ass until she cried out. That scared her: how much she wanted to experience something so dark and sinful. Emery set her down and started to close the door. He left it open about an inch or two. Someone could come in, could get to her if she needed help. Still…Sophie shot a glance at the bench. There was no way in hell she was going to bend over that and…and…let herself go with him. She’d never been able to do that with anyone and she couldn’t start with someone like him. He was tall, blond, and brooding. She’d make a fool of herself if she gave in to him. What would he think of her if she got aroused by a punishment? That she was just like any other woman in the club? The thought stopped her cold.
She didn’t want to be just another woman to him. She wanted to be something more; she wanted him to trust her, to open up to her. Letting him spank the hell out of her might not be the best way to earn his trust….
Then again, maybe it would.
I wish I knew what I was doing. She cursed inwardly. With men, she was always awkward and unsure of herself, and now her typical failings seemed magnified because he affected her too strongly.
“Look, I’m sorry, but this whole scene just isn’t for me. I shouldn’t have come here.” She edged toward the door. Maybe if she got far enough from the bench, he’d forget about punishing her and she could talk to him about the abduction. If he thought she was scared enough to leave, he might back off in his determination to spank her and she’d have her chance to speak.
Emery sidestepped, blocking her access to the exit. She saw the outline of well-defined muscles; he was much bigger and stronger than she was. To her sheer humiliation, something inside her started to purr with delight at the thought of that strength and size directed at her, for her protection and more importantly, her pleasure.
He placed a hand on the side of her neck where it connected to her shoulder. His thumb moved slowly back and forth against the base of her throat, as though questing for the frantic drum of her pulse. His lips moved, flirting at the tips with a smile.
She couldn’t take much more of this. If she didn’t get away, she’d let him take her over to that bench and she’d surrender to him. That couldn’t happen.
“Please, let me leave.” Her tone, thankfully, sounded stronger than the whimpering inside her which begged to stay, to let him bend her over the bench and do wicked things to her.
“If you want out, say your safe word.” His sharp tone was edged with a challenge. Something deep inside her responded.
She knew enough of D/s relationships to know that subs weren’t powerless; surrendering to a dom was their choice, one that had to be based on trust. Emery’s challenge for her to surrender was tempting, too tempting if she was honest with herself. She’d never wanted to surrender to a man, but the idea of willingly letting one overpower her? Her thighs clenched together, her sensitive nerves inside jumping to life. Could she give in? Gain power by giving him power?
“I’m waiting for your answer.”
When Sophie hesitated, Emery threaded his fingers through the black satin ribbons that laced the front of her corset. He tugged one bow’s string with careless ease, so at odds with the cool, dispassionate expression on his face as he began to loosen the laces and peel her corset apart. A haze of heat settled over her skin and fogged her mind. Sophie prayed he’d keep going, would pull her corset open like they were in some torrid romance novel, and bend his head to her breasts to…
His fingers caressed the tip of the folded up photo. She jolted back, the memory of where she’d tucked his photo slamming into her. He couldn’t see it; he’d never understand. Emery’s hand shot out, caught her wrists, and lifted them above her head. In a move as smooth as the steps of a slow dance, he maneuvered her back against the wall by the door. One thick, muscled thigh pressed between hers, and he kept her wrists trapped above her. His other hand moved back to her corset, dipped between her breasts and retrieved the photo. His thumb and index finger deftly unfolded it and the wide-eyed interest of natural curiosity on his face morphed to an expression of narrowed suspicion.
He released her wrists, stepped back several feet and stared at the image in his hand. He was so still he could have been carved from marble — his eyes dark with horror, his tanned skin now alabaster white.
A long moment later he drew a deep measured breath and raised his eyes to hers.
“Where did you get this picture?” Each word seemed dragged out between his clenched teeth. He changed before her eyes, the prince transforming into a beast. Wounded rage filled his eyes, morphing with the promise of vengeance.
The pit of her stomach seemed to have dropped out. She felt as if she was falling, that awful sensation of losing control, of being seconds away from a sickening crash. This was what she’d come to talk about, come to warn him about, and she wasn’t ready. It would hurt him to drag this out in the open again and she wasn’t prepared, not after the way they’d been so close just seconds before. The truth was, she didn’t want to lose him, not this sexy, addictive man. And she would lose him if she brought up the past. Like all victims he’d retreat into himself and pull away from her even as she tried to help him.
“The newspaper,” Sophie replied breathlessly.
Emery continued to stare at her, his long elegant fingers curling around the photo, crumpling it. “Why do you have a picture of me from twenty-five years ago?” When Sophie opened her mouth he waved a hand at her. “Think carefully how you answer, Ms. Ryder. I’m not above lawsuits, and I have a very, very good lawyer.”
Sophie bit her lip, tasted a drop of blood and licked at the sore spot before she replied. She’d only rehearsed this a thousand times yet now she didn’t know where to begin.
“I wanted to be able to recognize you, because I wanted to interview you. I’m a freelance investigative journalist. I specialize in crime stories, primarily those about kidnappings.” She knew she’d made a mistake the moment the words left her mouth. She felt incredibly small in that moment, like a mouse cornered in a lion’s cage. Should she have started with the part where she thought his life was in danger? That would’ve made her sound crazy, and she needed his trust more than anything.
Emery’s eyes turned dark as wood that had been consumed by flames and burnt to ash.
“You people are all the same.” His tone was deadly calm. Quiet. The hand holding the photo started to shake. His fingers clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened. The shaking spread outward; his shoulders visibly vibrated with his rage.
Sophie sucked in a brea
th. He wasn’t withdrawing… He was going to lash out. The oppressive wave of guilt that cut off her air warred with a new, unexpected apprehension. This looked bad, she knew it. The sneaky reporter trying to get the scoop on a story that defined this man’s worst moment in his life. God, she’d been an idiot to think she could waltz in here and start chatting about his kidnapping.
Goosebumps rippled along her bare arms and her muscles tensed. Despite the anger she could feel rolling off him in waves, he seemed to rein in that silken thread of self-control and loosened his fingers. The photo stayed crinkled in a tight ball, completely destroyed. When she swallowed, it felt like knives sliced her throat.
Emery spoke again, much to Sophie’s dread. “Invade my life, my privacy. You know nothing of what I’ve endured or what happened to me and my…” the words faded but Sophie sensed he nearly said “brother.”
Her eyes burned with a sudden rush of tears. His pain was so clear on his face, and it made her think of herself, of the way she felt when she thought of Rachel.
“Mr. Lockwood—” She had to explain, to show him she only wanted to help.
He threw the crumpled photo at her feet. He might as well have slapped her. Would he be more willing to listen if he knew she was here to save him? But how could she get him to listen long enough to explain everything?
Summoning her strength, she stepped toward him. “But you survived. I think people want to know the truth, know how strong you are.” Why couldn’t he see what a miracle his escape was? He’d survived a horrific experience and was stronger, stronger than she was. Losing Rachel had destroyed her innocence and shattered her world.
A ruthless laugh broke from his lips. “Strong? Strong?” He shook his head from side to side, a wild smile splitting his face suddenly. “I’m strong now. I wasn’t strong then. If I had been strong, Fenn would be here.” When his eyes grew hollow Sophie realized how much that admission must have cost him. He blamed himself for whatever had happened to his brother, thought Fenn Lockwood’s death was his fault. And she’d played right into reinforcing his delusion that an eight-year-old boy should have been able to stop kidnappers. That was ludicrous.
