Looking Inside

by BETH KERY

  “Techilicious,” she exclaimed in excitement, poking her head around his back to peer into the cupboard. “Oh, it’s a stereo system.” He grinned at her obvious disappointment.

  “What’d you think it was going to be?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled, blushing. She frowned at his widening grin, and then couldn’t stop smiling back when she noticed the humor dancing in his blue eyes. “It sounded kind of racy: Techilicious. I thought maybe you kept something . . . naughty in here.”

  “Oh,” he said as if in sudden understanding. “Well I’d hate to disappoint you.”

  He slid open a deep drawer. Her eyes sprang wide. He didn’t say anything while she looked into it and the nerve endings on her skin tingled and her breath stuck in her lungs. She saw several boxes of sex toys, more padded handcuffs and restraints, a black leather paddle and a crop with a slapper on one end and a leather flogger on the other. Heat rushed through her. Her heart started to drum in her ears.

  “You really are kinky,” she said, still staring into the drawer.

  “Am I?” he asked, reaching up and cupping her jaw. He brushed his finger against her cheek, and she knew he felt her heat. “Don’t be scared, Eleanor.”

  “I think maybe you want me to be.”

  He gently lifted her face until she met his stare. All traces of amusement had left his handsome face. “No. Never afraid, that’s not what I want for you. But I’m going to be honest. I like when you’re a little nervous, like right now. Your eyes look so beautiful. So sexy. God, I can’t wait to look down at them when I put my—” He broke off when a thrill went through her, and she shuddered. “Shhh,” he soothed. He brushed his thumb against her parted lips. Her lungs hitched and she inhaled his scent. “Mostly, that’s what I want, Eleanor. I want you to be excited. I want to watch while whatever anxiety is there gets burned away by pleasure and lust.”

  He placed his opened hand on her throat. She swallowed thickly, knowing he felt her leaping pulse against his palm.

  “Anything in a box is new, never been touched,” he told her quietly after a pause. He nodded toward the drawer. “Whatever is in that purple bag has never been opened either. I’m not even sure what’s all in there. I got it as a favor at a fancy unisex bachelorette party I was invited to at a club in London for Abigail Chasen.”

  “The hotel heiress?” Eleanor asked him breathlessly, peering at the foil magenta bag curiously. “Rumor has it she’s pretty wild.”

  “Rumor is dead-on, in Abigail’s case. Maybe you should check out what’s in there,” he said dryly.

  “You and she didn’t—”

  “No, are you kidding? She married Gerald Sturgis, the lead singer from Easy Blood? Gerald and I were friends.”

  A chill passed through her. “But didn’t Gerald Sturgis pass away recently?” she asked, studying his face in mounting concern. She wasn’t super familiar with the punk rock band, but it seemed she’d seen something in the papers about the colorful, irreverent British rocker dying.

  He nodded. She didn’t see his sadness at that moment as much as sense it. “Yeah. Last spring of a drug overdose. Gerald was truly one of a kind. Easy Blood exploded on BandBook, and that’s how I first met him. We weren’t best friends or anything, but he was the kind of person who makes an impact on you. He didn’t know shit about taking care of himself or thinking about much beyond the next second and a good time, but he was extremely talented. Always smiling. It still seems weird. He was so full of life.”

  “And then one day . . . gone,” she whispered. “I’m really sorry, Trey.” She realized Sturgis’s abrupt death was probably one of the reasons he’d been plunged into an existential crisis, left wondering what his life meant. Sturgis and Trey were far from being the same, of course, but both of them had led a privileged and unrestrained existence. In many ways, she could imagine Trey viewing Sturgis as a kind of amplified, bigger version of what he—Trey—had been like in his youth.

  “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression,” he said. “Gerald and I weren’t super close. I only saw him maybe once or twice a year. In my business, I meet a lot of people, loads of big personalities, tons of talent. It comes with the territory. But Gerald wasn’t just a work acquaintance. He was a friend. It hits deeper than you’d think, when it happens so unexpectedly like that.”

  “You’re not giving me the wrong impression,” she said softly. “He meant something to you. His death is part of why you’re reexamining your life, isn’t it?”

  He nodded once.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. She listened to her heartbeat thrum in her ears. Then she felt his fingertips caress her cheek.

  “Talk about a mood spoiler. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” she assured. She smiled up at him. He smiled back. The moment stretched. She swallowed back the ache in her throat.

  “Would you . . . you rather not?” She waved anxiously at the opened drawer.

  He blinked. “Oh, I’d rather, all right.” Her smile widened at his adamancy. “Unless you would rather do something else?”

  “No,” she laughed. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  He looked a little relieved. “Good. Anyway, like I said, use anything in the room that you’d like. But you don’t have to use any of the stuff in the drawer, Eleanor. It’s your call. Speaking of calls, do you have your phone on you?”

  She nodded, reaching for her back pocket. She handed her phone to him. He put in his number before handing it back to her.

  “I’m going to go upstairs to the loft,” he said quietly. “You get things the way you want them down here. Text me when you’re ready, and I’ll come down. And we’ll begin. Does that sound good to you?”

  She just nodded, too overwhelmed by his low, sexy voice, his smoky stare, his nearness and his scent to speak.

  —

  Trey played his guitar while he waited in the loft. But he was too preoccupied to get serious about any songwriting, too distracted with the idea of Eleanor down in his bedroom, touching his clothing, setting the scene . . . maybe (hopefully) selecting something from the cabinet. He kept replaying in his head how big her eyes had gotten when he’d shown her the contents of the drawer, how her flushed lips had parted. It was almost ludicrous, how much he was anticipating having his cock in her mouth while she looked up at him with those big, golden green eyes. Ever since he’d stopped her from going down on him earlier on the water taxi, he’d become obsessed with the idea. He wanted her at his mercy, as helpless to resist him as he was her.

  He lifted his hand off the guitar strings and reached between his thighs, tugging at his erection and wincing. He glanced at his watch. She’d been down there alone for over half an hour now. What the hell was she doing, transforming his bedroom into the Chicago Theatre?

  His phone buzzed on the table next to him. He jerked to attention, picking it up to read the new message.

  Please don’t be mad at me. I’m doing the best I can. Honest. For now, if you want your show, you’re going to have to look out your bedroom window to get it.

  He started. What? Had she left the penthouse while he was sitting up here, smugly imagining he had everything under control?

  He clamped his teeth together, realizing there was a photo attached to her message. Knowing he’d probably regret it, but unable to resist her, he opened it.

  It took him a few seconds to realize that he probably looked as wide-eyed and stunned as she had when he’d opened that drawer downstairs.

  Damn, she had a way of turning the tables.

  He’d thought he’d talked her into performing for him, up close and personal. He was willing to admit, he’d even selfishly enjoyed that she appeared to be a little anxious at the prospect, because she’d never done it before for another man.

  But in typical Eleanor fashion, she’d snatched the reins from him yet again.<
br />
  It was an up-close photo of her face. In it, her eyes shone with heat and just a tad bit of mischief. Her lips were pouty and parted. She pressed the flaring crown of a dildo against her mouth, just the tip touching her pink, wet tongue. His cock jumped at the outrageous precision of the teasing photo. He’d never seen the dildo before, so he suspected she’d raided Abigail’s racy gift bag.

  I should go straight over to her place and damn her little show.

  He’d gratifyingly learned that evening he had access to her place for a month, after all. Yeah. That’s what he’d do.

  But of course when he got to the bottom of the steps, his feet didn’t take him to the elevator. He found himself entering his bedroom, his body already coiling tight in mixed irritation and arousal in response to the torment he was about to receive. Frowning furiously when he saw the empty room—part of him had been holding out hope she hadn’t really left—he flipped out the lights and stalked over to the window. Almost immediately a lamp illuminated in Eleanor’s condo in the distance.

  He came to a halt when he saw her standing at the far side of the room. He was familiar with the room now. She waited near the bathroom door.

  Despite the fact that she’d snuck out of his condo, she’d still borrowed from his wardrobe from her performance. She wore one of his button-down striped shirts, the white of the fabric shining brightly against her pale gold skin. In addition, she wore one of his black ties loosely around her neck and a leather belt cinched around her waist. His shirt fell to mid-thigh on her. Her long, sexy legs were bare.

  She suddenly burst into motion, her long hair rippling back from her shoulders. He only caught a glimpse of her feet briefly before she neared the windows, but whether he’d seen them or not, he would have already known she wore heels just by the way she strutted so boldly. It was like her feet and legs became entranced every time she put on a pair of sexy boots or heels. He couldn’t hear the music, of course, but just looking at her, he felt it. The music seemed to transform her into another person . . .

  . . . Or fully into herself.

  She planted her feet, long legs parted, and began her dance, swiveling her hips, outlining the supple curves of her body with her cupping hands. He sensed the driving beat with the precise pulse of her pelvis and limbs.

  And the torment officially began.

  She placed both hands on her belly and undulated her torso in the most erotic fashion, all the time taking several steps toward the window. Her hands moved up her rib cage, cupping her breasts, her fingers straining toward the V of the fabric between them and the buttons.

  “Come on, Eleanor,” he growled.

  Her fingers flicked at the button, parting his shirt and revealing the inner swells of her breasts. No sooner had she done it than, with a little smile, she turned and started teasing him from that direction. He’d never seen a woman move her ass like Eleanor did. It was excruciating, the gyrating hips, the tight little pops of her butt, the movements designed to remind him of how well she moved when his cock was deep inside her.

  She used her hands to mold the cloth of his shirt against her buttocks, but it wasn’t enough. Gritting his teeth, he stepped closer to the window, straining to see beneath the cotton shirt. He’d never be able to wear that damn shirt again without a perennial erection.

  Suddenly, his cinched black leather belt loosened and slipped down over her buttocks. Standing with her legs parted, she pulled the belt tight against her ass and shimmied shamelessly. His cock pulsed in aroused annoyance, as if it had a mind of its own, and was protesting about being kept from what it wanted. He instinctively clutched at his aching testicles, his fingers squeezing the shaft.

  She shifted the black belt, using it to shift his shirt higher, wiggling her ass the entire time. She played him like that for a minute, dancing and maneuvering the belt until he would have sworn she’d done the dance a hundred times before, she was so fucking skilled at it.

  Had she?

  The two-word question cut through his enthrallment. He thought of how discombobulated she’d been in the hallway tonight, trying to explain to him her anxieties.

  No. Somehow, he didn’t think she was as practiced at all this as she came off as being at times.

  He didn’t have time to question the logic or likelihood of his fevered realization, or the flash of savage satisfaction that accompanied it. Eleanor finally revealed the bottom curves of her plump ass beneath the edge of his white shirt.

  “God bless it, you have about one more minute, girl,” he rasped, and his hand moved more strenuously between his thighs. She bent and slid the belt beneath her bare ass and started to jerk upward on the firm globes.

  He hissed. That was the final straw. He started to back out of the room, unable to look away from the ridiculously erotic image she made, manipulating her gorgeous ass with the black belt. She stretched it tight now beneath her ass, making her flesh jump up and down as she gyrated to the music. Where the hell did she learn this stuff? It was outrageous. Abruptly, she released one side of the belt and it snapped below her buttocks. He saw her jump slightly, and knew the leather had stung her.

  He froze.

  Again, he was held hostage to her. He was strung tight as piano wire. He couldn’t wait to see what else she was going to do with that belt.

  A thought fractured his enthrallment.

  Jesus . . . Had she taken that dildo from the photo with her to use in her dance, as well? If so, what torture did she have planned for him with it?

  The thought gave him the motivation he needed. He turned grimly and headed over to the cabinet. He pulled out the magenta bag, in search of some of his own ammunition.

  —

  She jerked on the belt, gasping at the sting of leather flicking against her upper thighs. It stung, but her clit flared with pleasure. The burn quickly segued to a tingle and she found herself emboldened. Straightening, she lifted the tail of Trey’s shirt seductively to her waist and doubled the belt in her hand. Swinging her hips to the beat of the loud music, she reached around her waist with the belt and swatted her gyrating ass.

  Ooh, it felt good.

  She lost herself to the mounting, increasingly familiar heat. Her swats on her naked ass and thighs weren’t harsh, but they enlivened her nerves, making them prickle and burn. She ached, thinking of Trey watching her, imagining him boiling with want. It was unbearable. She couldn’t take it anymore.

  Still standing with her back to the window, she let the shirt fall partially down over her burning bottom. She slipped the belt between her thighs, pulling up on it from the front and back, using the leather strap to stimulate her wet sex. She moaned loudly, the pounding music and her racing blood spurring her onward. Her hips pushed her pussy against the tightly drawn leather. Her eyes fluttered closed as she tensed in excitement. She felt herself rising to orgasm. It felt divine, but she hadn’t planned for this to be the climax of her dance.

  A sound like a bullet going off fractured her bliss. She opened her eyelids, air hissing past her lips. The bedroom door had bounced against the wall as it opened forcefully. That had been the noise she’d heard. Trey strode around the foot of the bed, looking tense, irritated, magnificent . . .

  Aroused as hell.

  Before she knew what’d hit her, he reached around her with one hand, grasping her wrists. He urged her to straighten.

  “Let go,” he ordered tensely. Her fingers loosened, and he took the doubled-up belt from her. He slid the leather strap between her legs. She looked up at him, her breath coming erratically. His eyes appeared alight in his rigid face. The music continued to pulse around them, but it was as if they stood inside a vacuum. A roar started in her ears.

  He reached up and ripped open the shirt she wore in one swift movement. She gasped, feeling falling buttons tap her legs and feet.

  “Do you have any idea what the hell you’re doing, Eleanor?
” he seethed.

  “That was your shirt,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t just ruin it.”

  “Screw the damn shirt,” he muttered through a snarl. His gaze moved hungrily down the front of her naked body. He cupped a breast possessively, running his thumb over the nipple. Eleanor trembled, the gentleness of his caress following his terse shirt-ripping undoing her. He noticed her quivering at his touch. His stare jumped to her face.

  “You can’t stop yourself, can you?”

  “Can’t stop myself from what?” she whispered, unable to look away from his blazing eyes and moving lips. She experienced an overwhelming urge to press against his male body, to press him into her.

  “Torturing me.”

  She felt something smooth and hard glide across her nipple. Her breath hitched when she realized it was the belt. She started to move into him.

  “Stay still,” he bit out.

  She froze, recognizing not only the authority in his tone, but his edginess. A thrill coursed through her. She’d gotten to him.

  Again.

  “Get that witch’s grin off your face, Eleanor.”

  Despite the fact that she saw his lips tilt ever so slightly in amusement, she responded to the flash of fire in his eyes. She wiped any traces of satisfaction from her expression. She’d forgotten her smugness in two seconds flat anyway. He looked down at her, holding her eyes in a trap, and began to slide the belt against the sides of her ribs, and then down over her belly. She was so pitched with excitement, it was like she was a sponge, absorbing every detail of him, soaking him up thirstily along with all the pleasure he gave her.

  God, he was amazing.

  She held her breath when the leather strap dipped lower. Her hips swayed slightly. “I told you to hold still,” he said.

  Her tensed facial muscles convulsed. Their gazes held for an excruciatingly exciting moment as he rubbed the leather loop against her labia. He looked between her legs, watching the belt slide against and between the slippery folds of her outer sex. She whimpered, her thigh muscles going tight. He lifted the belt and tapped the loop against her pussy several times.