by Maya Banks
Page 4
“Is the food not to your liking?”
She blinked and shook her head before staring down at her half-eaten entrée.
“No,” she said hastily. “It’s excellent. Sorry, was just collecting my thoughts. ”
They ate the rest of their meal in relative silence, only breaking it occasionally for idle chitchat. When she was finished with the last bite, she checked her watch and grimaced.
“Lunch was lovely, but I really do have to go. ”
Damon rose and nodded toward one of the waiters. “I’ll have the car brought around at once. Can I walk you out?”
She stood as he offered his arm, and she smiled at his gallantry.
“Your mother must be proud,” she said as they walked toward the door.
“Well, she is, but why do you say so?” he asked in an amused tone.
“You have impeccable manners. ”
He laughed. “My mother would have no compunction about tracking me down and beating me if I ever forgot my manners, especially around a lady. She is a southern belle from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. ”
When they reached the entrance, the maitre d’ opened the door, and Serena saw the Bentley parked a few feet away. Damon walked her to the door and opened it before handing her into the backseat. He leaned in, his hand holding the top of the door.
“It was a pleasure, Serena. I look forward to hearing from you. ”
She smiled as he withdrew and offered a small wave as the car started in motion. He stood watching her for a long moment before tucking his hands in his pockets and returning to the restaurant.
Nervous little bubbles popped in her belly, and she wilted against the seat like a deflated balloon.
It wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t so bad.
She’d survived, and he’d made it surprisingly easy to talk to him. As they drove back toward her office, a thought occurred to her. Damon owned The House, an establishment that catered to sexual fantasies, which begged the question: What was his?
CHAPTER 3
Instead of returning to his downtown office, Damon drove into North Houston, where the private estate he’d turned into The House was situated. He’d given Serena his e-mail address, and he found himself curious as to the details of her client’s request.
Serena James was intriguing. Stunningly beautiful. Sleek and long-legged with wide, exotic eyes and black hair that fell like silk around her shoulders. His fingers positively itched to touch it, to stroke it and wrap it around his knuckles.
What were her secrets? Her eyes shielded many, with a mysterious aura that enticed a man, beckoned him to come closer, to discover what lay beneath the cool exterior.
Fantasy Incorporated. Interesting business. He wasn’t a big fan of role-playing and pretending, but it was a major part of the goings-on at The House. People liked to escape their reality. Slip away and step outside themselves for a little while. He understood it and encouraged it, but after a while, the façade wore on him.
There were quite a few men he could think of who would be more than happy to guide a woman through an elaborate sexual fantasy and be willing to walk away when it was all said and done. Temporary. An important word and one that held a wealth of meaning in the world of sexual fantasies.
Damon didn’t want temporary, though. He’d long stood back and watched and waited, thinking that if he were patient, the right woman would come along, that the things he wanted would come together. He’d learned patience at a young age, but now he found himself fast running out.
Finding a woman wasn’t the problem. There had been many women—beautiful, intelligent women—who had walked through his life. He’d enjoyed their company, given pleasure and taken it in return, but in the end, they weren’t willing to give him the one thing he wanted most: themselves. Wholly and completely. Into his keeping and care.
He could have settled long before now, but that was the one thing he’d promised himself—that he’d never settle for anything less than what he truly wanted.
The security gate eased open when he inserted his card, and he drove up the winding drive to The House. He parked and got out, blinking as the bright sun flashed over his face. Squinting, he headed for the door. He stepped into the cool, darker interior, enjoying the chill of the air-conditioning as it touched his skin.
The house was empty. None of the staff came in until later in the day. He enjoyed the silence and the solitude that coming in early gave him. His office was comfortable and welcoming, and he was surrounded by things that gave him pleasure.
It was decorated in an old-world style with various models of clipper ships dotting the surfaces of antique end tables. An antique globe rested on his desk, and decorating his walls were paintings of ancient ships, fishing boats and yellowed treasure maps.
He smiled, as he did every time he entered his office, because this was where he felt at home. On his desk were several pieces of mail, but on top was a pale yellow envelope that looked as delicate and feminine as the sender.
He sat down and picked up the envelope, his smile becoming broader. His mom. Who refused to stride into the twenty-first century and use more modern methods of communication such as e-mail or a text message, God forbid. No, she clung stubbornly to her snail mail and said there was no substitute for receiving a handwritten letter in the mail.
And maybe she was right, because he looked forward to her letters. They were always filled with warmth and love, and her voice rippled off the pages as though she were sitting across from him, giving him a motherly lecture.
He’d have to call her later. They could sit and talk on the phone while they enjoyed a glass of wine. The image of her sitting on the wooden deck that overlooked the cypress-knobbed bayou in the Louisiana home he’d grown up in filled him with homesickness.
He hadn’t returned home but once since his father’s death two years ago, and it had been brief. It had been too hard to face his childhood home without his father’s larger-than-life presence.
It was time to go back.
Usually, he embraced the silence of the afternoon and early evening hours, but today, he found it smothering and unsettling. He reached for the remote lying on his desk and punched one of the buttons.
The gentle strains of classical music filled his office, swelling and reverberating off the walls with a soft echo. He relaxed into his chair and leaned back, sliding his hands behind his neck to cup the base of his head.
He closed his eyes and allowed the music to soothe him. Why he suddenly felt restless and agitated, he couldn’t say. But it didn’t alter the fact that he felt as cagey as a lion in captivity.
After a moment, he leaned forward to glance over the letter one more time before folding it carefully. He opened his desk and placed it atop the other pastel-colored envelopes from his mother.
Straightening in his seat, he toggled the mouse to make the screen saver on his desktop monitor go away and then clicked to open his e-mail.
He spent several minutes working down the messages in his in-box. Most were minor issues easily dealt with. The few that required further attention, he forwarded to his personal assistant.
A new message popped to the bottom, and he saw Serena’s name in the sender field. Intrigued, he clicked to open it.
Damon,
Below is a detailed letter outlining the requirements of the fantasy. Feel free to forward this on to your prospective choice.
Serena James
Damon scrolled lower to see the letter embedded within the e-mail itself.
To be honest, I feel embarrassed to be revealing my deepest secrets to a stranger, even more embarrassed that I am relying on you to fulfill a fantasy I am barely able to admit to myself, much less anyone else.
How can I explain the urge that overcomes me when I imagine being owned by a man? Possessed. Cherished and cared for. I have nothing missing in my life to suggest such a radical desire for sexual slavery. No deep psych
ological reasons that feed the appetite for submission. Some things just are, and for me, this is one of them.
I think often of my fantasies. Usually late at night in the quiet of the dark, they come to me, seductive and alluring. I imagine the scene well, how it all starts.
I’m in a room filled with hungry men. The appetite for carnal pleasures lies heavy, like a fog. I am naked save for the ropes binding my hands behind my back. And I wait. For you.
I am to be purchased this night, but by whom? Many men are eager to pay a high price for the pleasure of owning me. It thrills me and frightens me all at once. I wait with trembling legs, my eyes cast downward, for I hear the excited murmurs around me.
And then you enter. I don’t see you, but rather I feel you the moment you come into the room. There is a subtle shift in power, and the others sense it as well. I can feel them holding their breath as they look to you. And then I lift my gaze.
You are staring at me from across the room. The first glance is a shock to my system, for I see the promise in your eyes. You want me and you will have me.
There is arrogance in your manner as you stride with purpose toward me. You stop a few feet away and speak with my keeper. I strain to listen. I am eager to hear what you are saying, but you keep your voice too low.
And then you move toward me once more, and I shiver as each step brings you closer until you stop mere inches from my naked body. You reach out and tangle your hand in my hair, tilting my head upward until my neck is exposed and vulnerable to you. There is satisfaction in your eyes, as if you find me pleasing, a fact that brings me great satisfaction. I find myself wanting to please you more than anything I’ve desired before.
You lean closer still until your lips hover precariously over mine, and then you whisper, “You will be mine. ”
As you let me go and ease away, I swallow back the surge of excitement. But more than eagerness, it is need that fills me. A need to belong to you. I want it with my every breath.
A foreign hand tugs at my bound wrists, and I silently protest as I am guided away from you. But your gaze follows me, and promise burns brightly in your eyes. You will own me.
I stumble toward the front of the room as someone in the distance announces that the bidding will begin. My back is to everyone until I am ordered to turn around, and I do so, shyly.
I scan the men assembled and take in their lustful stares, but it is you I search for, you I want. My breath catches in my throat and tiny bubbles of panic fire in my stomach. I don’t see you anywhere.
One man bids and then another, and still I don’t hear you. For several tense minutes, the calls are heard and the price is increased. Then a pause. Silence falls. I hear my keeper as if there is not another as he prepares to close the bidding.
My eyes close as disappointment tightens my chest.
And then I hear you. Your firm voice carries above the quiet murmurs of those gathered. You state an impossible sum, much higher than the bids before, and it is clear that you have no intention of letting go of your prize.
Joy explodes in my soul, for I realize now that I will belong to you. My skin comes alive, itchy, and I’m barely able to contain my excitement. I am reprimanded by my keeper, but it is you I will answer to and no other.
There is a flurry as the bidders processes your offer, but no one comes forward to top it. My keeper smiles, for he has fetched a handsome price for me this night.
He calls an end to the bidding, and you start forward. The crowd parts for you as you stroll to the front. My keeper pushes me to my knees and reminds me to show you proper respect. I need no reminder and go gracefully to my knees as I await your command.
“Look at me,” you say in a gentle tone, but one that brooks no argument.
I tilt my head upward as you stand over me, strong, powerful. Your hand caresses my cheek, and I close my eyes as I nuzzle into your palm. Your touch is magic. Warm and sensual, it begins a fire deep in my loins.
You pull your hand away, and your fingers go to your pants. You unbutton the fly and ease the zipper down. For a moment, your hand disappears as it dips inside. You pull your cock out of confinement. It bobs free in front of my face. You’re long and thick, rigid with arousal and your musky scent surrounds me.
You stroke once and then once again, up and down the length as you guide yourself closer to me. My mouth waters, and I eagerly part my lips, my need to taste you overwhelming.
One hand slides into my hair and firmly cups my head, holding me in place. Sharp tingles dance down my spine and spread chill bumps over my skin.
“Open for me,” you command.
I obey. There isn’t a single thought of disobedience in my mind. I want only to please you and to be pleasured by you. You hold your cock with one hand and slide deep into my mouth as you pull my head to you with your other hand.
Your taste explodes on my tongue. All male. So rugged and earthy. You are firm and yet soft in my mouth. The contrast fascinates me and makes me hunger for more.
I suck you in deeper and run my tongue over your length, but you withdraw and squeeze my jaw as a gentle reminder that you are in control, not me. I relax and give myself over to your authority. I allow you to set the pace and to use my mouth as you wish.
Deeper you thrust, sinking to the back of my throat and pausing. I swallow around you, and I feel the pleasure it gives you. That pleases me.
