by Ruby Laska
“Salmon with serrano aioli,” Ricardo said. “Also saffron pickled shallots and charred lemongrass vinaigrette. I do hope it isn’t overcooked. Unlike you, my chef is punctual, so it has been under the warmer since 7:55.”
“It—looks fine,” Chelsea said stiffly, irritated by the rebuke. Who planned a meal for the moment a guest arrived? For all his urbane sophistication, Ricardo had some odd habits.
“Perhaps I should have explained in advance that we would eat immediately upon your arrival,” Ricardo conceded as if reading her mind. “We must make the most of our time together, after all.”
“I could have just picked up a cheeseburger on the way over,” Chelsea snapped. “Then you wouldn’t have had to feed me at all.”
Ricardo looked up from draping his napkin precisely on his lap, one eyebrow raised. “If you mean to provoke me,” he said, his voice deadly serious, “you are succeeding.”
Chelsea dropped her gaze and focused on cutting a bite of fish to hide her discomfiture. But as she lifted the morsel to her lips, the complex mélange of flavors stirred her senses. It was delicious: the firm, flaky flesh of the fish topped with savory slivered vegetables and tart, creamy sauce. She closed her eyes as she chewed, concentrating on what was surely the best meal she’d had in months.
When she opened her eyes again, Ricardo had not touched his food. He was watching her, idly twisting the stem of his wine glass the way he had his champagne glass that night weeks ago.
“You’re not eating?” she asked.
Ricardo pointed at her plate. “Please. Enjoy.”
So she did. She hadn’t eaten a thing since a protein bar for breakfast—she’d been too nervous. Now, however, she was suddenly ravenous. She was aware of Ricardo’s eyes on her as she made short work of the meal. Ricardo poured more wine for both of them; he was at least drinking along with her.
When she was finished, he picked up both plates and took them to the kitchen, his meal untouched.
“So are you anorexic or something?” Chelsea asked when he returned, aiming for levity.
“Hardly. My mother was an extraordinary cook…but I find that I am distracted this evening.”
He set down a single plate containing a poached pear in a pool of silky straw-colored sauce.
“This, however, was one of her specialties and a favorite of mine. I never miss a chance to enjoy it.”
He cut a piece of the pear, twirling it in the sauce. Then he held the fork out to her.
“What, now you’re going to feed me?”
“Yes.”
There was a challenge in his gaze. Chelsea maintained eye contact for as long as she could, but it was…difficult. Like lifting a heavy weight over her head, her strength sapped the longer she tried to hold out. Eventually her lashes fluttered downward, and she parted her lips, acquiescing.
He gently placed the fork between her lips, and the pear slid off the silver tines. Chelsea chewed; the tender fruit was coated with smooth rum-laced caramel, spiced with cardamom and cloves and other things she couldn’t identify. It was truly extraordinary.
Ricardo alternated bites between them, cutting each with a disciplined precision, never allowing the sauce to drip on the linen cloth. Soon, the pear was gone.
Chelsea dabbed at her lips with her napkin and sighed with pleasure. “I’ve never tasted anything like that.”
“It will be a night of firsts.”
Chelsea stared at him. His audacity was irrepressible, it seemed. She ought to be irritated. “How do you know?” she asked, but the question lacked the outrage she tried to inject.
One corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “That question doesn’t even deserve an answer. Come, mi bella.”
He stood, holding out a hand. Chelsea took it, giving in to the warmth of his touch. Now, finally, they would make love…or fuck…or whatever he had in mind. She was ready. Her panties were damp with anticipation; she had imagined her mouth on his burnished, smooth skin with each bite of dessert.
Hand in hand, they walked back into the main room of the apartment.
CHAPTER SIX
“Stand here,” Ricardo said, pausing in the living room. Not, take a seat. Not make yourself comfortable.
There was definitely an edge to Ricardo’s voice when he gave her directions, Chelsea thought as he went to a cupboard in the kitchen and withdrew more candles and matches. He took his time, his movements deliberate. He was certainly a pleasure to watch, the muscles in his broad shoulders moving under the fine fabric of his perfectly tailored shirt, his fine posture showcasing his narrow hips and an ass that—despite being covered by fine gabardine—looked like it might have been carved from marble centuries ago by a sculptor whose intention was to capture the perfect male form.
But Ricardo was in no hurry, and he’d left her standing there with nothing to do, and Chelsea’s irritation was piqued. She was accustomed to choreographing the evenings she spent with her lovers. Yes, her need for control might be a little extreme, but it was also understandable, wasn’t it? She had to make sure that none of her encounters ever slid into territory that would remind her of those terrible afternoons in the basement of the house she lived in after her dad was gone, after there was no one left to protect her. And the way that she learned to protect herself was to call all the shots.
Standing in the living room while a man rooted around for candles was not calling all the shots.
“You have any beer?” she called and plopped onto the white sofa that probably cost more than rent on her apartment for a year, and was considering taking off her boots and putting her feet up on the ottoman, when Ricardo appeared suddenly at her side. He glared down at her, a box of wooden matches in one hand.
“Did I, or did I not, tell you to stand here?” he muttered through a clenched jaw, pointing to the spot on the carpet where he had left her.
“Well, yes, but—”
“And again, please correct me if I am mistaken, but do you not have a considerable investment in the outcome of this evening?”
He was throwing it in her face—the chance to obtain one of her father’s works, the thing that mattered more to her than anything in her life. But the resentment that Chelsea felt was overshadowed by emotions much more complex, impossible to tease apart in the heady atmosphere, after the wine and the delicious food, the music playing softly in the background, the faint but heady scent of the man glaring down at her.
The attraction that was growing stronger by the second. Yes, she was horny, more so as every moment passed. Well, if she had to play along with his little games in order to get laid, as well as pursue the far greater reward that would come after she fulfilled her side of the bargain, then what did she care?
“I know what you’re doing, you know,” she said, standing up and smoothing her blouse down over her hips, moving to stand on the precise spot on the carpet that he had indicated. “This is some sort of domination fantasy you want to play out, right? I mean, whatever floats—”
She stopped abruptly when he reached out to caress her face, his fingertip tracing over her lips in a “hush” gesture. He grazed her skin so lightly, it was almost as though she was being touched by his thoughts, his intentions, rather than his flesh. She found herself holding her breath and remaining utterly still as his caresses moved along her jawline, butterfly soft, and down, trailing along the vulnerable front of her throat, to the hollow below, which he traced with the pad of his thumb.
Need pooled hot and wet inside Chelsea. Okay, he could take her now—right here if he wanted. She didn’t need a bed. Or even a chair. This richly patterned Oriental rug, though it was probably worth tens of thousands of dollars, would suit her just fine, and he could—
While his thumb stayed nestled in the hollow of her throat, the rest of his hand suddenly circled her neck, his long, strong fingers extending halfway around. Then he squeezed. Not hard enough to hurt her, but certainly enough to get her attention. The pressure lasted only a few seconds, but it was lo
ng enough for her to see the change in his eyes, to watch the emotion contained in their depths catch fire and burn.
Just as abruptly Ricardo released the pressure, and the touch returned to being a caress. It was over so quickly Chelsea almost thought she’d imagined it. As with the twist of his wrist earlier that had nearly driven her to her knees, Ricardo seemed to be a master at manipulating her, at parceling out pain—and force—in precisely controlled doses. Exactly enough to get her attention and no more.
Oh. Now he was running his fingers slowly, luxuriantly, through her hair, those strong fingers rubbing circles on her scalp. His hand moved through her tangled locks and she wished, briefly, that she had let Donny do something—anything—to her untamed hair. But before her thoughts could completely gel into a note-to-self about scheduling a trim, Ricardo suddenly twisted his hand—deftly, quickly—and her head was savagely yanked back, forcing her to look directly up at his face.
His deadly serious gaze.
“I think there is a misunderstanding that we should clear up before this evening moves forward.”
He waited, and tears began to form at the corners of her eyes—tiny tears of pain at the excruciating pressure on the hairs along her tender nape. She nodded, gulping hard. Whatever the misunderstanding was, she was ready to correct it.
“This is not a fantasy of mine.” He spat the word out as though it were a curse. “I am not a man given to fantasies.”
She nodded again, just as the hot wet excitement inside her spilled over, too much to contain in her swollen cunt. She felt the hot trickle along the inside of her thigh. Got it. Not a fantasy. She’d agree to whatever he declared because God she needed his hands on her now…
He released her.
“I can’t trust you,” he murmured softly. “We don’t know each other well enough yet. Don’t worry, we shall. But for now, I’m afraid I must take measures to ensure you are not defeated by your own headstrong impulses.”
“Defeated—”
“I take your pleasure seriously.”
“But I want, I need—”
“You,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to one of the dining chairs, which had been pulled away from the beautiful glass and stone table. It was a simple enough chair, its seat and back upholstered in a deep gray damask. “Do not know what you need, querida. I regret the years you have wasted thinking that you did.”
The words cut close, somehow, edging toward the protected part of her, even though he was way off the mark. It was true that she had wasted some years, but the time she had lost to the Fiend was all in the past. Her rage, her longing for revenge—she had buried them well and deep. And what she had needed was to learn to live with everything that had happened to her, to put it all behind her. Which she had.
Besides, sex was one area where she had plenty of confidence. Men didn’t exactly tend to complain when she was finished with them. Quite the opposite, in fact.
And yet Ricardo was acting like she was some blushing neophyte.
“You don’t even know me,” Chelsea protested.
Ricardo, who had been reaching inside a lacquered cabinet that served as a buffet, paused to regard her thoughtfully. “Is that really what you think?” he mused.
A moment later he was at her side, his hands full of yards and yards of scarlet satin.
“Is that—” she swallowed hard as one of the swaths of fabric brushed against her wrist, riffling sensation along the length of her arm.
“These were custom made for me,” he said, as though he were discussing a dinner jacket. “As I mentioned, my father was a tailor. All of my personal furnishings are bespoke. I will accept nothing less.”
He had sorted the tangles from what appeared to be half a dozen hemmed lengths of fabric, each at least six inches wide and perhaps four feet long. He laid them on the table and regarded her thoughtfully.
“Do you know anything about sewing?”
“I—I have a client who uses elements of fiber art in her installations,” Chelsea said nervously. She didn’t add that she had taught herself to do rudimentary mending when she was eleven or twelve. Her mother had stopped caring enough by then to repair their worn clothes, the ragged hems and split seams that other children teased her about at school. So Chelsea had gotten her mother’s old sewing kit down and taught herself.
But she wasn’t going to share a detail like that.
“You might appreciate the handwork. Here…please take a seat. I’ll be another moment.”
He placed the end of one of the scarves in her hand, and she sat in the dining chair he’d pulled out for her. The cushion was soft, and the back supported her well. If Ricardo made her sit here for a long time, at least she would be comfortable. As he took bottles and a silver shaker from open shelves, she turned her attention to the tiny, precise stitches along the angled end, the topstitching in neat rows. The work was clearly done by hand, but Chelsea couldn’t imagine how the seamstress had managed to make each miniscule stitch so perfect.
If this was an example of what it took to meet Ricardo’s high standards…
For the first time, a wave of uncertainty passed through her. In general, Chelsea had little insecurity about her body or her sexual performance. She’d learned to bring a man to orgasm half a dozen reliable ways. She’d also learned to occupy her wandering mind while she did it, simultaneously making the sounds that convinced her partner that the act gave her pleasure. In reality, once she got off—and it could take a while, even with the most dedicated and skilled lover—she often lost patience for the whole exercise and started thinking about other things and planning her escape.
But she had a feeling that Ricardo might not be fooled by her usual performance. He was…exacting. He watched her so carefully when he touched her, as though he were gauging the most minute responses, the most subtle reactions, attuning himself to the rhythms of her body.
She had watched him, too—eagerly, as the evening wore on and her desire surged—but she had yet to get a fix on him. To anticipate what he would do next, to guess at how he wanted to be touched. It frustrated her…and it also scared her.
Her heart was pumping rapidly by the time he finished setting out candles and lighting them, mostly small tea lights in crystal cups set on every available surface, except for one tall white taper in a simple iron holder that he set on the table nearby, its heft and rough finish incongruous with the rest of his sophisticated furnishings. Moments later he came back, a drink in his hand. She looked at the deep salmon color of the cocktail, wondering what he had made for her, whether she should worry about what he might have laced it with.
But he didn’t offer her the drink. Instead, he sat down in a large leather club chair facing her. He made himself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other and letting the martini glass dangle from his hand as he rested his forearms on the chair.
“If you become thirsty,” he said, “I will get you a glass of water. Of course, you will have to ask.”
“I’m—I’m thirsty now.”
For a moment, he said nothing, sipping at his drink. “That,” he finally said, “was not asking.”
Seriously? Chelsea tossed her hair, the irritation returning. “Okay, fine. Please, may I have a glass of water?”
He worked his jaw, making her wait, making her feel increasingly ridiculous and resentful. “I’ll tell you what. When you can speak to me respectfully, I will be more than happy to get you a glass of water. Now, however, I would like you to remove your boots. Also, please, your pants and shirt. You may lay them on that chair. Take your time. Clothes—even yours, I suppose—should be treated with care.”
It was on her lips to protest. How many insults was she going to endure from him tonight? But she reminded herself of the prize, the thing she would gain once she made it through the night with this imperious man. He had said little about the Marcus Ryder painting that he had access to, only that it was small. Not an important piece, but maybe one that she could afford if she c
ashed in her savings, sent her rent payment late this month…thinking about the possibilities gave her fresh resolve, and she set to tugging off her boots.
“I assume you’re not going to yell at me if I get up from this chair to do what you asked, right?”
“I don’t yell.”
She rolled her eyes—but doing so, she felt a flare of that same uncertainty. Not fear, not repulsion…some other dark emotion.
“But,” he continued, “as you and I continue to get to know each other, you will not need to ask silly questions like that. You’ll know what to do. You’ll get to know my expectations. And just to make it perfectly clear: please rest assured that as long as you are following my commands, you are doing the right thing. You only need to ask my permission if you wish to explore your own, unbidden desires.”
She bit back a retort—if this wasn’t a dominance fantasy, what was? She pulled off her socks and stuffed them into the boots. Then she stood and skimmed off her jeans, pretending a bravado she didn’t feel and tossed them on the couch. She wasn’t going to let him see her fear or discomfort or whatever it was. Fuck him with his instructions and his ridiculous safe word; she would bet she was tougher than any woman he’d been with.
She pulled her blouse over her head and let it fall on top of the jeans, flipping her hair out of the way. Fuck his celebrity girlfriends, too. She might not be the most beautiful woman in Los Angeles, and it was pretty damn obvious she couldn’t compete on wealth or fame or power, but she had proved to herself long ago that she was strong. If not indestructible, then pretty damn close. And he wasn’t going to make her feel anything less.
She put her fingers to the front clasp of her simple beige bra, ready to take that off too. Chelsea had long ago gotten over the fear of being exposed, of being bared and visible. And the way she’d done it was by reclaiming her body. When she undressed for a man now, she was not giving in to abuse, the way she had once been forced to—it was a choice, and a statement. By exhibiting her body, she was also showing that now she was completely in charge of it—its use, its pleasure.
