by Tracy Wolff
“Hurry,” Aria urges, thrusting her ass back against me. “I want—”
Her voice breaks as I slide myself along her soft folds.
“How do you want it?” I snarl, holding on to sanity by the skin of my teeth. “Hard and fast? Deep and slow?”
“Any way you want to give it to me,” she pants.
Way. Right. Answer.
Wrapping my hands around her hips, I pull her ass up and back. I’m on fire now, balls aching, dick burning with the need to bury itself deep inside her. A quick slide of my hand between her thighs proves she’s still wet, still ready. And then I’m sliding inside of her, slamming home with one smooth roll of my hips.
Aria cries out, arches wildly. Her hands slam against the window and I slide mine up her arms, past her tied wrists, to tangle our fingers together. I thrust again and again and she tugs like she’s trying to get free, but I refuse to let her hands go. Refuse to let her go, not now that I’ve finally got her where I’ve wanted her ever since I watched her rack that whale.
“Sebastian!” she gasps, and the sound of my name on her lips—broken, desperate—shreds the last ounce of control I’ve got. With a growl, I sink my teeth into her shoulder to hold her still as I pound into her again and again.
I’m rough, I know I am, but any gentleness I had in me was used up long ago. I ride her hard and fast, slamming her hips into the window again and again and again. Each thrust is a frenzy of need, each stroke a declaration of ownership. Still, I make sure that every cry I wrench out of her is of pleasure, that every stroke into her body takes her one step higher.
And she’s taking it, more, she’s relishing it, her muscles tightening around me as she begs for more. I knee her legs apart so that I can go deeper still, driving my dick so hard and deep inside of her that she’ll never forget this moment. Never forget the feel of me inside of her. Never forget the way her body yields to mine.
She’s sobbing now, her fingernails digging into my hands as she whispers, “Please, please, please.” Her body is shaking, her pussy clenching around me. It’s pleasure and pain, ecstasy and agony, dark and raw and perfect. So fucking perfect I can barely breathe with the need to come. But she’s close, I can feel it, and I won’t let go until she does.
I slowly ease my teeth from her shoulder, lick the livid purple marks I left there. Then whisper, “Let go, baby. Let go. I’m right here to catch you.”
Another kiss to her throat, another thrust of my hips and she’s crying out, her back arching like a bow as she comes and comes and comes. And still it’s not enough for me. Still I want more.
I grit my teeth, keep up the hard, steady strokes until my muscles cramp. Until sweat rolls down my body and my cock cries out for relief. Until Aria comes yet again, limp and wrung out beneath me, her body nothing but a vessel for everything I want to give her.
Only then, only when she’s safe and sated and nearly slack with exhaustion, do I let myself go. And when the release hits me, when it tears through me like a speedball, it’s so strong and violent and all-consuming that for a moment it’s like death itself.
Chapter Four
Aria
I feel strange when it’s over. A little lost, a little exhilarated, a lot exhausted. My body feels like lead, like it would take more energy than I will ever have again for me to move.
Now that pleasure isn’t rocketing through my every cell and nerve ending for the first time in over an hour, my brain clicks back on. Or at least, the switch moves away from the holy-fuck-I-need-to-come setting it’s been resting on pretty much since Sebastian brought me up here.
Sebastian.
He’s still inside me, his chest still pressed to my back, his fingers still intertwined with mine. And he’s making no move to pull away. To walk away now that he’s gotten what he wants from me.
Tears—weak, useless, pathetic tears—fill up my eyes and I try to ignore them. I’d probably do a pretty good job of it, too, if they didn’t make everything blurry. Especially the lights of Vegas spread out below us as far as the eye can see.
If I’m being honest, I’ll admit that I like the blur. The way that everything is softer, shadowy, just a little bit out of focus. It makes all the truths I’m living with—including the one where I just let my boss fuck me in his office like some kind of inflatable blow-up doll—so much easier to look at.
The fact that it didn’t feel like that, that it felt like something more—something powerful—only proves how stupid I really am.
This was a lesson I thought I’d learned a long, long time ago.
Suddenly I can’t bear to be this connected to him, not anymore. I shift a little, press back against him. It takes a couple seconds, but he gets the hint.
“You doing okay?” he murmurs after he pulls out. His lips skim my shoulder, press soft kisses to my back.
“Yeah. My arms are sore.”
“Right. Sorry.” He untangles our fingers, then steps away, making sure to keep me close as he lowers my hands and gently unties them.
They hadn’t really been hurting before—or if they were, I’d been too caught up in my head to notice—but now that they’re down and the blood is rushing back into them, it feels like I’m being stabbed by a million pins and needles.
I don’t say anything about it, but somehow Sebastian knows—probably because he’s got a lot more experience with tying people up than I have with being tied up—and he takes hold of my right arm, rubbing it gently. When I have feeling back in that arm, he moves on to the second one, all while keeping his arms around me and his body pressed to mine.
I don’t know how I feel about this. About Sebastian, about what we did together, or about the way he’s treating me now. I guess I expected him to treat this like any other rich man fuck—wham, bam, get the hell out, ma’am—but instead he’s being kind, tender.
He’s taking care of me. And I’m letting him.
That, too, is a shock. I’m pretty much a do-it-myself kind of girl, or at least I’m trying to be, and the fact that I need this—his tenderness, his comfort, the soothing stroke of his hands down my back—disturbs me in a way the sex didn’t.
And the sex was plenty disturbing in a blow-my-mind, drag-me-out-of-my-comfort-zone kind of way.
“I need to get back to work.” My voice sounds rusty, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Or like I’ve spent the last hour screaming Sebastian’s name.
“I know.” He presses a long, lingering kiss to my bare shoulder. “But taking a few more minutes won’t hurt anything.”
“Except my tips.”
“Right. Your tips.” He steps back then, bends down and gathers up my clothes. As I take them from him, I refuse to meet his eyes. I also do my best to ignore the fact that I’m still wearing my high heels and stockings.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah. Of course.” He rests his hand on my lower back, his thumb stroking softly against my skin as he guides me toward the closed door on the other side of the room.
“Thanks.” I reach for the doorknob, still doing my best not to look at him.
“Hey.” He puts two fingers under my chin, tilts my face up until I can’t help but look at him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” He looks concerned, like he really cares, and that only messes with my head more. I don’t know what he wants me to say here, don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. I’m almost totally naked, completely exposed, and all I want is a little cover. A chance to get my head back in the game.
“Yeah.” I push past him into the bathroom, close and lock the door behind me. Then sag against it for long seconds as I try to wrap my head around everything that just happened.
It’s not a big deal. I mean, yes, I just had soul-shattering sex. With my boss. And yes, he’s only the third guy I’ve slept with in my life. All of which means it could turn into a big deal. If I let it. Which I am so not going to do.
Dropping my clothes
on the closed toilet lid, I cross to the sink. And come face-to-face with a mirror for the first time since this whole thing began.
Holy. Shit.
I look like I’ve just been fucked every way a woman can be fucked. My hair is a mess, my eyes are glassy, my cheeks are flushed and my lips—shit. My lips are swollen and dark pink while my red lipstick is still smeared across my chin and cheek, even down my throat.
And my body…My God. My body is covered in bruises and love bites and pink whisker burn from Sebastian’s stubble. My breasts, my stomach, my neck, the inside of my arms. The inside of my thighs. Everywhere.
Horrified—fascinated—I reach out a hand. A finger. And play connect the dots with the darkest of the bruises. There’s one on the edge of my jaw, four on my neck. Two on my left breast, three on my right—including one directly over my nipple. I probe at it a little, wincing at the pain—and doing my best to ignore the fact that that one simple touch has my nipple standing erect and sparks of heat shooting through my body.
Is it just that my nipple is sensitive from all the attention Sebastian paid it? I wonder as I gently circle it. Or is it the pain that’s turning me on even though I’m exhausted? Has Sebastian Caine somehow managed to link pain and pleasure in my mind? In my body?
That thought disturbs me more than anything else has so far. More, even, than the bruises scattered like confetti over my stomach and thighs and—I do a quick turn, look over my shoulder—my back. And, if I’m being honest, those bother me quite a bit on their own.
Not because of what they are, but because of what they stand for. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, maybe I’m looking for shadows where there aren’t any, but standing here—looking at the marks on my body, so many of them in visible places—I can’t help thinking that Sebastian was marking me, branding me. Like property. Or the family pet.
For a moment, just a moment, an image of Carlo floats through my head. Suave, sophisticated, jealous. So jealous. He used to mark me like this, to remind me—and everyone else—exactly who it was I belonged to.
Like I could forget.
Whore.
Slut.
Tramp.
The words slam into me like punches, leaving bruises that aren’t so easily seen. Waking up old injuries I thought were healed, old scars I was certain had faded away into nothingness.
Suddenly, I can’t stand to look in the mirror anymore, can’t stand to see my naked body—or the marks Sebastian left on it. I dive for my clothes, yank them on as fast as I possibly can. And then I turn on the water and scrub, scrub, scrub at my face. At the red lipstick smears that speak more loudly than any words.
I’m just finishing up when there’s a knock on the door. My stomach cramps and for a moment, just a moment, the old fear is back. I can feel myself shrinking down, pulling into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible again.
The knowledge infuriates me. Has me straightening my shoulders and clearing my throat. Has me looking myself in the eye in the mirror and calling out with a lot more confidence than I’m feeling. “I’m almost done. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“I had a few things sent up from the mezzanine level. I thought they might help make you more comfortable.”
Comfortable? I don’t think anything could make me comfortable right now. Not when my past and present are suddenly converging after I’ve worked so hard to keep them separate.
Still, I open the door anyway, give Sebastian a smile I am far from feeling. He’s back in his suit and I have a moment’s regret that never again will I see that gorgeous tattoo of his—or the strong, well-muscled chest it’s inked on. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got everything I need.” I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if I’ve learned nothing else from my time at my mother’s knee—and my time right here in this casino—it’s that rich men are always on the take. They’re always looking for something. The next million. The next opportunity. The next beautiful, young face.
Then again, it’s not like I’ve got anything left to give him anyway. He did just take me standing up against a window in his office. And since my body is pretty much all I have worth taking, I’m fairly sure he’s done here.
He presses the small black bag into my hand. “Take it anyway. Maybe there’s something in there you could use.”
It’s no use arguing. Not now. Not with him. And so I simply nod and murmur, “Thank you,” before I start to close the door again.
His stops the door in mid-swing. “Aria.”
“Yes.” I force myself to look him in the eye this time. Rich man rules and all that.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course.” I give him a grin I’m far from feeling. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It was pretty intense.”
He lifts his hand to my face, cups my cheek like he did earlier. Only there’s no sexual intent here, nothing predatory about his touch this time. In fact, if I had to pick one word to describe it, I would say it was comforting. That he felt…safe.
Safe.
It’s such a powerful word—and a powerful feeling. One I’ve been searching for for a long time, and haven’t experienced in far too long. The fact that I feel it here, now, with him…it shakes me. Confuses me. And for a moment, just a moment, I want to melt into his touch. Want to let him hold me and take care of me the way he obviously needs to.
Except…I don’t do that anymore. I’m not that girl anymore.
“I’m good,” I tell him. “Honest. Just let me finish freshening up and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You can stay as long as you like.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure David would agree. I’m an hour late getting back to work and it’s a busy night. He’s probably ready to fire me all over again, even after your phone call.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” The fact that he sounds sincere instead of arrogant makes me a little crazy. How can this sweet, concerned man be the same one who just tied me up and fucked me senseless against the window? Who left more than a dozen bruises on me? Who told me everything in life is about control?
It doesn’t make any sense.
But life is full of mysteries and this is one I’m just going to have to be okay with not understanding. Because the only other option—sticking around for a while to try and figure him out—isn’t an option at all. Not for me.
“I was just teasing,” I tell him, with a sassy grin and a pat to his cheek. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
This time when I move to close the door, he lets me.
A quick look in the bag tells me Sebastian really did think of everything. Makeup, a toothbrush, deodorant, a hairbrush, even a clean pair of lacy black panties, sized medium. Of course, these are Agent Provocateur while mine are from Target, but that just gets him extra points. Or it would, if I was keeping score. Which I’m so totally not.
I put the bag on the counter without using any of the contents. I might be getting the nice guy vibe off Sebastian, but that doesn’t mean I plan on owing him any more than I already do. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living in Vegas, it’s that one way or another, debts always need to be paid. He’s already let me keep my job—and given me the best sex of my life. The scales are already tipped in the wrong direction.
My eyes sting at the thought, but I blink back the tears one final time. No use crying over three orgasms. Or was it four? Somewhere in the middle of the maelstrom I lost count. Either way, there are way worse things in the world to freak out about than really good sex.
Like the fact that I can’t go out there looking like this. Can’t go back to work with all these marks on my body. It would be like open season to those assholes down there. For the first time since I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and chopped off nearly two feet of my hair, I regret the decision. In this situation, waist-length hair could hide a multitude of sins.
But since that’s not an option—and neither is touching the foundation Sebastia
n had sent up—I decide to hell with worrying about it. I roll down my sleeves, button up my shirt, pop up my collar. And then I put on the brashest attitude I can drum up.
My father always said if you couldn’t beat the bastards, you might as well join them.
Chapter Five
Sebastian
It’s midnight and I haven’t been able to settle. Haven’t been able to focus on the buckets of financial information I still need to weed through—or to look over any of the other paperwork I’ve got waiting for me. Instead, I’ve spent the last three hours alternating between staring into space, trying to work and creeping on Aria’s personnel files.
None of which are behaviors I’m particularly proud of.
Then again, I’m not punishing anyone but myself with my lack of work. It’ll still be there at three a.m. when I get around to doing it. And it’s not like there’s much for me to find on Aria’s employment application anyway. All I’ve managed to figure out is that she’s worked at the Atlantis for fourteen months, she’s gotten exemplary evaluations during her time here that got her promoted to the high roller section four weeks ago, she lives in an apartment in a not great neighborhood—something I know from personal experience—and she has no emergency contact information.
It’s the last thing on the list that upsets me the most—well, the last two if I’m being honest. But the neighborhood is something I can work on. The lack of an emergency contact—the fact that she has no one in her life to list if something happens—not so much.
She’s young. Twenty-four. Too young to have lost both of her parents under normal circumstances. Too young not to have any friends—high school or otherwise. Her application says she didn’t go to college, but she’s so smart and well-spoken I have trouble believing that. Again, under normal circumstances she probably would have.
Which makes me wonder what happened to her. What kind of life has she had? What kind of abnormal circumstances has she been a victim of?
Aria wears her attitude like it’s armor, looks out for herself and anyone else she feels needs it. She knocks back a high roller like it’s easy, but falls into subspace even more easily. She doesn’t take anything she considers a handout—she accepted her job back because she deserved it, but didn’t touch one thing in the bag of toiletries I had sent up. Not one thing. And though she was lost and more than a little out of it when she came down from the sex, she wouldn’t let me help her through it. Hell, she barely let me touch her afterward.
