by J. Kenner
He'd taken charge of my body, of my senses. There was no pleasure without his touch, no passion without his caress. It was all culminating in that one point, every bit of sensation inside me, building up, ready to rocket through me.
Ready to explode.
I almost cried out when the orgasm shot through me, but I managed to bite it back. He held me as I burst into a wash of stars, until I finally collapsed against him, my body shuddering from the force of the pleasure he'd brought to me.
My breath came in gasps and though I wanted to see his face, I didn't want to move. My head was on his chest, his hand upon my back. He had completely destroyed me.
For one brief, shining moment, I'd held the upper hand. But he'd deftly turned the tables, and I'd never been so happy to have been so soundly and thoroughly defeated.
"I told you," he said, leaning in close and whispering in my ear, "I like control. You want to fly with me tonight, Angie? Those are the terms."
I lifted my head to meet his eyes and saw my own passion reflected back at me. "Tonight?" I teased. "You want more?"
I'd caught him off guard, and he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "Baby, we haven't even gotten started."
"I--oh."
"Let's get the hell out of here."
I nodded blindly. All I knew was that I wanted more. I wanted the man--and I wanted to see just where he would take me.
He carefully adjusted my panties and skirt--his ministrations sending little electric shocks of pleasure zinging through me. I felt a tug of satisfaction when he also adjusted himself. I had a feeling it wasn't particularly comfortable to walk with an erection, and I felt a swell of feminine pride for being the one who got him in such dire straits.
He took my hand and led me toward the back, pausing now and then to chat with some of the waiters, the dancers, the bartenders. All very normal. All very businesslike. And I thought I would scream in frustration every time he delayed for even a second.
Finally we moved through the employee area, passing dressing rooms, a conference room, several offices, and the kitchen on our way to the back door. He pushed it open, letting in a swath of sunlight that temporarily blinded me. As we started to step outside, I saw Cole emerge from one of the offices. I had no doubt that he saw us, too. Nor did I have any doubt about the deep frown I saw etched across his face.
Not that I had long to think about Cole's disapproval. The bright afternoon sun erased everything from my mind but the pleasure of the moment, and when we arrived at Evan's car, I laughed outright in joy.
"You have a convertible."
He looked offended. "Not just a convertible. It's a 1962 Thunderbird convertible. This thing's a classic."
"It's fabulous," I said, and meant it. It was a vibrant blue with sleek lines. Most important, the top was down. He held the door open for me, and I had to smile at the gentlemanly nature of the action in stark contrast to the very ungentlemanly way he'd had his fingers up my panties in public only moments before.
Evan Black was an exercise in contradictions, even more than I'd known. But, then again, so was I.
I slid into the car and settled back in the warm leather seat. Even before he started the engine, I imagined the thrum of speed and the wind whipping through my hair.
"There should be a scarf in the glove compartment if you want one," he said, as if reading my mind. He'd fired the engine and was waiting to make a left turn out of the parking lot.
"Not on your life," I countered, though I did open the compartment and peer inside. Sure enough, there were a variety of colored scarves. "For your harem?" I teased, fighting a knot of jealousy. Honestly, the man was gorgeous, eligible, and single. Just because I'd never seen him bring a date to Jahn's gatherings didn't mean there wasn't a gaggle of women waiting in the wings for him. I mean, that redhead had looked pretty cozy on his lap.
The thought didn't sit well with me at all.
"I have a lot of things," Evan said, as he accelerated. "A harem isn't one of them."
I didn't answer, but as I settled back to enjoy the ride, I was smiling.
Traffic was a bitch, so it took almost forty-five minutes to reach Lake Shore Drive and Uncle Jahn's--or rather, my--condo.
Evan handled the car with the same gentle yet firm touch with which he'd handled me, and the Thunderbird was at least as responsive. Now he had his hand draped loosely over the steering wheel and the other on my thigh, where it had been for most of the journey. It was just resting there, his thumb making idle back and forth motions that seemed unconscious, but I knew were purposefully designed to drive me crazy.
Honestly, I no longer gave a fig about the wind in my hair and the sun on my shoulders. With each mile, each foot, each inch that we drew closer to the condo, all I wanted was to climb out of the damn car and slide into Evan's arms. The anticipation was killing me, and despite the fact that during the drive, he'd touched me in only the most casual of ways, my body was primed--the rhythm of the engine, the vibrations of the road, and the presence of the man keeping me blissfully on edge.
When the condo was only one block ahead, rising in the distance like some fantastical phallic monolith, Evan turned to me. "Shall we just take off?" he asked. "Cruise all the way up Sheridan Road. Continue through Wisconsin and keep going until we cross over into Canada?"
Hell no. I wanted to scream the words. To rail at him for even thinking of teasing me like that. But I'd lost too many points in this game already, and so I leaned my head back, casually closed my eyes, and lifted a negligent shoulder. "Whatever you want," I said. I opened my eyes long enough to look at him. "You're in control, right?"
He chuckled, then kept his foot on the accelerator as we breezed past the condo. I bit back a curse, not quite believing that he was calling my bluff. Then he glanced sideways, met my eyes, and hit the brakes.
"Evan!"
"Forget Canada," he said, twisting the wheel into a sharp left turn and then speeding back toward the building. There was heat in his eyes as he pulled up to the valet stand. "I want you naked."
"Oh."
As the valet opened the car door for me, Evan popped the trunk and pulled out a leather briefcase. He tossed the keys to the valet, then took my elbow and led me inside. I knew the building intimately--I lived there, after all--but right then everything seemed bright and shiny and new. The doorman more regal, the concierge more friendly. The polished stone walls glowed, and the steel doors of the elevator gleamed in invitation. I was looking at the world differently now, anticipating something wonderful. Anticipating Evan.
There was no one else in the elevator bank, and we had the car to ourselves. As soon as we stepped on, he moved closer to me, pressing his palms against the wooden paneling as he caged me with his body. "Do you remember the alley?"
It was only the controlled sensuality of his voice that kept me from laughing. Did I remember it? How could I forget?
But I said none of that. I only nodded.
"Do you remember what I said I wanted to do to you?"
Suddenly shy, I didn't quite meet his eyes. But I nodded. Every single word was burned into my memory.
"Tell me."
My stomach twisted with nerves, but the rest of me tingled simply from the promise of what was to come. "What?"
He leaned forward, and I felt his lips brush against my ear as he spoke, the contact sending shivers rushing through me to pool between my legs. "Tell me what I said to you. Tell me what I want to do."
"I--" I wanted to protest, but one look at his face nixed that plan. I looked quickly away. When I spoke, my voice was so low I wasn't certain he could even hear me. "You said you wanted to strip me bare. That you wanted my breasts in your hands and my nipples tight between your fingers." As if in response to my words, my nipples tightened and my breasts felt suddenly needy.
He reached up and loosened the clip that held my hair. It tumbled to my shoulders and he ran his fingers through it, lifting it, then leaning even closer to graze his lips over my bar
e neck. I shuddered, certain I was going to come undone right at that very moment.
"I'm impressed," he murmured. "What else?"
"You--you said you wanted to spank me. To tie me up." My breath was ragged and I gathered my courage, then pulled away enough that I could see his eyes reflecting back every bit of heat that was coursing through me. "You said you wanted to make me come."
His eyes seemed to go even darker with my words, but his face remained unchanged, as if any reaction would trigger an explosion. For a moment, we only stared at each other, the air between us vibrating, my entire existence hinging on the need for his touch.
His voice was raw when he finally spoke. "I did say all that. And I want a hell of a lot more that I didn't say." He traced a fingertip along my jawline. "You said you wanted it, too." He paused, the moment hanging heavy between us. "Is it still what you want?"
I nodded as the elevator car shuddered to a stop.
"Say it."
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too dry. I swallowed and tried again. "Yes," I said as the doors slid open. "Oh, god, yes."
He took my hand and led me off the elevator, but paused before opening the door to the condo. For a moment, he just looked at me. So long, in fact, that I began to feel uncomfortable.
"What?"
"All this time," he said, but didn't continue.
I shook my head, not understanding.
"All this time, all these years." His brow furrowed as he studied my face, as if I were a puzzle to be solved. "I've thought there was something about you. Something I couldn't put my finger on."
"You see me," I said simply. "I think you've always seen me."
His smile was slow, gentle, and sweetly sexy. "Why would I want to look anywhere else?"
I felt my cheeks bloom with delight at the compliment. Then I followed him inside, feeling suddenly awkward. Like a teenager on a first date.
Evan, apparently, didn't feel that way at all. He crossed the foyer toward the intercom panel as if he owned the place, then pressed the button to locate Peterson. "Ms. Raine and I would like the condo to ourselves for a while, Peterson. Take the rest of tonight and tomorrow off."
"Certainly, sir."
I gaped at Evan, not sure if I should be irritated that he was bossing around my butler or excited about the prospect of another twenty-four hours.
I settled on embarrassment when I realized that Evan had pretty much drawn Peterson a picture of what was going on up here. "Subtle, much?" I grumbled.
He only laughed. "Trust me, I can be very discreet when the occasion calls for it. Right now, though, you're mine. And I don't care who knows it."
"Oh." I swallowed, those first date nerves firing up again. "So, do you want a glass of wine?"
"No," he said simply. "I already told you what I want. I want you naked."
Beneath the red lace of my bra, my nipples tightened. "I--oh."
He nodded toward the bedroom. "On the bed. On your back. I'll be along soon. Unless you'd rather I leave," he added, when I didn't move.
Slowly, I shook my head. And then, in the thick silence, I turned and started toward the bedroom.
I moved slowly, part of me wondering why I was so tentative. This was exactly what I'd wanted--and more. A man to take control. To not ask, but to tell. To not hesitate, but to act.
No, I corrected. Not a man. Evan.
There had only ever been Evan.
I still couldn't quite believe he was here--and since I damn sure didn't want him to go away, I did as I'd been told, gathering my courage and then unzipping my skirt. I considered folding it neatly, but I liked the recklessness that came from leaving it in a puddle on the floor, topped by my very damp panties.
I kicked my shoes aside and then moved to the bed, still in my shirt and bra. The air conditioner was blowing, and the breeze from the vent above me tickled my skin, and made me hyperaware of just how overheated I was.
Slowly, I unfastened the buttons of my blouse, letting my fingers drift over the swell of my breasts. I found the clasp on my bra and unfastened it, as well. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. All my wildness, all my adventures, and yet I'd never done anything like this before. I wanted it--dear god, I wanted it--but I couldn't ignore the ripples of nerves or the tiny beads of sweat at the back of my neck and under my arms.
I drew in a deep breath for courage, then shimmied out of the blouse and tossed it carelessly over the side of the bed. And then, before I could think too much about it, I tugged off the bra and left it draped over the headboard, as if I'd tossed it there in a flurry of undressing.
And then that was it. I was naked.
I was naked, and I was alone. And I was all kinds of nervous.
I sat on my knees on the bed, since that seemed to be the most modest way to sit. Then I remembered that he'd wanted me on my back. I considered staying on my knees anyway, but I could still hear his toss-away comment about leaving.
Okay, then. On my back it was.
I stretched out, my legs so tight together they might have been superglued. I tried keeping my arms at my sides, but only managed that for about sixteen seconds before crossing them over my chest.
I wanted to be a vixen, really I did. I wanted to stretch out and enjoy the feel of the satin duvet on my naked skin. I wanted to spread my legs. To prop myself up when he entered the room, then beckon him in with a crook of my finger and a come-hither smile.
Unfortunately, my fantasies hadn't quite caught up to my reality. And my reality was all tied up with my nerves.
"You're stunning," he said from the doorway.
I lifted my head enough to see him leaning casually against the door frame with a glass of red wine in his hand. He wasn't smiling. Instead, he was looking at me with such intense longing that it was no longer nerves I felt, but arousal.
I licked my lips and managed a smile. "I thought you didn't want wine."
He didn't answer. Instead he took one step into the room, and in that singular moment it became his room as much as mine. Just by virtue of being there, he controlled it. Dominated it. It struck me suddenly that this was a man who could have anything he wanted anytime he wanted it. But he was here, tonight, with me.
The corner of his mouth curved up, and I entertained myself with the thought that he could read my mind. More likely, though, he was simply pleased with how well I'd followed instructions.
"I wanted the wine," he said. "But I want you more." He took a sip as he let his gaze trail slowly over me. If vision were a caress, then there would be no part of me that he didn't stroke throughout the course of that long, slow inspection. I was hot. Needy. And, yes, I was ready.
"Put your head back," he said gently, "and close your eyes." And though I hated losing sight of him, I complied.
"Your breasts are perfect," he murmured. "Don't hide them. Put your hands to your sides."
My arms were still crossed over my chest, and now I slowly moved my arms to my sides. As I did, I reminded myself that I wanted this--and I did, I really did. But at the same time, I couldn't help but wish that it wasn't the afternoon, and the sun wasn't streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I felt exposed--which, of course, was exactly what Evan wanted me to feel.
"Spread your legs, baby."
"Evan." I said nothing else, but there was no missing the protest in my tone.
"Spread your legs."
I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut and did as he ordered. At first, the air cooled my overheated sex. But that faded quickly. My inner thighs seemed as hot as embers, and I was suddenly acutely aware of how open I was. How wet I was. How terribly, wonderfully, deliciously exposed I was. My muscles clenched as if in anticipation, and my clit was a hard, demanding nub.
"Oh, baby," he said. "You look good enough to eat."
"Why don't you?" I whispered, shocked that I could not only form words, but that I would utter such provocative and demanding ones.
He chuckled. "Patience."
I whimpe
red, absolutely certain that if I didn't do something to release some of the pressure bubbling up inside me, I was going to spontaneously combust.
"Do you want to be touched?" he asked. His voice was closer now, and I realized that he'd stepped farther into the room.
"Yes."
"Do you want a fingertip stroking you? Playing with your clit while your orgasm builds? Teasing your nipples into tight buds?"
The muscles of my sex throbbed in response to his words, and I heard the smile in his voice when he said, "I thought so, baby. Go ahead then. Touch yourself."
"What?" I couldn't possibly have heard him right.
"Caress your leg, then slide your fingers up to heaven." The amusement in his voice didn't overshadow the tone of command.
I hesitated only briefly, then slowly did as he said. My touch was feather light and just as enticing, and I stroked down my leg, then slowly trailed my fingers up my inner thigh. A string of electric sparks, like a kickline of fireflies, seemed to follow my touch. I kept my eyes closed. Not because he'd commanded it, and not even because of embarrassment. But because it helped me to see--and what I was looking at was Evan's hands stroking my body.
"Oh, Angie," he said, as I trailed one fingertip over the soft skin between my thigh and my sex. His voice sounded wrecked, even painful, and I couldn't help but smile as I imagined his erection straining against his slacks.
"Stroke yourself," he said. "Tease your cunt. Do you feel how wet you are?"
"Yes," I breathed.
"Imagine those fingers are mine--"
"I am."
He groaned before continuing to speak. "And imagine that I'm playing with you. That I'm sliding my finger deep inside you. That I'm teasing your clit. Stroking it, finding that perfect rhythm."
My hand moved in time with his words, and I spread my legs wider as the pressure inside me built. I was imagining it was his touch, yes, but at the same time I couldn't deny the thrill of knowing that he wasn't the one touching me. That he was only watching. And that seeing the way I touched myself was making him hard.
