Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  “Aaah!” My gasp is one of shock, not pain, as I feel vibrations start to pulse through me, from my inner core radiating outwards. He is standing now, not touching me, his hands flat on the table on either side of my head. He leans down to kiss the back of my neck, to whisper in my ear, “Enjoy, Eva. You’ve earned it.”

  Gently, firmly, he runs his hands all over my back, massaging, comforting. Reaching lower, he smooths some more cooling cream into my buttocks. I sigh, writhing with pleasure and need as the internal pulsing gathers strength, massaging my internal walls too. “Oh, yes, please, please…” I am almost mindless with desire as he reaches around me to lightly feather his fingertips across my clitoris. Little by little, any remaining pain dissipates and the sensuous delight builds, growing, reaching farther and wider into my inner self. I am desperate with need, murmuring incoherently, begging him to help me.

  “Tell me what you want, Eva. What is it you need?”

  “I want… I want you to… Oh, yes, that’s so good.” The pulsing of the vibrator inside my pussy is so strong now, urgent, unrelenting, irresistible. I know my orgasm isn’t far away. My hips are jerking, trying to increase the pressure on my clitoris, but he keeps his touch featherlight, teasing me, tantalizing me.

  “Please…” I’m desperate, so very desperate…

  “Is this what you want?” He increases the pressure, only slightly, but enough to have my clitoris leaping to attention, swollen, seeking.

  He circles my greedy clit with his finger, once, twice. Then, merciful at last, he takes it between his fingers and thumb and rolls it firmly. The result is instantaneous. My orgasm goes off like a volcano, my hips thrusting and gyrating for long moments as I ride the waves of intense pleasure flowing freely through me. I might even have lost consciousness toward the end, because the next thing I am aware of is the sensation of the vibrator, silent and still now, as Nathan slides it out of my pussy. Too spent to move, I am still lying draped over the table, boneless and very, very satisfied.

  And as my brainpower returns to something like normal—whatever that is these days—I feel overwhelming relief to have come through my first ‘test’ relatively unscathed.

  “Can you stand, Eva?” he asks me, wryly adding, “You certainly won’t be able to sit for a while.”

  Using my hands to lever myself up off the table, I slowly get to my feet. My skirt drops back down over my bottom, and at least outwardly I am decent again. Good God, what just happened?

  His hands on my shoulders, Nathan turns me to face him. Then, taking my face between his hands, he lifts it carefully, looks into my eyes. “You’ve been crying, sweetheart,” he says, gently wiping my remaining tears with his thumbs before dropping his lips to mine.

  Despite all that has just happened, all he has done to me, the pain is forgotten as I melt under his kiss. My arms come up of their own volition and I clasp my hands behind his neck, holding onto him for dear life, because otherwise, I am definitely going to hit the carpet at his feet. I open my mouth under his. His tongue darts inside, stroking me, dancing with mine, tasting me. He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, playing with me, and I respond as always. Despite everything.

  Breaking the kiss, he nuzzles my neck. “Are we okay, sweetheart?” he asks me. “Am I forgiven? Did I make up for it?”

  My answer is to turn my head and capture his mouth, initiating my first kiss with him rather than just responding to his. He tightens his arms around me, and this time I let my tongue go exploring. I am deliriously happy.

  After long, dragging moments he lifts his head, nudges his nose playfully against mine. His eyes are warm, deep and sensual, drawing me in.

  “Welcome to the Dark Side, Miss Byrne.”

  Chapter Six

  We are on the way to the penthouse suite on the fourteenth floor of the same building, six floors up from Nathan’s offices. After I managed to stop my tears from streaming and get my legs steady enough under me to make walking a possibility, Nathan picked up my discarded pants, slipped them into his pocket with a knowing smirk—no way could I face pulling them across my still painfully tender backside—and held out his hand to me. I took it and followed him, out through the empty reception area and back into the outer foyer. He called the lift and we stepped in.

  I expected us to be going down, heading for some hotel somewhere, so I am surprised when I feel the upwards motion under my feet. Nathan just stands silently beside me, leaning on the mirrored side of the lift.

  I catch my reflection beside him and am startled. Is that me? Really me, that woman with the beautiful, flowing hair, looking smart and willowy in lovely, flattering, sophisticated clothes, four inches taller in my outrageous heels? Is that really me, my face slightly flushed and tear-stained from having just been thoroughly thrashed across my naked bottom, then kissed stupid by this gorgeous man at my side?

  Nathan’s face is stern, his chin tipped up to watch the numbers changing above the door. I quake a little. Have I done something to get on the wrong side of him again? He’s completely mercurial, his rapidly changing moods more than I can keep track of. I only have one mood these days, I reckon—apprehensive. I have had this mood for a while, come to think of it—definitely since leaving St Hilda’s, and even more so since arriving at Black Combe. I used to be so sure of things, of where I stood and what I stood for, hollow though that was, as I’ve now started to realise. And this wonderful, intimidating, stunningly gorgeous, harsh man beside me is confronting and kicking aside every certainty I ever thought I had. Every value I might hold. Every principle about equality, dignity, respect.

  God, how absolutely wonderful.

  The lift glides to a halt and we step out onto the fourteenth floor, into the penthouse suite on the roof. There’s only one door off this landing, and Nathan opens it with a key card. He gestures me to precede him inside, following me in. The door clicks shut behind us, locking automatically.

  “Wow, whose apartment is this? This place is so cool!” I stand in the middle of the enormous living area, turning on the spot, taking in the huge picture windows making up all of one wall and offering superb views across the rooftop patio, over Clarence Dock and for about half a mile, to the skyline of Leeds city realise.

  At one end of the apartment is a state-of-the-art kitchen with magnificent granite worktops—perfectly free of clutter, obviously—and a large, dinner-party-standard dining area. I note the sturdy-looking oak table with some trepidation and have no doubt that I will find myself sprawled across that sometime very soon.

  The cream-coloured carpet is deep and plush, and I feel I ought to take off my shoes, although Nathan doesn’t seem to care. He strolls in behind me, his jacket over his arm, and tosses his key card onto a small table just inside the door.

  “It’s mine. I used to live here permanently before I moved to Black Combe. I keep the place because it’s more comfortable than hotels when I want to stay over in Leeds. And it’s handy for the office. I’m usually here a couple of nights a week.” He walks around, obviously very much at home, switching on lamps. Moving into the kitchen area, he flicks the switch on the kettle. “Tea? Coffee?” He looks at me expectantly, the perfect host.

  “Tea, please. Earl Grey if you have it.” I am still gazing around me in bewildered admiration. “This place suits you.” I glance at him, catch the raised eyebrow. He’s right, of course—how on earth would I know what sort of place suits Mr. Nathan Darke? Undaunted, I blunder on—social skills and sensitivity were never my forte. “I can see you living here more than I can picture you at Black Combe. But Black Combe seems like your family home…”

  Deftly tipping boiling water into two cups, he replies over his shoulder, “Black Combe is my family home, now. I bought it as a derelict ruined farm and did the renovations about four years ago. When I adopted Rosie.”

  He glances back at me, taking in my stunned silence at his bombshell. Adopted.

  At my open-mouthed silence, he goes on with his explanation. “City realise li
ving is great for a single bloke living alone. It’s ideal if all you want is the nightlife, the bars and theatres and clubs…” He looks over at me again, briefly distracted from his efforts around the teacups and hot water—waiting, no doubt, for me to realise what sort of clubs he probably means. I couldn’t be less interested in that just now. Adopted!

  I find my voice at last and, delicate as ever, blurt out what’s on my mind. “Adopted Rosie? You mean you’re not her father?”

  “Not in the beginning. But I am now,” comes his curt response. He returns to his explanation. “And city living’s no good at all for a small child. Kids need childcare, schools, doctors, dentists, other kids to play with, safe places to play out. Most city-dwellers move out to the sticks when the kids start arriving. We’re a pretty transient community here. I wanted a decent home for Rosie, a place she could grow up happy, healthy, safe, with plenty of space and fresh air. So, I decided to keep Black Combe instead of just renovating it and selling it on. Grace—Mrs. Richardson—was my housekeeper here at the apartment, and she moved with us.”

  He comes back across the room with my tea, and hands the steaming cup to me. “Careful, it’s hot. Your stuff is in the spare room. I’ll show you.”

  The important revelations obviously finished for now, he holds my gaze while I can only stare. Try to take in what he has said.

  Including… Did he say ‘stuff’?

  Picking up on my confusion again, and helpful as ever, not to mention patient, he explains. “Your shopping, the stuff from Harvey Nicks. I got Nicola to have it all delivered here. Charles brought it up and put it in the spare room.”

  “Charles?” Stupid question, but it pops out anyway.

  “The doorman, from downstairs. He took delivery of all your purchases and brought them up to the apartment for me. Here…” Strolling across the apartment, he opens a door off the central living room, and I catch a glimpse of a double bed piled high with Harvey Nichols carrier bags. Did I really buy all that? Christ! I follow him across the apartment and peer around him into the bedroom.

  Switching back to mine genial host again, he gestures me into the spare bedroom, apparently mine for the duration. This is not the arrangement I’d expected, actually. I tell myself I’m relieved rather than disappointed, but even I know better than to believe that.

  His grin is knowing as he continues, “We need to go out in about two hours, so you’ve time for a long soak if you want. Help to take the sting out of your aching bones.” He smiles, gently rubbing my backside before planting a friendly kiss on my cheek.

  “Enjoy your tea. And your bath. I have some work to finish.” And with that, he leaves me to admire my purchases and pander to my ‘aching bones’. He closes the door, leaving me to it.

  * * * *

  One long soak and several cups of delicate Earl Grey later, I am ready. Standing in the middle of the guest room, in front of the full-length mirrored wardrobe door, I slowly turn, admiring. I have scrubbed up well, even if I do say so myself.

  Nicola’s advice was spot on. She picked out the stunning ankle-length, Grecian-style, emerald green dress now draped over my slender figure. I’m still thin, no avoiding that, but the underwired, strapless bra Nicola teamed with the dress is doing a sterling job and I have curves for once. Real curves. Sexy curves.

  The dress is draped over one shoulder, leaving the other shoulder bare, and is gathered in soft folds around my waist before falling softly to trail the floor behind me. The deep V-shaped neckline feels sensuous, risky, and the low back not much short of indecent. My toes peek out of the front, in pretty, gold, strappy sandals. A matching gold link belt hangs loosely around my waist. My hair—the new, brightly highlighted autumn colours set off perfectly by the vivid green shade of my dress—has at last submitted to my ministrations and gone into a loose topknot, a few tendrils framing my face. I have never, ever before won a fight with my hair. Those straighteners got it right—I am on Cloud Nine.

  Still, the proof of the pudding and all that—I’ve yet to get the seal of approval from him. Nathan has left me alone since we arrived, but I have heard him moving around the apartment, in the shower, pottering in the kitchen. He was nowhere in sight, though, each time I ventured out to replenish my Earl Grey levels.

  With a deep breath, my shoulders back and chin high, I open the bedroom door and step out into the living room. He is there, splendid in black evening dress, at the kitchen worktop with his back to me. Hearing the door, he turns.

  “Holy shit!” His eyes are wide, appraising, instantly aroused. He stands, his gaze slowly moving from my hair down to my toes and back, lingering at my hips, my breasts. “Turn around,” he breathes quietly. I do, standing still to let him see my handiwork—and Nicola’s, and Damien’s—from every angle. I sense his soft footfalls across the carpet as he approaches, but I force myself not to turn. To wait for his verdict.

  “Eva, you are beautiful. Absolutely stunning. You take my breath away.” His lips brush the sensitive skin on the back of my neck, the backs of my ears. I shiver.

  His hands on my shoulders, he gently turns me, kisses my mouth. His tongue slips in, familiar now, tangling with mine, his hands cupping the back of my head to keep me still as he deepens the kiss. I rest my hands on his forearms, sinking into the sensuality of the moment. He says I’m beautiful, and in that moment I do feel absolutely stunning. And stunned. I want to pinch myself, just to check this really is me in this gorgeous dress, being kissed senseless by this gorgeous man.

  Breaking the kiss, he murmurs in my ear, “How’s your bum? Still sore?”

  “Yes…a little.”

  “Are you wearing knickers?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Take them off.”

  “What? You want to…? Now…?” I’m not about to argue, I suppose—but really, I’d have preferred his attentions before I put all that effort into my hair.

  He chuckles, reading my thoughts from my expression, as usual. “What, and muss you up? When you’ve gone to so much trouble? No, but you’ll be more comfortable without them. And who’s to know except me? And, sweetheart, I love the idea that you’ll be naked under that dress. So drop ‘em. Please.”

  I can see his point. And he did ask nicely, so I do as he suggests, leaning on his arm to step out. He picks my discarded panties up, admiring the delicate pink and pale green lace confection before placing them on the worktop.

  He cups my face in his hands, his pupils large with desire, just inches from mine. “This is going to be a long evening,” he groans, before kissing me again.

  * * * *

  It isn’t, though. It flies past. And I have a wonderful time.

  I expected to be hopping into a taxi, or even Nathan’s Audi, but instead we walk. The dinner is being held at the Royal Armouries, Leeds’ flagship museum housing all things military and weapon-related, which is just a few moments’ gentle stroll away from our building, around the other side of Clarence Dock.

  Nathan takes my hand as the glass doors swish closed behind us, and we stroll slowly along the waterside, stopping to admire pieces of strategically placed street-art every few meters. As well as clever modern pieces, the decking is also strewn with old military artefacts such as cannons and rusty ships’ anchors. They might be replicas—who knows? I like them.

  Nathan points out the mews building where the museum keeps its stocky little jousting horses, hunting dogs and hawks. He shows me the tiltyard, where every day knights in full armor thunder up and down on their sturdy, specially imported little horses, slicing the heads off melons. Apparently, I can watch the show from his bedroom window—if I can drag myself out of bed.

  Once inside, we make our way to our table, which is shared with eight other couples, all colleagues and business associates of Nathan. He introduces me as his girlfriend, a musician and teacher. He didn’t consult me on it beforehand, but I decide I like that self-image, especially the girlfriend bit. One or two intrigued eyebrows are raised around the t
able—clearly these people, who know him well, did not expect him to arrive with a romantic entanglement in tow.

  I wonder briefly who else he might have brought if I hadn’t shown up at Black Combe, but quickly dismiss that thought. Frankly, I don’t care. I am here, with him. And I’m out to enjoy myself. So the conversation flows, his associates make me welcome, and I am easily able to join in with intelligent comments. Well, what else am I good at? Intelligence is my middle name.

  The food is okay—not desperately wonderful, but good enough, in a fine dining meets mass catering sort of way. We have crab fishcakes and a green salad to start, followed by a chicken dish with a tomato and garlic sauce. The vegetables are served nouveau cuisine style, in little fancy shapes on a crescent-shaped side plate. The pudding is my favorite—a smooth, creamy orange-flavoured mousse served in a wine glass. I tuck in, then scrounge Nathan’s off him too when he lets slip that he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth. I love desserts, and don’t like to see one go to waste, or be less than properly appreciated. So I help out.

  Throughout the meal Nathan constantly grins at me, obviously enjoying himself as much as I am, and his arm spends most of the evening looped around the back of my chair, across my shoulders. I have no illusions about what my main purpose is on this trip, but Nathan does seem inclined to enjoy my company as well. I find myself leaning my head against his shoulder, and his hold tightens slightly, approving.

  After the food come the awards. Nathan’s team wins second prize in its category, which he seems pleased enough with. The highest honor goes to a multinational who has created some sort of ‘garden in the city’ development—a quirky sort of place offering residents the chance to buy allotments as well as an apartment and a parking space, and even funky little garden sheds. Everyone claps enthusiastically, the audience awash with smiles, dinner jackets and glittery frocks.