Unleashed: Declan & Kara (Unleashed #1-4; Beg for It #1)

by Callie Harper

  “I have to run, but I’ll be in touch.” She brought her hand up again to Declan’s shoulder while she said it. She definitely meant touch.

  I grew quiet, focused on my salad. What were those red things in it anyway, sort-of chewy and nutty?

  “Goji berries,” Declan whispered to me.

  I still gave him a quick smile, but really I was thinking what was up with that lady? Was that the type of woman Declan spent time with now? She’d be right at home in his private plane. They certainly seemed to know each other well. Maybe all this connection I felt with Declan was in my head, the sad concoctions of a lonely woman who desperately needed a reason for this agreement to be OK, to mean more than it did—a raunchy, debauched week. Paid to do his bidding.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Declan rose, napkin down on the table, hand outstretched to me.

  “Happy to.” I brought my hand to his and away we went.

  §

  The next couple of hours passed like a montage from a romantic movie. Arm in arm, Declan and I strolled through Central Park on the sunny June day, pausing to watch street performers dancing on roller skates or drumming on overturned plastic buckets. When I exclaimed over a horse-drawn carriage, Declan insisted and we hopped on one ourselves.

  “It’s like the whole city’s a carnival!” I exclaimed, marveling over a man walking along on stilts. “Is it like this all the time?”

  “Pretty much,” Declan confirmed.

  The driver delivered commentary in a full, brash accent that he explained was “all Bronx, sweetheart.” We passed a glassy expanse of flat water featuring model sailboats. A couple of little boys shouted over two that raced, neck and neck. I took it all in, the tall, ornate stone edifices of the Upper East Side, the cooler-than-school teens with tattoos and piercings and dyed green hair.

  Declan wrapped an arm around me. I liked the feel of it, possessive, protective.

  “This afternoon you have a four o’clock appointment for a fitting.”

  “A what?”

  “I’m taking you to a gala Saturday night. It’s black tie. You’ll need a ball gown, and the gown will need to be fitted.”

  “A fitting for a ball gown.” I shook my head, amazed by the strange mix of familiar and new. He was still Declan, the man I’d first met when he was just 21, already hardened with the demeanor of a stray, scruffy and ill at ease. The same Declan who knew our local diner and had spent so many days and nights on my family’s ranch. Now he talked about an entirely different world with the expertise of a native tour guide.

  “I’ll have to leave you for a couple hours,” he apologized. “I have some meetings. But I’ll meet you later at the dressmakers.”

  “I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.” I suddenly felt self-conscious, like I’d been monopolizing his time and wasting it. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to show me around. I’m sure I can find something to do here in the Big Apple.”

  “I’m happy here with you.” When he said it, it felt real.

  He walked me to the entrance of what he called the MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. Encouraging me to look around, he explained my fitting was only a few blocks away.

  I had to admit, a lot of that museum went right over my head. White-on-white, blocks stacked up, I didn’t get it. But the colors and faces in a painting by someone named Klimt reminded me of an old quilt we had. I knew someone in the family had made it, but not who, and something about that painting made me feel exactly like I was looking straight at it. I spent a while looking at a Pablo Picasso painting called Repose. He’d done it way back in 1908. The angles and lines, the woman’s closed eyes and the way she rested her head in her hand, I wanted to know her story, why she felt so sad and exhausted.

  But the one that knocked me way back, where I spent about 20 minutes just sitting was Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I’d heard about him, how he’d cut his ear off and sent it to a woman. That kind of story stayed with you. But I’d never seen one of his paintings before in person. The vivid swirls, the strokes of color, so vibrant and thick and teeming with life. I’d never studied art, lacked all the right words to describe it, but something in it moved me, deep. I’d looked up at starry nights before and felt just like he did, like this painting made me feel, enveloped in the universe. I guessed that was why they called it a masterpiece.

  §

  At four o’clock I managed to get to the address Declan had given me. It didn’t seem right. I didn’t see the name of the store anywhere, nothing displayed in the windows, just a golden plaque to the side of large, ornate, heavy doors embossed with small letters: la modiste. I pressed the doorbell.

  A tiny woman with a bun met me at the door. Instead of the tight, fragile look of the elderly woman at the restaurant, she bustled with vivacious energy. She moved with the grace of a ballerina yet possessed the stern command of a governess.

  “Miss Brooks?” She spoke with a thick accent that I couldn’t immediately place.

  “Yes.”

  “This way.”

  Before I knew what was happening, she had me in a back room standing up on a block, stripped down to panties and a bra in front of a three-way mirror. An assistant measured me all over with a cloth tape while the older woman surveyed me from various angles. Based on the amount of tsking and tusking, I could tell she didn’t like what she saw.

  “Four days! Not nearly enough time. I cannot work miracles!”

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t know I was coming to New York.”

  “And this!” She brought a hand to my bosom. “What am I supposed to do with this! You are Kate Upton here.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not—” At least I stopped before I finished explaining I wasn’t actually the model Kate Upton. I realized she was using the comparison as an insult. But all words of protest fled my mind when another assistant walked into the room through a side door carrying a red, full-length evening gown straight out of a movie.

  “Arms up!” the tiny woman commanded me. “Stomach in!” As they brought the dress down over my head, I felt like a slab of beef, and a fat one at that.

  But then I saw myself in the dress. Strapless, it dipped down into a V in front with embroidery and beading along the edges. It came in at my waist and traveled down to my ankles with a slit up to mid-thigh. I looked ready for the Oscars.

  “What? How?” I started to bring my hands to the fabric.

  The mean tiny lady screamed, “No touching!”

  I brought my hands up like she was the police.

  “Arms at your sides.” An assistant tugged both sides of the dress around my back. “Corset!” The head dressmaker yelled like she was calling for a medic. Another assistant went running.

  I didn’t care how mean these ladies were, how much trash they talked about my curves. If they made me look this good before the dress really even fit me, they could do whatever they wanted. They were magical fairies.

  The phone rang and the mean lady disappeared to answer it. Or torture someone in another room, either scenario seemed plausible.

  “Who are you with?” the assistant asked, a slew of pins in her mouth as she fit the dress to my curves.

  “Declan Hunt?” I answered, unsure whether I’d heard her correctly.

  “Declan Hunt,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Never heard of them.”

  “Not them, him.”

  “What?”

  “What did you ask me?” I felt like I was in the middle of a joke but couldn’t get the punch line.

  She spit out the pins into her palm and tried again. “Your agency? Who represents you?”

  “Oh, I’m not, I don’t have anyone representing me.”

  “No?” She shrugged. “I assumed. Madame does not fit a dress for everyone, the bourgeoisie.”

  “She is VIP at the gala,” Madame explained, entering the room again.

  “I am?” I asked.

  “Mais oui,” she nodded. Oh, so they were French. I felt dumb for not know
ing it right away, now it seemed so obvious. “Monsieur Hunt is hosting.”

  “He is?” Now I really felt dumb. Declan wasn’t just taking me to a black tie gala at the Met, he was hosting it? What kind of a crazy big shot was he?

  “Step into these.” An assistant brought four-inch heels to my feet and I slid into them.

  “Ah.” Madame let out a satisfied sigh, hands at my hips. I guessed she was allowed to touch. “The cameras will adore you in this.” Looking into the mirror, I had to wonder who was looking back at me in the glass. All curves and waves of fabric, I felt like a Greek goddess sculpted out of marble. Then what she said hit me.

  “Cameras?”

  “Ooh yes,” the assistant murmured by my side, nodding.

  “You know, the bloggers.” Madame said it like ‘blug-airs’, emphasis on the second syllable. I liked the French pronunciation better than the English.

  “Off! And on!” Madame yelled, in command again, simultaneously ordering the dress off and the corset to follow in its place.

  As they laced me into the hard, ribbed structure, I felt a new kinship with Scarlett O’Hara and her pursuit of the 18 ½ inch waist. It wasn’t happening. What was happening looked pretty X-rated to me, though, my breasts getting pushed up into ripe, plump ice cream scoops above the lacey corset cone. The punishing lingerie whittled my waist into something tiny and petite—at least in comparison with the rest of me. My hips and buttocks swelled beneath in an exaggerated figure 8.

  “We’ll take that.” Declan stood in the doorway, liking what he saw.

  I flushed. How long had he been standing there?

  “Monsieur Hunt! Comment ça va?” Madame gave him a kiss on each cheek. He had to bend way down to let her do it.

  “Ça va bien. Your work is perfection, as always.” He strode toward me, admiring. So now he spoke French? And he’d seen her work a bunch of times? How many women had he purchased corsets for, exactly?

  “I like you in this.” His eyes met mine in the mirror and he gave me a low, wicked smile.

  “I am so sorry. We have much work to do.” Madame brought her hands together in two, sharp claps. Her assistants hopped to life, gathering the tools of their trade and hustling out of the room. “Take it with you.” She gestured toward the corset. “But bring it when you come for the final fitting. Thursday, three o’clock.” She nodded at us, left the room and closed the door behind her.

  Only Declan and I remained, me on full display in a naughty corset before a full-length 3-way mirror.

  “Turn around for me.” He stood, arms crossed against his chest. He’d changed into a suit for his afternoon meeting and it had morphed him into a businessman, sharp and ready in pinstripes for a corporate takeover. I turned, slowly, still wearing the heels they’d given me. Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed. Gone was the bustling energy of a dress fitting. Instead the air crackled with erotic tension. My breathing constrained in the corset, I felt almost light-headed under his perusal. I was glad I still had on my panties, though they were all lace and didn’t cover much.

  “This is very nice.” He strode over and brought his fingers to the tops of my breasts, stroking the exposed flesh. My breath made them rise and fall under his touch. He brought his tongue down to the valley between my breasts and began to lick hot fire along my skin. Panting, I twined my fingers through his hair, instantly molten under his spell.

  Bringing his hands around, he kneaded his fingers into the swell of my buttocks, forcing me up and against his groin. Through those dark, conservative suit pants I felt the bulge of his thick, hard erection. I groaned with need.

  “Over by the mirror,” he ordered, his voice hoarse and gruff. “Get down on all fours.” He walked over to the door where the dressmakers had exited and turned the knob to lock it.

  “Declan, what are you doing? We’re in a shop!” He kept going about his business, locking the remaining door through which he’d entered.

  Then he strode toward me. “We’re all alone in this room. They’re busy with other clients.” He pointed over to the floor by the mirrors. “Now get down on all fours.”

  Shocked by my body’s response to his order, unable to believe I was complying, I moved over toward the mirrors. What was he planning? What was I doing, getting down onto my hands and knees for this dominant man?

  After I got down on all fours, Declan stroked me in approval. “Yes.” His voice and his hand along my back made my pussy throb with heat. He stayed standing, bringing his hand up to my shoulders, down across the corset, along the curve of my ass. “So good, Kara. I like seeing you tied into this.” His hands made me so aware of my body, my exposed skin, how much I craved him.

  Tracing the cut at the bottom, leaving all of my ass on display, he admired the corset. “Madame does excellent work.”

  “Have you bought corsets for a bunch of other women?” The angry, jealous question left my lips before I could stop it. Declan’s hand stilled. He kneeled at my head and tilted my face in his hand, my chin resting in his palm. Bringing a thumb to my bottom lip, he toyed with it.

  “Jealous words, Kara.” After a brief pause, he dipped his head down and took my mouth, searing me with a kiss. I kissed him back, hungry, needing his touch, his hands, his lips on me. He tasted so good, felt so hot and hard.

  Breaking from me, he still held my face in his hand. “I know high-quality work when I see it. I demand it. I expect nothing less.”

  “So you have bought corsets for other women.” I didn’t want to feel jealous, but I couldn’t stop myself. My feelings ran away from me. They always had with Declan.

  “I’m a good client,” he confirmed. Anger surged, scorching through me, and he saw it. “Jealous, Kara? That’s naughty.” We looked into each other’s eyes, both worked up, both breathing hard. He pointed at the floor. “Hands down. Ass up.”

  Shaking, I complied, hands down again on the cool wooden floor planks, my ass up in the air as he’d ordered. He moved around to my backside, his steps making the floor creak. He stood there a moment and I quaked under his appraisal. With two strong hands he grasped my lacy panties and pulled them down, then off my feet. He nudged my knees apart about a foot and a half. And then he kneeled.

  His face close to my pussy, I wanted to pull away. I couldn’t fight the feeling of embarrassment, exposure. I shouldn’t be on all fours, naked and exposed. He shouldn’t see how turned on I was. It wasn’t right.

  But it felt so good. Kneeling at my ass, Declan brought his two hands up to my inner thighs. “I can see all of you like this, Kara.” His thumbs made small circles, traveling up toward my sex, and I began to quiver in anticipation. “How wet you are, your dripping pussy, needing my touch.”

  With his hands, he spread me open, lifting my sex up and holding it for his inspection. I fought the urge to squirm, half-wanting to get away, half-wanting to push my pussy up toward his face and beg him to lick me.

  “What do you want, Kara?” he asked, infuriatingly calm. To torment me further, he blew a cool breath onto my slick, sensitive clit.

  I gasped, “Declan! Please!” It only took seconds with this man for him to make me beg.

  “Please what, Kara? What do you want? Do you want me to touch you?” He brought his fingers down along the outline of my opening, tracing it.

  “Yes!”

  He slid his fingers into my pussy, the glistening folds welcoming his touch as he stroked me. “Do you want my tongue?”

  “Oh, yes.” I nearly collapsed, the weight of my body feeling too much for my hands. But he supported me, bringing his hands down under my hips and pulling my pussy toward his mouth. With a hot, wet lick he brought his tongue to my needy slit, lapping up my juices, licking and sucking and making me moan. His tongue worked magic up and down my sex, toying with my hole, then spreading my juices all over. Mouth off, his fingers took over, working my lube up and down.

  Then up to my asshole. I stiffened. He continued, bringing the ample lubricant from my pussy up to the
rim of my forbidden hole.

  “Declan! What are you doing?” I felt scared. No one had ever touched me there before. It felt wrong and dirty. He kept going, scooping more of my slippery, sticky honey with two fingers deep in my pussy, making me throb as he did it, then slowly working it up and around my ass, caressing the pucker of my hole.

  “Kara,” he murmured, his face right at my asshole. “You are so pretty. So sweet and pink. I want you to see.”

  “What?” My eyes flew wide open. What was he doing back there? It wasn’t right!

  “Is this a virgin ass?” he asked, his voice thick.

  “Yes!” I cried, indignant. Like I would let anyone do that!

  Keeping one thumb at my asshole, circling, massaging along the exterior, he brought another hand to my breasts. Pulling, tugging, he freed my mounds and set to work on my nipples, heavy with desire, twisting, pinching them until I panted and moaned.

  “This is a three-way mirror, Kara,” Declan murmured, using that same hypnotizing voice. “I need you to see everything. Look back. Look at your ass in the mirror. Do you see it?”

  Shaking, I did as he asked, picking my head up to look into the mirror. He had me spread and angled so my pink asshole was on full display. It looked so wrong and naughty, so erotic and crazy I throbbed with lust.

  “Now, Kara, you need to be quiet. As much as I love your screams, you have to keep silent here. We can’t let them hear us. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I answered, ashamed I had to be scolded to not scream. He knew me well. I was already close to screaming out his name.

  “Good.” He stroked me. “Now watch me fuck your ass with my finger.”

  “No, Declan, I—” My protest became a gasp as I watched him circle my pink, puckered hole with his index finger, spreading my body’s own lube around it until it glistened. Then he changed his angle, instead of pressing against the skin, pointing directly toward me, against my hole. He exerted force, pressure, and my body fought him but with the lube he won. He pushed past my entrance, past the ring of muscle and brought his finger inside my ass.