Hmm.
“Stellan,” she greeted.
“Sixx,” he replied, unmoving from his place, essentially barring one half of the two ornately and exquisitely carved doors.
She stopped in front of him.
He swept her top to toe.
And when he did, the way he did, made one of the two sets of lips she had, the hidden ones, quiver.
She disguised her reaction by shoving her sunglasses on top of her head.
His gaze tracked her movement.
Another quiver.
Hell.
“Have I been uninvited?” she asked, quirking her eyebrows.
“No,” he answered.
He still didn’t move.
She held his gaze.
She also, as per the norm, lost the staring contest.
“Listen, I—”
He disengaged from the jamb, leaned into her, and she braced.
But he just took the duffle from her grip and ordered, “Come.”
Then he disappeared into the cool dark, his disappearance sending a wave of frosty air-conditioning to chill her skin.
In Phoenician, that translated to, Welcome to my home.
“Shit,” she whispered.
And followed.
His door weighed a ton, and she was no lightweight. She battled the monster and managed to get it closed.
She moved in and noted the beautiful, soft, sandy buff of the outside adobe was not carried through to the inside.
The ceilings were beamed with dark, shining timbers. The floors were covered in uneven, large, square, undulating blocks of shimmering, rich chocolate tile. And the adobe walls on the inside were a deep terra-cotta color that sucked out all the light.
With lots of rugs, comfortable but large and space-eating furniture, huge prints on the walls depicting epic Western scenes, and gluts of toss pillows, throws, furs and poofs, the dim, dark interior veritably screamed, “Lie down and take a freaking nap, why don’t you!”
In fact, everywhere you turned there was nothing that didn’t say, at the very least, Relax, I got you.
She’d been there before.
But she’d never been there as Simone.
She’d always been there as Sixx, a guest, removed, belonging and … not.
Now, she didn’t know what she was.
She also didn’t know where Stellan was.
“Hey there.”
Her head came around, and in a large arch behind which was a huge, rustic dining room table with approximately fifty chairs (a shade over-exaggerated), she saw a Hispanic woman with a mass of gray-and-black hair, a petite, round body, gorgeous skin, sparkling brown eyes and a friendly smile.
“Sixx?” she asked.
Sixx nodded.
“The last one to arrive!” she cried, as if that won a prize.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” Sixx said.
“There is no late at Casa Lange,” she replied on a smile, like she owned the joint. Though Sixx was relatively certain she was in error as to what she said, she wasn’t going to correct her. “I’m Margarita. Stellan calls me ‘M.’ I’m his housekeeper, and cook, and the annoying woman who tells him to take his vitamins even though he’s a grown man. I’ve got five kids. They’re all grown too. And so far, two grandkids, who are not grown. Also one on the way. So you know … habit.”
God, she was cute as all hell.
And she was Stellan’s housekeeper.
Growing up, she’d known a couple of women who were kind of like housekeepers considering they were house cleaners.
But she knew not one person who had a housekeeper.
Not true.
She did.
Frigging Stellan.
Not knowing what to say, she stupidly said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Margarita replied brightly, still smiling, friendly and big.
Sixx stood there with her clutch under her arm, feeling awkward.
“He went upstairs,” Margarita shared, indicating to her right with a little tilt of her head. “With your bag.”
“Oh, okay,” she mumbled, but didn’t move.
Margarita’s eyes took in Sixx with her big gold hoops in her ears. The fall of a plethora of tiered, thin, gold chains hanging from her neck adorning her front from upper chest to below her breasts. The thin gold bangles at her wrist that were so profuse that although each was delicate, they crawled up five inches on her wrist. Her black t-shirt dress that looked just that at the top, but was tight and ruched at her hips. And her gold slides that were a series of straps from her toes to the tops of the bridges of her foot.
“You’re to, uh … change in his room,” Margarita explained.
“Oh, right,” Sixx again mumbled, deciding to move, something she did.
“All is set for your fiesta, which means I’ll be leaving soon,” Margarita announced when Sixx came abreast of her. “So I’ll say now it was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” she returned, spying the stairs that were around a wall.
A graceful curved design that included some log action as well as some fancy wrought iron.
He couldn’t just have stairs.
No, his stairway had to be a showcase.
She took the first step realizing why she was out of sorts, and it didn’t just have to do with the split-personality thing she’d been experiencing since Tuesday night.
She knew nothing about real estate.
But she didn’t have to in order to know she was in a home that cost more than she’d make in her entire life, even if she still did for a living what she used to do for a living and now just did for the thrill (and so she could buy Valentino clutches).
“Master’s at the far end!” Margarita called up as Sixx made it past the curve.
She could say that again, as Sixx was sure he was, though the woman was referring to his aptly named bedroom.
“Thanks! And again, nice to meet you!” Sixx called back, feeling like an idiot.
She hit the top hall, which was wide and also decorated with a heavy but handsome hand with paintings on walls, half-tables against them, candles, lamps, four-foot-high bronze statues, and she saw a variety of doors, most of them open, except one.
She headed down to the door at the far end.
She entered it and ceased moving.
Completely.
Good Christ.
She’d been to Stellan’s home.
She’d never been in there.
There were chandeliers. There were French doors to furnished balconies. There were arches. There was stained glass. There was wrought iron. There were carved columns. There were arched doorways. There were tapestries. There were acres of wood floors. There was heavy, magnificent furniture. There were two levels, the bed one was to her left, up two steps.
And everything was in colors of … nothing … but beauty. Parchment. Linen. Ivory. Alabaster. Pearl. Cotton.
And on the smooth white comforter of the huge bed was her Henri Bendel duffle.
Stellan appeared through an arch that led to … she had no idea where. There was the bed platform, and the lower area was big enough to be a living room, and furnished as such (also in Relax, I got you, just lighter in shade). And then there was the desk area, like he was some French count and needed a desk in his chambers to write missives by candlelight, something he could do with the thick candles set in gorgeous candelabrum there.
It was insanely beautiful.
And just insane.
“Is it your goal to leave me waiting all weekend?” Stellan’s question jerked her out of her amazed, inferiority-complex-steeped stupor.
She said nothing.
He came to a stop in order to lean one broad shoulder against a blond column, one of two that flanked the steps up to the bed area.
He also crossed his arms on his wide chest.
Man of the house.
Dear Lord.
“Bendel is nice, but we’ll be getting you LV. Or perhaps more you, Bottega Veneta,” he carried on.
Wh
at did she say to that?
Apparently nothing as he continued.
“The others will be using the pool house, or the guest bedrooms. But you change up here. You also shower up here before dinner. And you’ll be sleeping in here too.”
She stopped looking at him and started staring at him.
She also found her voice.
“Is this a sleepover?”
He started down the steps. “For you it is.”
He halted in front of her as she asked, “I thought after the party we were having a conversation.”
“We are,” he confirmed. “Then we’re going to fuck, and after that, we’re going to sleep.”
She locked her legs so they wouldn’t visibly tremble.
“Stellan, I’ve had a lot of time to think…”
She didn’t finish that because she had, she’d just come to no conclusions.
However, slapped right in the face with his immense … everything … conclusions were coming to her.
He didn’t need her to finish.
“I hope so. And we’ll discuss that after the others leave. Now, is your suit under that,” he dipped his head to her dress, “or do you need to change?”
“It is, but I need to lose the dress and grab my sarong.”
“Do that. I’ve got something to give you before we join the others.”
Oh man.
His last gift was an entire auditorium and a human being.
Considering the fact he lived in the Saint Basil’s of adobe mansions in Phoenix, who knew what would come next?
“Maybe we should take a—”
“Lose the dress, Sixx, and grab your wrap,” he ordered.
“I—”
His hand snaked out, caught her at the back of her head, and she heard her Valentino thump on the floor when she found herself molded to his body with his gorgeous face inches from hers, his other hand clamped at the side of her neck, and his voice had gone low.
“Lose the fucking dress, Simone, and grab your wrap,” he commanded.
Her hand had landed on his abs, and she’d seen them when he was working a sub.
But feeling them …
“Okay,” she whispered.
He let her go.
She immediately missed his abs.
Lord God.
He bent to retrieve her clutch and put it on his French count desk.
She moved up to the bed quickly in order to hide she did it unsteadily, unzipped her bag, and yanked out her wrap. She pulled her sunglasses off her head, dropped them to the bed, and tugged her dress off, leaving all her jewelry where it was, acutely aware that Stellan was on the lower level, watching.
This should not concern her considering the fact he’d watched her work in a playroom in a sex club with some frequency.
However, for a variety of reasons, when in a playroom, she wore her leather, and except on occasion when she left her arms or legs bare, she was always covered. Usually, she wore full-body catsuits or jumpsuits.
But again, she’d been here before, at one of his parties, even been to one wearing a bathing suit.
So why did she feel weird?
Maybe it’s those gunshot-wound scars you didn’t have before when you could wear a bikini, which meant you also had to buy a one-piece when you were shopping? her mind suggested.
There was that.
There was also the fact he’d said they were going to fuck, and she doubted if that happened he’d let her keep her one-piece on to hide her bullet wounds.
Her mind was scrambling for answers to the question when the question got a different answer.
It got this answer at the same time her mistake was made plain.
She’d turned her back on him.
Thus when she was standing in nothing but her swimming suit, earrings, necklace, bangles and slides, she suddenly found herself caged in his arms, one at her chest, one at her ribs, her back pressed to his front, his lips at her neck.
God, he smelled really good.
His body felt a whole lot better.
“My mark is fading,” he said there.
It was.
She’d been right. She’d had a bite mark that was angry the first day but started fading the next.
She knew she’d miss it the minute it was gone.
She didn’t reply to his comment.
She was too busy deep breathing and trying very hard to keep hold on a variety of different bodily reactions.
Though he wouldn’t be able to miss what was happening at her nipples.
Damn.
“I told you to call me,” he reminded her.
It was far more bluster than confidence that made her reply, “You’re not the only one who gets to make the rules to this game.”
“I’m not?” he asked.
She was beginning to wonder if she had the right answer to that.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she evaded.
“You’re right, we will. Now, however, we’ll be talking about how you not only didn’t call, you arrived late.”
“I had some thinking to do that was important to do before I showed,” she explained.
“You also have my number to share that this was something you needed and therefore also share you’d be late.”
This was true.
“In truth,” he went on, “I’d wanted you to arrive earlier so you could meet Margarita and I could show you what I’ve arranged for you before the others arrived. The problem with that is you didn’t call so I could share this with you. So actually, you’re not twenty minutes late. You’re an hour and twenty minutes late.”
Even for a pool party, that was not good.
“The good news is, I met Margarita before I came upstairs,” she informed him.
“Yes, while she was leaving.”
Hmm …
His nose slid up her neck.
Nice.
She bit her lip.
“What would you do to one of your subs if they kept you waiting for over an hour?” he whispered in her ear.
“Stellan, I’m not…” she swallowed and started again. “I’m not one of your subs.”
“No, you’re correct. You’re not. You’re my Simone.”
She had a feeling she knew precisely what that meant and loved the idea with every little piece of her heart.
At the same time it scared her senseless.
She closed her eyes. “Stellan.”
“I’m not a man who’s kept waiting.”
“Just let’s get through—”
She didn’t finish.
She was cheek to the bed, ass in the air, his hand firm at the back of her neck.
She was also trembling and close to orgasming.
Damn, damn, damn it all to hell.
She was a goddamned Domme, for Christ’s sake.
She should see this shit coming.
She bent her arms and put her hands to the bed to push up and attempt to get some control of the situation.
But she went completely still when he pulled the material of her suit covering her ass up tight so it was bunched between her cheeks.
Okay, no.
No pushing up.
She was just going to stay very, very still and hope whatever he did left her able to sit.
Her breaths came fast and shallow as her pussy saturated, which told her whatever he was going to do, the effects of it were not going to go unnoticed by Stellan.
“Feel free to come, darling,” he murmured.
She was right.
It had not gone unnoticed.
Then he spanked her, five sharp smacks on one cheek, all precisely aimed to land one on top of the other to increase the heat through blood flow, as well as the pain, five of the same to the other.
Each blow was impeccable, elegant.
Delicious.
And then she was up, turned, pulled to his long, hard body and held with one arm across her shoulder blades and the other hand cradling the bunched material at her behind, whi
ch was good. If his arms weren’t around her, her legs would buckle and she’d go down.
She stared dazedly up at him.
He gazed adoringly down at her.
“If I didn’t have guests, I would have given you enough to take you there, Simone. Sadly, I do. So you’ll have to wait,” he murmured, his hand shifting, fingers carefully arranging the material of her swimsuit to cover her bottom. “Now, the rules. Today, for you, I’ll hide how demonstrative I intend to be in the future. However, I won’t hide where I intend us to be, who you are to me and your place at my side. Am I understood?”
No, he was not.
There was a lot of ground to go over, with all of that.
She nodded.
“Good,” he said softly and let her go.
She tried out her pegs, fortunately found they stood strong, if a little wobbly, and watched him bend to the bed to nab her shades.
He did not give them to her.
He slid the arm of them in the opening of his shirt.
They were Chanel. They had rhinestones. They were huge and flashy and feminine.
And she shot right back to near orgasm seeing he did not give that first shit about any of that.
Because they were hers.
“Your wrap, sweetheart,” he prompted when all she seemed to be able to do was stare at her sunnies in his shirt.
Distractedly, she twisted to where she’d dropped the wrap on the bed, reached, and took up the thin silk.
Stellan took her hand and used it to tug her across the bedroom space, down the stairs, through the living room space and out the door.
One thing this all explained. He was likely as fit as he was because if she was wearing a FitBit, she knew it would tell her that they’d walked their daily ten thousand steps simply traversing his bedroom.
He led her down the hall, but not to the stairs, to the one closed door.
He turned to her.
“Would you like to put that on?” he asked, indicating her sarong with another dip of his head.
Mutely, she looked down, let out the material, then positioned it at her hips where she tied it in a knot at her hipbone.
“Mm…” he purred.
Her clit buzzed at the sound, her head went back, and she saw his eyes at her hips.
They came to hers, and he gave her that wicked smile before he turned to the door, opened it, took up her hand again and led her in.
She again came to a dead halt.
Stellan closed the door.
“As I said,” he started, sliding an arm around her waist, turning her so her front was pressed to his side, but her head stayed facing forward, her eyes riveted to what was displayed on the floor, “I’d get you some playthings for the party. I got you some playthings for the party. You know Ami. You also might remember Tip. The last is Jennifer. She can be used should you be feeling generous to the boys. She’s on loan from Victor today for your amusement.”
The Greatest Risk Page 9
