Do you remember?
I do. I think about that night—and what a shit job I did of breaking things off—more often than I would like to admit.
But saying good-bye was for the best. I wouldn’t have been good for you in the long run. Not back then. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from taking advantage of your inexperience, no matter how hard I would have tried. We were spark and tinder, Prescott, and I would have burned you to the ground.
But things are different now…
Aren’t they?
I know how you spend your Saturdays, Ivy. I know about the secret staircase, the red door, and the toys you play with in the back room with a man who wants you to call him Master. But you weren’t meant for him.
You were meant for me.
If you’re shaking your head—or having a hard time coming to grips with this blast from the past—ask yourself this: Whose face do you see when you close your eyes and slip your fingers between your legs? Whose hands are brushing across your nipples, smoothing over your ass, spreading your thighs wide? Whose voice is in your ear, telling you how sweet you taste, how perfectly wet you are, how much he wants to fuck you and keep fucking you until there is no doubt in your mind who your pleasure belongs to?
Tell the truth, princess. Don’t lie to me, or to yourself.
Maybe you’re even turned on right now. Wet. Thinking about how good we were together and all the fun we could have now that your kink has caught up with mine.
I hope so. Because I want to be with you, Ivy—in person, unfiltered, no holds barred and no holding back. I want to push your skirt up around your hips and get my mouth between your legs. I want to tie your wrists to my headboard and tease you until you beg me to take you. I want to make love to you in every filthy way you’ve daydreamed about and a few new ways I’ll teach you because I’m a dirty bastard with a filthy mind and you are the star of every single one of my fantasies.
I want to pleasure you, possess you. I want it so bad I can almost taste the salt and honey of your skin.
No one tastes like you. So sinfully sweet…
I’ve been thinking so often lately about that camping trip on the beach, of that first kiss mixed with rain and the way you came on my mouth with the wind howling outside our tent. You were lightning in a bottle, and I knew that first night that I was never going to find another woman like you.
Which brings us to this moment.
This gift, and a chance to see if lightning can strike twice.
In the letter I sent with that first tuition check, I warned that there would come a day when your “anonymous friend” would ask for a favor. I also said that you would be free to say yes or no to that request—no hard feelings; no harm, no foul. I meant it then, and I mean it now.
There is no debt to be repaid, only an opportunity sincerely offered.
I want to show you all the things I’ve learned since the night we parted ways. I want to show you how sorry I am, and how truly incredible submission can feel. That man you’ve dabbled with doesn’t have what it takes to top you, but I do. Meet me tonight and let me prove it.
You’re ready for the ball, princess, and I would so very much like to be the man to take you.
I’ll send a car at eight.
Sincerely,
Edward
Chapter Two
Ivy
Good God…Edward.
I stand up only to sit down hard again, my tailbone twinging as it meets the wooden seat of the chair.
Edward is my mysterious benefactor, the man who paid for my last year of undergraduate school and the master’s program after. The one who set me up with ten thousand dollars in startup money to fund my move to New York City and keep me in coffee and ramen noodles while I interned, before I landed an entry-level advertising job. He’s the one who sent chocolates and champagne when I was promoted the first time, and Broadway tickets when I made Assistant Creative Director last month.
The tickets had come in an antique jewelry box, along with a note saying “I never doubted you for a moment. Congratulations on your success. –Anon.”
Anon, short for Anonymous, but I’d thought I’d known who was looking out for me. My brother Aaron might be a selfish shit most of the time, but he loves me. He would never stand by and let our parents steal my inheritance and disown me without taking steps to make things right.
Or so I’d thought.
But if Edward is the one behind the money and the gifts…
If Edward is behind all of this, then that means…
I drop my face into my hands, letting my fingers muffle a long, low groan. “Jesus, Aaron. You sorry son of a bitch.”
My older brother isn’t a jerk with a secret heart of gold after all. He’s just a jerk—a selfish, self-serving bastard who was happy to turn his back on me because it was easier than standing up for what was right. I’ve spent years writing him thoughtful emails and tolerating his half-hearted replies for nothing. Aaron was never my ally or my friend. He’s just another person I’m unlucky enough to call family.
I swallow hard, ignoring the pressure building behind the bridge of my nose.
I won’t cry. Not for him or any other Prescott. I made a promise to myself years ago, after my gram died, not to give my shitty family any more of my tears. This fresh sucker punch hurts, but the pain will fade. It’s the idea of a benevolent big brother that I’ll miss. In reality I’m not any more alone than I have been for the past six years.
Aaron hasn’t been there for me in a long time, not since Mom and Dad tore up Gram’s will, bribed her crooked attorney, and kicked me out of the house for trying to “take what belonged to them.” I hadn’t even known Gram was naming me sole heir, but that hadn’t mattered to my parents. The money was all they cared about. And apparently the same goes for Aaron.
I’m not losing a brother; I’m gaining an extra hour every other weekend. No more afternoons writing emails means more time to enjoy myself.
To enjoy myself…
My gaze shifts from the letter to the cream box on the kitchen table. It’s two feet wide and three feet long, tied up with a red satin bow. It’s also heavy and I’m guessing expensive, judging by the Bergdorf-Goodman logo on the bag it arrived in. It was delivered twenty minutes ago by courier, along with a hand-written letter.
A letter from Edward Mulligan, the boy I crushed on for most of my teenage existence, the man who took my virginity in a tent by the sea, the asshole who was so wonderful and romantic that I fell madly in love with him, only to have him tell me my love wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t enough.
And you weren’t. You weren’t ready for a man like Edward. Can you imagine if you’d received a letter like this back when you two were dating?
You would have fainted.
Or burst into tears.
Or run, the way you ran that night…
I pick up the letter, scanning it again with narrowed eyes. Dirty-talking, game-playing, dress-ripping Edward is back.
Even a couple of years ago, I would have said I hated him.
But now…
Now I’m a full-fledged, fucking grown-up. I’ve held down a challenging job, landed two promotions, negotiated a raise with my intimidating boss, Mr. Tennyson, and perfected a “you don’t want to mess with me, buddy” glare that keeps all but the most determined New York City creepers at arm’s length. I’ve also learned to ask for what I want in the bedroom, and that I enjoy regular walks on the wild side.
I’m a regular at a members-only club for Dominants and submissives, and I know how much wicked fun there is to be had in the dark. After the past few years of experimentation, there’s no way I could go back to making sweet, innocent love to an earnest virgin.
It no longer surprises me that Edward called things off. I’m more surprised that he started a relationship with me in the first place. I was so innocent, so naïve, and so pathetically in love with my older brother’s best friend, the only man in my life who didn’t
treat me like I was made of glass.
My grandfather was the first famous televangelist of the 1980s. My father followed in his footsteps, and my mother made it her job to be the perfect preacher’s wife, which meant molding me into the perfectly pure, squeaky clean preacher’s daughter. Edward was right in his letter. I was so sheltered I didn’t understand what BDSM was until months after our breakup. It took much longer for me to work up the courage to explore my fantasies, to find out if my daydreams about being taken by a Dominant man were something I would enjoy in real life.
Master Hansen, the man who has topped me for the past six months, teases that I’m a cliché—the fallen preacher’s daughter, the good girl determined to go bad. But it goes deeper than that. Growing up, I had no choice but to submit to the powerful men in my life. Now, submission makes me feel powerful.
I make the choices. I choose when, where, how, and to whom I offer my obedience and the privilege of giving me pleasure and pain.
If I go to Edward, it will be my choice, nothing forced upon me by anyone else.
My skin goes electric at the thought. If I take him up on his offer, in less than six hours I could be kneeling at Edward’s feet, kissing Edward’s lips, coming on Edward’s incomparable cock.
Back when I was a twenty-year-old virgin, I had no idea that all cocks are not created equal. If I’d known then that I would never find another man capable of making me come like a steam engine careening off the tracks, maybe I would have fought through my shame and stayed with him that night.
The thought makes me snort aloud.
I flick the letter into the air, sending it sailing up to hit the light fixture before it lands with sharp tick on the glass table. My cat, Shiver, who is not accustomed to me throwing things, exits the kitchen, stage right, with a hiss of disapproval.
“Sorry,” I call after her, but my heart isn’t in it.
In my mind I’m not in my Brooklyn apartment with my cat. I’m back at the gates of the Castle of Sin on the night of the Venus Ball. I’m back at Edward’s side when he ripped the front of my dress open and told me to play with my nipples while the rest of the people waiting to get into the ball watched.
It was the first time I’d ever been naked in public in my entire life. Even if I had forced myself to obey and survived the embarrassment of touching myself in front of those masked people, what Edward wanted to do to me inside the walls of that “castle” would have scared me out of my mind.
He was right. Twenty-year-old Ivy wasn’t ready to play with the big boys.
But twenty-six-year-old Ivy…
Before I can second-guess my decision, I tug the red ribbon free and open the box. Inside, cradled in a nest of tissue paper, is a black masquerade mask and the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. It’s a slinky black floor-length number with tiny crystals sewn over every inch and a see-through panel that starts just below the deep V of the neck, tapers to the waist, and then veers off to expose part of the hip before trailing all the way to the floor.
The fabric hisses softly as I pull the dress from the paper and hold it up to the light. I can already tell that it will fit perfectly, and that it will bare more flesh than I’ve ever bared in public. The neckline plunges into a V so deep, I can’t imagine how the girls are going to stay contained. I’m on the larger side of a D cup and usually require some serious elastic to keep me decent.
But then, Edward clearly doesn’t want me decent. He wants me naughty and half naked and willing to let him do wicked, kinky things to me.
A mental image flashes through my mind—Edward’s dark hair falling over his forehead into his even darker eyes. His smile like a slash of light in the darkness as he beckons me closer and pulls me in for a kiss, a kiss that goes on and on until I’m so breathless I don’t offer any resistance when he guides me onto my knees in front of him and opens his fly, telling me it’s time to show him what I’ve learned in all our years apart.
My tongue tingles at the thought, and a rush of saliva fills my mouth. I never had the pleasure of taking Edward’s cock between my lips—I was too shy back when we were a couple—but God, I want to. I want to give him the blow job of his life, leave him weak-kneed and so shattered by pleasure he won’t know what hit him. I want to see how fast he’ll recover from the things my tongue can do to him, and his reaction when he realizes that I learned to suck cock from someone other than him.
Dangerous thoughts, Ivy.
Nothing says “I’m still not over you” like trying to make a guy jealous of the other cocks you’ve sucked.
I press my lips together. It’s true. And the last thing I want to do is give Edward any reason to think I’ve been pining for him. He’s clearly still cocky enough without any encouragement, and I have no interest in anything more than sex. I learned my lesson the first time about giving my heart to a guy like Edward.
If I’m going to do this, I’ll have to go in with ground rules. For Edward and myself.
As I shower and dry my hair, I think about what it will take to keep this night about kinky experimentation and nothing more. By the time I’ve put on my makeup, slipped into the dress, which makes my body look made for sin, and donned my mask, I have a game plan.
In the car on the way to the ball, as the driver speeds out of the city and into the foothills of upstate New York, I’m nervous but confident. I can handle this. I can have a night of fun with a man who knows what to do with the ten inches he’s been blessed with, enjoy myself, and walk away.
I owe Edward that much for all the help he’s given me, and I owe it to myself to prove that I’ve grown up and grown out of Mr. Mulligan.
He’s right—his is the face in my erotic dreams. His are the hands I imagine touching me when I’m alone in my bed with nothing but the ceiling fan whirring overhead and my vibrator buzzing between my legs
But tonight, all of that is going to change. Tonight Edward can have me in every wicked way he wants, and I’ll give as good as I get. I will ride him all night long, sex him out of my system, and wake up tomorrow a free woman, no longer haunted by the ghosts of Things That Were Never Meant to Be.
I feel good. Great, even.
As the car pulls down the paved driveway to where the gothic Castle of Sin looms on a hill, surrounded by the stone walls that enclose its pleasure gardens, I’m not the least bit nervous. The well-dressed people lining up for entrance don’t scare me, either. I’m older, dressed as well as any of these wealthy women, and I’ve got two years of experience as a submissive under my belt. I’m not going to embarrass myself or run away. I’m going to prove that I belong here.
I am confidence personified…right up to the moment strong hands grab me from behind, lifting me off the path and tugging me back into the dark.
Chapter Three
Edward
From my hiding place behind a stand of bayberry bushes near the castle walls, I spy Ivy the moment she gets out of the car. She’s even more beautiful than I remember, her red-brown hair falling in wild curls around her shoulders, her lips stained pink, and her full hips swaying back and forth in that incredible dress.
She’s a goddamned heart attack waiting to happen.
The second I lay eyes on her, I know I won’t be able to wait until we’re alone in the garden. I need to touch her. Now. Six years without her skin against mine is too long for me to exercise restraint.
As she passes by my hiding place, I step out, wrapping an arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground as my free hand covers her mouth.
She stiffens and sucks in a surprised breath, but relaxes when I whisper “Don’t worry, it’s me,” and draw her deeper into the shadows behind the bushes.
The curve of her ass presses against where I’m already hard, and we both moan, the twin sounds of need making me smile into her curls.
“That answers my first question,” I murmur, flattening my hand low on her stomach, blood catching fire as the sweet, familiar, too-long-without-her smell of Ivy floods my head.
“And that answers my second,” I say, trying not to be too disappointed. She has every right to be angry with me, after all. “I understand if you hate me, princess. But I hope you’ll give me a chance to make amends.”
“I don’t hate you.” Her breath hitches as my hand slides even lower, hovering above the apex of her thighs. “I don’t feel anything for you anymore, Edward. I’m just here for a good time.”
“Me, too,” I lie as I sweep her hair from her neck and press my lips lightly to her throat. “And I’m glad you don’t hate me. I enjoy not being hated.”
I don’t mention anything about love or regret or how much I want this to be about more than fun. I knew when I wrote that letter that tonight wasn’t going to be easy.
But then, the best things never are.
She swallows, her muscles working beneath my lips. “Me, too. But before this goes any further, I need to make one thing clear: we keep this casual, okay? I’m a busy person, and I’m not interested in more than one night and an easy good-bye. If you’re looking for a steady date, or hoping to rekindle old flames, I’m not your girl.”
My chest tightens at her words. She’s always been the girl for me. I’d just needed her to become her own girl first. She was so damned young, even for a twenty-year-old. I had to give her time. I needed her to gain experience, confidence, and the strength to tell me to go to hell when I try to take things too far.
A Down and Dirty Christmas: Spend Christmas on the Naughty List Page 15
