Sense and Sensuality

by Cara Hart

  She crossed her arms over her chest, knowing her nipples would be poking holes in the flimsy silk halter-top Meredith insisted she wear tonight. Elle hated the thing, and the matching skirt and heels Mere had brought over when she picked Elle up, but there was no halting the Mere-train when she got rolling.

  “How am I supposed to leave, then?”

  “Come with me.” His hand slid down her arm from her shoulder to her hand, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Elle’s breath stuttered in her chest as he tugged her through the crowd, her nerveless feet following with no contradictory command from her malfunctioning brain.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  Eddie’s erection pressed painfully against the zipper of his leathers. Damn Luce for insisting they wear these tight-ass pants. If he’d had his looser jeans on, there would have been some room for adjustment, but as it was, his poor cock was doomed to suffering.

  A bead of sweat dripped into his eye as he threaded through the escalating sexuality of Hell’s patrons. For some reason, the atmosphere seemed heightened tonight, where normally the rampant lust of the customers didn’t even faze him. After all, seeing a chick fight another chick was hot—Ph.D. or no, he was male enough to get turned on by a couple of women pulling hair—but the sight of Eleanor delivering a perfect roundhouse to fracture that asshole’s nose shouldn’t have caused his simmering arousal to burst into full boil.

  But boiling it was, and there was fuck-all he could do about it. Would do about it. Despite her sister’s request for a lap dance, there was something funny going on at that table, something a little more vicious than female jokes. Why had she bolted? If Eleanor was unreceptive to a strip tease, he certainly would never have forced it on her, paid or not.

  But his blood had curdled at the sight of her strained attempt at flirtation, and her so-called friends’ laughter had caused a streak of unmitigated anger to race through his bones. His buddy Jason might be marrying that bitch Meg next week, but Eddie definitely didn’t have to like her. Tolerate her, sure, for the sake of friendship and male-bonding bullshit, but like her? Absolutely not, not after her treatment of Eleanor.

  His hand tightened around her limp fingers as he realized he’d just chosen a woman with whom he’d never had a casual conversation over a decade-long friendship.

  What the fuck was wrong with him?

  “Where are we going?” she shouted at him as he pushed open a door in the wall behind the DJ booth.

  “Somewhere you can hang for a few minutes while we make sure that jerk leaves.” He led her down the hallway, the silence ominous as the pounding beats of Eminem faded behind the closed door.

  “Somewhere where?”

  “Somewhere quiet.”

  “Like one of those rooms where people get private lap dances?” She halted, yanking her fingers from his. “I don’t think so.”

  Eddie’s teeth ground together. “Would you rather wait for a cab with the guy whose nose you just broke? I’m sure he’d be more than willing to get your name and your lawyer’s.”

  “My what?” she shrieked. “No!”

  “Then what does it matter what room you’re in?” Silence followed. “Look, if you’re worried about me, I—”

  “It’s not that,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t be here at all. I could get fired if my boss ever found out. God, I can’t believe my sister talked me into this.”

  “Stop,” he cut into her babbling. Hoping she wouldn’t notice the raging erection in his leathers, he turned and framed her face with his hands. Her lips parted slightly as he lightly rubbed his thumbs over her cheekbones. God, her skin was so soft, like silk beneath his rough calluses. “Stop,” he repeated quietly, unnecessarily. “Stop, stop, stop.”

  “I have stopped,” she whispered.

  “Yes, you have.” He took a deep breath, inhaling her unique scent. Just a whiff of that hint of flowers, gardenia maybe, could bring blood zinging from his head to his groin. Here, away from the University, away from her friends, away from reality, he nearly came from the sweet fragrance of her own arousal underneath the flora of her perfume. He could hardly suppress his groan as they stared at each other, her breasts heaving beneath the wisp of peach intended to contain them.

  She didn’t even look like herself. Perhaps that was why he was losing control. Why his passion was rising to the top, waiting to be skimmed off, just as he knew her cream would be. Slick and sweet, covering her pink flesh, begging for his tongue. Another drop of sweat fell into his eye, the burn of salt reminding him that she had no idea of his identity, hidden as he was behind the half-mask.

  His throat was like dust as he tried to swallow. “The uh—” He cleared his throat. “The room is one of our private rooms, but no one will bother you there. You can wait until I’m certain that asshole is gone, and then I’ll call you a cab to get you home.”

  Eleanor nodded slowly. “Thank you,” she whispered in a husky tone.

  Eddie turned abruptly and strode down the darkened hall. Room Three would be open. He could leave her there while he called a taxi. She’d be safe; no one would bother her. Fifteen minutes, tops, and she’d be gone.

  It might take a couple of days, but he’d convince himself it was a good thing for her to have gone. By Monday morning, there would be no lingering doubts about his honor or her lusciousness. He could see her in the halls of the English Department without wondering what having her would be like. If she’d taste as good as she looked. If her hair would fall halfway to her ass once he’d gotten it out of that damn bun. If she would fuck with the same passion as she read Chaucer. If, here in this Circle of Hell, he shouldn’t act like Milton’s Satan and lead his own little Eve down the road of sin.

  Damn, he was a fool. But an honorable fool.

  “Here it is.” Eddie turned the handle and pushed open the door. Her eyes widened as she took in the gold nameplate that read Betrayers and Mutineers and the plush black velvet chaise in the center of the room. Her cheeks reddened at the sight of the whips and manacles hanging at intervals along the oak paneled walls and the mural of an orgy along the far wall.

  Eddie’s own cheeks heated. “I’ll be quick.”

  “Will you stay with me?” she asked, and his cock jerked in his pants.

  He was so fucked.

  Chapter Three

  What the fuck was wrong with her?

  Oh, this was fantastic. She’d been reduced to vulgarity three times tonight, a record for her, who prided herself on her intellect and refined language. She was an English professor who dropped f-bombs. Fuck.

  A hysterical giggle escaped her lips as she stepped into the room. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She was in a stripper’s lap dance room. She could swear all she liked. Fuck and fuck again.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Elle nodded. “You keep asking me that.”

  “Because you continue to act like something’s wrong.”

  The door snicked shut behind her as she wandered over to inspect the mural. Twenty or so couples cavorted naked along the wall, each in different positions. “I’m well enough,” she said, reaching out to trace the outline of a man’s engorged penis, the tip of which disappeared into his partner’s mouth. His own tongue was buried in her pussy.

  A wave of heat rushed through her. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the vivid depiction of the classic sixty-nine. She hated the term, but here, the word pussy sounded right. “Cock,” she whispered to herself. “Cunt, pussy, fuck.”

  “Did you say something?”

  “No!” She whirled, her cheeks heating guiltily. “I was just admiring the painting.”

  A glint of amusement lit his gaze, all she could distinguish of his features behind the mask. “Really?”

  “Well, yes. The figures are very well-done, very true-to-life.” Oh God, she was babbling again. “I never thought that modern art was particularly attractive. All those blobs, and abstract shapes. Why call it art if I could do it with a tube of paint and a canvas? Give it som
e esoteric explanation and the critics love it. I have no respect for art that looks like something I could do.”

  “You prefer the classical painters to modernists, then?” he asked, stepping closer to her. She backed into the wall, her hands flat against the plaster, her breath faltering as he came within inches of her body.

  Her knees resembled pudding in their viscosity, and she held them together to prevent trembling. “I suppose I do.”

  “As do I.” He reached down to grasp her right hand, and raised it to his lips. “We should probably make sure you didn’t break anything.”

  Elle thought she would come as his breath wafted over her knuckles and he grazed an open mouthed kiss over her skin. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You are...”

  “What?” he asked, his gaze glued to hers as he brushed a thumb across her fingers. “Not broken, I think. What am I?”

  “Too much.” She pressed her head into the wall behind her, her chest arching as she gasped for air. “You’re too much. God, they were right. I can’t handle this.”

  “What are you talking about?” A frown crossed his lips, and his eyes narrowed to a dangerous slit. “You mean your friends? Is that what they were laughing about?”

  “I can’t— It doesn’t—” Elle struggled to find the words through the haze of lust clouding her mind. Frustration, both intellectual and sexual, seeped into her boggy thoughts. “Who gives a shit? I can handle it. I need you to fuck me. Right now.”

  “You what?” His eyes flew wide in astonishment. “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do.” She tugged the fingers that had loosened on her own, and dragged his hand to her breast. Automatically, his thumb rubbed the hardened peak he found there and she whimpered. “They were right. I do need to get laid. Fuck me now.”

  “You don’t even know my name,” he protested, even as he stepped into her writhing body, pressing his huge erection against the vee of her thighs. “What if I have a disease?”

  “Do you?” she asked, grasping the tight muscles of his ass.

  “No.” He rubbed his bristled jaw against the curve of her neck and she gasped, shivering with pleasure at the sensation.

  “And I’m on the pill.” Elle pulled him tighter against her cleft as his free hand drifted down to the bare skin below her skirt. “There, we’ve been responsible adults. Can we fuck now?”

  “Hell, yes,” he groaned, then pressed his lips to hers.

  God, the man could kiss. His tongue licked the seam of her lips and she opened willingly, moaning into his mouth as he devoured her. He moved in counterpoint to his hips, one retreating while the other attacked, a dueling dance of seduction of a sort Elle had never experienced. Her few clumsy attempts at making love in the past had ended in disaster, which she’d always assumed was her fault. She was too aggressive. Or too passive. Or too kinky. Or not kinky enough.

  Whenever one lover had claimed something was wrong, she’d taken the opposite approach the next time. Always, she’d tried her best to please the man she was with. And always, somehow, she failed.

  With this man, her mystery man, she had no chance to do anything at all. Her heart had nearly stopped when his fingers curled around her breast after she’d placed his hand against her. And even though he’d protested, his body had reacted as though he couldn’t wait to get inside her.

  And she thanked the powers that be for it.

  Her hands slid up his body, lifting his shirt as they went. His muscles were hard beneath her fingertips, a rippling mass of man. She dragged the tee upwards, and he lifted his arms obligingly, allowing her to strip off the soft cotton with ease.

  “You are amazing,” she whispered, running her nails down the center of his chest, between his well-developed pecs, and along the central ridge of his abdominals to his navel. He looked just as she always thought a man should look—muscled, but not overly bulging. Big, but not huge. Well, that part of him, anyway. A certain aspect of him was certainly more than adequate to fulfill her fantasies, if she judged correctly as he urged his groin firmly against her again.

  “So are you.” He skimmed the backs of his fingers along the curve of her cheek and she nearly purred like a well-fed feline. “Are you sure you want to do this? You still don’t know who I am.”

  Elle traced her fingertips over the ridge of his mask where his eyebrows would be. “I think the air of mystery adds to the experience.”

  He pulled back just a bit. “Does it?” he asked in a flat tone.

  “You have to understand,” she said, running her fingers through his thick hair, gently gripping a few strands. “I don’t normally act this way.”

  “I think I got that part when you mentioned your boss firing you.” His hands came up to grasp her wrists.

  “But there’s something about you,” she rushed on, tightening her grip when he tugged lightly. “I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life. Can’t that just be enough?”

  The plaintive tone was what did it. He’d spent the last two years imagining her when he jacked-off. This was the opportunity he’d never dared dream he’d have. He must be one lucky son of a bitch, because the woman of all his fantasies was practically begging him to have her.

  He jerked her hands out of his hair, hoping the pain would knock some sense into him. Eleanor was not the kind of woman who would fuck a guy in the strip club. He had no right to take advantage of the fact that she’d had a few too many—he’d watched her down three shots in succession, so he should know. But even as his scalp stung, and he intended to call Josh or Scott to come take her to the cab that was probably idling at the curb outside, he dialed Steven’s extension, watching the rejection creep over Eleanor’s delicate features.

  “Yeah?”

  “Steve, I’ve got to take off the rest of the night. There’s been a family emergency. Pete’s covering the bar for me.” A spark of hope lit in her eyes, and a rush of heat spread inside his chest.

  “Will you be able to cover tomorrow night’s shift?” the assistant manager asked over the sounds of the club.

  “I should, yeah.”

  “Fine. See you then.” The phone clicked in his ear and he gently replaced his receiver.

  Eleanor’s eyes flared as he stalked back toward her, his cock straining against his leathers in agony with every step. “Here are the rules.” Her eyebrows flew up in confusion. “You do what I tell you. If you aren’t comfortable, you say stop, and I stop. But that’s the end of it. We’re done, you leave. Understand?”

  Her jaw clenched. “You won’t hurt me. And you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course,” he said, somewhat offended that she would think he might be violent with her. But she didn’t know him—not really, even though they were friends at work. Here, she had no idea of his capabilities, and he was a little pissed that she would take the risk of placing herself at a total stranger’s mercy. Eddie was almost tempted to teach her a lesson, but the very thought of scaring her made him physically ill.

  “Then I understand.” She lifted her chin. “What should I do first?”

  “Tell me your name.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest, ignoring the raging desire that flooded him when she’d agreed.

  “My name?”

  “Yes. Your name.”

  “Elle,” she said, mimicking his posture.

  Elle. He liked it. The nickname fit her better than the pretentious Eleanor. What the hell were her parents thinking when they named her? “Well, Elle,” he drawled, testing the new version out, learning how it rolled off his tongue. “Take off your shirt.”

  “What?” Her arms fell to her sides, her pants of excitement contradicting the confused protest.

  “Slowly, if you please.” He raised his own eyebrows, knowing she couldn’t see them. Fucking mask. Although, if it weren’t for the mask, she wouldn’t be here with him now.

  He could see her hands trembling, the hem of the halter between her fingertips. She began to pull the material up and over her head. He
r stomach muscles clenched, and he swallowed hard at the sight of the navel piercing she hid. Who knew proper Eleanor McLaren would have a belly ring? What other secrets did she hide beneath her schoolmarm demeanor? His palms itched to find out.

  Eddie’s tongue nearly fell out of his mouth when she revealed a peach lace strapless bra beneath the halter. Strands of hair tumbled from their confinement as she whipped the shirt over her head, drifting over her collarbones and falling almost to the curve of peach on the milky white of her breast. Silk fluttered to the floor as she crossed her arms over her stomach and stood before him, defiance shining from her eyes.

  “Ah, ah,” he murmured, stepping closer, watching her breathing hitch. “Don’t hide.”

  He gently pulled her arms away from her body, holding them a little to the sides, and stared.

  “What now?” she asked, an anxious tone to her voice.

  Eddie met her gaze, happy to see the desire hadn’t been lost in the tension. Instead, her lust was heightened by her reluctance. And this was going to drive that peak even higher.

  “I’m going to lick your little pussy.”

  “Holy shit,” she gasped.

  Chapter Four

  Elle was surprised she hadn’t fainted from too much oxygen, considering the fact that she was hyperventilating. Her mystery lover stepped closer, dropping a fingertip to her shoulder, then tracing the line of her clavicle, down her sternum, between her heaving breasts and over her belly to flick the bar at her navel before he gripped her hips with his big hands.

  “This ring is hot,” he murmured in her ear, his searing breath causing a shiver to race through her.

  “Oh.” It had been a drunken decision over Spring Break her senior year, back in her wild phase. That and the tattoo on the small of her back. She’d never been particularly fond of either embellishment, but if it turned him on...