Make Me Feel

by BETH KERY

  “You know I love to watch you come.” His deep, fluid voice washed over as the bullet vibrated against her clit. “Does it feel good?”

  “So good,” she gasped.

  He leaned down and brushed his mouth over her parted lips, as if he was absorbing the minute trembling of her straining body. She saw the hot gleam in his eyes. She knew it then, that she was his captive . . . in more ways than one.

  She was falling in love with him, she realized with a mixed sense of euphoria and dread.

  “You don’t have any choice, do you?” he murmured.

  She blinked. Had he read her mind? “I don’t have any choice?” she asked in a quivering voice.

  “You don’t have any choice but to come.”

  “No,” she moaned, her entire body a tight knot of sexual tension. “God, no.”

  He pulsed the vibrator demandingly. “Then do it.”

  The knot exploded. She shook violently in the rope restraints.

  But they held firm.

  Chapter Two

  When she’d calmed, he came onto the bed again and entered her. With the blindfold removed, she was free to watch him this time, to bear witness to yet another claiming of her. He staked it every bit as forcefully and completely as he had the first time.

  Afterward, tears inexplicably welled in her eyes as he tenderly dried her skin of his semen and systematically removed the rope restraint. It was like he was liberating her in more ways than one, freeing her to a huge, intimidating well of emotion. As he removed the last length of the rope from her ankle, and her aching leg straightened, he noticed her damp eyes.

  “I . . . don’t know why,” she admitted with a shaky laugh, seeing his brows slant in concern.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He came down on the bed next to her and pulled her into his arms. Her cheek fell against his chest. He hugged her tight, his embrace divine. Emotion flooded her.

  “The ropes bring out a lot of things, before, during, and after,” he murmured, kissing her temple. She gasped against his chest and shuddered. He stroked her hair, soothing her roughened state. “But I’m still here, Harper. I’m still right here with you.”

  * * *

  She slept after that, with Jacob holding her fast in his arms. Despite her strong surge of emotion after they’d made love—not to mention her startling realization that she was falling for him—she awoke feeling alert, calm, and content. Their sexual exchange had been intense and the most challenging of her life, but strangely, it seemed to have acted like some kind of catharsis on her emotions.

  The soft, muffled sound of Jacob’s shower penetrated her awareness. She was a little forlorn to realize that he was already up, but did have a vague recollection of him running kisses along her jaw and neck and murmuring in a sexy, sleep-roughened voice that he needed to get up. She’d been too sleepy to do much of anything but mutter an incomprehensible protest when his warm, hard body moved away from her. Afterward, she’d fallen back to sleep.

  She knew he had a lot of work to attend to today, and had already gotten a late start. The memory of what had happened at the opera swept through her then. It no longer had the depressing effect on her that it had just hours ago. What had taken place in Jacob’s bed early this morning had been so powerful, last night seemed like it’d happened months ago.

  She rose and showered on her own in the guest bathroom. It was already almost noon, and Cyril Atwater was coming here at twelve thirty to have lunch and meet with Harper about the proposed film. She was sitting on a stool at the vanity, wearing a light robe and combing her damp hair, when she heard a knock at the bathroom door.

  “Come in,” she called, turning toward the door.

  Jacob walked into the room, looking appealing in a white shirt, black blazer, and jeans, his hair appearing as dark as his goatee because it was still damp from his shower. Her heart gave a little jump when she saw the expression in his golden-green eyes as he glanced over her. He approached, a small smile tilting his mouth.

  For some stupid reason, shyness swept through her. He’d done incredibly intimate things to her in his bed, and here he was, looking like he was ready to do a GQ cover, seemingly so miles out of her league, so untouchable. The disparity jarred her.

  For a few seconds, anyway.

  Until he said, “Morning,” in a warm, gruff voice, and leaned down to kiss her. His mouth lingered when she reciprocated, his hand going to the back of her head. She bracketed his jaw with her hands. His scent filled her: soap and his familiar spicy cologne. So male. So amazing. He pierced her mouth with his tongue, and their kiss segued from a good-morning peck to a full-fledged heart-pounder. By the time they sealed it a moment later, she panted softly against his hovering mouth.

  “Morning,” she finally replied. She saw the hot gleam in his eyes and his smile. He straightened in front of her, his fingers brushing back a loose tendril of damp hair and pushing it behind her ear.

  “If I didn’t absolutely have to be at these meetings, I’d keep you in bed the whole day,” he murmured.

  She gazed up at him, warmth suffusing her. His saying that meant a lot.

  “And I’d let you.”

  Again, graphic memories of their lovemaking swamped her. The fact that they’d both expressed their uncertainties beforehand—exposed their vulnerabilities—seemed to make the memories even more intense. Heat expanded on her cheeks. He touched her face with light fingertips.

  “Are you blushing?” he asked, his brows slanting as if he was both amused and fascinated.

  She ducked her head and started to turn on the stool. He stopped her by grasping her shoulders with both hands.

  “Harper?” he queried when she had difficulty looking up at him.

  “I can’t believe I let you do those things,” she said, looking at her lap because the alternative was to stare straight ahead at Jacob’s crotch, and that was even more uncomfortable than meeting his eyes.

  His long fingers caressed the underside of her chin, but he didn’t force her to look up.

  “You should believe it. Because I’m going to do more of those things to you tonight, and I’d hate for you to be shocked.”

  She laughed. His low chuckle from above her sent another wave of warmth through her that had nothing to do with embarrassment. This time, she looked up when he urged her with his touch under her chin.

  “It wasn’t just a first for you, Harper.” His stare on her was lambent, and struck her as wholly sincere, not to mention sexy as hell.

  She gave a shaky laugh. “What, you got that expert with rope by tying up manikins?”

  “No,” he replied, his solemn reply instantly quashing her uncomfortable attempt at humor. “I meant it was new to me, too. The way it felt.”

  She found herself staring up at him, searching for the truth. Her mouth trembled as she smiled, because she was beyond assured by what she saw in his eyes. His thumb feathered across the corner of her mouth.

  Across her scar.

  She shut her eyes and turned her chin into his hand. What was happening to her? Maybe he sensed her swelling emotion, because he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  “You’re meeting with Cyril soon, aren’t you?” he asked quietly, and she was thankful he’d changed the subject.

  “Yes,” she said with fake brightness.

  “Are you going to write the screenplay with him?”

  “I haven’t completely decided yet. I need more information to know if I really can do it and if I have the time.”

  He leaned down and brushed his lips against her temple before he stepped back. “Time is the main factor, then, because I know you could write it.”

  “Thanks,” she said, flattered. Jacob was the type of man whose confidence in you counted.

  “Be ready for dinner tonight at seven thirty? I’m taking you to a place that a friend of mine just
opened.”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Harper,” he said, his eyebrows slanting.

  She blinked, realizing she’d been drinking in the vision of him standing before her. How could she do anything but, when he was so beautiful to her? He turned away, looking grim. Harper was glad for that, because she was far from happy at the idea of being separated from him, too, even if it was just for an afternoon.

  * * *

  Harper was thrilled when Marianne escorted Cyril into a salon and she saw he was accompanied by Ellie Thorton. Ellie was the young woman she’d mainly focused on for her article on San Francisco’s homeless youth. Ellie was smiling broadly at the surprise, and looked to be brimming with newfound good health. She’d put on a much-needed ten or fifteen pounds since Harper and she had first met, when Ellie was barely surviving and her “home” was San Francisco’s underground and alleyways. Her dark brown hair was cut in a cute bob that almost entirely hid the burn scar on the side of her face—the product of a sadistic, drug-addicted “friend” of her mother’s. Ellie had carried the scar since she was six. Her clothes, although not expensive, looked adorably chic on her slender figure. Harper shouldn’t have been surprised. Even when Ellie lived on the street, she’d managed to demonstrate her individuality.

  “You look fantastic,” Harper said, beaming after Ellie and she hugged tightly. They’d kept in regular touch since they’d met, but recently only by e-mail and the occasional phone call. “How is college?”

  “Great. My advisor says I should try to apply to San Francisco State University next fall. She says almost all of my junior college credits will transfer. And guess what she thinks I should study?”

  Harper grinned at her enthusiasm. “Fashion? You’re a natural for it.”

  Ellie laughed. “No, journalism.”

  “That’s perfect. You’ll be a natural for that, too.”

  She greeted Cyril and they made their way to a seating area in the luxurious salon of Jacob’s home.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with the idea of the film, Ellie? You said in the last e-mail that you’d called Roger Findlay?” Harper asked after they’d sat and got caught up. Roger was one of Harper’s old friends from college who did a good deal of film production contract work.

  “Yeah, Roger’s been great about walking me through things. That sample contract you sent over might as well have been written in Russian,” Ellie told Cyril. Cyril just smirked back at the girl, and Ellie laughed. “Actually, Cyril’s been great, too. He’s been really patient with me.”

  Cyril had been surprisingly modest and quiet during the two women’s reunion. Harper had a feeling Ellie and Cyril would probably end up getting on famously. They were both scrappers, after all, both fierce individualists. Maybe Ellie herself was one of the reasons Cyril had identified so strongly with Harper’s original story.

  Does that mean that Jacob identified with the tragedy of Ellie’s youth, as well? He’d been the one to originally suggest it to Cyril. Was his gravitation toward Ellie’s story a clue as to what his childhood was like?

  It would make sense. Harper thought of Ellie’s scar, and her own. Jacob and Cyril weren’t the only ones to feel a kinship to Ellie Thornton.

  A spike of sharp longing went through her unexpectedly as she listened to Cyril talk about potential filming locations, and Ellie chimed in occasionally. She’d been separated from Jacob for a half hour, and already she missed him. Was that because it struck her hard in that moment how little she really knew about him?

  Was it because she suspected she’d fallen in love with him?

  Harper jumped into the topic of filming locations, determined to get her mind off the confusing topic of Jacob. She heard the salon doors open briskly. She looked around distractedly, half expecting Marianne.

  Instead, Jacob stalked into the room, his gaze flickering across Harper.

  “Cyril.” He nodded at his friend.

  “Jacob,” Cyril said, clearly as surprised by his unexpected appearance as Harper was. Jacob put out a hand to Ellie. “Jacob Latimer. Welcome.”

  “Ellie Thorton.” They shook, Ellie looking a little starstruck. Harper wasn’t surprised. He looked impossibly handsome and compelling. His unexpected entrance seemed to ramp up the energy level of the room a hundredfold.

  “You don’t seem half as scary as I thought you’d be,” Ellie breathed.

  Cyril snorted with laughter. Jacob’s back was to her so Harper couldn’t quite discern his reaction to Ellie’s forthrightness.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied levelly, but Harper thought she heard a thread of humor in his deep voice.

  “I didn’t think I was going to get a chance to meet you today. I wanted to thank you,” Ellie said, looking up at him feelingly.

  “You wanted to thank me for letting you three meet here?”

  “No,” Ellie said, never breaking her rapt stare on his face. “For Randolph House.”

  Harper blinked in amazement. Randolph House was a women’s shelter on Mission Street.

  “Harper helped get me in,” Ellie continued. “The staff there built me up while I was there, got me ready to go back out on the streets, this time to start a life, not just survive. I know you prefer to remain anonymous, but I overheard one of the supervisors talking to your lawyer once on the phone. I know that you provide the majority of funding for Randolph House. That’s why I’m thanking you.”

  Harper’s stunned stare zoomed over to Jacob’s back. She wished she could see his expression. He merely straightened, smoothing his tie as he turned in partial profile to her. “Well, it’s a good thing Harper guided you there. I’m gratified to hear firsthand that it helped someone.”

  “Not just helped. Randolph House changed my life. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. He started to back up toward Harper’s chair, and she wondered if he was embarrassed at being unexpectedly called out for his charity. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. Her skin tingled beneath his touch. She gazed up at him, perplexed. “I’m so sorry for interrupting your meeting,” he told Cyril and Ellie. “This will only take a second. I realized I’d forgotten something important.”

  He leaned over Harper’s chair and kissed her full on the mouth. She started in surprise, but then the heat, flavor, and pressure of his kiss took over. In seconds flat, she was kissing him back hungrily.

  When they surfaced for air, she realized dazedly that Ellie and Cyril were holding a determined conversation in the distance, clearly trying to focus their attention elsewhere than on the kissing couple in the room.

  “You’ve always got a secret up your sleeve, don’t you?” she murmured very quietly against his lips, referring to Ellie’s revelation about Randolph House.

  “I wasn’t keeping Randolph House a secret. I had no reason to tell you about it, that’s all,” he murmured dismissively before dipping his head and kissing her again.

  “I’m hoping I won’t be in trouble for this?” he breathed out a moment later.

  “For what?”

  “Interrupting because all I could think about was tasting you one more time.”

  “Why would you be in trouble for that?” she whispered, choking back a laugh.

  His mouth twitched. “I don’t know. I’ve never done it before, so I wasn’t sure.”

  He kissed her once more and stood. Ellie and Cyril glanced over at them cautiously.

  “It’s all right. The coast is clear,” Jacob said before he politely bid them a good and fruitful afternoon. Harper noticed that a slight smile lingered on his lips as he walked away, as if he thought his behavior a little funny, but was pleased, anyway.

  The doors shut behind him. Harper had only the pleasant pressure remaining on her lips from his kiss and Cyril’s comically stunned expression to assure herself that it’d all real
ly happened.

  Chapter Three

  Ellie had a shift waitressing at her restaurant early that afternoon, so she had to leave soon after their lunch, which they ate poolside. Marianne heard the girl saying she was planning on walking to a bus stop, and insisted that a driver would take her—a proposal that seemed very agreeable to Ellie.

  “So. You and Jacob,” Cyril stated with a significant glance once they were alone on the terrace. They sipped coffee in the idyllic setting while the Pacific provided them with a cool, pleasant breeze.

  Harper raised her brows. “What about Jacob and me?”

  “Don’t play coy with me. It’s beneath you.”

  Harper laughed. “You don’t know me well enough to know if it’s beneath me or not.”

  “I imagine Jacob would think it’s beneath you. He hates false modesty and artifice.”

  “I’m not so sure Jacob knows me all that well, either,” Harper murmured. Or maybe he does, but it’s a mystery as to how he does. She noticed Cyril’s incredulous look.

  “I’ve never seen him act this way around a woman. Never,” he stated flatly. “For a man who is usually so guarded, to become so transparent—”

  “I’d hardly call him transparent,” Harper scoffed, setting down her coffee cup.

  “Compared to what he’s usually like, he’s positively see-through.”

  Harper laughed it off. Cyril had only seen Jacob and she together a few brief times, after all. But then, she began to really absorb Cyril’s statement and all of its ramifications.

  “I wish I did know more about him,” she mused after a moment. “Do you know much about his childhood?”

  “I assume it was crap,” Cyril stated bluntly. “I’m not sure what happened to his biological parents, but he was in the foster care system. He didn’t get adopted until he was nearly an adult. He hardly ever talks about it, and doesn’t respond well to hints and prods for him to do so.” He rolled his pale blue eyes. “Trust me on that score.”