He imprisoned his thoughts and focused on the task in front of him.
Picking up the first file, he flipped it open.
The top page had a name, a picture, and the vital statistics of a beautiful twenty-four-year-old blonde. She was a UT Austin graduate, a pageant winner who flashed a tiara-worthy smile and worked as a fundraiser for underprivileged schools.
In every way, on paper, she should interest him. She was attractive, knew how to handle herself in public, and she had philanthropic inclinations.
Naturally his mother would approve. And yet… He felt nothing—less than nothing. He was uninspired and disinterested. The hard-on he’d been sporting vanished. He glanced up at Hope Malloy. “You said chemistry matters?”
“She doesn’t appeal to you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Perhaps you’ll have better luck with another choice?”
He didn’t.
After perusing the second picture, he glanced back at Hope.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“It’s possible the attraction would develop after you meet someone. Her choice of conversation, the way she moves or looks at you.” She shifted. “Pheromones.”
Those, he was starting to believe in. Keeping his mind on the folders, he said, “I see. My mother hopes I will select a bride, whether I want to fuck her or not?”
Hot pink scorched Hope’s cheekbones before she recovered. “So, you would rather have a spine-tingling attraction to someone who consumes you?”
“No.” He’d had that. Once. With Emma, in college. He’d been crazy enough about her that he’d bought her a stunning ring.
He had been invited to join her family for Christmas brunch, and he’d intended to propose then. Unbeknownst to him, Emma had been so intent on getting married that she’d been juggling dates with three different men. One of them had popped the question on Christmas Eve in front of the tree’s twinkling lights.
When she’d called to let him know, she wasn’t apologetic. She reminded him she wanted a wedding as a college graduation present, and Aaron had offered her just that. It was nothing personal. She would have been happy marrying any of them.
Rafe had hit the local bar near a shopping center. When he left, there’d been a red kettle set up outside. A man nearby was ringing a bell and asking for charitable donations. Rafe stuffed her ring through the slot and accepted the candy the bell ringer offered as thanks.
A sucker. If there’d ever been a more appropriate gesture, he didn’t recall it.
Rafe had spent every day until the new year in an alcohol-induced stupor, calling her at all hours, sending desperate text messages, even driving to her home in a stupid and embarrassing attempt to get her to change her mind.
“Mr. Sterling?” Hope’s questioning voice cut through the morose memories.
He flipped the folder closed without reading any of the pages. He refused to be out of control over a woman ever again. But if he was expected to marry and produce an heir or two, he should at least want to go to bed with her.
“Perhaps of the three C’s, compatibility and commitment are more important than chemistry?”
How much longer until he could dismiss her?
When he didn’t answer, she filled the silence. “Can you tell me what it was about the first two candidates that didn’t suit your needs? It will help me refine the search.”
“Ms. Malloy…” He struggled to leash his raging impatience. “Show some fucking mercy, will you? Until ten minutes ago, I didn’t know I needed a candidate.”
She edged the third folder toward him.
With great reluctance but with a sudden urge to get through this, he thumbed it open. Another blonde. Another perfect smile. Another impeccable pedigree. “Since I didn’t fill in your forms, I assume it was my mother who decided what college degrees and background were important?”
“Your sister rounded it out as far as activities you enjoy.”
“Yet I don’t see any of them who like to ride a mountain bike.”
“Not a huge demand in this part of Texas.”
“Kayaking?”
“I’ll add that to the next search.”
He gave in to curiosity. “Was Celeste consulted?”
“I invited her to be part of process. She declined.”
If Celeste had been involved, perhaps there would have been a redhead or a brunette. Even someone with pink toenails in peekaboo shoes.
For the second time, he resisted the impulse to hurl the files in the trash. Instead, he opened his top drawer and swept the offensive lot inside, then slammed it shut.
Hope uncrossed her legs and leaned toward him. Then, evidently thinking better of it, she sat back and recrossed them.
He swore her skin whispered like the promise of sin.
“Perhaps you should consider the options at a more convenient time,” she suggested.
“I’ll see you receive full payment.” He stood.
“I’ve already received it.”
His mother had written this woman a check for a hundred grand? “Thank you for your efforts.”
“Mr. Sterling—”
He walked past her to the door and opened it.
She sighed but stood. After gathering her purse—a small pink thing shaped like a cat, complete with ears and whiskers—she joined him. Instead of leaving, as he’d ordered, she stood in front of him, chin tipped at a defiant angle.
Hope projected competence, but the heels and fanciful handbag gave her a feminine air. A sane man would think of her as a vendor or business associate, so he could slot her into the off-limits part of his conscience. She wasn’t a potential date or wife. Or submissive.
He wanted her.
She isn’t mine.
Fuck his conscience.
Before this ridiculous idea about finding him a woman to marry went any further, she needed to know the truth about him, the side he locked away and kept hidden unless he was at one of his favorite BDSM clubs, the side that Celeste should have informed his matchmaker about.
Bare inches separated him from Hope, and he halved that distance by leaning toward her. “Is there a place on your fourteen-page questionnaire to discuss sexual proclivities?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Her knuckles whitened on her purse strap.
“Let me clarify.” Rafe spoke softly into the thick air between them. “Kinks. Those nasty, scandalous things that people do in the privacy of their own homes. Things they don’t talk about in public. Salacious acts that make them drop to their knees in church as they beg forgiveness. Would you consider that compatibility or chemistry?”
Tension tightened her shoulders. “Is there something…” Her tone suggested she was trying for professionalism, but her voice cracked on a sharp inhalation.
After a few more shallow breaths, she ventured, “What do I need to know?”
“I’m into BDSM.”
Her beautiful, pouty mouth parted a little.
An image scorched him—that of him slipping a spider gag between her lips, spreading her mouth and keeping it that way. He’d force her to communicate with her expression and her body, like she was now. “Your eyes are wide, Ms. Malloy. Are you shocked? Interested?” Her soul was reflected in the startling depths. “Curious, perhaps?”
It took her less than three seconds to close her mouth and regroup. “No. I’m wondering how I should phrase this for your candidates.”
She’d lied. Instead of meeting his gaze, she stared at the potted plant near the window.
Rather than unleashing the beast that suddenly wanted to dominate her, he kept his tone even. “I’m sure you’ve had clients who like that sort of thing?”
Finally, after a breath, she looked at him. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries of the candidates. What is it you’re looking for?”
He ached to capture her chin and force her to look at him. “How much do you know about BDSM?”
She pulled back her shoulders
, as if on more stable ground. “I’ve heard of it.”
“No personal experience?”
“That’s not relevant.”
Damn her dishonest answer. Some? None? Would he be her first? Could he take her, mold her into what he wanted?
What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d already decided she was off-limits. “There are as many ways to practice BDSM as there are people in the lifestyle. No relationship is the same.”
“Makes sense.”
Mesmerized, he watched the wild flutter of her pulse in her throat. It was like oxygen to a dying man. He wanted more. “Some people prefer to confine their practices to the bedroom—at night, for example. Others, on occasion, indulge at a club or play party. A number of people practice it in varying degrees on a twenty-four-hour basis.”
“Where do your…proclivities lie?”
Until now, he hadn’t considered he might want a submissive wife. Over the years, he’d found it easier to go to the club. He was a Dom who would give a sub what she wanted, whether it was pain, roleplay, humiliation, a sensuous flogging, hours with torturous toys.
When he’d planned to marry Emma, he assumed she would work at a job that inspired her. Alternatively, she’d have been free to engage in social activities or charity endeavors like the wives of some of his associates. Giving up his clubs hadn’t been a consideration. Nor had he allowed himself to think of calling his bride at five p.m. and telling her to meet him in the foyer of his loft, naked, with her thighs spread and cunt shaved.
Now, however, he couldn’t banish the thought. And since his mother had already squandered a hundred grand, he figured he should be specific in his requests. More, he wanted Hope to know what she was getting into, even if she didn’t yet realize he’d chosen her. “I want my wife to be submissive twenty-four hours a day.”
“Can you clarify what you mean?” She clenched the handle of her kitty bag, seeming to pretend this was an ordinary conversation with a normal man.
Jeanine, the best executive assistant on the continent, entered the outer office. She’d been with Sterling Worldwide for almost thirty years, and with him for the past seven. With her polite smile and firm voice, she protected him against the world. “Morning, Mr. Sterling.”
“Jeanine.”
She angled her head toward Hope. “Everything all right, sir?”
“Unscheduled meeting with the Prestige Group.”
“I see.”
“My mother arranged it.”
Jeanine scowled with understanding. Like a she-dragon, Jeanine would have protected him from his own mother. “Anything you need, Mr. Sterling?” She was asking if he wanted her to call security or to show the woman out. “Coffee?”
Her combination of savviness and loyalty made her indispensable.
“Just one cup, please. Ms. Malloy won’t be staying.”
He captured Hope’s shoulders and pulled her into his office so he could close the door. He held on to her for a whole lot longer than was necessary but not as long as he wanted to. How would she react if he eased his first finger up the delicate column of her throat?
Would she surrender? Fight the inevitable?
Forcing himself to resist the driving impulse, he dropped his hands and curled them into fists at his sides.
“Proclivities,” she prompted.
The word echoed in his head. “She’ll wear a collar—my collar…” And because he could no longer resist, he traced an index finger across the hollow of her throat. Her pulse fluttered, and her breaths momentarily ceased. “My woman will know that she belongs to me and she will behave as such.”
Hope’s gaze remained locked on his. When she spoke, her voice wobbled. “And this…collar. She’ll have to wear it all the time?”
“That’s what twenty-four seven means.” A devilish grin tugged at his lips. He kept his fingertip pressed to her warm skin. “It will be subtle, however. Nothing gaudy. Unless people knew, I doubt they’d think she was wearing anything other than a striking piece of jewelry. But her play collar, the one she wears in private with me or at a lifestyle event, may be different.”
“Like at a BDSM club or something?” She nodded, as if she were on ground she understood.
Not that he’d let her stay there long. “I enjoy showing off my sub. There’s a certain restaurant in New Orleans, Vieille Rivière, that she will go to. And she’ll join me when I visit people in similar social circles.” Including other Titans. But there was a limit to how much he should tell her. “There are certain things I would want her to go along with. Bondage. Sensory deprivation.”
“You mean like blindfolds and handcuffs?” There was no hesitation in her words, so he ascertained she’d made sense of what he’d said and decided that fell under the category of typical bedroom shenanigans.
“Among others, yes. I use blindfolds on occasion. I like gags so that my woman must beg with her eyes. Her tears are like dripping nectar from the gods.”
Wide-eyed, uncertain, she sucked in a deep, disbelieving breath.
“Clamps,” he added, skimming the column of her throat.
“I…”
“On her nipples, among other places. And I will want to her to wait for me at the end of a long day, on her knees, head tipped back, her beautiful mouth held open by a dental dam.”
“You mean…she’d have to do this herself?”
“Prepare for my homecoming?” He imagined Hope parting her lips, sliding in the dam and positioning it, pictured her naked in front of the door, hungry for his touch. “Yes.”
She retreated a step. “Mr. Sterling, I—”
“My wife will focus on me and my pleasure.”
“That sounds rather old-fashioned.”
“Does it? What you’re not aware of is what I’m willing to do in return.”
“In return?”
“I wouldn’t expect a woman to give me everything she has to offer without me giving equal parts of myself. Her wants and desires will be my highest priority. I will give her the heavens if she wants them, the stars, the moon.” He paused. “Then I’ll take her to the depths of hell as she uncovers what sets her depraved soul free.”
She shuddered.
“Can you find me all that in a candidate, Ms. Malloy?”
“You’re rather particular.”
“Indeed. I require a woman of impeccable breeding who presents her ass for my punishment when she displeases me.”
The air conditioner kicked on. The whispering cool air did nothing to dissipate the heat between them.
He slid his hand around to the back of her neck, then feathered his fingers into her hair. “I want to kiss you, Ms. Malloy.”
“Uhm…”
“Ask me to.”
She scowled.
“I won’t have you pretending that you’re not curious. When you’re at home this evening, by yourself with a glass of wine, horny and considering masturbating—”
“That’s not me.” She shook her head so fast it was obviously a desperate lie.
“No? Ms. Malloy, the room is swimming with your pheromones. Deny it.” She sagged a little against his hand, and he tightened his grip on her hair, as much to offer support as to imprison her. Then he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “You’ll remember this moment, fantasize about being mine.”
“No…”
“Invite me to kiss you or tell me to release you. The power is yours. Yield to temptation or leave this room wondering if it’s as good as you imagine it will be.”
“Mr. Sterling, this can’t be happening.”
Despite her protest, she didn’t try to escape. “I agree. This is the first time I’ve had three women”—four if he counted Celeste—“attempt to force me down the aisle.” He paused. “And it’s the first time I’ve had this kind of sexual longing for an adversary. Ask me to kiss you,” he repeated instead of arguing. “Be sure to say please.”
“Ah…”
He loosened his grip, and she leaned toward him, keeping herse
lf hostage. Rafe didn’t smile with triumph.
“Kiss me.”
“There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.” That wasn’t the entire truth. There were a hundred things he’d like to do to her, but he made no move
Her internal standoff lasted longer than he thought it would. Excellent. She had a stubborn streak.
Hope glanced away and sighed. Then she looked at him with clear, confident eyes. “Please kiss me.”
He could drown in her and be happy about it. He captured her chin to hold her steady. On her lips, he tasted the sweetness of her capitulation. “Open your mouth, sweet Hope.”
She did, and he entered her mouth, slower than he would ordinarily, softer than he would if she were his submissive.
Hope responded with hesitation, and he continued, driving deeper, seeking more. Within seconds, she yielded.
She moaned and raised onto her tiptoes to lean into him. A few seconds beyond that, she wrapped her arms around him. Hope, his adversary, had now become his willing captive.
He released her chin and moved his hand to the middle of her back, then lower to the base of her spine.
Rafe drank in the scent of her femininity. His cock surged, not from ordinary arousal, but from soul-deep recognition. Her eagerness sought the Dom in him. It took all his restraint not to press his palm against her buttocks.
Earlier he’d said she’d be thinking of him as she masturbated. The truth was, he wasn’t sure how he’d banish this memory of her—strength and suppleness in one heady package.
He plundered her mouth.
She offered more until she was panting and desperate, gripping him hard.
Instead of giving in to the driving need to rip off her clothes and fuck her, he distracted himself by tugging on her hair harder. As he’d requested, her eyes were open. So goddamn trusting. Did she have any idea how close he was to shredding the veneer of civilization that hung between them to claim her, mark her as his?
Hard Hand Page 10
