by Eden Bradley
“So,” he went on, “Jamie opened SGR Motors a few years ago, and he’s done well. Rebuilds muscle cars, and does a gorgeous job of it. He’s in love with your Mustang, by the way. Anyway, he asked me to join him here to open up a joint venture. I arrived a couple of months ago and we’ve been focusing on getting the new shop put together, which is a huge pain in the ass, but now I’ll be doing what I did in Edinburgh—rebuilding vintage bikes, especially Harleys, only I’ll be working for myself. I’ve spent pretty much every penny I had on opening the business, but I’m fucking thrilled about it. I think we’ll make a good go of it.”
“It’s a wonderful thing to live your passion. Not many of us get to do that.”
“Spoken like a woman who well knows the truth of those words.” He leaned forward. “Tell me about your passion, Layla.”
He swore he saw a faint blush under the flawless mocha skin, but she blinked it away quickly enough.
“I’m a working artist—a sculptor. One of the many reasons why I’m such a disappointment to my family, even though I make a decent living at it. But they don’t understand what a challenge it is to do any sort of art full-time. The last couple of years have been pretty good to me, and I’m grateful. I’m showing in a few galleries—here, in San Francisco, in Dallas. I’ve even had some interest from New York. I know how lucky I am.”
“Aye, that you are. What medium do you work in?” Layla raised one dark brow at him. “What? Just because I’m a mechanic means I know nothing about art?”
“No. No, of course not. It just took me by surprise. Not that you know about art, but that you expressed any interest in it. Most men couldn’t care less about what I do, in my experience.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Then you’ve experienced the wrong men. I’m interested in everything about you. Every single detail. And I don’t mean to sound like a creep. It’s simply the truth.”
She watched him, her gaze taking him in, trying to sort him out, he thought. He was trying to sort out his interest in Layla Chouset, too. It had been a long time since he’d courted a girl—if that’s what this was. He’d done nothing more than play with girls at the clubs, take them home and fuck them. Nothing more since Bess, with good reason. And little else before her. She’d been his second try at a real relationship and he’d fucked it up good. Again. But why was he even thinking about all of that now? Why was he thinking of the past when this beautiful woman was right in front of him?
“Duff, come on. Don’t lay any lines on me. I’m not going to bed with you tonight.”
“I never said you were.” He stroked her palm with his thumb. “All right? This is you and me getting to know each other. Nothing more.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Somehow I don’t quite believe that. But . . . I’m okay with us getting to know each other.”
He let her hand go as their appetizer—a beautifully presented plate of chicken satay, the skewers laid out over a bed of jasmine rice and Thai basil—was delivered.
“I can live with that,” he said, smiling at her over the food. “As a start.”
She picked up a skewer of the fragrant chicken, dipped it in the peanut sauce and blew on it. “You think this is the start of something?”
There was challenge in her voice. He’d have been a bit disappointed if there wasn’t. But she’d also lowered those heavy lashes, peering up at him through that dark veil. She was definitely flirting, and he liked it.
“Don’t you?”
She bit into the chicken, and even the way her lush lips closed around the small bite made his dick hard, as he imagined those lips wrapped around it. He had to shift in his chair.
She chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Duff.” She gestured at him with the skewer. “I’m not sure I can trust you to behave.”
“That all depends on what you consider ‘behaving,’ my lovely.”
“Not talking to me or treating me like one of your little subbie girls, to begin with. Not trying to talk me or seduce me into submitting to you, because that’s just not who I am.”
There was strength in her voice. Determination. And a small smile on her pretty lips.
“Even though you’ve had some experience from the bottom end before, I gather from your earlier remark?” he countered.
Her lashes fluttered as she glanced away, then back to him. “A little. And yes, even so.”
He tasted the satay, which was quite good. Taking another bite, he licked a little peanut sauce from one fingertip, found her gaze riveted to his mouth.
“You know, they do say the best Tops are those who have bottomed, experienced the sensations if not the mind-set,” he said.
“You’re going to tell me you’ve bottomed?”
“Me? Fuck no. Well, not aside from letting another trusted Top or two hit me with a flogger, a whip, a cane, a wooden paddle. While I felt I needed to know what the toys felt like, I sincerely doubt there is any chance I will ever reach subspace. Now Topspace—that’s another matter.”
“I have a feeling you mostly live there,” she muttered into her napkin.
“Ha! I heard that. And yeah, it’s probably true. I understand that you do, too—believe me, I get it. The sensation of being energized. The hyperfocus where the entire world narrows down to you and your partner. The need for perfectionism is a high in itself, and even though that’s not necessarily a common aspect of Topspace, I have the sense you feel it, too. But you’ve also been a bottom. Enough that you must have experienced the difference in energy, that floating space. You weren’t only a sensation bottom, I feel certain. You were a submissive, even. Yes?”
He held her gaze, trying to see into her, to read her unspoken response through pupil dilation, through the slight flaring of her nostrils. Finally she licked her lips, which was another sign in itself, and he knew he’d gotten through the tough shell she wore. A little, at any rate.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
He gave a small nod of his chin. “And I can see it didn’t sit well with you, or doesn’t now, in any case. But . . .” He wiped his hands on his napkin, then steepled his fingers as he leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “I have a thought. What do you say we play a game? We’ll pretend you’re a bottom. A submissive. Now, it’s only pretend, mind you. You can tell yourself it’s okay—you can justify it—because you know it’s only a game.”
Her features hardened. “Your game.”
“No, it’s yours, too. Because we can’t play without your consent. That’s the only way people at our level of kink can play. The ball is in your court, and you have the power. You know that’s how it works.”
“Why do I feel like you’re trying to trick me into something?” she asked even as her features began to soften.
“Layla, I am not hiding my interest in you, sexual, kinky or otherwise. I’m assuming there’s some interest on your end, as well, or you wouldn’t be here having a meal with me and definitely not having this conversation.”
She bit her lip. “Okay. That’s fair. But I am really not a submissive. Not anymore, if I ever truly was, which is something I question.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just like that?”
Leaning even closer, he smiled at her. “Are you telling me you want me to continue pressing the issue? I’m more than happy to do that, you know.” Her mouth was hanging in a stunned little O as he lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across the back of it. He wanted to lick it, to suck each of her delicate fingers, one at a time, slowly, swirling his tongue over the tips in a way that would let her know exactly what it would feel like when he went down on her.
His cock filled, aching with need. But that was all right. He could take it—kind of wanted it, even, this delicious torture. And at that moment, his entire focus was on this exquisite woman before him. Her fire and sass. Her gorgeous green eyes and succulent cleavage. And wha
tever parts of her body were yet to be discovered.
She exhaled, a slow breath with a small gasp in it. Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her. “Why are you looking at me as if you want to eat me alive?”
“Because that’s exactly what I want to do.” He kissed her fingers once more, letting his lips linger at the tips for several long moments before looking up at her. “Let me.”
• • •
LAYLA WASN’T EVEN sure how she’d get through the rest of the evening, but the food came just in time, distracting her from having to answer that last plea. That world-rocking, mind-blowing plea that had left her brain in turmoil and her panties damp.
“Let me.”
God, if he’d had any idea of the effect those softly spoken words had on her. But he probably did know. This man was the real thing. A true Dom. And every fiber in his being was geared toward every word, every touch, every glance having a desired effect. Toward breaking a person’s walls down. It was working beautifully.
Letting her hand go, he leaned back in his chair as the waitress set their plates down. But he kept his steady hazel gaze on her. Oh, yes, he was very good at this game. She knew he’d be every bit as good at the one he’d just proposed. Better, no doubt.
“You can give me your answer later,” he said. “Change of subject while we enjoy our food, shall we?”
She bit her lip again. “Excellent idea.”
They started on their meal, and while they ate, he asked her again about her sculpting medium, and then about her musical preferences. They found they had a lot in common, which surprised her—that they both loved hard-driving metal, alternative rock, punk, soul and R&B, and even some rap. But Duff seemed to be full of surprises, and she had to remind herself not to judge a book by its cover. A huge Scotsman could be into rap, couldn’t he?
“Now that I’m here,” Duff continued, “I really want to get a dog once the buildout on the shop is done and we’re open for business.” He took a bite of his curry and paused to chew. “Plus, I’m living at Jamie’s place for now. I’ll need to house hunt at some point, and I mean to find something with a yard.”
“I’ve always wanted a dog, but I can’t have one at my place. I want to get a French bulldog and name her Lolita. They have such funny faces. I love the absurdity of it.”
“No kidding? Seriously? I’ve wanted to get a bulldog or maybe a mastiff and call her Lolita.” He laid a hand over his heart. “I swear it.”
“No—you’re making that up,” she accused, half teasing him.
“On my honor. Boy Scout’s honor.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You were never a Boy Scout, Duff.”
“No, but it did sound good, didn’t it? But it’s true, about the dog’s name.”
She laughed. “At least you own up to your lies.”
“Ach. White lies meant to amuse you, my lovely.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “It did amuse me. You amuse me.”
“Somehow that last sounded a bit condescending, but I’ll take it. Might be all I get.”
“It might be.”
Duff insisted on paying the check, and she had a childish urge to run to the ladies’ room and call Kitty for advice. But she was a big girl, damn it, and she could handle this—and him—on her own. Couldn’t she?
“Ready to go?” Duff asked.
Maybe she’d get away without finishing the conversation tonight after all. She could use some time to think about it, to figure things out.
“Um, sure.”
When she stood he slipped a hand around her waist as they walked outside—a single hand that spanned her entire lower back and the curve at her side. Amazing, the size of his hands. Strong. Powerful. She could only imagine what he could do with them.
Stop it.
She focused on getting into her helmet and onto the back of his vintage bike, which was really quite beautiful, so sleek and shining black, with pewter pinstriping detail. Even the pipes were black, which made the big bike look even more badass. Perfect for him. He started the engine and she held on as he raced through the streets. The thrill of riding on the back of a Harley was something she’d always loved. Even better with his big body to hang on to. She’d never touched a man of his size—had possibly never seen a man of his size, not even her friend Rosie’s Dom, Finn, a hulking blond Australian. But she had to admit she liked Duff’s size—she loved it. There was a natural command in a guy this big, especially in one with his utter confidence.
She liked that he was confident enough to make a little fun of himself—she couldn’t bear a man who took himself too seriously. And she liked that they had so much in common. They laughed a lot together. She thought she’d laughed more over dinner tonight than she had all week. Maybe she was the one who took herself too seriously.
He pulled up next to where her car was parked by his shop and they both got off the bike. Layla handed him her helmet. “It’s beautiful, Duff. A really fine piece of machinery. Thanks for taking me for a ride.”
He turned back from buckling the helmets to the bike, one dark brow raised. “I haven’t even begun.”
“More sexual innuendo?”
“Or an offer for another ride on my bike.” Pausing, he grinned, his dimples flashing, making his full mouth look even more lush and inviting. “Nah—it was totally sexual innuendo. But . . .” He paused once more, bit his lip and moved in closer. “I’m going to kiss you again—and I don’t plan to be sweet about it. Not one bit. I don’t think I can be. We’ll have to see where things go from there. Brace yourself.”
She’d barely had time to gasp before he pulled her roughly into his arms, and there was definitely nothing gentle this time. He pulled her into his body, bringing her up on her toes. His hand went into her hair and gripped as his mouth came down on hers in a crushing kiss. She could only sigh as his wet tongue opened her lips, slipped in and explored. And God, his mouth was sweet—sweeter than it had been before, for all the roughness, and some part of her understood that she loved this, loved being handled this way. Taken over. Not too many others could have done it—made her head spin and her body go soft and loose with a simple kiss. Maybe no one else in the world.
Only Duff . . .
Holding her closer, he pulled her tightly into his big body, one hand sliding down her spine, his fingers finding their way between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans and stroking her bare skin.
Desire was a hard, shivering ache in her body, making her legs tremble. As if every tiny spot on her skin where he touched her lit up with electricity. He lifted her off her toes, until her breasts, her hard nipples, were crushed against the massive wall of his chest. Deepening the kiss, he held her head, controlling it with a tight fistful of her hair.
She moaned into his mouth, her body letting go, and letting him.
Fucking. Helpless.
Helpless against his touch. Against the things he was making her feel. Against the way he kissed her—as if he were a drowning man who couldn’t drink her in enough. She had never been consumed this way by any man.
Finally he released her and set her on her feet. “That’ll do for now, I suppose.”
“I . . . What?” She pushed her hair from her face, trying to regain her balance.
“Think about what I’ve proposed. Let me know when you have an answer for me, lovely girl.” He ran a finger along her jawline, and it took everything she had not to close her eyes and melt into his touch. “Will you do that for me?”
He’d phrased it as a question, but his easy tone demanded an answer.
“Yes.”
He smiled, a twinkle in the depths of his hazel eyes, a half-smile on his face. “That’s the only word I ever hope to hear from you. Other than ‘please.’ But that’ll come soon enough, lovely. I can promise you that.”
She wasn’t even sure
how to respond. What did one say to a man who had, in one evening, infuriated her, teased her, kissed her, confided in her, tempted her, then rocked her world so hard with one kiss she could barely believe it had actually happened? But it had. Her bruised lips were proof. Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked down at the ground, pressing her lips together.
Fuck.
Don’t take too long to respond or he’ll know he has you.
Oh, but he already knew, didn’t he?
Damn it.
“So, I’ll be in touch,” she said.
That was so not brilliant.
“I do hope you will. Here, hand me your cell and I’ll put my number in.”
She did so, not even questioning the command.
“Good. But I need your consent to add your number to mine—I can dial myself from your phone. Yes?”
She nodded. “Yes. Sure.”
He handed her phone back to her. “Done. Until later, then. Be safe, lovely.”
Lifting her hand, he brushed one more searing kiss across it while she watched helplessly.
He got on the big bike, slinging his helmet on, then gave her a nod and a smile before the engine roared to life and he pulled away. She had a small moment of satisfaction when he glanced over his shoulder to take one last look at her.
When he’d disappeared around the corner she shook herself, fumbled for her keys and got into her car. Part of her wanted to call Kitty, but she needed even more to get home. The siren call of her vibrator collection was impossible to resist. There was no way she could have a sensible conversation until she’d worked some of this tension out of her system. Even if it took all damn night.
