“So I feel.” She laughed and slid her arms around his neck. “Will you carry me in there, Tarzan? I’ve always wanted a guy to do that. My boyfriend tried once, but he nearly got a hernia and had to lie down for an hour with an ice pack.”
“How romantic.” Riley moved her hips, forward and back, loving the feel of her firm softness under his hands, reveling in a shameless testosterone rush at her faith in his strength. The woman could definitely make him feel like Superman. Now he wanted her to make him feel like Riley. “I think I can manage a little Tarzan. But without the yodeling.”
She giggled and waited expectantly. He took her arms from around his neck, brought her wrists down and behind her back, pulled her up close and kissed her, slowly, softly, keeping the pressure sweet and gentle, keeping his tongue back against his teeth. A strange ache rose in him at the contact between their lips, like the empty feeling of oncoming grief mixed with a full fierce happiness.
Melissa pushed her head up and tried to increase the pressure, tried to loosen her hands from his grip. He resisted, pulled back and kissed her again. He wanted to keep the feeling going, wanted her to feel it, too. Lazy, tender, relentless kisses until she broke away and hid her face against his chest, her breath coming hard. Riley raised his head and for one eyes-squeezed-shut second hoped she felt what he did, that she wasn’t just turned on, but shaken.
He released her wrists and swept her up into his arms, studying her face as he strode into the bedroom. She stared back, puzzled, curious.
“Why did you kiss me like that?”
He arched his eyebrows, deliberately obtuse. “Like what?”
“Like you just did.” She gestured, exasperated, eyes darting up to meet his, then darting away. “Sort of…sweetly.”
“Because I felt like it.”
“Oh?”
“Oh.” He lowered her onto the bed, knowing he was being irritating and enjoying himself hugely.
“You didn’t kiss me at all last time.”
He nodded, pleased she’d noticed. “Last time I didn’t feel like it.”
“Okay, okay.” Melissa laughed and rolled her eyes.
He smiled, sat next to her and drew his finger across her mouth. “I have another present for you.”
“Oooh!” She tilted her head and adopted a vapid bimbo stare. “Diamonds? Like, a tiara?”
He chuckled and bent close. “If I could think of something sexy to do with diamonds I’d buy them for you.”
She stared at him, then laughed uneasily. “What is it?”
He made a show of reaching into his back pocket and drew out a thick, soft sable brush he’d bought from some hideously overpriced cosmetic store.
“Ooh.” The syllable came out this time with genuine pleasure. “Time for art class, Teacher?”
He grinned. The woman delighted him. He wanted to capture her energy, her special joyous flavor, and hold it to him tightly. Bring her red flowers every day. Not let her waste herself on the boring jerk she thought she deserved, who didn’t deserve her at all.
“Take your clothes off.”
She moved on the bed; her eyes darkened; she swallowed.
“You first,” she whispered.
He shook his head, met and held her challenging gaze. “I’m the teacher, remember?”
She lay still for a moment longer, then nodded, though he didn’t sense an ounce of real surrender. She sat up and pulled off the sleeveless sweater; her breasts were full and unexpectedly naked underneath. His breath drew in; his hands moved to touch her before he was aware of the instinct and checked it. Not yet. He pulled his hands back down beside him. Not until she had tired of the brush, tired of playing, and was ready to admit out loud that she wanted him to make love to her because she felt that deeply about him.
She lay back, lifted her hips and slid the skirt slowly down, revealing her stomach, then the naked mound of her sex. This time his hands grabbed fistfuls of the bedspread.
Melissa lifted her chin and smiled proudly. “Thought I’d save time.”
He grinned, using every trick of mind control in his vast arsenal to keep from shedding his own clothes and stretching out on top of her.
“Very efficient.” To his relief, his voice came out smooth and natural, not the strained croak he feared. “Close your eyes and lie still.”
She settled back, eyes closed, body expectantly tense. He sat beside her in the curve of her waist and drew the brush across her mouth. Her lips twitched into a smile; she giggled.
“Shh.” He painted her beautiful features, across her eyelids, down her nose, across her cheeks and forehead, using a light feathering touch. Her face relaxed, the tension went out of her forehead, from around her eyes and mouth.
He drew the brush down her throat, followed the lines of her collarbone and shoulders, explored the length of her arm, painted each finger with slow, careful strokes, keeping the task technical and precise in his mind, so he wouldn’t have to think about how pathetic it was to be jealous of a clump of dead animal hair.
“Mmm. Nice.” Her voice was low, dreamy. He moved the brush to her breast, painted up from her chest, increasing the pressure slightly, down and up from the edge to the aureole in the center, covering the fullness on each side.
She squirmed and arched her upper body. He paused, let her wait for a few tantalizing seconds, then circled the brush around her nipple, using the tip, the textured cut bristles in a slow, thorough sweep.
“How does that feel?” He didn’t need to ask; he could read it in her face, in her body. But he wanted to hear her voice, to sense if she would get to the point of turning away from the games, to him.
“Like the softest touch you can imagine.” She opened her eyes. “Do you want to try?”
He shook his head and put gentle fingers to her eyes to close them again. “Not yet.”
Not until she accepted him as a real lover. He moved down the bed to sit by her legs, and swept the damn lucky brush down her stomach, outlining her navel, then lower to circle the dark cluster of hair. She opened for him, eager for the kiss of the bristles between her legs.
He gritted his teeth and made her wait, traveled down both legs, eliciting moans of pleasure when he stroked the brush on her feet, then back up to tease the skin of her inner thighs. She shifted, lifted her hips so her sex was spread open to him. Riley closed his eyes and beat back the primal urge to throw the brush out the window and take her as nature intended—as their natures intended.
“Riley?” Her voice was soft and thick. She lifted her head and stared at him, questioning. He held her gaze, loathing this spectator role, letting her see in his eyes everything he wanted to do to her.
“What do you want, Melissa?” He let the question fall gently into the silence between them, imbued it with meaning she could take or leave.
Her eyes flashed wide; her mouth opened to speak. He imagined her saying “You.” Imagined it so hard he could almost hear the word. He stared intently, willing her to admit what he desperately wanted her to be feeling.
She pointed to the brush in his hand. “I want that. I want you to make me come with it. Then I want to do it to you.”
He averted his eyes so she wouldn’t see his disappointment, pushed her legs open wider and stroked the brush up the center of her sex. Like an artist he dipped into her; her moisture clung to the soft bristles. He painted her, concentrating on her center of pleasure, dipped again and stroked her, light lapping strokes of the brush.
It was killing him.
She moaned and shifted. Her hips came up. Receded. Up and down. She shook her head wildly, shook it again. Reached an arm, found his shoulder and tugged him up toward her.
“Riley.”
“Yes.” His heart leaped; he increased the speed of his stroking, wanting to provoke her into an admission. “What is it?”
She reached for him again and pulled harder. Let go. Pulled him again.
He turned his body to stone, slowed the brush to keep her from her clima
x. Come on, Melissa. “Tell me.”
“No.” She put her hands back over her face. “Nothing. Keep going. Keep going.”
“What is it? What do you want?” He strained toward her, halting the brush strokes, keeping the urgency from his voice as best he could. “Just…keep going.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.” The word came out false and desperate. “Yes.”
He leaned forward so his head came level with her breasts, so he could hear the short shallow breaths she took. “Do you want me to make love to you, Melissa?”
Her body went absolutely still. She brought her hands down from her face and stared at him, eyes large and wary. “Why did you ask me that?”
“Because I want to know. Because I think you might.”
She swallowed convulsively, still staring at him as if he might turn into her worst nightmare. “No. No, I don’t.”
Bull. He lunged over her and pressed her down into the mattress, kissed her mouth hard with real passion, rocked between her legs. “No? You don’t want this? Don’t want to feel me inside you?”
“No.” She sounded miserable, close to tears. “This was supposed to be—”
“I know what it was supposed to be.” He kissed her face, her mouth. Why was she fighting him so hard? “Why can’t it change if we both want it to?”
“I don’t want change. I like things as they are.”
He pulled back, looked hard into her face. “I can’t believe that.”
“Riley, please…”
“Are you afraid?” He put his hand to her heart, risking it all. “Afraid of what you might feel if I make love to you?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t do this.”
Triumph swelled in him, along with piercing tenderness. “Oh, Melissa. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it would satisfy you so much more than all these toys you want me to use on you.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression unreadable. Not the glowing surrender he’d fantasized about seeing, but not the opposite, either. Almost as if she were making up her mind about something he had no part in.
Suddenly, she pushed him over onto his back, her face clear, the confidence returned. Whatever she’d been thinking about, she’d obviously decided. And with her hands unbuttoning his shirt and running over his chest, Riley was pretty damn sure he liked her decision.
He lay back, allowing her free rein over his body. She seemed to be lit with some kind of female fire, as if their times together had transformed her into the pure expression of sensuality she’d wanted to explore.
She was magnificent. He had to fight to keep from making her his in the most arrogant male way possible. This was her moment. Let her be in charge for a while. He’d get his turn.
She kissed his chest, pulled his arm out of his shirt sleeve and brought it up over his head so his hand bumped something soft draped over the headboard. She held it there, kissed a line of kisses up his arm toward his hand. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her warm mouth on his biceps, his forearm, his wrist. Through the erotic haze, he became aware of something cold and metallic against his wrist, then heard a click and felt the chill of metal against his skin. Caught.
His adrenaline kicking in, he reached up with his other hand behind her head to test the strength of the bond. “What the—”
Click. Other hand.
Caught.
Melissa’s face came into view, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. Half scared, half triumphant, as if she didn’t really believe what she’d done.
Neither did he.
“What the hell is this, Melissa?” He spoke in a low even tone to hide the fact that he was seriously rattled. He didn’t like being made helpless, especially by the one woman who had already managed to put such a dent in his self-control.
“This is payback time.”
He watched her face carefully, trying not to think about that movie where Kathy Bates tortured a male hostage tied to her bed. He didn’t think Melissa had anything that twisted in her. “For what?”
She leaned forward and drew her warm, lingering tongue across his nipples. “All the pleasure you’ve given me.”
His body tensed, started to sweat; he tested the strength of the metal against his wrists. Not too strong, probably toy. He might be able to break one.
Melissa’s hands slipped down his stomach and fumbled with the fly of his pants, unsnapped, unzipped. Then her fingers were on him, warm and insistent—on, then under the cotton of his briefs. He started to lose it.
“Melissa, don’t do this.” His voice came out a hoarse whisper. This wasn’t what he’d planned. He was supposed to seduce her, give her pleasure. If she let him make love to her he could be there with her. They could go over the edge together. But not this way. Not with him tied here, victim to the stroking of her fingers, torn by excitement and dread. Defenseless short of physical force, which not even the most dire circumstances would get him to use against her.
“It’s the only way you’ll let me.”
“Untie me and we can be in it together.”
“No.” She kissed her way down his stomach, to the open fly of his jeans, then kissed along the hard length of him. “I want to do this.”
He flinched, strained against the metal binding him, fighting the pleasure of her lips and tongue. This wasn’t what he wanted, not this way. “Melissa.”
She crawled down to crouch between his legs, and applied herself in earnest. Her warm mouth moved up and down; her hands cupped him, caressed him underneath.
He yanked on the chains, hoping to snap the metal, but it held. He hated this, hated the vulnerability, hated that he might lose the battle and give himself to her this way, without making her admit she wanted him inside her.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to shut out the pleasure and concentrate. But the sensations, the heat, the wetness of her mouth permeated every thought, every attempt to keep her away. He hated most the part of him that wanted her to keep going, to take everything from him, to wear down the barrier he’d erected. The one she was stripping away with her mouth and tongue, reducing him to the basest form of his own humanity.
Exactly as he’d tried to do to her.
God, what a pompous ass he was. Thinking he was the master, thinking he could teach her all about herself with his superior knowledge and skill. She’d turned the tables on him in the instant it took to snap cuffs on his wrists. Now all that was left him to save face, to hide his vulnerability, was to hang on, not give in.
Her mouth slid up to the tip of his erection and came off. A tortured sigh-groan escaped him. He closed his eyes, hoping by blocking out the sight of her he could hang on to the dregs of his control and his pride, aware by now he was fighting a losing battle.
She bent and licked him, tiny gentle flicks up, bottom to the top, then settled her mouth firmly back on him and he was gone. He lifted his hips into her rhythm, yanked against the chains until a final powerful tug snapped one.
“No.” He reached down, grabbed under her armpit and dragged her up beside him. He pushed onto her belly once, twice, and spilled shamefully onto her skin, shuddering in unwelcome ecstasy.
Damn. Damn her. Damn him. Damn everything. He lay there, spent, beaten, humiliated. She’d ripped him wide-open, left him nothing to cover himself with.
“Riley…”
“Shh.”
She tried to struggle free but he held her head against his chest. He had to marshal his control, find some shred of shielding he could use to protect himself. She’d cheated them both. Rejected his offer and made him part of her game, when he’d been so sure deep down she wanted more.
“Riley.” She managed to wriggle free of his restraining arm and looked up into his face, searching, bewildered. He stared back, utterly unable to summon his trademark mask of indifference.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Oh God, Riley, I’m…I thought you’d… It was supposed to be fun.”
&
nbsp; “It was fine.” The wooden words left his lips and made her wince.
“No.” She sat up. “It wasn’t. You looked at me like I was the next Lorena Bobbitt.”
He rolled off the bed, fastened his pants, took two tissues and tossed them to her to wipe off her stomach. He wanted to get away from her, go somewhere he could regroup, regain some balance, do something ridiculously male, like pick a fight with a professional kickboxer. “I better go.”
“No!” She jumped off the bed, came over to him and grabbed his arms. “No. Please. Not until we can straighten this out.”
“Straighten what out? It’s all pretty damn clear to me.”
“Riley—”
His cell phone rang. He pushed Melissa gently away and retrieved it from his pocket.
“Riley, it’s Karen.”
His muscles tensed at the sound of his sister’s tearful voice. “What is it?”
“Leo’s…something’s really wrong. I’m taking him to the emergency room at Children’s Hospital. Can you meet me?”
“I’ll be there right away.” He punched off the phone, gut twisting in fear.
“Riley. What happened?”
“My nephew’s at the hospital. I have to go.” He looked at her, standing in front of him, naked and beautiful, her eyes wide with alarm for a child she didn’t know, and he made a decision without even realizing he’d been deciding.
“Come with me.”
11
MELISSA SAT in the waiting room at Children’s Hospital beside Riley and Karen, hands clenched, floating in that bizarre space between total agonizing tension and bone-melting exhaustion. They’d been waiting over an hour already while little Leo underwent an emergency appendectomy. If moments like these defined parenthood, there was no way she could manage it with her sanity intact.
After she’d agreed to go with him, Riley and Melissa had driven to the hospital in silence, Riley gripping the wheel, face set in grim, determined lines. Melissa had watched the city go by, shaken, helpless to know how to comfort him, still mortified by the way her supposedly empowering decision to take matters into her own…mouth, had backfired.
The Wild Side Page 14
