by Jill Shalvis
She looked at the lovely antique furniture polished to a high shine and the low couches arranged in a way that encouraged socializing. “There’s still something different…”
He turned and looked at her. “Do you mean because it’s meant for sex?”
“Um…” She bit her lower lip and clutched her brown bag. “Well, yes.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He pointed to an enclosed bookcase. “There’s the video selection. Let me be specific. We’re talking erotica. The best out there. Specifically designed for each guest.” He pulled open the doors and revealed a stack of DVDs all geared toward spanking. “This particular guest’s favorite fantasy.”
She swallowed hard. “Um, how does Hush know what they’ll want?”
“Questionnaires.”
“The questions must be interesting.”
“You know it.” He pulled out a DVD. The cover showed a woman over a man’s knee, her skirt pushed high on her waist, her panties to her knees, her bottom extremely red.
She struggled not to react but she felt her eyes widen.
“What do you think?” Jacob asked her, sounding darkly amused.
She looked at the man’s big hand, raised above the woman’s bottom. “Um…”
“Let me guess. Not your cup of tea?”
“Not quite,” she managed.
With a rough laugh, he put the DVD back and took her into the bedroom, opening the closet there.
This time her mouth just fell open.
“A selection of costumes,” he said, holding up a leather bustier, complete with whip. “This one is for a dominatrix fantasy.” He arched a brow at her choked laugh. “No?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
He pulled out another hanger. “How about a French maid?”
“Uh…no. Thank you.”
Shrugging, he put that one back and opened the chest at the foot of the luxurious bed. Inside was a selection of…oh, my.
More toys, some of which she couldn’t even identify. “Quite the education,” she managed, leaning over him, touching a set of what she assumed were hand and ankle cuffs, in braided leather, lined with fur. She caught his eyes and nearly stopped breathing.
He was watching her finger the handcuffs, his eyes so dark she couldn’t differentiate the iris from the pupil. “Well?”
“I’ve never…um.”
He lifted a brow.
“I’ve never been bound before,” she whispered.
“A fantasy?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper of a breath.
She touched a set of silk scarves, a leather harness, a riding crop, and shivered. “I didn’t think so…” But now she could see herself bound in the cuffs, the scarf over her eyes, her body stretched to its limit on the bed as he leaned over her, taking her to helplessly aroused heights….
“Jesus, Em.” Backing away from the closet, he shoved his fingers through his short, short hair, heat and sexual frustration coming off him in waves. “I’m just a man here.”
Yeah. She was counting on that.
He turned toward the bathroom, which was bigger than her condo at home. An open sitting area sported a set of cushy, leather massage tables side by side.
“Wow,” she murmured.
“You’ve said that.”
She looked at him. He had carefully kept his distance, which in itself was extremely telling. Setting her brown bag down on the flawless polished granite counter, she nodded to the massage tables. “For couples?”
“You can get a masseuse in here, or just do each other. Everything needed is in the cabinets at the side of the tables.”
She opened one and saw oils, lotions, candles…“I used to do manicures,” she said. “I gave the best hand massages in Hollywood.”
A dimple flashed. “I’m not going to touch that one.”
She just gave him a long look.
“And here I thought you were just a producer.”
“Now.” And hopefully also next month. “But when I was in college, I worked wherever the money was. People gave great tips for my hand massages.” She patted a lounge chair. “I could show you.”
He stayed across the room, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think so.”
And the hunter became the huntee. This was too good to pass up. “Chicken?”
His eyes reflected how he felt about being called a chicken, and she nearly backed off. And she would have backed off if she hadn’t seen other things there as well, like—it couldn’t really be—uncertainty?
And want. There was no mistaking that one.
Good Lord, it was the sheer magnitude of that want that had her trying again to reach him. “Sit,” she said again. “Try it.” Try me.
He hesitated for one beat, then strode over to her and did as she’d asked, sitting on one of the massage tables. “Turnaround is fair play,” he said so silkily she got goose bumps.
“You mean you want to massage my hands, too?” she asked.
“Not your hands, no.”
Oh, boy. She took his wrists and turned them. Ran her thumbs over the work-roughened skin and calluses of his palms. “You haven’t been moisturizing.”
“No,” he agreed, his gaze still locked on her face.
“Your hands are your treasure, Jacob.”
“Actually, I think of my treasure as another body part entirely.” Another flash of that dimple. “Want to moisturize and massage that part?”
10
To: Chef
From: Deidre
Hey, I’m at Exhibit A having way too much fun. Nothing you’re doing can possibly compare, so get your gorgeous ass down here and join me.
EM SWALLOWED HARD and looked into Jacob’s challenging eyes. “Let’s start with your hands,” she managed.
She had the pleasure of seeing those eyes glaze over, of watching him swallow hard, of rendering him speechless for a change.
About time.
The sheer womanly power of it made her want to toss her head back and laugh. Or rip off all her clothes and offer herself to him.
She did none of those things, just smiled in what she hoped was a daringly sexual way, and reached for a bottle of oil from the cabinet. She poured a little on her palm, its mixed scent sweetening the air. Then she reached for his hands and began to rub them.
At first, he remained silent, though she could feel him looking at her. She dug in, taking her time, hitting every muscle, every tendon, working each finger, his palm, his thumb. “Good?” she finally murmured, lifting her head.
His eyes were dark, his face taut as he gestured with his chin. She followed his gaze down.
He was unmistakably hard, the proof of it pressing against the buttons of his black Levi’s.
Yep. It was good.
“My turn,” he said thickly when she was done.
Oh, boy. He rose from the table and eyed her in a way that had her backing up. “You know what? That’s okay,” she decided. “My hands are good. I don’t work them nearly as hard as you work yours—”
“Get on the table, Em.”
“Well, I—”
“Chicken?”
She looked into his daring eyes, reminding herself she’d wanted this. She’d egged him on, played the game, and now she was going to follow through. “Okay, fine.” She sat primly, legs swinging off the sides, hands in her lap. “I’ll have you know, massaging hands takes quite the technique, not everyone can—”
“I’m not going to massage your hands. Lie down.”
“Um—”
He clucked like a chicken, and she had to laugh. “Fine.” She wasn’t afraid of him.
Or not much, anyway.
Swallowing again, she contemplated the situation and tried to decide whether to lie facedown or faceup, because if she went facedown she couldn’t see what he was up to, but if she went faceup then that left him with some fairly obtrusive areas to touch….
“You’re thinking too much again,” he said, sounding amused. At her expense.
“Yeah.” Was that her voice, all breathless and wispy? Good Lord. She shut her mouth and lay down. Facedown. Then she scrunched her eyes shut and pretended she was Alice, going down the rabbit hole.
“I’m not sure what you think I’m going to do to you.” He still sounded quite amused as she felt him slip off first one of her shoes and then the other. “But if you want to be nervous, go ahead and be nervous.” His hands slid beneath her long skirt to her calves, massaging lightly over her tights. “I’ll promise you this, though.”
My God, his hands were heaven, she thought dazedly as he dug into her calf muscles with a gentle firmness.
Leaning over her, he spoke into her ear in that voice that could bring her to climax all by itself. “You’re going to like it. You’re going to like it so much you’ll be begging me for more.”
Even if that were true, she’d never admit it. “I never beg.”
He only slid his hands farther, past the backs of her knees.
“Uh—”
“Shh.” Still higher his hands went, until his fingers hooked the elastic edging of her tights and tugged.
“Jacob—”
“I want to touch bare skin.” After stripping the tights down her legs, he dropped them to the floor. She watched them hit and told herself he’d seen her far barer than this. Just as she also told herself he was going to take liberties that she wasn’t altogether sure of, liberties that would put her far past her comfort level.
But everything about this man took her past her comfort level and she couldn’t seem to get enough.
“Relax,” he said, reaching for the oil.
Right. She’d just relax.
BOTTOM LINE FOR JACOB, he was fascinated by Em and her layers: the way she loved her friends, the way she’d responded with empathy to the story of his childhood, the way she’d laughed when he’d gotten silly and showed off his juggling skills.
Everything about her drew him, and that was quite possibly the most unsettling thing he’d ever felt, because it left him wanting more, more of her, more of this.
More of them.
Just the thought made him wish he had a drink, a hefty one, when he no longer drank the hefty stuff. What the hell had happened to a woman being just like a recipe, something to try and then move on to the next?
Nothing, he assured himself. He was just playing here, and so was she. To make sure of it, he poured the scented oil in his hands, slicked them up and touched her, because touching her made him forget everything else.
He started with her feet, pressing into the arches, rubbing all of the tension out, working his way over her ankles to her calves, which were smooth and creamy. This California girl didn’t tan. She had her legs pressed tightly together, her muscles working overtime to keep them so. For whatever reason, that made him smile as he slowly worked his way past her knees, beneath her skirt to the backs of her thighs.
He wasn’t kidding before. He knew exactly how good he was with his hands, and before much longer, he expected her to cave, and he expected her to beg.
Her soft, helpless moan swiped the smile right off his face, jerking him out of his smug complacency. She was right on schedule and yet he hadn’t expected the sound to reach him.
Nor had he expected that having his hands beneath her skirt, out of view and yet on her bare skin, would seem like the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
Her muscles were knotted and he worked them, dragging yet another moan from her. Utterly arousing.
“Shh,” he said, not ready to give in to it, in to her.
But as he pressed the knotted muscles high on her thighs, she squirmed and then shifted slightly, her legs no longer pressed so tightly together, allowing him better access.
He took the opportunity, skimming his fingers higher, then higher again so that they just touched the elastic edging of her panties.
Silk.
Aw, man, they were silk and flimsy. One little tug and he’d rip them free. Because he couldn’t actually see them, he wondered what color they were. Black? Red?
She lay on the table utterly motionless, holding her breath, he guessed, and slowly—so slowly he had to grit his teeth—he traced the edging of the panties to the string over either hip.
String bikini. His favorite.
“What color?”
“Wh-what?”
He almost didn’t recognize his own hoarse voice. “What color are they?”
She remained still for a beat, then let out a breathless laugh that shook her shoulders. “I can’t remember.”
He ran his finger over the very tops of them now, drawing a line low on her spine.
Her breath caught. “They might be peach.”
Now it was his turn to hold his breath.
“Or black.” She said this in a whisper.
His body tightened. His fingers wrapped around the material of her skirt and slowly pushed it up, past her knees, revealing a gorgeous set of legs he wanted wrapped around him. Her thighs were every bit as taut and creamy smooth as he remembered from the spa, and his mouth went dry.
Then he pushed the skirt up even farther, to her waist now, and exposed her ass, covered in a silky pair of barely there bikini panties.
Black.
His heart was drumming in his ears, all the blood in his head draining south. Reaching out, he traced his finger over her hip, then curled his finger around the string.
She squirmed again.
One yank, he thought, just one yank…His knees actually wobbled.
“It’s…warm in here,” she murmured very softly, making him realize he’d been staring down at her like a sixteen-year-old virgin with his first glimpse beneath his girlfriend’s dress.
Hell, he felt like a damn virgin, a clumsy one. “You’re wearing a sweater.”
“I could take it off…”
Great idea. Reaching up, he pulled the sweater over her head.
Beneath, she wore a pale pink camisole, spaghetti straps, one of which had slipped off her shoulder. He nudged the other one, helping it to the same position, absorbing her caught breath, getting a surge of possessive desire at the sight of her flat on her belly, gripping the sides of the table, her shirt shoved high, straps off her shoulders, face turned away.
God. He had to stand there and purposely drag air into his lungs. Massage. He was here to give her a massage, and drive her as crazy as she drove him.
And to make her beg. Let’s not forget that. Teeth clenched, he poured more oil into his hands, and with her skirt still bunched at her waist, worked on her bared shoulders, dragging more soft moans from her. “How are you doing?” he murmured, moving inward, to the back of her neck.
“Mmm,” was her only answer, so he took his hands down her shoulder blades, and when the top of the camisole got in his way, he merely tugged it down to her waist.
On her belly, gripping the edges of the table for all she was worth, she gasped.
He smiled grimly and went back to work.
After a stiff moment, she let out a breath and relaxed into his touch, and when he’d removed every bit of tenseness from as much of her back as he could reach, he leaned in, kissed her jaw, and said, “Turn over.”
Her eyes flew open. “Um—”
“Unless, of course, you’re afraid I’ll actually do it.”
“Do what?”
“Make you beg.”
She squeezed her eyes shut again for a beat.
This was it, he thought with mixed feelings of relief and regret. He’d pushed her past her boundaries. She was going to tell him to take a flying leap. She was going to run back to her room, then back to Los Angeles, certain she’d met the worst of the worst.
And then she did the unthinkable.
She turned over.
She bared her body, and given the way her eyes held his, open and vulnerable, she bared her heart and soul, as well.
Shit, he thought, feeling something deep inside him give. Crack. Break.
Desperately afraid it was
his heart, he shoved it out of his thoughts by letting his gaze gobble her up. And there was a hell of a lot to gobble; the woman was a walking wet dream. Her bare breasts were perfect handfuls. No, make that perfect mouthfuls, with their soft curves and rosy nipples, hardening for him into two tight buds that made his jaw ache because he was holding it so tight.
Her ribs rose and fell quickly with her accelerated breathing, and though her camisole and skirt blocked a strip of her belly, he could see enough to know that it was softly rounded and pale and so smooth he wanted to rub his jaw right there.
Just below her bunched-up skirt were those heart-stopping panties. Black. Silky. And riding high enough to fully outline her.
His little L.A. producer was waxed or shaved or whatever mysteries it was that a woman did there. Her long, long shapely legs beckoned, and he ran a hand up one, feeling her tremble. “Cold now?”
Eyes never leaving his, she shook her head.
Holding her gaze, he added his other hand, dancing his fingers up both her thighs, past her panties, skirt and camisole, settling his palms on her ribs.
Again her breath caught, an audible sound in the room.
He stroked over her flawless skin, the very tips of his fingers just barely brushing the undersides of her breasts.
Her nipples tightened even more.
She licked her lips, swallowed hard, but kept looking at him, even when he shifted his hands, gliding them up to cup her beautiful breasts in his palms.
“Oh,” she breathed, startled.
His thumb brushed her distended nipples, then he bent his head to take one into his mouth.
Arching her back, she gripped the sides of the table and let out a soft, erotic hum.
And he was a goner. Lifting his head, he looked down at her, then put his mouth to her jaw, her ear, inhaling her, the scent of her shampoo, her skin. Had he really believed he could just tease her, tease himself, and then walk away without sinking into her body? “Em…”
Her eyes fluttered open, filled with heat and need and something that nearly brought him to his knees.
Affection. Her eyes were swimming with it.
So he closed his and concentrated on the intoxicating scent of her, the feel of her glorious body. “We’re going to do this.”
