by Alisha Rai
He didn’t challenge her, though. “I know.” He paused. “And I love the way you dress. Always. I know it’s not for me, either.”
She studied his purple-stained blue shirt, annoyed at her twinge of guilt. “Sorry about your shirt. Maybe that was an overreaction.” She’d never been so melodramatic as to fling a glass of wine at someone, not even in her most emotional of moments. “I’ve been annoyed at my mother all day. Then you said what you did, and I sort of lost it.”
He thrust his hands into his pockets. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nah.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “She keeps trying to set me up with dudes.”
“What?” His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, and she couldn’t deny a part of her thrilled at his possessive sneer. They both had some jealous tendencies, it seemed. “We agreed you wouldn’t see anyone while we’re together.”
She rolled her eyes. “I told her no.”
“Because you’re with me.”
“No. I didn’t tell her no because I’m banging my neighbor. I told her no, because no.”
He reached her in two strides and sank his hand into her hair. He used his grip to drag her closer and lowered his head, his lips brushing against hers. “It’s going to stay no. As long as we’re together.”
Surely that wasn’t her heart going pitter pat. “Well, we won’t be together forever,” she said quietly, needing to hear it more than he did. “So when we’re finished—”
She never got to complete her thought because his lips covered hers, demanding and forceful. He angled his head at the last second, and the kiss exploded beyond either of their capabilities to control it. With a rough moan, he tightened his grip on her hair to hold her still while he ravaged her mouth.
His tongue was so…perfect. Rana considered herself a connoisseur of kisses, particularly French kisses. Micah was possibly the best kisser she’d ever come across, not too wet, not too dry, just the perfect amount of saliva and tongue and lips and—he nipped at her—teeth.
She would’ve started ripping off his clothes right there, but a sharp whistle and a roar of laughter broke their spell. They tore apart to find a trio of teenagers driving by in a rusted Chevy. “Damn kids,” she muttered.
She squeaked with surprise when he wrapped his arm around her waist and brought her to rest flush against him. “You make me forget who I am.”
Her knees went weak. Fair enough. He made her forget who she was too. Or who she was trying to be.
He dipped his knees, and suddenly she was hanging upside down over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure I have you where I want you.”
She studied the ground as he strode to his house. “I would have come with you.”
“I can’t expect you to ever do the expected.”
Her heart swelled. Other people had called her unpredictable before, but no one else had ever sounded so fondly exasperated over her nature. Exasperated, yes. Not fond.
She was laughing by the time he set her on her feet in his foyer. He frowned at her and started unbuttoning his shirt. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” She grinned at him, unexpectedly light.
He might be wholly unsuitable, but right now he was exactly what she needed. Everything and everyone else could get back-burnered for a while.
His shirt fell to the floor, his skin begging for her touch. “You won’t be giggling when I get you.”
She smiled, even with the predatory gleam in his eyes shining at her. “Is that right?” She turned and bolted up the stairs. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
He growled, but he didn’t immediately follow. She heard the rustle of fabric as he dropped his pants.
Fun sex games were exactly what the doctor had ordered.
A primal urge screamed at her to run. Run because she wanted him to chase her. Run because she knew it would make the capture more exciting. Run because she wanted to submit.
The heavy footfalls on the stairs made her adrenaline pulse, though she knew he intended for her to hear them.
She bypassed the open door of his studio. Too obvious. He had to work for it.
The room next to it contained only a treadmill and a gleaming set of weights, which meant there was nowhere to hide, but more importantly, no place to fuck. She jogged to the last door in the hallway and closed it behind her with a quiet snick.
Her breath sounded loud in the stillness of the home. Enough light shined in from the slits in the blinds that she was able to see this room was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house. There was a queen-sized mattress and box spring on a frame, the sheets and comforter mussed.
Rana backed up to stand in front of the bed.
She knew the instant he stepped foot on the landing upstairs; he made no effort to be quiet. His measured footfalls came closer to her, pausing once as he threw open the door to his studio.
Finally, he paused in front of this room. “I know you’re in there.”
His soft voice and the sensual threat it contained made the agony of excitement swell. Her thighs felt too sensitive, rubbing together under the short skirt.
The doorknob turned. Tall and imposing, he stood in the shadows. His shoulders filled the frame.
He was completely naked.
“Oh no.” She blinked twice. “You found me.”
Micah maintained his grim expression, though she caught what she might call an actual twinkle in his eye. “Take off your clothes, Rana.”
She lifted her chin. “What if I don’t want to?”
He took a step closer. His cock grabbed her attention, and she had to fight not to lick her lips in anticipation. It was so damn thick and curved, the tip bouncing off his belly button when he moved. Yummy.
He slapped something in his hand against his palm. She almost died when she recognized the leather belt from his pants wrapped around his fist.
“You’re going to be punished for running,” he said, still in that soft, dark voice. “If you don’t want to make it worse, you’ll strip right now.”
Hmm. Rana briefly contemplated calling his bluff. But what if the punishment entailed him leaving her high and dry or prolonging her tension? Nah, she wanted to get off, and quick.
She crossed her arms in front of her and grasped the hem of her snug shirt, pulling it up and over her head. She dropped it to the floor, savoring his swallowed groan. It didn’t hurt her ego to see the hot need in his eyes as they flicked over her bare breasts.
“Leave the shoes,” he ordered, when she was about to kick them off. Oh good. He liked her heels as much as she did.
She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to her feet, stepping out of it.
His cock twitched, impossibly growing larger. He groaned and wrapped his palm around it.
The sheets on the bed were scratchy against her legs. He prowled closer. “Turn around.”
She obeyed, a shiver working through her at the command in his voice. His hot palm came to rest on her back, and she jumped. He slid it up her spine, under the fall of her hair, where he gripped her neck. Inexorably, he pushed her forward to bend over the bed, her forehead against the cool sheets.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
She twisted enough to speak. “Micah…”
“Don’t talk.”
She clammed up, so wet her thighs felt slick, and complied. The thick leather of his belt surrounded her wrists. He tightened it until she couldn’t move. She gave an experimental tug.
The sting of his fingers connecting with her ass had her jolting with pleasure. “Don’t mess with it,” he snapped.
“Again,” she said, fully aware she was inches away from begging. “Spank me again.”
He paused. “Are you sure?” His voice was hoarse.
She didn’t answer, only raised her ass, and she felt another swat against her other buttock. He rubbed the flesh, his touch soft. “I want to paint you like this.”
She bit the inside of her cheek,
imagining how lewd and wrong that painting would look.
“Don’t move.” The wood floor creaked as he walked away. Out of the room? Where the hell was he going?
Maybe to grab a condom. Funny, but for all the sex they’d had, they hadn’t made their way to his bedroom yet. She pressed her fingers against the heated skin of her ass and shifted on her high heels, feeling vulnerable and open. The sun had set outside, filling the room with shadows.
He returned, his size making a quiet approach impossible. She tensed, eager and vibrating with anticipation.
A featherlight, prickly touch over her lower back had her squealing. “What the hell—”
He shushed her, stroking her hip. “I told you. I want to paint you like this.”
Something cool and bristly—oh God, he’d brought a paintbrush—dragged over her ass.
At least he wasn’t actually smearing paint on her. Not that she was opposed to that, but the bed would get filthy. She breathed out a wheezy laugh as her inner muscles clenched. “Micah Hale, you’re a dirty bastard.”
* * *
Micah didn’t respond, his attention occupied. The room had grown dark with the dusk, but he could see well enough to enjoy the sight of the flat, wide brush coasting over the curves of her bottom. Long ago, he’d attended a show where the artist had covered the models with paint, and they’d silently posed for hours. He wanted to do that to Rana one day. He’d use passionate reds, hot coral, deep purples. She’d only pose for him, though.
The way she looked, hands bound, bent over the bed, ready for the demands of his body… If he came on her ass, would she forgive him? She would. She’d smile that sweet smile, roll over, and wrap her long legs around him, guiding his fingers to her pussy to ensure he gave her what she needed.
So tempting.
He tapped her cheek with the brush, and she jumped. Her skin was lighter here, her resilient flesh reddened by his hand. He traced a thumb down the crease and separated the curves. The little rosette of her anus winked at him.
Obeying his instincts, he traced down the crease until his finger rimmed the pucker. Rana gasped. “Micah, no.”
He eased away immediately. She twisted around to look at him over her shoulder. “I mean, your finger’s fine, but nothing else. Unless you have lube.”
The caveman within him roared to life at the realization she wasn’t denying him. “Later. I don’t have any here.”
She chuckled. “Oh most definitely later.”
He groaned and dropped to his knees. “Widen your legs.”
She did, her heels slipping on the hardwood floor. He placed his hands on her thighs and shoved them even farther apart, until he had room to kneel between them.
Micah had had some vague fantasy of Rana tied up and at his mercy. One where she sucked on his cock until she was ready to blow. Then maybe he fucked her until they were both spent.
He was hard enough to drive nails, though, and if she put her mouth on him, he wouldn’t be able to retain a hint of rational thought. That didn’t mean he couldn’t play with her, though.
He leaned in closer to her sex and inhaled the scent of her arousal. She smelled delicious, and the sight of the plump lips, the hard bud of her clit peeking out in between, made his mouth water.
He didn’t bother with a slow lead-in. He swept the brush over her clit, her response instantaneous. She gave a low cry, her legs widening. “Oh God, Micah, please…please, more.”
He pressed the bristles harder against her, rotating the handle in a wide circle. The muscles of her thighs trembled. “Like that?”
“Yes.”
Micah drew the brush away and slapped it against her pussy, loving the wet smack, her sob of pleasure. “Do you want to come like this?”
“No.”
He dragged the bristles through her wetness, letting them abrade her aroused flesh. Back and forth. Again and again, until she was shaking. “No? You don’t like me painting you?”
“I want you inside me.”
He hadn’t thought it possible for his dick to harden more. He dropped the brush on the floor and drove two fingers into her wet pussy. “Is that good enough for you then?”
Her entire body trembled at the sudden invasion. “No, let me… Fuck me with your mouth at least.”
He couldn’t stifle his groan. He pulled out of her swollen sheath and widened his fingers into a vee, holding her open. “Why don’t you show me what you like? Ride my face.”
Micah stiffened his tongue and rested it against her pussy. She froze for an instant, and then seemed to understand exactly what he wanted her to do.
She braced her legs and ground down on his face, her hips jerking, soft cries of ecstasy breaking from her mouth. Micah had to clench his hands to let her continue to take what she needed without interfering.
“Oh, I’m so close…” she moaned.
Understanding the desperation in her tone and the cues of her body, he groped for the brush on the floor. He flipped it over, pressed the tip of the wood handle against her clit, and twisted, agitating the nubbin. She stiffened above him, the flutters in her pussy intensifying until she was milking his tongue. He gentled his touch as the spasms faded and she lay still, half on the bed.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Rana didn’t move when he stood and grasped her hips, though she roused when he slammed his cock inside her.
He froze, realizing his mistake immediately. He’d never had sex without a condom in his entire life. God, it felt so good. Her wet heat and soft tissues surrounded his dick in a tight clasp. “Rana…I forgot the condom.”
Her head lifted.
Micah swallowed, his brief selfish hope that she would say it was okay, that he could stroke in her, shaming him. “Sorry. I…sorry.” He pulled out, the hot drag of her pussy making him want to weep.
“It’s just that—”
“Don’t explain.” She shouldn’t ever have to compromise, not with him, not on this.
He wanted that wet heat, though, without anything in the way. He pressed his cock against her, rubbing it in between the wet warmth of her folds. “Like this. Let me fuck you like this. I’ll make it good for you.” She was bound, but she was never helpless. If she shook her head, he’d stop. Even if he was perilously close to begging.
“Yes.” She shoved back, and he gritted his teeth, fucking her farther up the bed. He grabbed her hips, trying to hold her steady, but his sweat-slick hands skimmed over her flesh.
Her rising moans drove him to shaft her harder, making sure he tapped her clit with every stroke. He looked down, watching the red, angry flesh of his dick as it tunneled between the folds of her cunt, her hips churning back against him as if she couldn’t bear for them to part, her hands clenched, the elegant, long line of her spine and back. Her hair fell over her face, and he leaned forward to gather it, grunting as she screamed at the increased pressure.
He wouldn’t last much longer. Micah fisted her hair, and she gave a broken sigh. She liked the sting of his fingers grasping her hair as much as he liked her ripping the elastic out of his. His hips hammered against her with fast, hard jabs. “Who’s fucking you?” he demanded, barely recognizing the rough snarl as his own voice.
“You are, oh God, yes.”
“Say my name.”
For a second, he wondered if she would refuse, and he tensed in anticipation of securing her compliance. “Micah. Please. Harder, faster.”
He obeyed and gritted his teeth to keep from coming. He used his grip on her hair to arch her neck, and leaned over her until his lips were by her ear. “Who do you belong to?”
Nothing.
He bit her neck, and then sucked at the bruise. “Tell me,” he demanded, even as he cursed himself. This was terrible. A terrible, horrible question to be demanding from her.
She was silent but for her uneven breaths. Her lips worked, but no sound came out.
He growled, his frustration making his hips pick up a brutal speed. Her feet left the floor as he grabbed her
by the hips and fucked the folds of her pussy.
She screamed, a high sound, as she came. At the last possible second, he pulled away and grasped his cock, his come spilling on her upturned ass.
His legs nearly gave out on the aftermath, and he braced himself by resting his hands on either side of her body, which was draped lax over his bed, bound and destroyed, his release standing out on her soft brown flesh.
Mine.
Chapter 17
Who the hell was calling her?
Rana rolled over and groped for the offensively ringing phone. “’Lo?”
There was silence on the other end, and then a tentative female voice. “Hello?”
She yawned. “Yes?”
“Pardon me. I’m looking for Micah… Do I have the right number?”
Rana’s eyes popped open. Oh God. She wasn’t in her room, she was in Micah’s. And she’d just answered his telephone.
Her eyes narrowed. For some woman with a crisp British accent, who happened to be calling at the ungodly hour of… Rana checked the clock. Four a.m.
Which made it a perfectly decent time to call in the UK. Rana tamped down her unhealthy surge of jealousy. “Um, I’m sorry.” She sat up straight. She was alone in his bed, the blinds closed so tightly it was dark. His side was rumpled but empty. “He’s not here right now. I can go try to find him though…”
“No. No, that’s okay.” The woman cleared her throat. “This is his mother. May I ask who this is?”
Rana winced and dropped back to the pillow. Oh God, his mother. Mortification made her mute.
She had no idea what kind of parents Micah had, but she could well imagine what her mother would say if a strange man answered her phone in the middle of the night.
Did you kill my daughter?
Or, alternatively, and far more likely: Give Rana the phone. Rana, really. No boy is going to respect you if you bring them home with you.
Rana made a face. What are you worried about? It’s not like he’s ever going to take you to Sunday brunch with his mom.
Still, it was his mother.
“Hello?”
“Um. Sorry. I’m…um. I’m his…his model.”
