Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3)

by Lee, Mandy

  ‘Bite,’ I groan.

  He comes to a halt, fingers still inside me, and raises his face to mine. Readjusting his position slightly, he brings his right palm to the back of my head and his left leg over mine.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it’s what I want.’

  ‘And it’s exactly where we shouldn’t go.’ He gazes at me, silently urging me to remember the night with the cross. ‘Not now.’

  Not now? But, does that mean not ever? I open my mouth to ask but he claims it before I can say a word, kissing me deeply for an age while he goes back to working at my clit.

  ‘I give you an inch and you take a mile. I’m taking over again. I don’t want you getting too big for your boots.’

  ‘Controlling bastard.’

  ‘Got me in one.’ He brushes his lips across mine. ‘A controlling bastard who’s currently controlling you.’ To make his point, he presses his leg against mine and tightens his fingers against my head. ‘Keep those arms exactly where they are. I think it’s time I allowed you an orgasm.’

  ‘Thank bloody Christ,’ I half shout.

  He shakes his head, admonishing me.

  ‘No noise, no movement, no distraction. I want you to soak up the sensation. Understand?’

  I nod, my mouth clamped firmly shut.

  ‘And I want your eyes on mine. Don’t close them. Don’t look away.’

  I nod again.

  Holding me in place, he picks up the rhythm down below. A ball of warmth rises quickly in my groin. It expands, shimmers, pulsates … and then implodes. My muscles clutch at his fingers. A wave of ecstasy thrusts to the top of my vagina, and beyond. I jitter and judder beneath him, reach up and run my right hand across his shoulders, his biceps … and then, quite inexplicably, I howl.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I pant when I’ve finished. ‘I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t.’

  ‘You’re forgiven,’ he laughs. ‘I’ve never heard anything quite like that.’

  ‘But I broke the rules. Big style.’ A delicious idea occurs to me. ‘I’d say that deserves a spanking.’

  And that does it. A surge of adrenalin shows up at the party. But it doesn’t stay long. He shakes his head again.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’

  ‘Because I say so.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Shush.’ He puts a finger to my lips. ‘You’ve got a memory like a sieve. Who’s in charge here?’

  ‘You are. But only in the bedroom.’

  ‘And wherever else I decide to fuck you senseless.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Any more arguments and I’ll indulge in some serious torture. And not the painful type either. You wouldn’t enjoy it. If I were you, I’d just do as you’re told.’

  Leaving me to quake a little more, he repositions himself again, this time parting my legs and kneeling between them. He smooths both palms across my stomach, down to my thighs, stopping at the tips of the stockings.

  ‘I love these stockings. Silk?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve gone up in the world.’

  He unclips the right stocking, patiently unrolling it, trailing his fingers across my skin and kissing the insides of my thighs. When he’s removed the stocking, he moves to my left leg, doing exactly the same. Finally, unfastening the suspender belt, he casts it to the floor but keeps the stockings on the bed. And then he straddles me again.

  I gaze up into a pair of glistening blue eyes.

  ‘Are you going to fuck me now?’ I grin.

  ‘When I’m good and ready,’ he grins back, retrieving the first stocking and dangling it above my head. ‘Patience. Give me your hand.’

  Gently, he brushes my hair away from my face before he sets about wrapping the stocking around my left wrist. With a knowing look, he leans over me, urging my arm upwards and fastening the stocking to the bedpost. While he concentrates on making sure the bindings aren’t too tight, I grab the opportunity to examine the scar again, up close.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He repeats the process with my right hand.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this for months.’ He finalises the knot. ‘And I intend to make a fucking meal of it. Have you seen enough of the scar?’

  What? He’s noticed?

  ‘I didn’t …’

  ‘Maybe I should blindfold you, take your mind off it.’

  ‘No,’ I blurt quickly. ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Then behave yourself. If you’re going to fixate on anything, fixate on this.’ He points down to his erect penis, and then he touches my chin, angling my face towards his. ‘They’re just scars. That’s what you said. I’m still perfectly capable of driving you wild.’

  ‘Do your best.’

  ‘Oh, I will. Trust me, you’re going to be a deranged shell of a woman by the time I’ve finished with you.’

  ‘I can take anything you’ve got.’

  ‘That’s fighting talk.’

  He leans down, sealing his lips around mine and delivering a long, deep kiss. At last, he pulls away and smiles down at me. He’s totally in control, and he knows it. Moving again, he parts my legs wider than before, and kneels between them.

  ‘Am I allowed to make noises now?’ I ask.

  ‘Why not?’

  He touches my vagina, moves the finger up to my clit, and back again. I buck at his touch. A palm comes to rest on my stomach, pushing me back into place. His eyes glint darkly.

  ‘I’m going to remind you what you’ve got with me, and you’re allowed to make all the noise you want, because I want to listen to your sweet moans while I make you come … again and again and again.’

  ‘I might howl again.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ He leans down, smoothing back my pubic hair and blowing against my labia. ‘Just don’t beg me to stop.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s pointless. I’m not going to stop.’

  ‘And if I do beg?’

  His lips curl up at the corners.

  ‘Then I’ll gag you.’

  A squeak escapes my mouth as he places a hand on each of my thighs and leans in. I feel his tongue at my anus, warm, soft and wet. He licks a path along the length of my perineum and then across my labia, probing softly between the folds. Spending an age there, he laps against the bundle of nerves before moving to my vagina, circling it, moving out and in, over and over again. And then his tongue penetrates me, as far as it can go, tasting me. A moan erupts from my lungs as he withdraws, moving back to my clit. And then he works at me again, slowly at first before picking up the pace. My insides knot. Muscles heat, twinge and contract.

  ‘Oh God.’

  I’m exhausted, completely disconnected from time, fighting the urge to beg him to get on with it, and definitely covered in a sheen of sweat. At last, he puts an end to the sweet torture, allowing me to trip over the edge into a long, all-consuming orgasm that explodes at the back of my vagina, undulating outwards in rich, deep ripples. Wave after wave of contractions rip through me, causing me to arch my back from the bed. Somehow, I manage to look down at him. With his mouth still on my clitoris, bringing me back from the high, he watches me, evidently pleased with himself as I writhe and pant and tug at my bindings.

  ‘How was that then?’ he asks when he’s finished.

  ‘Not bad,’ I tease, trying my best to get my breathing back under control. Aftershocks of ecstasy are still rippling through me. I’m sliding into a post-orgasmic fuzz.

  ‘Not bad?’ he queries.

  ‘Uh huh.’ I wriggle. ‘Quite nice.’

  Arching over me, he begins to skim his mouth across my flesh, every last inch of it. His lips leave a trail of tingles in their wake. I light up again under his touch, pulling at the bindings, wanting nothing more than to feel him now. But he’s got me exactly where he wants me. I’ll just have to wait. He pauses, raises his head and smiles at me. And then he leans back in, running his nose along my s
ternum, licking me here and there, sucking gently, tasting my sweat.

  ‘You do know this is my favourite hobby?’ he asks.

  ‘Not knitting?’

  He laughs.

  ‘No. Not knitting. Not any more. Driving you insane with pleasure.’

  ‘I’m already there.’

  My insides are sparking still, every single muscle twitching. I’m filled with an all-consuming calm. I close my eyes, drifting away … and he’s moving again. Suddenly, he thrusts his fingers back into my vagina, swirling them round before withdrawing them, quickly. I open my eyes to find him arched over me.

  ‘Taste this.’

  I open my mouth and accept the fingers, sucking greedily at them.

  ‘A good chef tastes the dish as he goes along. I’d say you’re pretty much ready.’

  He removes the fingers and nudges my legs further apart. Never breaking eye contact, he lowers himself on top of me, steadying himself on his right arm and sliding his left hand under my buttocks. He nudges his cock against my vagina, once, twice, before he probes inwards, filling me completely. Slowly, he withdraws and drives in again, adjusting his position, sending spasms right to my core, a warning that I’m not going to last long. And then, buried deep inside, he comes to a halt. I can feel him keenly now, every tiny movement as he grinds his crotch against mine. At last, he begins to thrust, keeping to a steady, unhurried rhythm, prolonging the pleasure for both of us. A wave of energy gathers force in my muscles and I arch my back away from the bed, eager to be as close to him as possible.

  ‘I love you, Maya,’ he whispers, his breathing ragged. ‘Stay with me.’

  He withdraws to the edge, and confusion skitters through my brain. I have no idea why he’s saying this now.

  ‘Why would I leave?’

  ‘Because I don’t deserve you.’

  He drives in again. The wave swells.

  ‘Don’t ever say that. Of course you do.’

  I struggle against the bindings. Dear God, I want to hold him, I want to hold him so tight, I want to squeeze my love into him and reassure him I mean every word. I open my mouth to tell him I love him, but I get no chance. My breath’s knocked straight out of my lungs as he increases the power and the tempo. Again and again, he withdraws and thrusts, his left hand tightening at my back, the other moving beneath my shoulders and securing me in its grip. He pounds into me, slamming against the back of my vagina, relentlessly, holding me in his gaze as I groan and gasp with each punishing movement. Before long, the pressure builds inside. I’m on the verge of losing it when his pupils dilate and his breathing comes apart. He thrusts harder than ever, finally emptying himself inside me.

  ‘Fuck, Maya. Fuck!’

  Flickers of pure pleasure fire through my groin. I come again, shaking violently in his grip while he collapses on top of me, pinning me down with his weight. Neither of us moves. He makes absolutely sure of that. Instead, we lie locked together, perfectly still, soaking up the after-shocks. He digs his head into my neck, his favourite place, taking time to regain control before he pulls out of me, raising himself to his knees and unfastening the stockings. I watch him move above me, captivated by the power of his body, his gorgeous face, those bright blue, copper-flecked eyes. Right now, I’m the luckiest woman on this planet, and I don’t care what all the other lucky women think. I’m right, and that’s that.

  When he’s done, he rolls onto his back, beckoning for me to join him, and I cuddle against his chest, loving the feel of his arms around me. This is my own personal space, my sanctuary, and I know it so well: the smell, the contours, the warmth of his skin. Drifting off into post-coital haze, I smile to myself, happy in the knowledge that everything’s perfect, only half aware of something a little strange.

  He’s shaking.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I wake up, he’s gone. Half-convinced it was all a dream, I roll over and smooth a hand across his side of the bed, reassured by the crumpled pillow next to mine, his scent lingering on the sheets. And then I see the chair, my stockings strewn across the back of it, more evidence that last night was no dream at all. Every moment was real. And true to his word, he made a meal of it. After resting for a while, he used the stockings again, tying my hands behind my back and ordering me onto my knees for an amuse bouche which I willingly delivered. And that was nowhere near the end of it. Back on the bed, he bound my wrists to my ankles and took me to the edge of insanity … over and over again.

  I look out of the window. The sky’s threatening more snow. But what does it matter? I’m cocooned in this apartment with the man I love, and the outside world can’t touch me.

  Utterly contented, I stretch out on the cotton sheets and yawn. And then I rest a palm on my stomach, remembering the risk I took last night, an idiotic risk. If Dan’s sperm are in as much of a rush as the rest of him, I could easily be pregnant by now. And seeing as I acted without his consent, I need to deal with the possible consequences as quickly as I can. But for the time being, I’m going to brush my worries under the super expensive rugs and enjoy every second of this reunion. Rising from the bed, I head into the bathroom, sort out my tousled hair, rinse my face and brush my teeth, using the only brush I can find, probably Dan’s. Back in the bedroom, I pull on his shirt from last night. And then I go in search of him.

  As soon as I enter the sitting room, my senses are ambushed by a marauding army of roses. I blink, shake my head and scan the room. They’re everywhere, organised in a range of antique vases: a variety of colours – reds, pinks, white, yellow – filling the air with a sweet fragrance. And there’s music too, just loud enough for me to be able make out the song, and it’s one of my favourites.

  I’d be swooning over his romantic gesture, if there weren’t currently a voice grumbling at the back of my head, demanding to know why he’s chosen roses. Deciding there must be a damn good reason, I focus in on him. Dressed in a black T-shirt and sweat pants, he’s standing by the window, his back to me, gazing out over Central Park. I cross the room. As soon as I’m within touching distance, he turns, smiles and opens his arms.

  I step right into them.

  ‘About time you got up. I’ve had this song on repeat for the last half an hour. ‘New York Morning’.’

  ‘Elbow. My favourite. You remembered.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pulling back, he touches the end of my nose. ‘But just for the record, I still prefer arse.’

  Holding each other, we spend a minute or two listening to the song. And while the words spiral through my head, I reach up and urge him in for a long, lazy kiss, digging a hand into his mop of hair, holding him firm, never wanting to let go. But when the song comes to an end, it’s time to come back to reality. Releasing him, I watch as he retrieves a remote control from his pocket, aims it at a cabinet and presses a button.

  ‘It’s a great song, Maya.’ He tosses the remote onto a sofa. ‘But I can’t listen to it again.’

  Now the room’s silent, my attention returns to the flowers.

  He notices.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Seriously? After tracking my every movement for the past few weeks, I’m surprised he needs to ask.

  ‘Roses,’ I say glumly, and even though I don’t want to poison the moment, I have no choice. ‘Boyd sent me roses. Lots of them.’

  ‘I know.’ He runs a hand down my arm. ‘I wanted to stop it, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So why …’

  ‘Why have I filled the penthouse suite of a hotel with them?’

  I nod.

  ‘Because I got a good deal.’

  ‘Dan.’ I prod him lightly.

  ‘Okay.’ He tips his head forward. ‘Because they’re the classic flower of love and romance … from me to you.’

  Floundering in confusion, I wander round the room, taking in the floral chaos. Roses belong to Boyd, and Dan knows that. If he wanted me to melt in his arms with no discussion, then he should have sourced a vanload of sweet peas … no
t roses.

  ‘Why should he own them?’ he presses on, as if he’s heard my thoughts. ‘Why should a rose make you think of that piece of shit?’

  His hands come to my shoulders. He pivots me round to face him, cupping my cheeks in his palms.

  ‘I’m taking control, taking them back, making them ours,’ he explains, deadly serious now. ‘I don’t want you thinking of him when you see a rose. It’s not fair on the roses.’ He keeps my face in his hands, his eyes piercing me right to the soul. ‘I want you thinking of this, of you and me, of how much we love each other.’

  My lungs have gone again, the sheer weight of his love causing them to malfunction on a grand scale. I can barely breathe. But he’s completely right, and I’m a fool for thinking he was being ignorant. We need to reclaim the roses.

  ‘Are you okay with that?’ he asks. ‘Because if you’re not, they’ll go straight out of the window.’

  Wrestling my lungs back under control, I spend a moment entertaining a delicious image: the unsuspecting, well-heeled people of the Upper East Side showered by roses from a hotel window. I can’t help but smile.

  ‘I’m alright with that,’ I confirm.

  ‘Good. Time for breakfast then.’

  He motions to the dining table. Over by the window, it’s been laid out ready with delicate china, expensive cutlery, a teapot, a coffee pot and a sprinkling of roses. At the centre of it all, a silver platter glimmers in the morning light, the domed lid still in place.

  ‘I hope you didn’t use room service. You’re not supposed to be here.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Gordon’s family own this hotel. He fixed up all the meals. They’re being left in the lobby. When we’re done, we leave the dishes out there to be collected. I’m flying under the radar.’