As strong as my desire for her is, I will control it with my dying breath and all that I am. I will remain in charge of this.
* * *
He walks into the bar, just as he has three or four times a week for the nine or so weeks I’ve worked here. But this is different.
Tonight, when Michael Brophy strides into O’Leary’s, it’s the first time since we slept together and my body has some kind of strange primal reaction to him.
It’s been five nights since then, five unbearably long, lonely nights, and the sight of him in a suit, looking as he always has but different somehow, makes my body hum and vibrate.
The bar is packed with the usual after-work crowd but he looks towards me and then at me, and I stand completely still, trapped by his gaze, by the heat that floods from him to me. His smile is slow and changes his face. His eyes crinkle at the corners. Pleasure curls my toes. He cuts through people with ease but, before he reaches the bar, he’s stopped by a woman with raven-black hair and cherry-red lipstick. I watch for a moment as her hand reaches out, curving possessively over his arm, her fingernails matching her lips as they press into his suit jacket. Her smile is intimate; he angles his towards her.
I look away; my own smile has dropped slightly, but I ignore the possessive thrust of pain in my side. He’s not mine. I don’t want him to be. He’s just a guy I slept with. A guy who’s teaching me what my body is capable of. As I remember the way he drove me to orgasm, my stomach clenches and I feel heat between my legs. Desire slicks my insides and the beating of a drum begins to sound, desperate and repetitive, needing indulgence again.
I purposely don’t go straight to Michael. I serve someone else first, then someone else, and then make my way to him.
‘Hi.’ My smile unfurls on its own.
He returns it. ‘Hi yourself.’
‘Your usual?’
‘You remember?’ he teases. I nod slowly. I remember everything about him.
I turn around, reaching for the most expensive whiskey bottle in the place, pulling it down with the tips of my fingers. When I spin around to grab a glass from the bar, his eyes are glued to my midriff and I realise the shirt has lifted. I make no effort to straighten it. What can I say? The trance-like stare is addictive and flattering. I pour his drink, then an iced water, and lift them onto the bar.
He slides a crisp hundred euro note from his wallet and tosses it on the bar top. I’ve never known anyone to be so nonchalant with big amounts of cash. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to carry so much cash.
I take the money, moving to a register and entering the transaction. When I return with his change, he’s gone. My eyes seek him out hungrily, and without success. He must be deeper in the catacombs, like he was the night I propositioned him, just out of sight of the bar.
I slide his cash onto a tray and put it behind me. I’ll take it to him as soon as things die down. Only it takes almost half an hour before things ease up. I signal one of the other bartenders that I’m leaving my spot and grab his change, weaving through the patrons without making eye contact. He’s sitting on his own—something a little like relief charges me, and I don’t realise until that moment that I had half expected Snow White to be with him. His back is to me so I have a moment to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders, the determination of his neck, the way his hair is thick enough to run my fingers through. My pulse snaps.
‘You forgot this.’ I place his change tray on the table and, faster than lightning, his hand snakes out and his fingers curve around my wrist. My chest bursts and I am frozen still, unable to move, to think, to say or do anything.
‘How are you?’
The question isn’t intense, only the effect of it is, for some reason. But he’s watching me as though the words I will speak mean the salvation of the earth.
‘I’m fine,’ I reassure him, smiling brightly. ‘You?’
He nods crisply. Relieved? Did he think I’d have regrets? After how good that was?
‘How’s work?’
‘Good. I won a case today.’ His eyes glitter with ruthless determination and I shiver, grateful in that moment that I haven’t found myself in opposition to this man. I fear he would be a formidable opponent.
‘Congratulations.’
His smile is just a shift of his features, a brief baring of his teeth. ‘Thanks.’
I swallow, his touch and closeness making me want to go back to his place, to get back in his bed.
‘What did your client do?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, his expression shifting slightly. ‘He’s an innocent man.’
I frown, wondering then if that’s true or not. But he runs his fingertips over my wrist, looking at me with an intensity that pushes all thoughts of crime and punishment from my mind.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’
‘I...’ Pleasure makes the word sound weak; regret quickly follows. ‘I’m working.’
‘Can you get the time off?’
I consider it, torn between acquiescing to this and feeling some inherent danger at the suggestion—to the idea I might rearrange my schedule at his request.
‘I thought you were here to see the world,’ he reminds me, scanning my face thoughtfully.
‘I am.’ Temptation draws me.
‘So? Fancy seeing some of it with me?’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve got tickets to the ballet.’
‘The ballet?’ I laugh, I can’t help it. ‘You?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Um.’ I pull a face. ‘Let’s just say you seem like someone who’d be more au fait with a pool cue than a pirouette.’
He laughs. ‘True. But I think you’d enjoy it.’ He stands up, throwing his Scotch back. ‘Besides, you’re all about new experiences, and the opening night of the Manhattan Ballet Guild’s production of Swan Lake ticks that box.’
‘Are they touring? I haven’t heard anything.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
He places his Scotch glass down, his meaning becoming clearer.
‘Michael Brophy, are you asking me to go to New York with you?’
His eyes don’t waver from mine. ‘Yes.’
My throat is thick. Pleasure is unfurling inside me. New York is one of those places I’ve always, always dreamed of visiting. Mentally, I’d catalogued it into the ‘too hard’ basket. This trip, this time, is about Europe. Some time in my future I planned to tick New York off the bucket list.
And now this veritable sex god is offering me a chance to go there, and to see it with him?
‘Unless you’d rather work?’
I look towards the bar with a tiny shred of guilt, but it’s quickly consumed by my smile.
‘Between work and New York, I think that’s a pretty easy decision. Oh, and you, I suppose.’
‘I’m glad I factor in there somewhere.’ His grin is like sex as an expression. My gut pulls. And then he’s serious, in charge, sensible. ‘I’ll send a car for you at four on Friday.’
His authority is like a whip; the ease with which he wields it is something about him I store in my brain for later analysis. He turns to go and every cell in my body screams out in rejection of that.
‘You’re leaving?’ I hear myself ask in disbelief.
He turns to face me. ‘Is there a reason I should stay?’
Is there? ‘It’s Wednesday.’
He lifts a brow, looking at me, waiting for me to elaborate. Damn it all to hell, I want him too much to care about my pride.
‘Friday’s two nights away.’
His laugh is low and throaty, and quick to die. He takes a step towards me, then another, so our bodies touch, and he curves a hand around my cheek, lifting my face to his.
‘So it is, Millie.’
> His kiss is hard, his lips crushing mine, so pleasure splinters inside me, thundering through my body, robbing me of all sense. I lift my hand to his shirt, curling it in the fabric I find there and a low, soft moan is trapped in my throat.
It is the work of an instant; he raises his head again, pierces me with those intelligent, inquisitive eyes of his. ‘Is that a problem?’
Heat pools between my legs. ‘You’d better believe it’s a problem.’ My breath is coming thick and fast. ‘I finish at ten. You should be waiting for me...’
There’s something in his eyes—determination or resistance, a struggle I don’t understand. And then he grins, his lips lopsided, and my stomach rolls and flips and flops.
‘Or what?’ He lifts a finger to the corner of my mouth, tracing my lower lip, his eyes following the gesture.
‘Or I’ll think of a very creative way to make you pay.’
His laugh is from deep in his chest. ‘Come over when you’re done.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. It’s only once he’s left that I realise it’s the key to his apartment.
I can’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT’S PITCH-BLACK WHEN I get to his apartment a few hours later, save for a soft glow coming from the elegant lounge area.
‘Hello?’
‘In here.’ His voice is raspy and deep, and it occurs to me that there’s a hypnotic quality about him. Maybe that’s how he got to be so good at his job? Don’t even try to lie if you’re in the witness box—he’ll magic the truth out of you.
I follow its direction towards the bedroom, my tummy in knots the closer I get. I wore my hair up for the shift at the bar but I pulled it out on the way over here and now I run my fingers through it, pulling it over one shoulder, loosening out the waves.
I push the door inwards—it’s dark here too, except for one flickering candle.
But it’s enough. Enough to see Michael Brophy is wearing just a pair of low-slung jeans, his slender waist and muscled chest ridged in the soft lighting.
I drop my handbag to the floor, just inside the door, but stay where I am.
‘Do you want to take a shower?’
My heart turns over.
‘Or have something to eat?’
I smile. His thoughtfulness is unexpected. ‘Nope.’
I see a grin flash across his features. He dips his head forward and when he lifts it to look at me again, his expression is serious, his face half shadowed. ‘Take your clothes off.’
I arch a brow. ‘Straight to the point, huh?’
He nods. ‘I thought you wanted me waiting for you?’
He’s right. Watching him, feeling the heat of his gaze on my body, I strip my shirt off first, discarding it carelessly. My jeans are next, so I’m standing before him in just my underwear. ‘Top or bottom?’ I ask huskily, just like when we played strip pool.
‘Both, immediately.’ His smile flashes again and my stomach squeezes.
‘I’m not a contortionist,’ I tease, unhooking my bra and bending down to strip my underpants at almost the same time.
‘You did very well then,’ he growls, his eyes roaming my body hungrily. Looking. Looking with such intensity it almost feels like touching.
‘Come here.’ There’s gravel in his voice. Gravel and flame.
I pad across his bedroom, the carpet thick and luxurious underfoot.
Right before him, and he still doesn’t touch me. ‘You want to learn about sex?’
I nod slowly, my eyes latched onto his. My lips part; I ache to kiss him.
‘And do you trust me?’
I nod again, because I do. I couldn’t have chosen a better partner for my first time. Times. Okay, this is more than I expected but that’s okay because, having slept with him once, I feel like I’ve untapped a well and I need to keep drinking from it.
‘Why?’
He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a piece of fabric. ‘Because I’m going to blindfold you and cuff you to my bed,’ he says quietly, his eyes watching me for any hint of reaction.
Fuck.
Heat pools between my legs. I’m practically coming with the image alone.
‘And I’m going to touch you, and taste you, and torment you with how much you want me. And then I’m going to fuck you.’
I make some kind of indistinguishable noise, my knees threatening to buckle.
‘Yes?’
He’s waiting for me to answer, but my tongue is thick in my mouth.
‘I need you to say yes to this,’ he drawls, the teasing glint in his eyes showing he knows why I can’t speak, and that it has nothing to do with a lack of consent and agreement.
‘Yes. A thousand times yes, maestro.’ I laugh. ‘I really did pick my teacher wisely, didn’t I?’
His smile flickers across his face. But, before he lifts the fabric over my eyes, I see a case behind him, on the tall chest of drawers across the room. Handcuffs.
And not just handcuffs.
Shooting him a look of curiosity, I move closer and my blood gushes so loudly I can hear it in my ears like a raging torrent.
The box is small, a shining black, highly sheened dark wood. The handcuffs are most prominent against the burgundy velvet base. But there are other things too. I reach for one.
A leather braid, with tassels at the end. A whip, I’m certain of it. I run my fingers over the strands, my pulse hammering harder.
I place it beside the box, then reach for something else. Something smaller.
It’s a gem on one side, like an enormous diamond —surely it’s not, though?—and on the other there’s an arrow, about half the size of my thumb. I run my finger over it uncertainly. ‘What’s this?’
His smile shows amusement. ‘You really want to know?’
I nod slowly. He closes the distance between us, reaching out and taking it from me.
‘It’s a butt plug.’
I don’t know how to react to that.
I mean, I’ve heard of them, obviously. But I’d never imagined it would be so...cute. And pretty. I arch a brow, pretending I’m not already imagining him wanting to use that on me, pretending I’m totally au fait with all of this when we both know otherwise. But then I laugh, a shaky laugh. ‘And?’
He grins. ‘Not for you. Not for tonight.’
It’s funny, the surge of disappointment inside me. ‘You don’t think I’m butt plug material?’
‘Do you think you are?’
I look at it again; my insides fire. ‘I...am all about new experiences,’ I say simply.
He smiles lopsidedly and kisses the tip of my nose. ‘Turn around.’
I spin away from him, a smile on my lips as he secures the fabric over my eyes. Everything is absolutely black now. I stand there, waiting, uncertain, shaking a little. A minute later music fills the room. Soft music. I think it’s French rap, but it’s quiet and compelling with a heavy bass undertone that’s really hot.
I feel like I’m in a movie. A dirty one—not that I’ve ever watched one of those but I imagine they must be something like this.
‘Well?’ I ask huskily, the word breathing into the room.
Nothing.
I bite down on my lip, impatience unbearable. ‘I hope you’re not going to keep me waiting, Michael...’
* * *
I stare at her, glued to where I’m standing, taking a mental picture, committing this to memory.
She looks...like an angel. An angel who’s begged me to teach her about sex. Who wants to be fucked by me. Who wants anything I give her.
I’m still hard from her butt plug comment. Hell, I’m still hard from the other night. I bought this little box of sexual tricks with Millie in mind, but I told myself we’d wait until New York. I told myself I’d wait to make sure she was up for it.
And the box came with the butt plug, and the whip—I didn’t specifically buy them thinking we’d use them.
And yet here she is, blindfolded in my bedroom, her body covered in goosebumps, her full, cherry-red lips parted expectantly.
Hell.
‘Michael?’
Jesus. Stop standing here like a statue and do something with the gorgeous woman who’s naked in your room.
I move forward, reaching for the whip, smiling as I lift it to her shoulder and drape it lightly over her skin. She shivers, sucks in a breath. I stare at her lips, knowing I’ll kiss them. Soon. But right now it’s light. Light touch, phantom-like. I move the whip lower, over her breast, the leather tassels separating across her engorged nipples. She whimpers, grinds her hips. I know if I put my hand between her legs she’d be hot and wet. I fight an impulse to do exactly that, drawing the whip to the other breast, swirling the leather over her nipple, so lightly she whimpers.
‘Please.’
‘Please what?’
‘Do it,’ she whispers, the words thick. ‘Use it.’
My fingers curve around the whip, but I continue running it lightly down her body, slowly, gently, until she’s trembling all over.
‘Please.’
‘No.’
I’ve never hit a woman. It’s a hard line for me. I get the difference between sexual play and all-out abuse, but it’s not a line I can easily cross—given my experiences, that’s a no-brainer. Handcuffs though, I laugh to myself. That I apparently have no problems with.
I place the whip aside, grabbing the restraints. I stand behind her a moment, enjoying the view of her naked body, and then I clip one bracelet around her wrist. She shivers. I smile.
I lace my fingers through her hand, pulling her towards the bed. She steps with me, her breath held. At the foot of the bed, I bring her hands to the corner bedpost. ‘Hold on,’ I say, linking the handcuffs around the pole, clicking it to her wrist. ‘Step backwards.’
In order to do so, she has to bend forward at the waist.
His Innocent Seduction Page 6
