Demand (Careless Whispers #2)(78)

I reach for it with a trembling hand and put it to my ear, standing and walking to the corner, listening to the silence. Kayden steps behind me, his hand at my waist. “Blake and I are going to step into the hallway. Talk as long as you like, but—”

“Less is more.”

He kisses my temple and walks away, the door closing behind them.

Another beat of silence follows, and then I hear Sara’s excited voice. “Ella!”

I start grinning and crying. “Yes! Yes, it’s me!”

“Oh my God. Oh my. God. Oh. My. God. Why can’t I stop saying ‘Oh my God’? Chris, it’s really her! I can’t believe it’s you, Ella!”

“Well, I had amnesia, so I wasn’t me for a while.”

“You’re in danger.”

“Yes, but I met a man and he’s amazing and—”

“Not David or Garner, right?”

“His name is Kayden. And I hear you have a sexy painter now. I saw his picture. He’s hot.”

“He’s so hot,” she says. “I’m so lucky. I wish you could have been at my wedding.”

“One day I’ll meet him, and you can meet Kayden. Tell me about him.”

“There’s so much I want to tell you about! About the storage unit, and Rebecca, the girl who owned it, and Chris—”

“I want to hear about Chris.”

She starts talking, and I talk, and we talk forever. Finally, though, it’s time to hang up. We say teary goodbyes, and I promise to call again. I break the phone open and pull out the chip inside, running it under water and then breaking it. And I know how to do that because I’m CIA. Or something that could mean I was after the necklace for my own reasons. And maybe I was investigating The Underground. Or Garner Neuville. Or both.

I walk to the door and open it, and the minute Kayden sees me he pulls me into his arms. “We are not enemies,” he says.

“But the CIA—”

“I have allies in every agency.” He cups my face. “And I’ve said it before and I will say it again. We choose if we are enemies.” He kisses me, and in that kiss there is demand. So much demand. And his demand is that I refuse to be his enemy.




To be continued in Surrender. . . .





Keep reading to see where it all started. The storage unit. The journal. Sara and Chris.

Start Sara's story with If I Were You—book one in the Inside Out series—now in development for TV with acclaimed producer Suzanne Todd (Alice in Wonderland).

If I Were You

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One




Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Dangerous.

For months I’ve had dreams and nightmares about how perfectly he personifies the word. Sleep-laden, alternate realities where I can vividly smell his musky male scent, feel his hard body against mine. Taste the sweet and sensuous flavor of him—like milk chocolate with its silky demand that I indulge in one more bite. And another. So good I’d forgotten there’s a price for overindulgence. And there is a price. There is always a price. I was reminded of this life lesson on Saturday night. And I know now, no matter what he says, no matter what he does, I cannot—will not—see him again.

It started out as any other erotic adventure with him. Unpredictable. Exciting. I barely remember where it all went wrong. How it took such a dark turn.

He’d ordered me to undress and sit on the mattress, against the headboard, my legs spread wide for his viewing. Naked before him, open to him, I was vulnerable and quivering with need. Never in my life had I taken orders from a man; most certainly I had never thought I would quiver with anything. But I did for him.

If Saturday night proved anything, it was that once I was with him, under his spell, he could demand anything of me, and I’d comply. He could push me to the edge, to unbelievable places I’d never thought I would go. Exactly why I can’t see him again. He makes me feel possessed, and what is so disconcerting about this feeling is that I like it. I can hardly wrap my mind around allowing such a thing, though I burn for it. But when I saw him standing at the end of the bed Saturday night, all broad and thick with sinewy muscle, his cock jutting forward, there was nothing but that need.

He was magnificent. Really, truly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. Instant lust exploded inside me. I wanted to feel him close to me, to feel him touch me. To touch him. But I know now not to touch him without his permission. And I know not to beg him to let me.

I’ve learned my lesson from past encounters. He enjoys the vulnerability of a plea far too much. Enjoys withholding his pleasures until I am nearly quaking with the burn of my body. Until I am liquid heat and tears. He likes that power over me. He likes full control. I should hate him. Sometimes, I think I love him.

It was the blindfold that should have warned me I was headed toward a place of no return. Thinking back, I believe it did. He tossed it on the bed, a dare, and instantly a shiver chased a path up and down my spine. The idea of not being able to see what was happening to me should have aroused me—it did arouse me. But for reasons I didn’t understand at the time, it also frightened me. I was scared and I hesitated.

This did not please him. He told me so, in that deep, rich, baritone voice that makes me quiver uncontrollably. The need to please him had been so compelling. I put on the blindfold.