Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(30)

“Touch yourself,” he said roughly.

I put one hand between my legs, cupping myself, more because it covered me than being in a rush to obey. I was shamefully wet, and he hadn’t even touched me. Was this normal? It didn’t feel normal. It felt wrong—and incredibly hot.

There was a light dusting of dark hair covering my mound. I kept myself trimmed but not bare. I imagined that the women he’d been with had fancy Brazilian waxes.

“Touch your clit,” he said. “Circle it with your finger until it’s good and hard. Imagine it’s my tongue. Because believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now than tasting you.”

Oh. His dirty words alleviated some of my fears about my body. Although if there was nothing he would rather be doing, then why wasn’t he…

He laughed silently. “Impatient, aren’t you? And demanding. I can’t wait to see that side of you. I can’t wait to get you worked up and begging me. But for now I’m not going to touch you. Not with my tongue. Not with my hands. I’m only going to watch.”

My forefinger slicked over my clit, and my whole body shuddered where I stood. I drew the circles just like he said, imagining it was his finger, his tongue. That was all it took, and my body hovered at the precipice, ready to go over. My hips rocked into my hand, begging silently for release.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Already? I knew you’d be hot, but this is f*cking incredible. I could make you come five times with just my hand, and then another five with my mouth. You’d be begging me to stop, wouldn’t you?”

My mouth opened on a silent cry. Oh God. “Please, please.”

I was begging, but he didn’t stop. “Your body would feel raw, too sensitive, but I’d keep touching you, keep probing you, keep f*cking you everywhere—and you couldn’t stop me. Your hands would be tied up. Maybe I’d have something in your mouth. My tie? Your panties? Your voice would be muffled. I’d have no idea what you were asking for, really. To stop or to keep going, so I’d just keep f*cking you until tears were streaming down those pretty cheeks.”

I was close to tears already, my body shaking, holding back the orgasm. He hadn’t said I had to wait for him, but I knew. It was instinctive, the way my body followed his lead.

“Stop,” he said softly. He sounded almost sympathetic. But firm. “Stop touching yourself.”

My eyes widened. No. He couldn’t make me. I couldn’t stop now. “I’m so close.”

“Now.” His voice cracked across me like a whip. “Don’t make me punish you this early. Hands by your side.”

It was almost a physical pain to obey him. My hands jerked to my side. My chest heaved with restraint.

He smiled, a little rueful. “Put your clothes on. Have dinner. We’re going out tonight. There’s someone who might have information we need.”

“You can’t just leave me like this.” My voice trembled. I had known he was cruel, but this was a new form of torture—a sensual ache so acute it felt like pain.

“You aren’t allowed to touch yourself.” He swept a hungry gaze over my naked body. “Actually, you are. You just aren’t allowed to make yourself come.”





Chapter Twenty-One

THE FIRST THING I noticed was the bass that seemed to reverberate from beneath the streets, shaking the car even while it was in motion. I felt each throb of the beat through my entire body, matching the pulse between my legs. My arousal hadn’t gone away since this afternoon. When Philip opened the door, I saw the true source of the sound—a club with a crowd of people clamoring outside.

There was no sign above a metal door, but I recognized the place. It was the place of my darkest memories, my nightmares. The Meat Market. The metal door opened, revealing a haze of smoke and flashing lights, before closing again. This was a shady underground club in a shady underground part of town.

Philip stepped out of the car. “Wait here.”

What? “Why bring me here if you’re going to make me wait in the car?”

I was still pissed off about earlier. Pissed off and painfully turned on.

He sent me a knowing look. “If I left you at the safe house, would you have stayed put?” Without waiting for an answer, he spoke to Adrian in the front seat. “Don’t let her leave.”

Then he shut the door.

“Really?” I said to no one in particular, falling back against the seat.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Adrian said. “He wants to keep you safe.”

I knew that, but all I heard was: he wants to keep you. Locked up. That was the only way he knew how to interact with people, his own personal form of caring. His brother, his lover, his sister—and one by one, they’d all broken the chains. I felt sympathy for Philip even while I understood why they left.

It hurt to be locked up, even in a warm leather interior that probably cost a fortune. It hurt to watch the world through tinted windows and droplets of rain. It hurt even worse for someone who had been held down, grabbed, groped—knowing this wasn’t all that different.

And some dark part of me wanted those chains. Family.

Across the street, the line of people persisted despite the drizzle, music and smoke bursting from the door at regular intervals.

I studied a group of girls in trendy halter tops and miniskirts. The door opened, releasing another spill of light and sound, admitting more people. A line remained, people shivering in skintight clothes and shielding their phones from the rain.