Lovegame(28)

Then, before he has a chance to say anything in response, I turn my back on him and saunter back across the kitchen as slowly and sexily as my still-shaking knees will allow. As I do, I wait for him to say something—to voice an objection. In the old movies, the men almost always voice an objection.

But Ian doesn’t say a thing. If it weren’t for the prickling of the fine hairs at the nape of my neck, I wouldn’t have a clue that he was even watching me walk away.

But the hairs are standing on end, and a shiver is working its way down my spine. So I put just a little bit extra into the show, making certain that my hair is brushing back and forth against my back and that my hips are swinging just the right amount.

I tell myself it’s because of the orgasms—that he deserves a good show. And if that’s not the whole truth, then no one needs to know. Not even me.

I almost make it to the door, am so close that I can almost taste the freedom. But then Ian’s grabbing my wrist. Yanking me backward. Yanking me around, so that my body is flush against his and he is all around me.

His hand is in my hair, his cock hard against my abdomen. And his mouth—his mouth is dark and hard and ravenous against my own.

There is no gentle seduction this time, no coaxing licks along my bottom lip or the corners of my mouth. No, this is a full-on sensory assault, a campaign meant to shock and awe…and devastate. And it works. My God, does it work.

I put my hands on his shoulders, meaning to fight him, to push him away. But the moment his tongue tangles with mine—the moment his fingers pull at my hair—I am lost. Drowning in sensation.

Drowning in him.

He pulls my lip between his teeth, bites down hard enough to have me crying out. That doesn’t stop him, though—but why would it, when I’m clutching at his shoulders, trembling against him, pulling him as close as I can get.

He feels so good, this feels so good, that for a moment I think about going another round. Think about hopping up on the counter and letting him f*ck me one more time. Or, even better, dropping to my knees in front of him and taking him down my throat. Only the knowledge that doing so would be about supplication instead of control—surrender instead of dominance—keeps me on my feet.

Well, that and the fingers twisted tightly in my hair, the hand pressed solidly against my lower back. He is very definitely in control right now and he wants to make sure that I know it. More, that I remember it.

The knowledge makes me wet all over again and that—more than anything else—has fear slamming through me. It’s only amplified by the need unfurling deep inside of me, arousal and terror a double-edged sword I am suddenly desperate to escape. Desperate to protect myself from.

It’s what finally gives me the strength to shove him back—and to fix a half-amused, half-bored smirk on my face. “Thanks, but going back for seconds isn’t really my style,” I tell him, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Maybe you shouldn’t bother with that shower before showing yourself out.”

His eyes spark at my words even as his face goes blank, and I take both as my cue to leave. Forgetting the grand exit, forgetting the desire to leave a certain impression, forgetting everything but a driving need for survival, I force myself to walk steadily toward the nearest exit.

The second I’m out of his sight, though, I drop the slow, unconcerned act and start to run—through the halls and up the long, winding staircase to the second floor. I don’t stop until I’m safe on the third floor, in the Picasso room Ian had admired earlier. Despite the entire wing I have on the second floor, it’s the only room in the house I actually claim as mine.

Once there, I close the door firmly but quietly behind me. Lock it. Then slump against it and try desperately to catch my breath. And to put the last hour and a half into some kind of perspective.

Except there is no perspective to be had, not about what happened in the kitchen and not about Ian Sharpe.

I want it to be light, want it to be superficial—just the mutual scratching of an itch. But there was nothing superficial about Ian’s hands on my body, nothing light about the way he held and kissed and spanked and f*cked me. And definitely nothing light, or superficial, about the way I let him.

The chill of the air-conditioning raises goosebumps on my skin and for the first time since I walked out of the kitchen it registers that I’m still naked. I walk to the closet with trembling legs, pull out the purple silk robe I keep here to wear when I’m getting ready for a party or some other public event that requires the use of this house. I shrug the robe on, tightly knot the sash. Then sink onto the perfectly made bed with the abstract, Picasso-esque duvet and try to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

It might be easier if I couldn’t still smell him on my skin, if I couldn’t still feel him in the tenderness between my thighs and the heat radiating from my well-spanked ass.

I still can’t believe he did that—still can’t believe I let him do that. I’ve spent my whole adult life determined to maintain control—over my career, over my relationships, over my body. I’ve worked so hard to make sure no man could ever wrest that control from me.

And now I just threw it all away. I turned control over to him like it was nothing, let him do whatever he wanted to me. And enjoyed every second of it.

I raise one trembling hand to my mouth. My lips are swollen, tender, and I probe at them gently, shocked at how sensitive they still are. I lick my tongue over them, suck my lower lip between my teeth and bite down gently in an effort to replace the feel of him. The taste of him.