Those cold eyes soften by a small degree. “So are you.”
It’s strange to be talking about any of this while I’m naked from the waist up, while he can see my breasts—even if he’s mostly been looking directly into my eyes, as if he can see deep inside, as if he’s uncovering my secrets brick by brick. Even after all the time I’ve spent naked, being exposed, I’m still not comfortable this way.
“They always think I’m strong,” I tell him, lumping him in with every client, every man. “I’m not like Honey was, or even Candy now. Men come to me because they know they can be rough with me and I won’t break.”
The words hang in the air between us, a challenge I didn’t mean to make.
His lids lower. “No, you won’t.”
My breath catches at the promise in his voice. Mine comes out as a whisper. “I’m doing everything you ask me to.”
Sometimes I don’t know why I’m doing that, but the fact is that I am. And this is a form of asking for mercy, of placing myself in his keeping.
His gaze flickers to my breasts. “Yes, I think you’ve been very obedient. You’ve been sweet, even. That’s what I thought about you all those years ago. Did you know that?” He laughs. “That you were sweet.”
A current of shame runs over my skin, making goose bumps appear over the hills of my breasts, turning my nipples into tight buds. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Enough.” His eyes are ice now, a dark lake solid all the way down. “You’re doing everything I say? Then get on the table. We’re done eating. It’s time for dessert.”
Chapter Fourteen
There’s no room on the table. That’s the excuse I tell myself as I stand very still, staring at the plates and the candles and the strips of dark wood where he wants me to sit.
“Go on,” he says, the spider to the fly.
My stripper persona has deserted me now. Lola is nowhere to be found. I’m almost Hannah now. I don’t know how he’s stripped me down this quickly. A little kindness, a faux date, and suddenly I’m reduced to the girl who’s scared and naked and turned on when she shouldn’t be.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Do you need me to help?” he asks almost gently.
It’s his hands I focus on, the way they clasp the back of his chair, how large and strong they are. Something about them makes me feel secure, even knowing how much they can hurt me. Even knowing how much they will.
A jerk of my head. Yes.
I need his help with so much more than this task. I need him to forgive me, to redeem me. I need him to hurt me at the same time as I fear it. That’s why I’m here—as much for me as for him. I shake with wanting it, with needing him, with longing for release.
I watch his hands clear the table, steady and competent. Gentle enough on fine china not to break it. Hard as iron when he turns them into fists. He even takes a dish towel and runs it over the wood, leaving a shine in its place.
“How do you want me?” I ask.
“On your back.”
My throat feels tight when I swallow. On my back is how he wants me. It’s the only way he wants me. So why shouldn’t I give it to him? Why shouldn’t I be what he wants? It feels good, even twisted and perverted and wrong.
I push the skirt down my waist. My panties follow.
Lola would have a sexy striptease. Hannah can only shove them rough and fast, keeping her eyes averted from his. He’s seen all of Lola’s moves anyway. He’s never seen this.
I stumble and almost fall onto the table. He doesn’t catch me. Just watches, arms folded, muscles straining at his T-shirt, jaw set in hard square lines. Then I’m awkwardly sitting on the table, legs dangling off, feet not touching the ground. Small like a child.
The only sign that I’m not is the bulge in his pants.
He steps close and runs his hands along the outsides of my thighs, so light my skin pebbles. “Lie back,” he says softly.
And I do.
The table is cool against my back, smooth and hard. His hands are hot on my thighs as he spreads them wide. Air rushes over my tender flesh, making my private muscles clench. A small sound of protest escapes me. “What are you—”
“Shh,” he says, his large hands smoothing over my inner thighs. “This part isn’t going to hurt.”
His eyes hold a promise, and I know what he means to do. Heat pulses in my clit, anticipating what’s to come. At the same time, I’m afraid. Being pleasured by him is almost scarier than being hurt, like the dinner and candles in the form of sex. Being licked by him might damn near kill me.
He doesn’t lick me—not at first. His head dips low, just his warm breath kissing my skin. I try to hold myself still, to let him direct me. I don’t want to be eager, not for the pleasure I don’t deserve. Not for the pleasure that will only draw me closer to him, bind me harder. But my body shakes, almost vibrates with tension and arousal, like a tuning fork humming his song.
“Blue,” I whisper.