She comes undone at that move. Goes completely fucking wild. Wriggling, and bouncing, her fingernails digging into my shoulder. And still… Jordan’s mouth is there on mine. His tongue pushing against me. Pushing inside me.
I come first. Jordan moans, fisting my hair as he turns his head aside and bites her shoulder. He comes next, his hot semen mixing with mine.
And then Nadia just… loses it. She goes limp, falling back into Jordan, making him crash back into the bed pillows. My cock slips out and I watch the milky-white cream of our desire leak through the lips of her pussy. I push my fingers inside her, coating them with slickness, and pump them until she’s screaming my name. Screaming Jordan’s name.
I take them out, slide up the bed until I’m on top of them both, my cock still hard, my hips still grinding against Jordan’s, and stick my fingers in her mouth.
“This is what submission means, Nadia. Total surrender to everything you ever thought was forbidden. Welcome to my world.”
She licks me, sucks my fingers, her tongue playing with them inside her mouth. Keeps her eyes closed.
And then I fall off to the side, utterly satisfied and spent. Jordan’s hand reaching for me. For us.
It’s real, I think, lying there in the midst of heavy breathing and complete exhaustion.
This is fucking real.
Chapter Eighteen - Nadia
When I wake up I’m alone in bed.
I turn over, my body aching badly. But I ignore it. I’m so used to it.
“Jordan?” I whisper to the empty room. My eyes are still adjusting to the light when I shift my gaze over to the clock on the side table. Four thirty-seven. Jesus Christ, I slept all day.
I can hear banging in other parts of the apartment.
I’m at Turning Point Club, I remind myself. Bric’s apartment.
There’s food in the air and my stomach rumbles from the emptiness. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed and all the memories of last night come rushing back with the blood to my head. Which makes me dizzy.
What a crazy night.
But I smile. Because I liked it. It wasn’t anything like I imagined, and yet… it’s everything I’ve come to expect from this crazy world Jordan has pulled me into.
I wander over to the closet to look for clothes. It’s a huge closet filled with suits. Black, charcoal gray, blue. And a whole rack of crisp shirts. His ties are all hung on a long rack and each pair of shoes has a home in a cubby.
Elias Bricman is a neat freak.
I feel the sleeves of the shirts, choose a white one, and slip it off the hanger. It’s cool and soft against my skin and my fingers find a small embroidered monogram on the stiffly starched cuff.
TPC.
Turning Point Club. So not his initials.
Why, I wonder? Why would he have that monogrammed on his shirt? It’s like this is his uniform. I wonder what he wears when he’s not in uniform?
And then I wonder why I care. He’s not the reason I’m playing this game. Jordan is. He’s the one who brought me in. He’s the one I trust. Bric is just another player as far as I’m concerned.
And last night… God. It was fun, but now all the feelings I had when I realized what they’d done—the mind fuck—the emotions come back to me.
I felt really stupid last night.
But then they were nice, weren’t they? They took care of me. Aftercare, Jordan said. Tie me to the bed if I tried to leave before they were done.
That was unexpected. Not something I have participated in before. Not like that, anyway. Jordan doesn’t push me that hard when we’re together. He doesn’t really fuck with my head. Yes, we have our little game-playing moments. I resist, he punishes me, I give in, repeat. But last night was something very, very different.
I don’t bother buttoning the shirt, just let it hang open as I back out of the closet and walk to the door. I listen for a moment. More sounds of cooking. The aroma more pronounced. My hunger gets the better of me until I open the door and walk out into the long hallway that leads to the main room.
The dark hardwood floors are cool against my bare feet and I can hear music now too. Classical music. Music I recognize and love. In fact, this song he’s playing was a warm-up song for my class last week.
I can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow. Teaching the kids is fun for a little bit, but I’m definitely ready to get back into my routine. Long days, long hours, hard training.
The living room has obviously been professionally decorated for a bachelor. Everything is monochromatic gray, black, white. The couch and chairs are all dark gray leather with silver nail-head trim, the coffee table is a brushed stainless-steel rectangle, and the lamps on the coordinating end tables are chrome.
Sexy, I guess. For a man’s place.
“Hey,” Bric says.
I look up and find him in the kitchen holding a spatula. He’s wearing an apron that has a buffed-out cartoon man screen-printed on the front.
“Hey yourself,” I say. “What’s going on out here?” When he turns his back to me I can’t stop the snicker. “What the hell are you wearing?”
He looks over his shoulder and winks, then goes back to hovering over the stove. What he’s wearing is that apron and nothing else. His tight ass is clearly visible and accented by the apron strings fluttering against his butt cheeks as he moves.
“Like it?” he asks, pushing some bacon around on the griddle.
“Yes,” I say, walking up to the island and taking a seat on the stool. “I do, actually. But your body is much nicer than that cartoon on the front.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “But it makes you appreciate me more, right?”
Elias Bricman. Officially an enigma.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask.
“Breakfast. I had breakfast in mind when I planned last night and I’m kinda set in my ways, so we’re having bacon, eggs, and pancakes.”
I think about that for a moment. Last night, specifically.
“Did you have fun?” he asks.
I admit nothing. Still thinking.
“We did. I talked to Jordan. He left early to get some work done on that big case. But he said to tell you he’ll be around this week when he has a chance.”
“OK,” I say.
Bric grabs plates from the cupboard and starts piling food on them. His kitchen is very nice. Gourmet chef kinda nice, with one of those elaborate range hoods made out of glass and stainless steel instead of a microwave that doubles as a vent. His counters are almost black, with thin white veins running through them. Soapstone, I figure. The cabinets are all black too, but the sink is white and deep and the appliances are industrial high-end stainless steel.
“Here,” he says, sliding a plate in front of me. “I’ll have the toast in a second.”
On cue, it pops up in the toaster. I watch the muscles move in Bric’s back as he butters the pieces, cuts them diagonally into triangles, and then turns and drops two on my plate. “Eat up,” he says. “You can’t leave until you eat.”
I pick up a piece of toast and dip the corner into my sunny-side-up egg. I cannot remember the last time I had eggs and toast and that first bite is heaven. “So we’re still playing?” I ask, needing clarification.
“The date’s not over until I take you home, Nadia.”