Eventually, I drop my arms back to my sides, let my hair tumble back down. And because I can feel an answering response inside of me, a visceral connection between him and me that simply isn’t acceptable, I tell him, “I’ve got a date tonight, so I’m going to head upstairs to get ready. The bathroom around the corner is fully stocked—feel free to shower before you let yourself out.”
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 fuck 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 fucked me. And definitely nothing light, or superficial, about the way I let him.