“Not can’t,” he amends. “I won’t lose you. Do you understand?” He doesn’t give me time to answer, or to let my fears that I will become his weakness take shape. Already he is kissing me, deeply, fiercely, kissing me and lifting me as he does. And even this, the way he holds me and I cannot hold him, not with my hands behind my head and my forearms taped. So I just savor the taste of him, of us together, and all we are here and now.
He settles me on the couch, my hands going to his chest as he comes down on top of me, lifting himself long enough to pull his shirt over his head, the sweet weight of his big, muscular body quickly returning to settle onto mine. “Lace your fingers behind your head again,” he orders, helping me move my hands to rest there. “I don’t want you to hurt your wrist. Keep them there.”
“Are you still making a point?”
“If you have to ask, I haven’t made it.”
“Is that point that you have control and we aren’t going to Paris?” I ask.
“No. That is not the point. At all. Now. Don’t move your hands.”
“And if I do?” I ask, challenging him to give me everything, to take everything including the memories I want to erase. To show me how he erases his. “Is this where you show me that dirty sex you say is your escape?”
“Is that what you want, or what you fear?”
“I’m not afraid of you, Kayden. Any part of you.”
“Good. Then you know this isn’t about control.”
“Then what is it about?”
He leans in, pressing his cheek to mine, his breath warm on my neck. “What do you think I should do to you if you move your hands?”
“Un-tape me so I can touch you.”
“That’s not a punishment for you or me.”
“Why do we need to be punished?”
“No risk, no reward,” he says. “And if you move your hands, you’ll pay a price.” He nips my ear, a rough bite that has me yelping, and then moaning as his tongue strokes over the offended skin. “And I’ll use my imagination as to what that will be.” My mind conjures the memory of him promising all kinds of naughty ways that he escapes with sex, but before they run away with me he declares, “You have on too many clothes.” And just like that, he is sliding down my body, leaving me breathless with my imagination, trying to decide where his will lead us. And for reasons I don’t question, I really want to move my hands right now. But it’s his hands that dominate, his that cover my breasts, in what becomes a tease of a caress, as he slides down my body, his tongue doing a quick stop at my nipple for a sultry swirl, which I feel everywhere he isn’t touching and I hope he will be soon. But there is no time to savor his touch or hope for where it will follow next. He answers that question when his palms find the naked skin at my waist, branding me, while his lips press to the bare skin above my jeans, his fingers working down my zipper.
“I should help you,” I whisper, but he dismisses that idea with actions.
I blink and he’s not only pulled down my jeans, but my boots and socks are gone. Suddenly, I am naked, hands over my head, breasts thrust in the air, and he is standing over me, towering over me. Tall and broad, he is power and male dominance, while I am exposed, vulnerable. “What do you feel?” he asks.
“Naked,” I answer honestly. “In every way. Can you please be naked, too?”
His lips, those sexy, sometimes brutally arousing lips, quirk on the sides, and too many seconds pass before he moves. He sits on the arm of the couch, taking his time to remove his boots, leaving me naked, as I have proclaimed myself in every way, thinking about that promise of a price to pay. Wondering why I want to move my hands and find out what it is. Finally, he stands, giving me his back, and suddenly I’m staring at the circle of skulls tattooed there that now includes two new ones. One for my mother and one for my father, both of whom have joined his family, including his godfather and fiancée, who were slaughtered by Niccolo.
A burn starts in my chest and I have a flashback of my father lying in his own blood. My breathing turns shallow, and I fight some place my mind wants to go, thankful when Kayden slides his pants and underwear down. Suddenly I have a view of his tight, perfect backside to focus on, and a moment later he’s turned around and there is much to appreciate. His broad shoulders, light brown hair sprinkling a perfect chest that tapers to rippling abs and long, powerful thighs. A thick, jutted cock that is somehow a part of his power, and of course, so much a part of his incredible, forceful masculinity.
He returns to the end of the couch. “Now how do you feel?” he asks.
“Hot,” I whisper. “I feel very, very hot.”
“What if I told you I was going to spank you and clamp your nipples?”
If I was hot moments before, I am hotter now, heat gathering with slick arousal between my thighs. “I’d say you don’t have any clamps.”
“I’m going to spank you and clamp you.”
I’m shocked at just how aroused I am in this moment, just how curious I am about what he will do to me. Just how much I want the escape that he’s claimed sex can be for him. An escape chosen with him. “I’ve never . . . I don’t . . .”
“I do. I will.”
Butterflies flutter in my belly. “Can you just do it now so I don’t have to be nervous?”
“Are you afraid, Ella?”