My hands press to the cushion on either side of me. “Sometimes, you just need sex and candy.”
“Indeed, you do,” he agrees, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees, his sleeves rolled up to expose several tattoos I cannot make out, and I don’t try. Not when his piercing gaze lingers on my face, and the song continues with: And then there she was, like double cherry pie, yeah there she was.
“And there she was,” he says, his blue eyes burning with that dark lust we share. “Like double cherry pie,” he adds, followed by the command of, “Open your legs, Faith.”
My breath hitches, and I don’t know what happens. I want to do it. I plan to do it, but nerves erupt in me like I’m some inexperienced school girl. I’m not a school girl, nor am I suppressed or reserved sexually. I didn’t get raped. I don’t fear or dislike sex. And yet I haven’t had it in a very long time. And my heart is racing again, or maybe it never stopped, my mouth is dry. So very dry. Somehow, I’m standing without consciously making that decision and I’m darting toward the connecting kitchen. I enter the archway, open the stainless-steel fridge and grab a bottle of water, open it and I start guzzling.
Nick is suddenly in front of me, reaching for the bottle and taking a drink, his hand on my hip, leg aligned with mine. “Water?” he asks, looking at the bottle. “I thought you were going for liquid courage but I didn’t think it would be water.”
“I don’t like to dull my mind with booze,” I say. “My mouth gets dry when I get nervous, but this was really not smart because nothing like a girl needing to pee to ruin the mood and I—”
He kisses me, and the lick of his tongue is cold from the water, and fresh, and I have no idea why, but it calms me. Him touching me, not watching me, calms me but the kiss is too short, and his question too fast. When he pulls back to look at me, he takes the water, setting it in the refrigerator. “Why are you nervous?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Hard limit,” he says. “That phrase comes with experience.” He rotates us slightly and kicks the door shut. “You’ve been a part of a world that doesn’t match your nerves.”
He’s right. It does. “It’s been a long time.”
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“Since you were in that world or since-?”
“Nothing for two years.”
“It’s just like riding a bike,” his voice lowers, “only you’ll be riding me.” He rotates me and presses me against the island, his body lifting from mine, hands pressed on the dark wood of the counter behind me. “Were you someone’s submissive?”
“No. I’m not a submissive.”
“But you were with someone who wanted you to be.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you to be.”
“But you’re dominant.”
“I don’t take submissives and you have to sense that or you wouldn’t be with me.”
“You think I could sense that?”
“I think we’re remarkably in tune with each other to be virtual strangers. Which is why we’re both here right now. I like control. You like making me have to earn it. But as we’ve established, I like a challenge. And you, Faith, are that and so much more. Which means I’m okay with earning control, and you get the control you want, because you decide when I get mine.”
And there it is. The many reasons I want this man. His power. His control. The challenge I enjoy delivering and he enjoys conquering. But there is more there, too. There is the reason, a few moments ago, that nerves controlled me instead of our game, and him. And it had nothing to do with who tried to control me in the past, at least, not sexually. He sees too much. He knows too much when he should know nothing. It’s illogical, but he’s right. I did know him without knowing him and he knows me without knowing me. And that makes him, and this, dangerous. But now that I know what is happening, and why I should run, I have less desire to do so than ever.
I want him. And as if his mind is in the same place, he says, “I want you, Faith,” and then reaches down and rips my dress all the way open. I gasp, shocked, aroused, more aroused. His hands end up at my knees where the final tear allows my dress to fall open, away from my body, but they do not stay there. They glide from my knees, my thighs, and over my hips to the front clasp of my bra that he manages to unhook. It falls away like my dress, replaced by his hands. “I want you, Faith,” he repeats. His thumbs stroke my nipples, his cheek pressing to mine, “Like I don’t remember ever wanting in my life.”
I might reject these words, but there is this raw, and almost tormented quality to his voice, that tells me he doesn’t want to feel this whatever it is that is happening, any more than I do. It tells me that he has a past as do I. It echoes with every spiraling emotion inside me, right now, and deep inside every night that I cannot sleep. He pulls back, his eyes meeting mine, and while his expression is impassive, there are shadows in his eyes he doesn’t hide, that he lets me see, and I think…I think this is to let me know, that I am not alone. But I am alone, and the fact that I’ve had this thought is confusing, and yet, somehow I’m not with this man, not this one night, that we dare be whoever it is we are together.
He lifts me, sitting me on the counter, his hands on my knees that are now pressed together, my dress hanging from my body.
“Now open for me,” he orders softly, but he doesn’t press them open himself. He waits for me to open them, giving me the control and taking it at the same time. The look on his face, the warmth in his touch on my legs, promising me salacious wonderful rewards, and a deep throb radiates in my sex. I open my legs, and my dress hangs from my body. His hands settle on my shoulders, branding my skin, under the silk and lace of both the dress and my bra. His gaze lowering, sliding over my breast, a heavy caress that is not a caress at all, but my nipples pucker, my sex clenches.
Slowly, he inches the material down, over my back and when it falls to the counter behind me, I slip my hands away from it. “I loved this dress,” I say.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says.
“No,” I say immediately, my hands going to his hands where they rest on my thighs. “No. I do not want you to buy me a dress. I don’t want your money, and don’t make this about that.”
“Make this what?”
“I don’t need anything from you but an orgasm. Or two or three, if you’re up to it.”
The blue of his eyes burn, hot coals and simmering heat. “A challenge we can both accept.”
“But I still think you need to pay for my dress.”
His eyes narrow. “You said—”
“That I don’t want money but I want an even playing field.” I reach in the drawer beside me, and grab a knife, removing it.
I don’t even get it beyond the counter, before Nick grabs my hand, pulling it and the blade, between us, his jaw steel, his voice tight. “What are you doing. Faith?”