Fearless (12 page)

“Relax, Emmaline,” he whispers, his hand kneading my buttocks. Just as I relax my muscles, he lands one hard smack against my right butt cheek. I gasp. Somehow, I hadn't thought he would hit me hard enough for it to actually hurt! He strokes my bottom again, alternately rubbing and squeezing each cheek, and I wiggle my butt slightly with anticipation. He chuckles and lands another stinging blow onto my left cheek. I grip the edge of the table tighter, grinding my pubic bone into the hard wood of the table. Despite the mild pain, it's both stimulating and erotic, and I am inexplicably but undeniably turned on. He lightly traces the crack of my ass with his finger and I fight to catch my breath.

He brings his hand down in a resounding slap at the juncture of my thighs. I moan as the sensations roll over me—the sensuous tingle he has unleashed across my behind, the feel of his hand on my back, firm but unyielding, precluding any escape, the unexpected clench of my sex at the glancing blow. I grind against the table, desperate for more. But more of what? More of his hand on my ass? More of the strangely erotic feel of blows against my butt? More of feeling vulnerable and at his mercy? I don't have any answers. All I know is that I want, I need, some sort of release from the sensation and yearning that is building inside me.

“Let go,” Beckett commands harshly, releasing his hold on me, and I let go of the table and stand up slowly. He turns me around and lifts me so I am sitting on the table facing him, my legs spread slightly so that he can stand between them.

“That was just a preview, Angel,” he says, his raspy voice uncompromising. “Next time I do that, it will be on my terms, not yours, and your ass will be bare and over my lap.”

My breath catches. Holy shit! Why is that so hot? I nod wordlessly, my heart racing.

He fists a hand in my hair, holding me immobile, and ruthlessly brings my mouth to his, plunging his tongue into my mouth possessively. Ripe with need, I kiss him back hungrily, matching the violence of his kiss with my own. He impatiently peels off my top and then his own, as if desperate to feel my skin against his. I shudder at the feel of his bare chest flattening my breasts, my nipples hardening into points against the solid plane of his chest. He runs his hand caressingly along my spine before crushing me to him. He buries his face in my neck, his pleasured groan vibrating against me.

“Emma, you do this to me,” he says raggedly, grabbing my hand and placing it over the hardness of his cock that is straining against his jeans. I squeeze, and he groans again. I unbutton his jeans and ease the zipper down, slipping my hand into his underwear to grip his hard erection. He lets me caress him for several long minutes, my hand sliding up and down the hardness of his shaft as his breathing comes fast and ragged, his half-lidded gaze never leaving my face.

Then his strong fingers encircle my wrist and he pulls my hand away. He places his hand, still holding my wrist, at the small of my back. He captures my other wrist with his other hand and pulls it behind me as well, easily holding both of my wrists in his hand. The position causes my back to arch, forcing my breasts up and forward. By the appreciative look in his eyes as he looks hungrily at my breasts, I'm guessing that move was planned. With his free hand, he caresses one breast and then the other, rolling each nipple roughly between his thumb and forefinger until I cry out. He seals his mouth to mine, absorbing my cries. Relentlessly, he tugs my nipples, alternately pinching and rolling them until I'm squirming.

“Please,” I beg, although I'm not sure what I'm begging for.

Letting go of my wrists, his hands move to my jeans and he unbuttons them.

“Lift your hips,” he commands, and as I do he eases my jeans off, along with my panties, leaving me naked and vulnerable. His glance rakes over me, heat and desire in his eyes, and I feel a rush of pleasure at his appreciative gaze. He slowly eases out of his own jeans and underwear, and my mouth goes dry as his member pops out, thickly veined and throbbing. I don't think I will ever get accustomed to the size of him.

He moves back between my legs, his erection hard and pulsing between us.

“I want you,” I breathe, reaching down to stroke the hard length of him again. I move his broad head to my wet opening.

“Not half as much as I want you,” he replies, parting me as he pushes his cock into me. I writhe against the fullness of him, torn between trying to escape the punishing fullness and wanting to pull him deeper.

“You have such a tight little cunt,” he says. “I can't get enough of it.”

No man has ever said that word to me, but instead of sounding vulgar, it makes me even wetter.

Grabbing my hips, he plunges into me, burying himself, and I gasp at the overpowering sensation. I grind my hips against him, urging him to find the rhythm that my body craves. With his hands under my ass, he lifts me slightly, tilting me so that his cock strokes my clit with exquisite pressure. He begins to thrust, pounding relentlessly into me, primitive and urgent as he takes me roughly. My body responds as if it were made for him to use so mercilessly.

“Look at me!” he demands brusquely, and my eyes settle on his.

He continues his sweet assault, holding my gaze with his, until I feel that familiar pull deep in my belly increase, tightening more and more until I think I will explode.

“Come for me, Angel,” he says, and I shatter. Seconds later, my sex still rippling with the aftershocks of my climax, Beckett gasps and jerks violently, spurting into me. Exhausted, we stay there for several long minutes, trying to catch our breath, and then he pulls out of me.

I look up at him through my lashes. “I'll never be able to eat at this table again without thinking of that!”

With a laugh, Beckett gathers me to his chest. “Hmmm, I can't wait to christen the other pieces of furniture in your house then.” Lifting me into his arms he asks, “Where's your bedroom?”

I kick my feet. “Put me down!”

“I don't think so,” he says thoughtfully. “I like the feel of you in my arms. Now, should we go to your bedroom or would you rather go back out into your wonderful backyard?” He starts heading toward the back door.

“NO!” I squeak with the realization that neither of us have a stitch of clothes on and the certainty that that wouldn't stop him. I point toward the hallway that leads to my bedroom. Beckett effortlessly carries me into my bedroom and carefully deposits me on the bed before sliding in beside me. I put my hands on his chest.

“Please, no more orgasms,” I say, only half joking.

“I've never had a woman beg for fewer orgasms,” he says, nipping at my ear.

I almost ask how many women that might be, but then I decide it's probably better if I don't know. Instead I say, “You're okay at it, I guess.”

He looks at me with mock outrage. “Okay at it? For a woman who says she doesn't want to be a challenge, you sure do have a knack for throwing down a dare.”

I laugh, running my fingertips lightly over his chest. “I can't help it. You're fun to mess with.”

He catches my hand in his and lifts it to his lips, lightly nipping my fingers.

“You know what happens to girls who play with fire.”

“Will you burn me?” I ask, my eyes locked on his.

“Never,” he whispers. “It would be like hurting myself.”

He runs his fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp, and I practically purr with pleasure. He continues stroking me, his strong hands moving down to my neck and shoulders as my eyes grow heavy.

“You have magical hands,” I observe sleepily.

“You have no idea,” he says with small smile.

When I wake up, one of the white candles I keep for emergency power outages is lit on my nightstand, illuminating the impossibly gorgeous and sexy man lying next to me. Still gloriously naked, he is propped up on one forearm, staring at me.

“What time is it?” I ask sleepily.

He glances at the clock on my nightstand. “Just after midnight.”

“Why aren't you sleeping?” I ask.

“I'd rather watch you,” he says.

“Well, that's kind of creepy,” I say grumpily, rolling onto my side so that my back is to him.

He grasps my hip, forcing me back toward him until I'm on my back again.

“Really?” he challenges, his eyes boring into me.

“No, not really,” I concede with a smile. I roll onto my hip so I'm facing him and wrap an arm around his waist, using his body as leverage to pull myself to his side. He absentmindedly traces circles on my back with his fingertips.

“That was brave, what you did earlier in the kitchen,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, flushing. “I decided I was going to try to be fearless, and you were lucky enough to be the first one I practiced on.”

“Are you not usually fearless?”

“No. I used to be, I guess. Or at least I was more willing to take risks. And then something happened, after I got married…” I trail off, not wanting to ruin the night with thoughts of Tim. “But I want to be. I'm tired of being afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?” he whispers.

“Everything,” I say. “I'm afraid of everything.”

“You're not afraid of me.”

“No,” I agree. “But maybe I should be.”

“You definitely should be,” he says softly. “Tell me one thing you want that you're afraid of.”

“Okay. I want to get a tattoo.”

“A tattoo?” he asks, incredulous.

“Yes, a tattoo!” I say. “Did you really think I was going to say something sexual? Knowing the way you take everything as a personal challenge, I'd be smack in the middle of whatever it was in two seconds flat.”

“Do you have a Sharpie?” he asks abruptly.

“Yes,” I say, confused. “In the drawer to the right of the refrigerator. Why?”

He's out of bed and stalking out of the bedroom before I can even finish my sentence. I sigh with exasperation and sit up, covering myself with the sheet. He's back in less than a minute with a black Sharpie and a glass of ice water. He passes the decorative pegboard on the open closet door that holds my scarves and necklaces and pulls several scarves from it before coming to stand next to me.

“Lay back,” he orders. The tone of his voice has shifted from playful to authoritative and the shift throws me off balance, making me both nervous and aroused. Although his command is similar to the one that had almost made me walk out on him last weekend, this time I understand him, and what he wants from me, a little better. Besides, I have basically agreed to explore whatever this is that he wants, so I do as he says, careful to keep the sheet modestly covering me. The mattress gives as he sinks down on the bed next to me.

“How fearless are you, Emmaline?” he whispers dangerously. His eyes glitter with a depth of desire I've never seen before and my stomach lurches. “Give me your wrists.”

I hesitate for a fraction of a second before offering my wrists to him. He winds a bright pink scarf around them, binding them together, then lifts my bound arms over my head and ties the ends of the scarf to one of the metal bars of my iron headboard. I automatically pull on the restraints, testing them. My arms don't budge. I swallow hard. I try to tell myself that this is really no different than the first time with him, but clearly it is. Then I could move my arms if I wanted to; now I definitely can't. I'm at his mercy. I console myself with the fact that at least my legs are free.

“Your safe word,” he says. “Let's keep it simple and go with red. If anything gets to be too much, just say red and it stops. But don't say it unless you absolutely mean it,” he adds sternly. “If you're okay but need to take it a little slower, or you have a muscle cramp or something like that, say yellow and we'll talk. Okay?”

I nod, my breath coming faster. I can't help but think about my dream. I never imagined it would be so hot, and so scary, in reality.

With one deft flick of his wrist, he yanks the sheet off of me and I shiver slightly as the cool air hits my skin. He runs his hand down the length of my body until he reaches my foot and grasps my right ankle in his hand. He winds another of the soft scarves around my bare ankle, pulling my leg slightly to the side as he ties the end of it to the corner post of the footboard. He methodically wraps my left ankle and tugs the scarf toward the opposite corner.

Instinctively I fight against him, trying to jerk my leg away. He delivers a sharp, reprimanding slap to my inner thigh. The unexpected sting of it surprises me, as does the almost instant moistness I feel between my legs. Why does it turn me on that he isn't going to let me get away with challenging him?

“Are you going to use your safe word already?” he asks, one brow arched.

I wordlessly shake my head no and relax my leg, letting him spread me open as he ties the last scarf to the opposite corner of the bed.

Tied spread eagle to the bed and open to him, I feel completely exposed and helpless. I pull against the scarves that bind me, trying to close my legs.