Fearless (26 page)

An hour later, we're walking hand in hand down the four-mile strip, taking in the lights and energy of the famous landmark street. We stop to watch the dancing fountains at the Bellagio before taking a gondola ride at the Venetian, making out like teenagers. We wander across the street just in time for the pirate show at the Treasure Island Hotel.

“Still have pirate fantasies?” Beckett asks as we watch, his eyes dancing.

“Oh, you have no idea,” I reply, giving him a wicked grin. “I actually have a thing for pirates.”

“Insatiable wench,” he growls, slapping my bottom. I laugh and he grabs my hand, pulling me back out into the flow of pedestrians. I spy a tattoo parlor and pull Beckett toward it.

“Come on. I want to go in here.”

Beckett stops as he reads the sign in the window, fixing me with a level gaze. “Emmaline, why are you trying to drag me into a tattoo parlor?”

“Because the tattoo you gave me faded. I want a permanent one. I liked it.”

“I told you no tattoo.” His tone is firm but implacable.

“Well, it's my body so you really don't get a say, do you?” I say challengingly. I'm not absolutely positive that I really want to get a tattoo, but the more overbearing he is about it, the more I want to provoke him. “Fearless, remember?” I add sweetly.

In one fluid motion he scoops me off my feet and slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“What are you doing?” I shriek, pounding him on the back with my fists. We are in public! He's smart enough to hold my legs still with one steely arm or I would kick him.

“Don't make me spank you right here in the middle of the street,” he says with a grin.

“You wouldn't!” I say indignantly.

“Oh, I would and I think you know it.”

That shuts me up while he hails a cab, hauling me into the back seat with him as he climbs in. I shoot daggers at him with my eyes but I don't say anything. He smiles back at me, unperturbed.

“Fremont Street,” he says to the driver.

“What's Fremont Street?” I ask suspiciously.

“It's downtown Las Vegas,” he says. “Old Las Vegas. Glittery lights and live music. You can't visit Vegas without seeing Fremont.”

The cab stops on a street that is like an aging showgirl, glitzy and brazen, with lots of restaurants, casinos, street performers, and music everywhere. With his hand on the small of my back, Beckett guides me toward a tall platform.

“Wait here,” he says, darting into a nearby store. He emerges a few minutes later and leads me toward some steps that go to the top of a platform that is easily seventy-five feet high.

“What's this?” I ask.

“A zip line over Fremont Street. I just bought us tickets.”

My stomach flip flops. “A zip line?” I say nervously. “I don't think so. I'm not really crazy about heights.”

“You were ready to get a tattoo but you're afraid of a zip line?” His gaze challenges me.

“That's different,” I protest. Lowering my eyes I say, “Besides, I wasn't really going to get a tattoo. I was just messing with you. And the more adamant you were that I wasn't getting one, the more I wanted to challenge you.”

Beckett's fingers under my chin force my gaze up to his. To my surprise, his whisky eyes are warm, not angry. “Fearless,” he says softly. “You can do this.”

Somehow, I find myself nodding. I'm terrified, but because he believes I can do it, I believe it too. He makes me feel braver, and I don't want to let him down. I feel stronger with him. Maybe because I know how protective he is of me, I know he would never let anything hurt me. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't stop my legs from feeling like jelly as I climb the steps to the platform.

Once we're at the top I panic. “I can't do this,” I say.

“You can and you will,” he says matter-of-factly. “When you get to the edge, don't think about it. Just jump.”

I find myself nodding mutely as someone buckles me into a harness. Beckett's buckled into his own harness a few feet from me, and I can see that several people can go at the same time, so he and I will go together. That makes me feel slightly better until I'm standing at the edge of the platform looking down. Oh god. It looks way higher from up here. The man who buckled me into my harness tells me to sit down so I sit, my feet dangling over the edge. He gives me a thumbs up and before I have time to think, I take a deep breath and jump. Then I'm flying, weightless and free, over the lights and bustle of the street below and through the lit up canopy. It's exhilarating, and I feel something in my chest loosen and dissipate. I let go of the cable, spread my arms and soar, fearless.

“Are you still mad at me for tricking you into zip lining?” Beckett asks me the next morning, waking me up with kisses.

I roll into his arms, inhaling the masculine scent of him. “No,” I admit. “It was incredible. I'm glad you made me. I'm going to remember that forever.” I trace my finger along his hard abs. “I like when you push my boundaries. You know, you really do make me fearless. I feel safe with you.”

He kisses me, his tongue tasting me just long enough to stir my senses.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “You have no idea how much that means to me. I want to be your rock. But,” he adds with a dangerous look in his eyes, “you lied to me last night. And you provoked me on purpose.”

“I've got to use the bathroom,” I say, scrambling to get out of bed.

Beckett grabs me by the ankle and pulls me back as I laugh. Rolling me onto my back he braces himself over me, caging me so that I'm trapped inside his arms.

“Was it nice to lie to me?” he asks dangerously.

“No,” I say in a small voice.

“What am I going to do to you for lying to me and provoking me?”

“Spank me?” I ask, breathless.

“Maybe,” he says, leaning over me to nip my bottom lip. “Unless you want to try to make amends and talk me out of it,” he says suggestively.

I wriggle down until I'm level with his cock, which is hard and erect.

“I can be pretty persuasive,” I say with a smile, taking him into my mouth.

We spend the morning in bed and the afternoon by the pool. As I lounge in a poolside chaise surrounded by the hotel's beautiful gardens, my skin warmed by the sun and Beckett's skillful hands smoothing suntan lotion over me, I can't recall ever being this happy.

Turning to Beckett, I say, “Thank you for this weekend. I will never forget it.”

He rests his hand possessively on my bared thigh. “Me neither, Angel.”

Eventually, we make our way upstairs to shower and dress for dinner. Wearing only my bra and panties, I'm about to slip on the black dress I brought when Beckett, who is kicked back in one of the armchairs watching me get ready, stops me in my tracks with his seductive and unexpected command. “Come here, Emmaline.”

With a nervous flutter of anticipation tinged with lust, I cross the room to stand in front of him.

“I have something for you,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his tailored trousers and pulling out a blue velvet pouch. He empties the contents of the pouch into his palm and I recognize the silver nipple rings I had admired at the store, the ones with the tiny bells.

Oh. I can feel my nipples tightening already.

“I want you to wear these tonight.” he says huskily.

Unhooking my bra, he takes my left nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolls it mercilessly until it's hard and elongated.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. He slips the loop over the taut peak and tugs it tight, making me gasp. He repeats the process with my other nipple, gently rolling and tugging until it's a hardened point before tightening the loop around it. I glance down at my breasts. My nipples look huge, dark red, and held erect by the tight loops.

“Why do you do this to me?” I say with a groan, the pleasure sizzling though me.

“Because it turns me on,” he says huskily. “And it turns you on too.” He flicks the bells attached to the nipple ring, causing them to jingle melodically.

“Slave bells,” he adds. “To remind you that you belong to me.” He tugs on the bells, making me whimper as the sensation sears from my nipples straight to my womb. “Are you mine?” he demands, fisting his hands in my hair as he kisses me savagely.

“Yes!” I gasp as I kiss him back, my mouth desperate for his. “I'm yours.”

“Your orgasms belong to me,” he says throatily. “For my pleasure, when I say. Do you understand?”

I don't really, because whether I orgasm or not has always been up to him, but I nod anyway.

“Good,” he says softly, releasing me. “Get ready for dinner. We have reservations in fifteen minutes.”

He takes me to dinner at Le Cirque at the Bellagio, where we drink champagne and enjoy a five course meal with a fabulous view of the famous fountains. The waiter has just brought us our entrée when Beckett leans over to me and says, “Take off your panties.”

I look at him questioningly and he gives me a hard stare back. He has clearly morphed into Dom mode.

I set my napkin on the table and stand to go to the restroom, but he stops me, pulling me back down into my chair. “Not in the restroom. Here.”

My mouth goes dry as I realize he's serious. I'm getting wet just thinking about it. Trying to be discreet, I reach under the table and carefully wriggle out of the black lace bikini panties I'm wearing, bending slightly to retrieve them from the floor.

He holds out his hand. “Give them to me.”

My face burning, I hand them across the table to him, hoping no one is watching us. He holds them to his face and inhales deeply, and I feel my pussy clench at the gesture, even as I flush with embarrassment. This is so wrong, but so hot. Smiling slightly, he tucks them into his pocket and takes a bite of salmon.

“Eat,” he says, gesturing at my plate with his fork.

Somehow, I manage to eat but I don't taste a thing. He pays the check and we leave the restaurant, his hand resting possessively on my bottom which feels conspicuously bare beneath my dress.

“We have a few minutes before the show,” he says casually. “Would you like to see the Botanical Gardens?”

He doesn't wait for an answer, which is a good thing since I'm having trouble stringing two coherent words together. The faint pinch of the nipple rings tugging on my breasts and the feel of the soft fabric of my dress rubbing seductively across my bare bottom is making it hard to concentrate on anything but the intensity that is gathering in my core. We stroll through the gardens, admiring the lush plants, and then he pulls me behind a tall, recessed column that provides some privacy from the tourists walking through the gardens.

Pressing my back to the column, his hand travels up my thigh and under my dress, his fingers finding my outer lips. He opens me, using his fingers to spread my wetness over my mound and down my thighs.

“So wet,” he says. “I like that.” I can feel the glow spread inside me with his praise.

He teases me, his fingers sweeping over my wet lips until he finds my clit, which is engorged and throbbing with desire. He leisurely flicks over it, back and forth, until I am writhing against the column. He roughly turns me so I am facing the column and grasps my hair at the nape, holding me efficiently in place. Leaning close to my ear he says matter-of-factly, “Now I'm going to finger fuck you until you want to come, and then I'm going to stop and we're going to go watch the show.”

I moan, impossibly turned on as he makes good on his threat, his fingers driving inside of me, pushing me head on toward climax. Just as I'm about to come he stops abruptly, pulling his hand out from under my dress and offering me his arm. I stare at him stunned, my eyes glazed with my hunger for him.

“You bastard,” I say vehemently.

He laughs. “You'll come when I say you'll come, because I want you to, not because you want to,” he reminds me, his tone assertive.

With a shaky breath, I take his arm and we walk to the theater, where we watch the Cirque de Soleil O show. Although my every sense is heightened and I can smell my own arousal, the show still manages to captivate me with its magical world of acrobats, divers, and performers. However, it can't completely distract me from the faint weight that keeps my nipples erect and hypersensitive against my bra and the frustration he has stoked, and I squirm occasionally. At one point I look over at Beckett, but instead of watching the performers, his eyes are on me.

“Aren't you enjoying the show?” I ask in a whisper.

“Very much,” he says, a small smile playing at his lips, and I have a suspicion he's not talking about Cirque.

After the show, Beckett places his hand possessively in the vulnerable dip at the small of my back as he guides me out of the theater.

“I feel like gambling,” he says. “Do you feel lucky?” His eyes are glittering.