Fearless (27 page)

“Very,” I say with a smile. Except I'm not talking about gambling.

Because the Mandarin isn't a gaming hotel, we stay at the Bellagio. Like the rest of the hotel, the casino exudes a sophisticated elegance and charm reminiscent of old world Italy. Marble floors, draped canopies, coffered ceilings, and chandeliers lend an air of romance, while the throngs of people talking and laughing, along with the clink of ice in glasses, dice rolling, and slot machines lend an air of festivity that makes me want to let loose and have fun, despite the sexual edge Beckett seems determined to keep me on. It seems to have the same effect on him. He is relaxed and easy-going, playfully nipping my fingers as we walk through the casino.

We start at the roulette table and Beckett is free with his chips, placing them on whatever number or color I choose. With the nonchalant way he bets high dollar chips, it's hard to remember we're playing with real money. We're lucky, and after twenty minutes we're up five hundred dollars.

“Do you know how to play craps?” he says. It's loud in the casino, but I am attuned only to him.

“Not really,” I say.

He smiles at me, that rare but devastating killer smile of his that starts at one corner of his mouth and slowly moves across his face to light up his eyes, and my stomach lurches.

“C'mon,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me through the labyrinthian maze of tables. “I'll show you how.”

The craps table looks complicated, marked with a bunch of numbers and phrases that don't make any sense. At first I just watch as he plays. The players, about a dozen of them, are barking out commands that seem to be in a foreign language, and the game is too fast paced for me to ask questions. Beckett places his bets hard and fast on various parts of the table with an easy confidence that is completely turning me on. The only way I know he's winning is because his stack of chips keeps growing.

After half a dozen noisy rounds, the dealer pushes five dice toward him and he picks up two of them. I watch, mesmerized, as those beautiful, skilled hands of his throw the dice so hard they hit the opposite side of the table and bounce off the wall. Unbidden images of those hands on my body flash through my mind and I shiver. He rolls a seven twice in a row, and by the way the crowd around the table cheers, I assume this is a good thing. He rolls again. This time it's an eight. More bets are placed and he rolls a pair of twos and a three and a two before rolling two fours. The crowd around the table gets even louder, clapping Beckett on the back and cheering.

“Why isn't your girlfriend placing a bet?” calls out a heavy set guy dressed in an awful plaid shirt who has clearly had too much to drink.

Cocking his head to one side, Beckett quirks an eyebrow at me. Hell, why not. I take a small stack of my chips and hesitate, not sure where to place them. The woman standing next to me takes pity on me. “Place your first bet on the pass line to play,” she says.

Okay. It sounds simple enough. I've got this. I put a small stack of chips on the pass line and Beckett throws the dice, rolling a five. I watch carefully as he rolls and additional bets are made. I think I'm starting to get the hang of this. The rest of the players are putting more chips down, so I do the same, placing a stack of chips where the woman next to me has placed hers. Beckett leans over slightly and says to me, “Don't ever bet on the ‘don't come bar' when you're playing with me, Angel.” His lips are curved into a smile but his gaze is searing.

My eyes fly to the table and I see that I have placed my chips in a box marked ‘don't come.' He rolls another eight, and I watch as the dealer takes my chips. Once Beckett rolls a seven, he relinquishes his place at the table and steps back to stand by me, patiently explaining the various bets and how they work as the table continues to play. There are so many different bets that can be placed that my head spins—odds that the shooter will roll his point, bets that the shooter will lose, bets on just about any possible dice throw.

“Ready to play again?” he asks softly.

“I don't know,” I say hesitantly. I'm not sure if he's talking about craps or something darker and more forbidden.

“I'll help you. Place your bet on the pass line bet.” I understand this most basic of bets and lean slightly across the table, the bells hidden beneath my bra jingling faintly, and place my chips. Beckett's hands are warm and firm on my waist and I'm fervently wishing we were back in our room instead of playing craps.

“Place a bet on the ‘come bar,'' he instructs. I look at him doubtfully.

“It's a real bet!” he assures me with a laugh. “It means the next number the shooter rolls will be your personal point to bet on.”

Looking at the craps table, I see there really is a space labeled ‘come bar' and I place my chips on it. The shooter rolls an eight.

“That's your point,” he says. “Do you want to bet the odds that he rolls an eight before he rolls his point or a seven?”

“Okay,” I say.

He shows me where to put my chips, the dice are thrown, and the dealer moves my chips. Beckett says, “Now call your bet. Say ‘odds on come.'”

I turn to him in stunned disbelief. “You can't be serious,” I say.

“Say it,” he commands. His voice drops seductively. “It's your bet. You have to call it.”

Realizing I've been outmaneuvered, I hesitantly call out “odds on come” and almost die of mortification, although no one at the table bats an eye. Incredibly, the shooter rolls an eight and I watch excitedly as my chips grow.

“See!” Beckett says, kissing me. “Play the right odds with me, Angel, and you win.”

The look he is giving me is filled with heat and promise, and the fire inside of me burns hotter.

We move on to the Black Jack tables. At least I understand this game. We are sitting side by side, our knees touching, as the dealer deals us in. Beckett's hand slides up my leg and between my thighs. I press them closer together, trying to stop him.

“Open,” he orders quietly, and that single word, spoken with such authority, is my undoing. Giving in, my thighs part slightly and his hand pushes my dress up until he is cupping my sex, trapping my clit between his fingers and exerting just enough pressure to make me gasp.

“Win this hand and I will give you what you want. Lose and you will take what I give you.”

“You're a bit of a gambler aren't you, Dr. Black?” I ask seductively.

“Only when it comes to you,” he says, and the rasp in his voice sets my belly on fire.

I could care less about winning. The sexual tension crackling between us is almost tangible and I'm finished gambling, at least with chips. I am aching with need. This is how it is with him. Somehow, even when I lose with him, I still win.

“Deal,” I say, shoving the rest of my chips in.

I'm dealt a nine and a seven, and I ask for another card, knowing I'm going to bust. I don't care. All I can think about is being naked under Beckett, his hands and mouth taking what he wants from me. I'm dealt a six and Beckett gets up from the table, not even finishing the hand.

“I was hoping you'd lose,” he says, his voice low and gravelly in my ear as he guides me out of the casino, his hand possessively clamped on the back of my neck.

A shiver of anticipation shudders over me as I realize that I, too, was hoping I would lose.

We are barely in our hotel room before our hands and mouths are on each other, eager to feel skin against skin. We kiss and I reach for the buttons of his shirt, but he steps away from me slightly, capturing my hands in his.

“Strip,” he orders.

I remember our first night together, and how self-conscious I felt baring myself to him. Tonight I'm bolder. I have worn thigh-high stockings, and without removing them or my heels, I seductively peel off my dress, slowly revealing my body to him. Reaching behind me, I unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the floor as his eyes drink in the sight of my nipples, almost painfully erect, the silver bells hanging from them.

“Christ, Emma,” he says. His commanding presence falters ever so slightly and I can see the sheer longing that flashes in his eyes. “You are exquisite. Crawl to me.”

All pretense of feministic ideals are eradicated by my primitive need, and emboldened by my desire, I crawl seductively across the bed toward him, gravity pulling on the bells that hang from my breasts as they jingle erotically.

“Kneel,” he commands, and I kneel in front of him, my bottom resting on my heels as my aching breasts lift toward him.

He tugs gently on one string of bells and I almost come undone. The sensation sears straight to my clit, which is already engorged and throbbing for attention.

“You lost,” he says, his voice as smooth and rich as whisky. “What are you going to give me?”

“What do you want?” I counter, my voice breathless. “I've already given you everything.”

I blanch slightly, thinking about the collar, knowing that's not entirely true. I've given him everything that I can. He has my heart and my body, my inhibitions and my love, but my independence is the one thing I can't surrender to him.

“You were so eager to bet on whether or not you come,” he says reprovingly.

“I didn't know what I was betting on,” I protest. “Literally and figuratively.”

He kisses me softly, tasting me, savoring me. “I'm going to make sure you understand for the future,” he says. “Do you remember the first night we were together? How sure you were that you couldn't have an orgasm?” His fingertips skim my belly as he talks and my stomach draws in with the erotic touch.

I nod.

“From the beginning, your orgasms have been mine to give or to withhold,” he says, tugging the bells on each nipple, making me arch up and groan. “I never feel so alive than when you're writhing beneath me, waiting for me to send you over the edge. I want you to give me that. Tonight and always. I want you to ask my permission for every orgasm you have.”

As if I could come without his skillful hands and mouth taking me to edge of insanity and the nirvana that waits on the other side. “My orgasms are yours,” I agree, my heart racing.

Satisfied, he pushes me forward until my upper body is pressed against the mattress, my face turned to the side and my erect nipples abrading against the rough comforter of the bed, my ass in the air. I hear the snick of his belt as he pulls it through the loops on his pants, and then he is fastening it around my upper arms, tightening it so that my arms are pulled slightly back, immobilizing me.

“You will not move,” he says, and I nod as the thrill of surrender throbs through me.

Then he's under me, his hands gripping my buttocks as his warm silky tongue licks across my overly sensitive clit, greedy for the taste of me. He sucks and bites, licks and punishes my sex until I'm sure I'm about to come. Abruptly, he stops.

“I have not said you can come. Breathe, Emma,” he says. I try to remember what I've learned in yoga and focus on my breath until the immediate need to orgasm subsides.

“Good girl,” he says. Now he is behind me where I can't see him, his hand roaming over my butt, and I sigh as the tendrils of pleasure snake through me again. His fingers dip forward, sliding back and forth on either side of my clit and I feel myself starting to climb again. He hovers at my entrance and I cry out, desperate for the feel of him inside me.

“Now,” I sob. “Please. I need to come.”

The slap is swift and punishing, and I can feel the blood rush to the surface of my bottom as his hand immediately covers my cheeks, soothing the sudden rush of pain.

“You will come when I say you will,” he says, pushing down on my shoulder blades, holding me in place as the clash of pleasure and dominance rushes through me, igniting me. I feel like a bow that has been pulled taut, waiting for the release that will send me soaring.

His hand is on my ass again, parting my cheeks as his finger seeks the small, tight hole hidden there. I struggle, but he holds me firm.

“I'm going to have you here, but not tonight,” he says, his voice ragged with his own desire. “And not only are you going to let me, you're going to beg for it.”

God help me but he's right. I crave everything he wants to give me. I am his to command and take, to use and enjoy. I can deny him nothing.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes, sir,” he corrects, his fingers twisting in my hair as he pulls slightly, just enough to make sure he has my attention.

I'm off the grid now in how far I'm willing to go with him. It's no longer just a bedroom game; it's a fierce need to surrender my entire being to him.

“Yes, sir,” I say breathlessly.

“Spread your legs more.” I obey and he gently works his finger into my ass, stretching and opening me, until the feeling is so intense that I'm certain I'm about to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

He pulls his finger out and then he's squirting a cold liquid between my ass cheeks. My breath is coming in ragged huffs as he presses something hard against my opening and I whimper at the intrusion.

“Bear down,” he says gently, and as I do, he pushes it into me until it is lodged in place. It's thick, stretching and burning as it fills me with exquisite fullness, yet somehow igniting my senses so that I feel certain I'm going to come apart at the seams. My insides clench. I am so close. Then Beckett is deftly unfastening the belt that is holding my arms, releasing me as I collapse face down onto the bed.

He slaps my ass again and commands, “On your hands and knees.”

I do as he says, my breath coming in ragged pants as the denied orgasm, coupled with the fullness inside me, drives me toward some sort of insanity.

He comes to stand in front of me and I lift my head to look at him. “Are you afraid?” he asks, his eyes glinting with a depth of desire I've never seen in them before.