“Oh Vicki,” he groaned and joined her in oblivion.
What happened just now? What the hell was that? That was more than sex.
Red slumped in the chair, his hands still folded around Vicki at hip and sex. He felt as if he’d been dragged backward through a hurricane, completely sideswiped by the unexpected intensity of the orgasm they’d just shared.
He’d planned another little game for them. A test of Vicki’s ability to obey him while distracted. A chance to lay his hand across that sublimely curved bottom of hers and make it pink and pretty as she wriggled and moaned. He’d pictured her across the back of the very Lloyd Loom chair he was crashed out in—
they
were crashed out in—her beautiful rump offered up to him while he asked her questions about the action on the television screen. He’d imagined the piquancy of her attempting to answer his interrogation while she was being punished, and afterwards, while he pleasured her with a sex toy.
It hadn’t been his intention that they should end up fucking. Well, not just yet. He often didn’t fuck his spanking and bondage companions at all. Penetration seemed far too intimate when all both parties wanted was a brief interlude of sophisticated power play.
But Vicki Renard just kept shocking him, again and again. Tamped-down feelings he’d never expected to resurface were reminding him of their existence. He wasn’t exactly frightened of them, because he’d rarely been fearful of anything in his entire life. Except once. But he
was
feeling a sudden, intense disquiet.
There were needs, drives and emotions in his life that
had
to be kept separate and compartmentalized, each in their specific boxes. He couldn’t allow them to get jumbled up. It had happened once, and he’d almost lost something incredibly rare and precious to him. The fact that he’d lost that treasured gift eventually anyway didn’t make any difference.
Reaching for more than sexual power games just didn’t work for him. Not anymore. Getting too involved could only end in tears and heartache…
And he couldn’t bear the thought of
really
hurting Vicki.
Just keep it light, man. Play the game and give her pleasure. Keep it safe.
Chapter Five
Who said it was always women who took longest to get ready?
For what felt like the hundredth time, Vicki glanced at the door that led to Red’s bedroom. Contrarily, she now wished there were not two bedrooms but just one in their spacious suite. Especially after the cataclysmic closeness they’d shared in the now innocuous-looking armchair that faced the television cabinet.
She couldn’t look at it without feeling a ghostly echo in her sex. Sitting there with him—
on
him—had been raw and beautiful, and afterwards Red been breathtakingly gentle. He’d carried her to bed and tucked her up beneath the covers, and urged her to take a nap. Completely befuddled and exhausted, she’d begun to drift off immediately. But not before his tender kiss on her cheek had made her smile.
When she’d finally awoken, she’d automatically patted the bed at her side before she’d completely shaken off sleep, hoping to find him there. But he hadn’t slipped beneath the covers. Or at least if he’d been there, he was long gone. Vicki ached with an illogical sense of loss, and she’d been puzzled, too, when she’d come out into the sitting room and found a note from him.
Cocktails at eight. Dress to kill. Red.
Now it was five to eight, she was dressed appropriately, and the shower had only just finished running in his bathroom.
Staring around the room decorated in white, pistachio and black, she smiled to herself and smoothed her fingers down her hip. Yes, she’d managed to get it right, she was sure of it.
The Ivory Pavilion’s brochure had very firmly stipulated that guests always dressed for dinner, and it had been a good excuse to treat herself to a couple of posh frocks for the trip. Tonight’s choice, she decided, pinching the fabric between finger and thumb, was particularly suited to the hotel’s aura of chic vintage glamour.
Yes, her floor-length black satin slip dress, with a close-fitting bodice and narrow spaghetti straps, really looked the part. She’d had her doubts in the shop about the way it clung to her body, but now she knew it was perfect. It was the sort of dress that demanded attention from every man she encountered. Black and sleek, it bade them to worship her.
But what would Red think? Would he worship too? He was supposed to be the dominant one, the man in charge, the worshipped one. Yet Vicki had a feeling he’d approve the dress and approve the lust it inspired in other men seeing her in it.
They could look, but they could never have her. Because she was
his.
His temporary possession. His beautiful slave.
She’d completed her outfit with black suede high-heeled pumps, a matching purse and two accessories that couldn’t be more appropriate. A superlong string of fake pearls, looped once around her neck to create a choker-plus-dangling-necklace effect, and a pair of tight-fitting over-the-elbow gloves, also black satin. If she’d had the time and the skill, she might have attempted to crimp her hair into a Marcel-waved look, but as a compromise she’d styled it as sleekly as she could and pinned it back with an enamel clip that had a vaguely Art Deco vibe.
Yeah, I look amazing, Red, and it only took me half an hour. What the hell are you playing at?
Impatient and reluctant to let her mind drift into deeper, troubling waters, she practiced a vampish walk over to the television. Snatching up the remote, she flicked through channels and menus, wondering where the porn they’d been watching—and
not
watching—earlier was. The sight of that girl being punished had lost its charm once the sensations of being mounted on Red’s erection had overwhelmed her.
An entire minute of scrolling and flicking and selecting produced nothing, but suddenly she found herself in a brand-new menu. The items listed seemed to be the names of rooms, and Vicki gasped on a wild suspicion.
She clicked on the Salon, and a familiar and yet strangely different image appeared.
There was the circle of low, streamlined black leather armchairs where the eager watchers had been sitting. There was the same circular chevron-patterned rug on which the trembling, naked girl had stood. And there, in the background, was a large striking print in a stepped-profile chrome frame of a long gracious ocean liner, possibly the
Normandie.
She and Red hadn’t been watching a porn channel or a video at all. The images they’d seen had been live-action CCTV from somewhere inside the Ivory Pavilion itself.
What on earth is this place? Really?
Another bizarre thought occurred to her. F. W. Shanley had awarded this prize. Did he know what sort of games went on at his luxurious Art Deco palace? And if he did, what in heaven’s name was he doing sending his employees here as a supposed treat?
“Anything good on the box?”
Vicki whirled around and almost forgot the images from the Salon completely.
Her mouth fell open. Her heart thudded.
Red Webster, lover of jeans and leather jackets and T-shirts and casual wear, was wearing a formal evening suit complete with embroidered waistcoat, stiff collar and bowtie.
And he looked amazing. Elegant. Groomed. Sophisticated. Like a billionaire.
Yet another absurd thought flashed across Vicki’s mind—a truly outrageous one—only to be lost again completely as Red strode towards her, reached for her gloved hand and lifted it to his lips.
“Perfect, Vicki,” he said, lips still against the satin. Letting her hand drop, he stood there, his eyes glinting fire behind his spectacles as they cruised the contours of her body and logged every last detail and nuance.
Hot blood hurtled through Vicki’s veins. The dress was more than formfitting; the satin would cling unflatteringly to underwear lines.
So she was naked beneath it.
A situation of which Red clearly approved. He lifted a hand and drifted it lightly down over her shape. Starting at her breast—where he casually thumbed her nipple—then sliding down over her rib cage, her flanks and her hips, before finally settling on her bottom, fingers tucking rudely into her anal crease.
He didn’t say a thing, but his hooded eyes spoke volumes.
As did his hand. His fingertips stroked the tiny, sensitive little rosebud between her buttocks. Slowly. Tantalizingly. Vicki experienced an overpowering urge to rise up on her toes, to get away from the rude intrusion, yet at the same time an equal and opposing compulsion to bear down and rub herself against the obscenely probing touch.
“Do you like that, Vicki?”
His eyes seemed to bore into her soul, compelling secrets. Not only erotic secrets, but those others she could simply never reveal. She took the easier path, hoping to steer her own thoughts as well as his into the shoals of sex. It was safer.
“Yes. Yes, I do,” she said. There was no need to lie. The sensations were an intense turn-on. Having her anus fondled seemed wickedly dark and forbidden, but it made her sex rouse, flexing hungrily.
“Show me. Show me what I’m touching,” he purred, pressing harder. “We have a little time before dinner. Let’s use it productively.”
Withdrawing his hand, he put her a little way away from him, facing her towards the television screen and away from him. He reached out and took her bag from her, setting it aside.
“Show me,” he repeated, much more firmly.
Vicki took a deep breath and leaned forward from the waist. Placing her palms on her thighs, she slid up the skirt of the long black gown, gathering the satin as she went. When the hem fluttered at midthigh, she paused, gathered her nerve and finally flipped the slippery material up over her back, exposing her buttocks.
Though she couldn’t see him, she could imagine Red scrutinizing her, his dark head tipped to one side in that characteristic and almost hawklike affectation of his. It was quite distinctive and ruthless. It made her shudder, the prey to his predator.
“You have a truly magnificent arse, my sweet.”
He took a step or two towards her, and the displacement of air wafted against her nakedness, a cool contrast to the boiling turbulent heat in her pussy. She could almost imagine her silky arousal glinting on her folds, noted and appraised by Red’s all-seeing eyes.
“Set your feet further apart,” he said, his fingertips resting ever so lightly on her bottom.
“Now hold open your cheeks. I want to see everything.”
A fine tremor ran through Vicki’s body, and her heart thudded like drum. This was so shaming but so delicious. As she reached behind and opened herself, she tried to imagine what he was seeing. The startling contrast between the inky black satin of her gloves and the smooth, creamy whiteness of her arse, and in the division, a soft rosy tint.
Breathing hard, she held her pose while Red paced to and fro, just feet from her rudely bared sex and anal furrow. She pictured him studying her closely, stroking his dark beard thoughtfully, the connoisseur assessing a fine possession.
“Oh, how you tempt me, beautiful Vicki,” he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “I would so like to take you there…right now. Just as you are. Holding yourself open like that.” He paused in his pacing, and for a moment Vicki held her breath, waiting for the sound of a smooth, expensive zipper being drawn down.
But it didn’t come, and though she was grateful, because she’d been a little afraid, she was also disappointed. Her dark libido craved the crude penetration.
“Does that excite you, Vicki? The thought of that?”
He was closer now. Oh, so much closer. Leaning over her back, the smooth worsted cloth of his dinner suit brushing against her thighs and her bottom and her gloved hands. His voice was both taunting and infinitely thrilling in her ears, and she could smell that fabulous cologne of his, its intoxicating spice an aphrodisiac.
She could feel his erection, dangerously near, through his clothing.
“Imagine that, Vicki. Me buggering you. Wouldn’t that be sublime?” A hand slid underneath her, cupping her breast through the satin of her bodice. “And men watching us…dozens of them…all wishing they were me, buried up to their balls in your divine backside.”
Vicki moaned. She couldn’t stop herself. Nor could she prevent herself from churning her bottom and trying to rub herself against him, massage the opened rose of her anus against his immaculate suit trousers.
When his hand went to his waistband, her knees nearly failed her. But he caught her to him, holding her upright, and they stayed like that, frozen in time for what seemed an eternity but was really only a second or two.
Then he moved away, straightening her up as he went and allowing the skirt of her dress to float back down over her hips, her thighs and finally her calves.
“We’ll be late for cocktails, my darling Vicki.” His urbane voice had just the faintest broken edge to it. “But another time, I promise. I need to have you there.”
Vicki turned around, feeling shaky and yet more stirred by the demonic gleam in his eyes behind his glasses. He wasn’t lying; she could see need, a real hunger.
“I think you need to check yourself out, sweetheart,” he said quite prosaically. “I’ve messed up your pretty hairstyle. You need to tidy it. Sorry.”
Not knowing how to respond, Vicki fled back to her bathroom, still in shock.
She adjusted the clip and smoothed down her hair where it’d become a little disheveled. What was Red doing while she was fiddling with her hairstyle? Was he in his own bathroom, dealing with that raging hard-on she’d just felt? He could hardly enter a public cocktail lounge in that condition, could he? Sporting an enormous bulge in his immaculately tailored trousers.
But then again, he was Red, and she wouldn’t put anything past him. He might even get a brazen kick out of showing off the evidence of what the woman beside him did to him.
Back in the sitting room though, Red exhibited no sign whatsoever that he’d ever been excited. His expression was mild and slightly amused, and he was the epitome of polished good manners as he escorted her down to the cocktail bar.