Authors: Carol Swan
“Then coffee it is.”
There was a louder shush from the guy behind us, and Michael shrugged. “Come on. You can be as loud as you want at my place. I’ll bring Ms. Nin along. Maybe you can read out loud to me later.” He let go of my hand and picked up the book.
“Okay.” My face grew hot again as I shoved my books in my bag, feeling like a school girl as I slung it over my shoulder. We stepped into the midday sunshine.
“My car is right here.” A red Ferrari sat at the curb. He held the door open for me and I climbed in. I wasn’t used to the luxury and leather seats, all I knew was my battered little Ford back at campus.
“It’s not far.” We turned left, away from the campus, towards one of the fancier residential areas in town. The library had once been a private home, a former industrialist gone belly up, and the family had donated the house to the city. It was big, but the houses we passed now were true mansions, set back from the street behind hedges, and iron fences and gates.
The conversation on the ride was pretty mundane, Michael asking questions about college, chatting about where I lived, where he’d gone to school. It was an Ivy League school back East, and I was more than a little intimidated.
Finally, he turned down one of the tree-lined driveways of one of the largest homes we’d passed so far.
“This is it.” He said it like we were in the driveway of the ranch with a detached garage on Main Street. But the house he pulled up in front of was anything but ordinary. It was a tall, Gothic-looking building, shaded by huge oaks, surrounded by a manicured lawn and formal gardens. I saw at least two turrets and a gable, and more chimneys than I could count. Along the top of the building was a widow’s walk, something not usually found in our inland city.
“You live here?” I tried not to stare, at the house or at him.
“I do. Family home. Blessing or curse, depending on how you look at it.”
He parked in the drive and we got out. There was a two-story two car garage beside the house, probably originally a carriage house, also strangely wavering between several architectural styles. Something was tickling the back of my mind, something I should know about this place or him, but couldn’t place it.
“It looks beautiful to me.”
“Thanks.” He punched a code into an incongruous keypad by the back door. Catching me watching, he hesitated, his hand on the brass doorknob.
“A concession to modern times. You didn’t memorize the code, did you?” He leaned toward me, the corner of his lips raised in a half-smile. “I’d hate to have you try to break in. I’d rather you came in of your own free will.”
I returned the smile. “I think free will is a good thing.”
“Then come in.” He held the door and I stepped into a state-of-the-art kitchen, artfully disguised in a room that matched the eclectic style of the home. Mentally, I added up the cost of the appliances. I’m not easily swayed by people with money. I’d worked at the Wallace Estate and with other well-off families around town. But this house was amazing.
There was a vaguely nautical theme to the house—subtle, but the more I looked around, the more I saw. Michael was shrugging out of his suit jacket, loosening his tie. He looked relaxed and casual, and utterly sexy.
There was a pile of mail on the counter and I glanced at the envelope at the top of the stack. Then it all clicked. I was standing in the kitchen of the CEO of Sullivan Shipping International. My heart skipped a beat or three. According to
TIME
,
Newsweek
, and every business magazine in existence, he was one of the richest men in the country, along with being one of the most reclusive. No one knew much about him, beyond the corporate facade he hid behind. I swallowed hard.
Michael Sullivan had asked me for coffee. Me.
“So, about that coffee...”
He reached out, running a slow hand up my arm. “Or should we jump ahead to reading our book?”
The book was lying on the counter. I glanced at it. “Do you read much erotica? Aloud or otherwise?”
He took a step closer, his hand moving from my arm to caress my neck. “Truthfully, I’m not much for reading. I’m more a man of action.”
His fingers moved to the back of my neck, tightening briefly, then pulled me closer, eyes moving over my face, coming to rest on my mouth. I parted my lips, anticipation flooding through me. But before he kissed me, he hesitated, eyes meeting mine. There was a question there, one I didn’t really understand, but one I knew how to answer. I leaned forward, closed my eyes, and waited.
His lips touched mine, softly, gently, but behind that kiss was a primal power that was hard to miss. The fingers against the nape of my neck moved higher, tangling in my hair, his other hand moving to caress my hip. I let my head fall back, let him hold me while his lips moved over mine, and his tongue explored my mouth.
I lost track of time, of where I was, as the kiss deepened. He was skillful, no doubt, but there was more behind the kiss than just the mechanics of being an expert kisser. There was a depth to the kiss that took my breath away.
When he broke the kiss I stood for a moment, eyes closed, mind blank, but my body on fire.
“Lacey…”
I opened my eyes. “Yeah?”
His smile did nothing to put out the fire that he’d started.
“You’d like to stay here, with me, for a little while, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded. “Yes, I would.” If staying meant what I think it did, yes, I’d gladly stay. Even if this was a stranger.
“Then come with me.”
He took my hand, leading me through the house, up a wide carpeted staircase. The giddiness inside me threatened to spill over, and I pushed back a sudden wave of giggles. I couldn’t believe it. We were really headed to his bedroom. I imagined dark wood, linen sheets covering a big four-poster bed. This was going to be beyond romantic, and beyond Anais Nin erotic. It was going to be heaven.
The hall seemed to go on forever. Finally, we stopped outside a heavy, dark, wooden door. Michael was still holding my hand and he turned, looking down at me.
“I’m glad you decided to stay, Lacey. Really glad.” He kissed my cheek, then reached out and opened the door. “Come on in.”
I stepped over the threshold, Michael behind me. I heard the click of the door latch. The room was dim, and it took me a minute to realize the bed was in the middle of the room. He flicked on the light.
“This is your bedroom?” I turned, just in time to see him pulling a key from the lock on the door, tucking it into his pocket. Or at least that’s what I thought I saw. But then he was moving away from the door.
“It’s not where I sleep, except when I do.” He moved past me into the room. There was a huge cabinet set against the wall and he opened the doors. I couldn’t help but look over his shoulder.
“Oh, my God.” I stared at the contents of the cabinet. The only things I recognized were handcuffs. The rest of the contents were a jumble of leather, white ropes, and things with spikes.
Michael was watching me intently. I turned to him, open-mouthed, unable to get any of the thoughts in my head into words.
“What are you thinking?” He reached in, pulling out a long length of white silk. It made a soft slithering sound. He took my wrist, wrapping the fabric around me.
“You tie women up?”
“Does it excite you?”
I fingered the silk. It was soft, and beautiful. Slowly I wrapped the silk around my other wrist. I looked up into Michael’s eyes. “It does.”
The look he gave me betrayed a hint of relief. He reached for me, pulling me into his arms. “I need you to trust me, okay? Can you do that?”
I nodded.”
“Good. Get undressed.”
I stared for a moment, but he made no move to touch me. He took the silk from me, and I pulled my T-shirt over my head, undid the snap and zipper on my jeans and stepped out of them, standing in front of him in my bra and panties. His eyes never left my body as I removed the final bits of clothing. Then, he took my hand, leading me to the bed in the middle of the room.
“Lie down. Let me do what I need to do.”
I climbed onto the bed, lying on my back. I expected him to join me, but something in his demeanor had changed. He seemed detached, almost distant. Silently, he took one hand, wrapped a loop of silk around my wrist, and then tied it to the bed. He repeated the same process with the other hand, then with my ankles. I tugged at the restraints. I could bend my legs, pull my knees up, but I was securely tied down. A brief but intense wave of panic washed through me. I was naked, tied to a bed, in the house of someone I’d just met. Somehow this should be all wrong. But somehow, it was where I wanted to be.
“You’re very beautiful.” His voice was strangely dispassionate. I thought he could have been talking about a car or a piece of furniture. It was a very disconcerting feeling.
He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at me. I wanted to reach for him, to touch him, and I strained against my ties. I got an enigmatic smile in return.
Very slowly, he began to undress. I’d never had a man do what amounted to a strip for me, teasing me by slowly removing each article of clothing. It was clear he was aroused; his erection was outlined against the fabric of his pants. I watched him, and he watched me.
The last piece of clothing finally hit the floor and he stood, his cock impossibly long and hard. I was wet and ready, aching for him to climb on the bed. When he did I let my legs fall apart as far as the restraints allowed. But although he knelt between my knees, he did nothing else.
“One more.” From somewhere he pulled another length of silk. Leaning forward, he gently lifted my head, covering my eyes with the cloth, tying it behind my head. I could feel the heat of his body against mine, the brush of his cock across my stomach, then lower, moving along the inside of one thigh. I wanted him, and I thought he wanted me. I arched up, a silent invitation. But then he was gone, the bed moving again, and I was alone.
“Michael?” I listened, trying to catch the sound of footfalls, or breathing. But the room seemed very quiet. The panic I’d pushed aside rose up again. This suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. Could he have slipped out the door, leaving me here?
When he spoke his voice was close, near my ear. “I’d like to play a game. Here’s how it works: I’m going to touch you. You’re going to like it, very much. But you need to remain quiet, let me be in control. To do what I want. Do you want to play this?”
“Yes.” I quickly followed that with a nod, thinking I’d already broken the first, and so far only, rule of the game.
“Fine. If something hurts, if your hands get numb, or if you really need me to stop, say ‘water’. I won’t stop if you say ‘no’. I’ll only stop if you say ‘water’. Do you understand? Do you want this?”
I nodded, my breathing going shallow and rapid. How hard could it be to just lie here and let him play with me? This was going to be fun.
There was a long moment where I could hear him moving about. I turned my head, trying to imagine where he was, what he was doing. Then the bed dipped again between my legs.
Something brushed against the inside of my calf, a tickle really. I shivered as goose bumps rose on my arms. Whatever it was moved higher, along the inside of one thigh, moving higher. It was delicate, but intense.
The higher the feeling rose, the more aroused I became. My muscles in legs tensed and relaxed, my hips rising and falling rhythmically. I knew where he was going to touch me, and I waited in anticipation.
The feather—it had to be a feather—touched the space between my legs, moving slowly over me. I gasped, body jerking in response. The pressure increased slightly, the feather moving faster, fluttering over my clit, delving deeper.
“Oh, my God... that’s amazing.”
The words were no more out of my mouth than the feather and its delicious movement stopped. There was movement on the bed, a deep sigh. I’d forgotten. I was supposed to remain silent.
“I’m sorry... I forgot...”
“Stop talking.”
Michael’s voice was near the foot of the bed. I wanted to apologize again, but bit my tongue.
“We’ll try again.”
Movement, silence... movement between my legs. I held still, willing myself not to speak.
Cold touched me, cold and hard. An ice cube moved along the inside of my leg, very cold. My first reaction was to try and pull away, but I took a breath and got used to the sensation. The pressure was moved higher, sliding over my skin. The arousal that had blossomed earlier was still there; hell, I was lying naked with a naked man between my legs, the promise of sex between us.
I waited, trying to imagine where he’d touch me again.
The bed shifted, and I waited for the next thing to touch me.
But it was Michael, settling between my legs, the weight of him against my body, his hips pinning me to the mattress. I let my legs fall open as far as I could, hips shifting beneath him. It was a wanton invitation to fuck me.
His cock brushed against the inside of my thigh, sliding higher, teasing, prodding, and pushing against me. I wanted to rise up, to make him thrust himself into me. But the more I moved, the harder I tried, the further he moved away.