The Bad Boys of Eden (104 page)

“About time you lost a hand, Mademoiselle,” Christophe says softly as he moves around Lucy—not paying any attention to her as she shimmies out of her panties—and comes to stand beside me. “Do you need help out of that dress?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then do me a favor.”

“What?”

“When you take it off, take it off, slowly.”

Chapter Eleven

Bathed in the filtered red light of our section, Christophe’s eyes are black. Not blue. Coal black. Wanton. Seductive.

With my gaze locked on his, I undo the tie of one spaghetti strap and then the other. The strings slither down my shoulders. Turning my back to him, I say over my shoulder, “Would you mind unzipping me?”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

His nimble fingers are incredibly adept as he carefully unlatches the top clasp before releasing the zipper, inch by inch, until my dress falls off my torso. I tug it down my hips and leave it pooled on the floor.

Taking my shoulders, he turns me around, blatantly staring at my body, from pink toe nails to pink undies to my bare chest.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

I catch my breath. As much as I know we’re playing a game here, the way Christophe said the word—with reverence—makes it sound as if he’s not playing. As if he means it.

He moves closer, his bare chest pressed against mine, his fingers running up and down my back as if zipping and unzipping my spine. “I’ve waited a long time to see you again.”

“Monte Carlo wasn’t that long ago.”

“Mmm.” He steps back and there is a secretive smile flirting with his lips.

I like that smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

“One more hand, Tessa.”

“We don’t need to play,” I say.

“Yes, we do.”

“Why? This is just a game.” I wave my hand at the cards, at the table, noticing for the first time that Lucy and Tyler have disappeared. In fact, after a quick survey of the room, I realize it’s empty. Even the other table has finished its game. It’s as if everyone in the room stepped through some portal and—shazam!—disappeared.

Christophe pays no attention to the inexplicably empty room, his focus is entirely on me as he shuffles and deals. When I go to pick up my cards, he covers my hand. “It’s not just a game. When I win—and I will win—I’m going to ask you to put yourself in my hands.” He meets my gaze and his dark eyes are bottomless. “Not just for tonight.”

Why do those words steal my breath? Why does his arrogant, domineering demeanor make me hot and—God help me—wet for him?

“And if I win?”

His smile is deliberately measured. “Then I am in your hands.” He steps back, allowing me to pick up my cards.

How the hell am I supposed to concentrate? Seriously? This is not easy. I blink and squint at my cards, put them in some semblance of order and decide to discard two, hoping for a straight. Christophe deals me two new cards but doesn’t deal any to himself.

“You’re not trading any cards?”

“No.”

Fuck.

I discard three cards, because I’ve got a pair now and I’m hoping for another pair or three of a kind.

No such luck.

“Show me your cards.”

“A pair of tens.” I lay them down.

He lays his. He’s got a royal flush.

I stare at his cards, open-mouthed. “You cheated.” I cross my arms over my breasts. “There’s no way you could have dealt yourself that hand unless you cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat. It was luck, which is just another word for fate.”

He stands in front of me and sweeps my body with his penetrating, smug gaze. “I’ll give you a choice, and it’s the last one you’ll have tonight.”

“What?” I ask, shoulders back, arms crossed.

“You can take those panties off here or at the club.”

“What club?”

He points, to the far wall. There’s a sign on a door I hadn’t noticed that reads,
Club Sin,
all done in red neon with devil horns on the C and N. “I’ve booked a room.”

“At the BDSM club?”

He touches my cheek, in that way I’m becoming much too accustomed to, and says quietly, “You wanted to know what I was like
before
. Tonight is your chance to meet the old me.” His expression turns serious. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

I nod, but not all the way. I think it’s what I want, but how can I know for sure until I meet him.

“Good.”

In a flash, his whole persona changes. His face becomes grim, his eyes darken and his chest expands. “Then we will fuck the way I like it. Do you understand?”

He’s always given off a dominant air, but right now? My God, it’s like a switch flicked and Christophe is a completely different man. He’s the arrogant playboy I pictured him to be when I first met him in Monte Carlo. He’s the entitled billionaire who gets everything he wants. Yes, we’re playing a game but he’s so damn good, it doesn’t feel like play.

This isn’t what I had planned. I was going to seduce him, not submit to him.

So that’s what I tell him. “I’m not going to submit to you, if that’s what you think.”

“Yes, you are.” He steps closer, making me look up at him.

I shake my head even though my body is already willing and ready to do whatever this man suggests. “I’ll give you what you want, only when
I
want it.”

He does the same thing he did in Monte Carlo, fitting his trousered leg between mine, but this time he moves it, grinding up between my thighs, which feels fucking marvelous by the way. Taking hold of my wrists, he pulls my arms from my breasts. “I know what you want better than you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.” He pulls me closer. “Your pupils are dilated.” He fingers my wrist. “Your pulse is erratic and there’s heat emanating off your skin.” He leans close to my face. “Your breath is coming fast, like you find it hard to breathe.” He leans down as if to kiss me but he doesn’t. He drops his head lower and inhales deeply. “And, I can smell your pussy.” Standing straight, he looks down at me, his words clipped and calculated.  “You’re wet for me. Your clit is throbbing. You’re hoping I’ll slide my hand up your thigh and brush my fingers against you.”

I jerk out of his grasp. “That’s not true.” I lie because his all-knowing commentary is maddening not only because of his superior tone but because of how accurate it is.

He very lightly trails a finger down my arm. I don’t know how something so gentle can light such a blazing fire beneath my skin.

“This is what you want, Tessa. You like being dominated. You’re so in control of your life. You long to give it up. Even if only for a short time.”

Who is this Christophe? I can’t decide if I like him or not. Right now, I’m thinking not so much…or maybe too much.

“You want to be dominated by me and you’re going to let me because I know exactly what you need.” His hand moves to my lower back.

“You barely know me.” Are we playing a game or is this real? I can’t tell anymore.

“I know you much better than you think.”

It’s the game. Surely. He’s just really good at playing the part of the dominant male. Well, maybe he’s come across plenty of women who were willing to please him in the past. That’s not me. I lift my chin. “I’m not a possession.”

“Good. I don’t need any more possessions.”

I swallow, having no answer to that.

“Now, do as you’re told. Remove your panties here or there.” He motions toward the door. “It’s up to you.”

I’m in a quandary. This is my game. My bet. I started this and now I’ve got to finish it. He warned me he was going to be the ‘old Christophe’ and I basically told him to bring it. So now what?

So now I find myself standing—clad only in panties…yes, I kept them on—just outside the door to a private room in
Club Sin
, wondering what the hell I’m going to find inside. I recall some of the things Christophe said about his life before he embraced Tantra.

Shit. What does he think he’s going to do with me tonight? How kinky is he…was he? Why does the thought of his kinkiness excite me so much?

“Open the door, Tessa.”

So fucking bossy. Of course I obey. Dammit! What else am I supposed to do? For whatever fucked up reason, I like being bossed around sometimes, particularly by a man I like. The feelings I have for Christophe are much stronger than
like
.

Inside, the room is lit by candles and there’s a lingering scent of sandalwood. I look for the typical dominant/submissive accoutrements; the St. Andrew’s Cross, a spanking bench, a wall of toys, whips, floggers, cat-o-nine tails, crops…

There’s nothing except a strange chair situated in the middle of the room.

“Not what you expected?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you thought you’d find.”

“I thought you’d be into bondage.” I walk up to the chair, feeling the supple, silky leather, running my hand along the top of the interesting S-shaped lounge chair. “You know, restraints, toys, that kind of thing.”

“I was.” He notices my hand lingering on the supple leather. “But I progressed into other avenues.”

“Like?”

He comes to stand beside me, saying softly, “Like the best sorts of restraints are those of the mind.”

I shiver from his words but also from the sound of him breathing deeply beside me as if he’s as turned on as I am.

I lick my suddenly dry lips and then turn my attention to the only piece of furniture in the room. “What’s with the chair?” I ask, petting.

“It’s a Kama Sutra chair.”

Yes. The name fits, I can already picture various ways the ‘S-shaped’ chair can be used.

“It’s all I require.” After a long exhale, he says. “And you’re going to bend over it.”

I glance back. “You’re not wasting time, are you?”

He doesn’t answer me, he simply restates himself. “Bend.”

Fuck. Christophe is unsettling me. I can’t read him right now. I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking, real or fake. Is this a game or is this something else?

He wraps a hand around my neck, not too tight, but firmly enough to push me down over the top of the chair. It’s a perfect fit for my stomach and a perfect angle for my chest, leaving my ass completely exposed.

“You will do as I say.”

“Don’t we need a word? Like a safe word?”

“No. Not for what I have in mind.”

I arch my back in order to look behind me. “I think we should.”

“I’m going to make you come more than once and then I’m going to fuck you. Do you need a safe word for that?”

Chapter Twelve

Holy shit! Why the hell does his cold, arrogant, fucking bossy demeanor turn me on so much? What is it about this kind of play that gets my juices going? I’m a modern woman. Yet, with certain men, I like being told what to do. God help me. I like the way Christophe grabs the corner between my neck and shoulder, possessively. My pussy is still throbbing from the way he pushed me over the back of the chair, leaving me vulnerable and at his mercy.

Is that a harkening back to some Neanderthal origin? Who the fuck knows.

“I asked you a question.”

I shake my head because I do not have a problem with that, dammit!

“Good.” Christophe moves up behind me. I shudder against the chair as he twists the back of my panties in his fist. “Now. I’m going to make you come using these.”

I don’t know what that means, not until he tugs up on the back, reaches around to the front and pulls there, sawing my panties back and forth across my wet pussy, abrading my clit with delicious friction.

“You like it hard.”

“Yes.”

He increases the rate of movement. “And fast.”

“Oh God, yes.”

He’s pulling on my panties so hard that he’s lifting me to my toes, yet the feeling is so startlingly good, I’m gasping and well on my way to orgasm.

“God, you’re wet. You like this.”

“Mmm.” I clench the side of the chair, overcome by the sensations, the feeling like it’s almost too much too soon, yet not quite enough.

“On a scale of one to ten, where ten is an orgasm, where are you?”

“Eight.”

“Fuck, that’s fast.” He grunts and with one more tug, he buries the crotch of my panties into me and I cry out. Not because I’ve come but because it’s shockingly good.

“You’re going to come for me.” His voice is deep, even and melodic. “I’m going to count to ten and when I get to ten, your panties will rip and you will come.”

Shit. I have no idea what he’s doing, what he’s saying. All I can do is feel the marvelous friction between my legs, my panties biting into me, fucking me.

“One.”

It’s all good. So fucking good.

“Two.”

I wriggle around, working my clit into the material.

“Three, four, five.”

Wonderful. So, so wonderful. And then suddenly he’s at number six and I’m squealing and rocking against the leather of the chair.

“Seven.”

My tummy shudders, my thighs clench and I pulse my ass in the air.

“Eight.”

My feet leave the ground and I’m chanting the ‘fuck’ chant.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

“Nine…”

Sweet pain grips me from my insides, clawing to get out. Needing release. Needing freedom. Needing, needing, needing…

I don’t hear the number ten. What I hear—and feel—is the
rip!
of my panties and the room detonates around me. Someone is crying out. I know it’s me and yet it sounds like it’s coming from someone else.

I haven’t even come down from the heights of orgasm when I feel Christophe’s hand on my ass, spreading me wide.

His voice—still so fucking calm—whispers near my ear. “You’re not going to stop. You’re going to keep coming until I tell you to stop.”

“Wha—” I can’t formulate a word let alone a sentence.

He rubs me and caresses me with such expert touches I can’t think, I can’t breathe, kneading the flesh of my inner thighs and buttocks.

“You love this,” he whispers and I can feel him, his arousal, butted up against my backside. “You want more. You long for my fingers…” He reaches around in front of me and inserts three fingers inside, drilling me, twisting and turning while he rubs his arousal along the seam of my ass. “You want my tongue.”

“Yes,” I pant, grinding backwards with my ass.

“You are dying for my cock, to fuck you until you scream.”

“Yes!” Oh, God. I’m already screaming. My flesh continues to pulse, responding to his words, his touch.

“You need more.”

“Yes.”

He pulls his fingers out only to drive them inside me again. Harder, faster, finger fucking me like he means it. “Say it.”

“I need more.”

“Again.”

“Fuck, Christophe, fuck!”

“What do you want?”

“You. All of you. Please, oh God, please.”

But instead of giving me more, he stops, withdrawing his hand and backing away. The loss of his body and touch make me gasp and I turn on him like some feral animal about to rip out his throat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting on a condom so I can fuck you.”

“Oh,” I turn back around. “Yes. Do it.”

The chair is the perfect height for him to drill me from behind and that’s what he does. One sure, forceful thrust and he’s embedded while my pussy continues to spasm in ecstasy.  He withdraws and plunges in long, easy strokes. In, out, in, out…

Oh hell. I’m so close. Again. I just need a little more. I peer blindly over my shoulder. “Faster. Harder. Please.”

“No.” He stops, pulls out and moves around to the front of the chair, patting the seat. “Come sit here.”

I slither down from where I’m leaning against the back of the chair and do a very ungraceful maneuver so that I’m sitting of the chair. My hand is between my legs, rubbing, trying to finish what Christophe started.

“Spread your legs. Let me see.”

Like my legs are puppets on strings, they are pulled apart by the puppet-master’s commands.

“Touch yourself. Show me how you like it. When I think you’re ready, I’ll tell you when to come again.”

* * *

Is there any more pleasurable way to wake up than having someone caressing you out of sleep? That’s exactly how I wake, with Christophe propped on his elbow gently touching my jaw, my collarbones, my shoulders and sides. There is nothing left of the dominant, cold Christophe this morning, the one who made me do his bidding, bringing me to orgasm over and over again with little more than his words and his voice. He barely penetrated me. Barely touched me.  Did he even enjoy himself last night? It was hard to tell.

The man who is watching me now is tender, strong and considerate, and I have one overwhelming urge…to make love
my
way.

I touch his face. God, I love a morning beard. Love running my fingers over the sheer masculine roughness, observing how the stubble travels from his throat up to his jaw and cheek leaving smooth skin on his cheekbones.

His eyelids flicker in pleasure as I caress him.

“You didn’t come last night,” I say absently.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to.”

I touch some more, letting my fingers do the walking, down his throat, his chest, his abdomen. Hello! The man is sporting a generous erection and it doesn’t take much stroking for him to become rock hard.

“I’d like to do something about that.”

“I don’t need to come.”

“That’s plain craziness talking.” My words are slow and slurred from sleep. With a stretch and a yawn, I wriggle my way down beneath the covers.

“Tessa?”

His voice is muffled so I don’t bother to respond. Instead I run my hands along his sculpted thighs until they meet in the middle.

Lovely.

“Tessa.” He flips back the covers, which is fine because I’m too warm anyway.

After a hazy glance up at him, I lick him, flicking my tongue around and around his head like he’s a dripping ice cream cone on a hot summer day.

“Fuck.”

God, I love the way that word sounds. A tortured ‘fuck’ with a French accent is incredibly sexy. So of course I want to hear it again. I wet my lips and relax into a loose pucker, swishing the head of his cock back and forth across my juicy mouth.

“Fuck…fuck…fuck.”

Exactly. It’s his turn to sing the ‘fuck’ chant.

After the third ‘fuck’, I suck him in and he responds by twisting my hair in his grasp. He doesn’t guide my head or force me to me move, he just holds on, like my hair is reins and I’m an unbroken filly.

“Tess, you need to stop.”

“Not until you come.” I go down on him again, taking him deep. Up and down until his cock spasms in my mouth. I know he’s going to come by the way he cries out, but amazingly, he doesn’t.

With a firm tug on my hair, he pulls himself out of my mouth. “No more.”

“Why?” I wipe my lips. “You like it, I know you do.”

He rolls us together so that I’m pinned beneath him. His breath is coming hard and fast and by the bulge lodged against my thigh, he’s completely turned on, yet he fights to regain control. “Today we do it my way.”

Frowning, I say, “I thought we did it your way last night.”

His lips twitch. “That was old Christophe. Remember?”

“Mmm. Yes. Vividly.”

He pinches my thigh. “You liked old Christophe.”

“Eh. He was okay.”

His eyes light up. “Liar. You loved him. He made you come three times. You begged him to make you come again.”

I smack his ass. “Okay. So I liked him. So what?”

“You will like
me
even better.”

“I’d like you better if you’d let yourself come…in me.”

He shakes his head while insinuating himself between my thighs. “What if I told you that everything you’ve been doing—sexually—has been misguided? That your sense of enjoyment and ecstasy is limited by your sexual practices? That your inherent need to strive for an end goal limits your satisfaction.”

“Wait a second. Are you saying I shouldn’t try to have an orgasm?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you find them…umm…enjoyable? Because I sure as hell do.”

“Enjoyable. However, much too short. Did you know the average orgasm lasts less than eight seconds?”

“No, I did not know that. But there’s a lot of good fun to be had, getting to that eight seconds.”

“Imagine how much fun it would be to stay there, or better yet, to go beyond. Being in an orgasmic state…for hours.”

“No way.”

“Yes.”

I think of how that might feel. I easily recall how I felt last night, the blinding pre-orgasm tension and then the release that was like an explosion tearing me apart that lasted and lasted until Christophe told me to stop. “That would probably kill me. I can barely walk after last night. A couple of hours would leave me bedridden for weeks.”

He smiles. “Considering how enthusiastic you get during sex, it’s no wonder you can’t walk afterwards.”

I smack his bare abs. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy last night.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I wrap my legs around his waist and swivel my hips suggestively.

He shakes his head. “You’re insatiable.”

“Yep.”

“You need to learn how to go slow. To relax. To enjoy.”

“Sounds boring.”

“I’m going to teach you.”

I elbow him in the ribs. “You can try.”

“First, I’m going to teach you something else.” He gets out of bed and flips the covers off me, leaving me naked. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”