What She Needs (13 page)

He started to go, but after two steps, heard himself mutter, “Hell—fuck it.” Then he turned back, stepped possessively between her thighs, and slid his hands around her slender waist. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her hotly, passionately.

Though after a minute, after that initial kiss or two, the connection of their mouths slowed, their lips lingering together for a long, still moment—which drove him into a drawn-out, deliberate, deeper kind of kissing.

When his spine began to tingle, he knew it was time to stop, so he pulled up, gently backing a step away.

Their eyes met and he once again felt like he was seeing all of her: the sweet girl inside; the girl who was frightened sexually but standing openly before him, exposed, both physically and emotionally; the hot, dirty girl he knew hid within, wanting to come out.

“Sweet dreams, sunshine,” he said, then turned and exited the room.

J
enna lay on her bed in a cami and cotton panties, hugging a pillow to her chest, feeling too dreamy after Brent’s kisses.
But you have to stop it. You can enjoy sex with him—and kissing—but you can’t get any more attached to him.
For one thing, she’d known him for just over twenty-four hours. For another, in two weeks, he would be history, a memory. No matter how hot and soft his kisses had been.

Getting up, she gathered pen and paper, then stepped out onto the balcony. Anyplace else, she might worry about putting on more clothes, but here, she considered being seen in underwear the least of her worries. It was dark out, getting late, and she hadn’t composed her lists yet.

She’d returned to her suite to find dinner waiting—a chicken salad plate and some fruit. Damn him, how did he know she’d been in the mood for something light after all the weird sex and weird talking?

After eating, she’d taken a long bath and started on her homework, rethinking the sex, bit by bit. Parts of it still freaked her out a little—but sometimes, she discovered, the things that had freaked her out were also the same things that had turned her on. And as she replayed it all in her mind, she tried her best to start thinking the way he wanted her to think—in dirty words. Instead of remembering the moment she saw his penis, she remembered the moment she saw his cock. Instead of remembering how he’d moved in and out of her, she remembered the way he’d fucked her. She still thought that was . . . silly at best, but for some reason she couldn’t quite determine, she wanted—more and more—to be a good student for him.

Peering out over the sea, where a nearly full moon shone down to make the water sparkle, she tried to laugh that off as a ridiculous reason, but the truth was—the man knew how to kiss. He’d kissed her better than anyone ever had.

Half an hour and lots of lusty, tingling memories later, she had compiled them, and though it had been difficult to be totally honest, especially knowing he’d see them, she’d succeeded. Admirably so, she thought.

She knew she probably could have thought of more, but she was tired—such strange sex had worn her out—and she wanted to go to bed. After folding the lists and putting them in an envelope, she wrote Brent’s name on the outside, called the front desk as instructed, then slid the envelope partially under the door, so she wouldn’t have to bother getting dressed to open it.

As she closed her eyes, she thought once more about the day. Had it changed her inside? Sexually? In other ways? It had certainly shown her a few unexpected things about herself, but in her mind, it was far too soon to recognize any far-reaching results. As for how on earth she’d been sucked into going forward with more of this, she wasn’t sure. As much as she’d loved his kisses, she would have liked attributing her cooperation to that as well—but she’d agreed, or not argued anyway,
before
he’d kissed her.

And maybe that was all the proof she needed to know this experience
had
already changed her, more than she could have conceived of just a day or two earlier—that seemed like a lifetime ago. Lord, how changed would she be after two full weeks of Brent’s fantasies?

Brent sat on a large ruby red throw pillow in the harem room, reading the invitation he knew Jenna had received a few hours ago—guides were always given a copy of their own invitations as a matter of course, allowing them to make sure everything was right.

The large area was draped in colorful satins and silks, jewel-tone draperies spilling down walls and drooping from the ceiling like waves. Thick carpeting covered the floor, which was home to mounds of various-size pillows in more rich, saturated colors, taking the place of furniture. To give a sense of greater dimension, the room had been built on two levels; three steps descended into a square “pit” to one side and stretched along its length. And Brent’s clothing, of course, fit the setting—he was the sheik, complete with a small white turban and billowing white pants. For this particular fantasy, he wore no shirt.

Around him, people bustled about, arranging pillows and adjusting lighting. He looked up to see two pretty girls enter the room in their harem costumes. The taller one, a shapely blonde, met Brent’s gaze and playfully jiggled her tits within the sky blue chiffon bikini-type top that held them. “You like?” she asked.

Yes, he liked, very much, and gave her a wink in reply. “Very nice, Sasha.” Sasha was twenty-eight and working at the Hotel Erotique while she wrote her thesis—she’d soon have a master’s in social psychology with a focus on sex roles. The girl at her side, Barbie, was in her early twenties and had a BA in psychology, but was busy rebelling against her parents for a few years—after which Brent expected she’d get a job in counseling, a plan that had been sidetracked when her rich father cut her off unless she pursued a more lucrative position in the field.

Just then, Ryan came in bearing trays laden with finger sandwiches, chocolate-covered strawberries and chunks of banana, and a ceramic jug filled with wine—he lowered the tray to the wide step just above where Brent sat. Brent had heard Ryan had waited on Jenna at the beach yesterday. “Food and drink for the new slave girl,” Ryan said with an easy wink. “Kirsten’s bringing the cups.”

“Good man,” Brent said with a nod. Ryan wouldn’t be participating in this particular fantasy, but Brent would likely pull him in later if he found a role he thought fit. For tonight, it would be only he and a number of female facilitators.

And it was good that he’d already planned to bring more people in on this second fantasy, since . . . shit, what had he been thinking, kissing her last night? He’d always been in full agreement on the rules about guides and guests, but now he understood why more than ever before. It was easy to get too involved, to start caring on a personal level. Worse, he was realizing just how easy that made it for the
guest
to get attached, too.

So what had he done? Kissed a girl who he knew was already prone to getting attached to people she had sex with.
Smooth move, Powers.
He gave his head a disgusted shake.

Just then Kirsten entered, carrying a tray of small ceramic cups without handles, designed with colorful Middle Eastern flair, which she lowered to the carpet. She looked stunning in red chiffon, rows of gold coin-shaped medallions draping from the bottom of her revealing top, her long dark hair pulled up in an
I Dream of Jeannie
ponytail. At thirty, she was one of their most skilled and experienced facilitators and would soon likely advance to being a guide. “Anything else we need?” she asked.

He looked around, then shook his head. “Nope, the sheik is pleased,” he answered teasingly.

When Kirsten walked away, though, his mind returned to kissing Jenna—and it forced him to remember the way those kisses had figured into her lists.

Otherwise, though, she’d done well, and a number of the entries had made him smile.
No, sunshine, calling it an asshole is fine.
Other list items had relayed to him in subtle or not-so-subtle ways that much of what he’d hoped to achieve last night had worked. She was learning to more boldly take pleasure from her own body, and to
recognize
taking that pleasure. She’d enjoyed aspects of the kinkiness involved—even though she might not fully realize it. She was learning to talk more frankly about sex, without shying away from language, and he was pretty sure she
did
get off on dirty talk—she just didn’t know that yet, either. And—key for right now—she was adapting well to obeying his instructions. She hadn’t even balked about making the lists—and he’d fully expected her to. Despite her general protests and arguments, she was becoming a much more malleable, docile Jenna very quickly, and that would aid his work immensely.