by Pam Godwin
Soon, my body takes over, my hand moving the way I want it to move, coaxing shivers across my skin and producing an unimaginable amount of wet heat beneath my touch.
My legs fall open, and my head tips back, my neck stretching as I rub my clit and sink two fingers inside, out and up, down and back in.
He’s right behind that door, lathering soap along his shaft, stroking it, caring for it. God bless it, I want to do that. I bet his nude body is a legendary sight to behold.
The pressure inside me snaps, cutting my air as pleasure rolls over me in warm electric waves. I shudder and jerk, gasping with throaty groans. Holy hell, maybe I can do that again. After I catch my breath. How many of those can I have back-to-back?
I glide my fingers into my slick opening. Maybe just one more before he—
It’s too quiet. Is the shower off?
The bathroom door swings open, and he steps out in a fog of steam.
I yank my hand away and shove the shirt down.
He grips the towel at his waist as his arctic eyes lock on mine.
Neither of us breathes. Or moves.
He knows.
“You touched yourself.”
My face heats to nuclear levels.
He clutches the door frame, squeezing so hard the wood creaks. His eyes cloud with pain, harden with resolve, then he jerks backward and slams the door between us.
I groan, embarrassed beyond belief.
A thump hits the wood on the other side. The lock clicks, followed by the sound of the shower turning back on.
What the hell just happened? What should I do? As soon as he comes out, I’ll have to face him.
Dammit, I refuse to be ashamed about this.
Darting across the room, I knock on the door. “Emeric?”
“Five minutes!” His muffled shout sounds too close to be in the shower.
“Are you mad?”
“No, Ivory,” he grunts.
“Then what?”
He makes a deep growly noise. “Fuck, you’re killing me here.”
I back away from the door and sit on the bed. He hasn’t tried to have sex with me, but all his kissing and touching and staring tells me he wants to. Given my unsavory sex life, I can guess why he won’t.
One thing I can depend on, though, is his directness. So rather than making myself sick over assumptions, I wander toward the lunacy that’s in his closet.
Clothes and shoes line a wall that’s three times longer than my height. The quality of the fabrics and seams is unlike anything I’ve ever touched. I open the built-in drawers along the side and find heaps of lace, satin, and oh my God, leather lingerie. The tags have been removed, but everything looks new and exactly my size. I mold the cups of a red lacy bra around my boobs. Perfect fit. How the hell does he know my bra size?
Five minutes later, the bathroom door opens. I slip out of the closet, still wearing his t-shirt, and return to the bed to sit on the edge.
His black hair is partially dry, and the earlier tension in his muscles is gone. My attention falls to the bulge beneath his towel. It’s not tenting. I bet he touched himself, but why behind a closed door with the shower running? Emeric Marceaux does not get embarrassed.
He sits beside me on the bed, drops his bruised hand in my lap, and loops our fingers together. “To clarify my earlier reaction… I do not, in any way, object to you masturbating.”
Just hearing him say that naughty word sparks a firestorm inside me. “That’s good, because I’m definitely doing it again.” I lift a daring brow. “Whether you approve or not.”
“Killing me,” he mutters beneath his breath.
“Why?” Why not just touch me instead?
He pulls our laced hands between his spread knees and braces our elbows on the towel covering his thighs. “I love that you want to pleasure yourself.” He slides me a sexy grin. “I love it a little too much.”
“I hear a but coming.”
“But…” He flashes me another heart-racing smile. “I won’t show you how much I really love it until you’re ready.”
“You won’t show me your erection, you mean?”
He closes his eyes. “I’m not a gentle lover, Ivory.” He looks up, and his gaze lands on my lips. “I’m confident that, with time, you’ll discover you don’t want gentle. Until then, I’ll wait.”
“Behind a locked door?”
He nods.
I nibble my lip. “With an erection?”
The corner of his mouth bounces.
I glance at the outline of his cock beneath the towel. “You made yourself come?”
The potency of his stare riles my nerves as he rubs a hand over his jaw, rubbing, glaring hard, rubbing harder.
I really shouldn’t poke the beast, but… Deep breath. Strong voice. “Next time you jerk off, I want to watch.”
His inhale cuts off right before he launches. His chest collides with mine, hurdling me backward against the mattress. An oomph escapes my lips, but his mouth is there, devouring my voice, my air, and my sanity.
The weight of his body sinks mine into the bedding, his strength contracting around me as his hand slides up my ribs, taking the shirt with it. My fingers latch onto his hair, curling through the damp strands as he kisses me with firm lips and a devastatingly urgent tongue.
Held down by his size, my mouth controlled by his, I close my eyes and simply enjoy his feral affection. He catches my nipple and gives it a painful tug. When I gasp, he groans. I rock my hips, and he grinds his, pinning me to the bed and pressing his hard length against my core. A little more of that and his towel will fall off. Maybe I could help it along?
I reach behind him and glide a hand down the flexing ridges of his back. When my fingers bump the towel, I slip beneath it and meet the rise of hard firm muscle. My God, how can a man’s ass be so irresistible? I want to feel it with both hands, but his body’s too long to get a good grasp. I stretch my arms, reaching—
He grabs my throat and squeezes. The force of his grip shoves my chin up, and my hands lose precious inches on his backside.
The angle of my mouth gives him deeper access, his tongue curling around mine and his wet exhales heating my face. “I’m a raging fucking animal around you.”
I want to tell him to use me in whatever manner feeds his hunger, but as his fingers clench tighter around my throat, it’s too much. My lungs burn for oxygen, and black spots invade my vision. Panic rises, my jaw working against his. Not kissing. Fighting.
I can’t breathe. My hands flail against his back, my body bucking to escape. Let go. Let go.
The fist around my throat disappears, followed by his weight. I clutch my neck and wheeze for air as fear ices my veins and tears blur my eyes.
He stands beside the bed, righting the towel over the hard, jutting length I’ve yet to see.
Raking a hand through his hair, he glares down at me. “You’re not ready.”
I let go of my aching throat and sit up, shaking against a full-body tremor. “Ready for what? Sex?”
“For me!” He strides to the dresser and pulls out checkered socks and black briefs. “Keep that in mind the next time you ask to watch me jack off.”
My stomach sinks. “I don’t understand. Why did you strangle me? To scare me?”
If so, it worked. My heart is still pounding.
“To show you.” He crosses the room, stops at the foot of the bed, and scowls at his erection beneath the towel. Then his gaze bores into mine. “I get off on watching your body bow in anguish, on knowing I put those tears in your eyes. But only when you give me that pleasure freely and with absolute trust.”
Did I give it freely? Did I even have a choice? “If you care about me, why can’t we do this without…tears?”
His rumpled black hair and thick eyelashes give him a softer look, but the sharpness in his blue eyes reminds me that if there’s any gentleness inside him, it’s easily choked by his meteoric temper.
He glances at the clock and looks back at me.
“I have a deep sexual need to push a woman beyond her comfort zone. When you’re ready to let me take you there, you’ll fight every instinct in your body, but I promise…the result is far more fulfilling than an orgasm.”
What could be better than an orgasm? Is it something deeper, like that warm feeling that fills my chest when I know he’s enjoying me? Giving him pleasure heightens mine to euphoric levels. So yeah, maybe there’s more to intimacy than just lying on my back while he ruts on top of me. But I have no idea what it could be.
I swallow. I don’t know how I feel about the choking. Does it go beyond my comfort zone? What will he try next? “Why do you want to push me like that?”
“It’s the ultimate trust, and the power in that is unparalleled.”
Despite the unease gurgling inside me, I manage to keep my voice steady. “I don’t want anyone to have power over—”
“No, Ivory. You’re the one with the power. You set the limits and decide when it stops.” He frowns down at me as a twitch skates across his hairless chest. “You didn’t use your safe word.”
Fuck, I forgot. “I couldn’t talk with your hand—”
“Bullshit. You didn’t try.”
I adjust the shirt over my thighs. “That’s the lesson, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Without another word, he steps inside the closet, leaving me in a flushed heap of turmoil.
A few minutes later, he emerges fully clothed and tells me to come to the kitchen when I’m ready to go.
The purpose of his lesson consumes me as I shower, brush my hair and teeth, and dress alone in his bedroom. I know my perceptions of sex and men are jaded, but the pressure of his hand on my throat was nothing compared to the past four years of pain and fear. Doesn’t make his methods acceptable, but the shockingly harsh way he does things might actually be effective.
The next time he makes me uncomfortable, I’m positive I’ll be thinking about that safe word. And he’ll heed it. Since I’ve known him, he hasn’t taken a single thing I wasn’t willing to give. My God, there is power in that. Knowing he’ll stop when I say the word makes me feel taller, steadier…lighter.
I tread down the stairs in the soft leather of new shoes. The adorable flats have little silver spikes and black mesh around the toes. They add a trendy touch to the red woven dress. The three-quarter sleeves will keep me warm in the autumn evenings. The straight hem goes past my knees, and the bodice has this cool sash that crisscrosses from back to front and ties at my waist.
The whole outfit makes me feel elegant and…cherished. A niggling voice in my head reminds me that I didn’t earn these clothes. Except Emeric gave them to me under the very clear understanding that I belong to him and, in turn, everything he possesses is mine. Hard to wrap my mind around that. But for now, I’ll wear the clothes because his gift means more to me than my damnable pride.
I find him sitting at the island in the kitchen, picking through a plate of pastries topped with eggs, cheese, and bacon. His attention jumps to me, and he freezes. Only his eyes move, heating beneath dark brows as he makes an unhurried tour up and down my body.
It’s obvious he bought these clothes because my current wardrobe is lacking. But when he continues his head-to-toe perusal, I realize he went shopping because he was thinking about me, maybe imagining how I would look dressed in the things he likes.
On the final pass, his rock-hard facial features soften with satisfaction. Something inside me catches and holds. I put that look on his face by accepting his gift. I don’t know what it is, but knowing I please him meshes so well with all the new feelings he stirs in me.
He meets my eyes. “Luckiest dress on the planet.”
My heart trundles into a cadenza of heavy beats. “Can’t believe how well it fits.”
He glances at my lips. “Sit down and eat.”
His brown paisley necktie, off-white button-up, and brown slacks would look old-fashioned on another man. But on him, it’s a statement in designer metro-sexy. Hell, he could wear a popped collar and bedazzled cutoffs, and women would drop their panties as he walks by.
The robust scent of coffee swirls around me as I sit beside him. “No waistcoat today?”
“Jacket weather.”
I glance at the brown suede jacket draped over the back of his seat. The long sleeves might help hide the cuts on his knuckles.
He loads up my plate, pours my juice, and rests a hand on my thigh. I haven’t been cared for this way since my dad was alive. Sitting here in nice clothes, putting food in my belly, I study him as a fatherless girl would her protector, as a student with her teacher, but more than that, I look at him as a woman opening her heart to a man.
He fills so many voids in my life, and my desire for him only knits me closer, tighter to a world I’ve only dreamed about. A world where I interact with a man because I want to, because he cares about me as much as I care about him.
Except he says I’m not ready.
Before I met him, gentleness was all I wanted, but now?
When I began formal musical studies, I gained an acute appreciation for Bach’s kickass usage of counterpoint. Those who don’t know how to listen to his music only hear a mess of noisy lines. But what he composed was multiple melodies, with each hand playing a different version of the same song.
Emeric applies counterpoint in everything he does. With one hand, he taps with tenderness and self-control while his other bangs with intensity and dominance. His methods may be contradictory, but he executes them in perfect harmony.
I set down the fork and grip his fingers on my thigh. “How will I know when I’m ready?”
He lifts my hand and presses a kiss on my palm. “I will know.”
I search his face, lingering on his sculptured lips, freshly-shaved jaw, and ultramarine eyes. “Then what?”
Promises dance like sinister notes in his gaze. “Then you’ll be grateful for that safe word.”
A shiver licks my spine, and an ache flares between my legs. I want what he’s offering as much as I don’t want it. Or maybe I want to not want it.
I rub the back of my neck then dig into breakfast.
He scrapes his plate clean and pushes it away. “When you’re not at school or here, you won’t leave my side.”
I choke, mumbling around the cheesy bite. “How does that work?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Chewing quickly, I swallow. “When I go home—”
“You live with me now.”
I stiffen as his words penetrate my eardrums. I hear them, but their meaning isn’t syncing with my brain.
He sips his coffee, glances at his phone, and looks up at me like he told me to come for dinner, not fucking move in.
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open. “You’re fucking with me.”
Lifting his mug to his lips, he stares right back, not a hint of a smile in his eyes.
He’s serious.
Did I miss an entire conversation where he asked me to move in? Oh wait. He doesn’t ask for anything.
I slouch against the back of the stool. “This is because of Lorenzo.”
“It’s a convenient reason.” He refills his mug with the carafe on the island and returns to his phone.
Damn his anti-I can’t rule, because I want to scream those words repeatedly. “It’s against the law. You’re my teacher!”
“You’re my girl.” He lazily swipes the screen on his phone. “That’s the only law you need to worry about.”
What? My head hammers. “You’re insane.”
“You’re mine.”
“What if someone finds out?”
He scrolls through his email, not a care in the world. “My problem.”
“But Schubert—”
He drops the phone and crashes his lips against mine with a kiss that says Shut up and trust me. Then he leans back and returns to his email. “We’re picking up the cat after school.”
Three lots away from Ivory’s house, I idle the GTO on th
e street while she feeds the cat. The orange motorcycle isn’t here, but I don’t know if anyone else is home.
If I had a legal explanation for arriving with her at six-thirty in the morning, I’d be in that house with her right now. Instead, I’m forced to monitor her from afar, through the connection between our phones, ready to do whatever is needed to be her anchor point of protection.
The first light of dawn illuminates the patchy shingles on the surrounding homes. I hold my phone in a tight grip, hating that I can’t see her moving around inside. But I hear her through the speaker. Every rasp of her breath through the ear piece draws my own.
Before we left my house, I gave her the phone I bought for her weeks ago. She cradled it in her hands as if it were the priceless Vieuxtemps violin, her pale expression suffused with reluctant acceptance. I look forward to her reaction when I give her a car.
“Is your mom or brother there?” I ask though the phone.
“Both,” she whispers. “Asleep.”
If I hear a gasp or a single troubling sound, I’ll be on that doorstep in under ten seconds.
I flex my hand on the steering wheel, the bruised knuckles peering out from beneath the overlong sleeve. Ivory probably knows the real reason I’m wearing the jacket is to hide the cuts. I don’t want her worrying about what people assume or don’t assume. That’s my job.
As I focus on the rustle of her movements through the phone, my mind wanders back to the bedroom this morning and the erotic way her neck felt in the collar of my grip. She trusts me, yet she panicked, fighting with her body and begging me with her eyes, just as she would with any other man. That’s unacceptable.
Asphyxiation, whipping, deriving pleasure from any kind of pain and humiliation isn’t for the faint of heart. If I had any doubt about what arouses her, my approach would be different. If she were too timid to hold my gaze, she probably wouldn’t have caught my eye in the first place.
If she was anyone else, I wouldn’t be sitting here, one-hundred-percent invested and risking my neck to be with her.
Ivory Westbrook isn’t fragile. She’s built for my brand of protection and appetite for dominance. Treating her with kid gloves would do a great disservice to her.