What happened at dinner?
Unreal. Just…totally unreal.
I got out of bed, dressed in a T-shirt and underwear, and paced the living room, my thoughts racing. I ached. Deep down, between my legs. He’d made me hot, and he’d left me hanging. I didn’t like that. I wasn’t in some kind of sexual frenzy, just…mildly frustrated. Left curious, wondering, needing more.
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I left my room and wandered toward the kitchens. I didn’t bother dressing, since only Eliza would be around to see me, assuming she was still awake. Mystery Man—God, I really needed to find out his name—had said he’d be in his private quarters.
Really? Private quarters? Who says that anymore? The dirty-minded teenager in me wanted to make a joke about it. When faced with situations that I had a hard time dealing with, my go-to reaction was humor, usually bawdy and inappropriate.
After a few wrong turns, I found the industrial kitchen, gaping and echoing and dark. An eight-burner Wolf gas range with an expansive, gleaming hood vent, double Wolf ovens, an unlit stone pizza oven with a long-handled paddle leaning against the wall, a wide island with a white cutting board running in front of a bank of closed, silver-topped, refrigerated containers. This was a restaurant kitchen, done in luxury-grade. There was a walk-in refrigerator, a walk-in freezer, and a six-foot-tall wine cooler stocked with bottle after bottle of what I assumed was thousands of dollars in chilled wine. There was another freestanding refrigerator dedicated to nothing but beer: Stella Artois, Newcastle, Smithwicks, Guinness, Harp, Yuengling, Duvel, Chimay…every kind of beer you could imagine except cheap domestic. No Bud Light or Coors here. I probably shouldn’t tell him I rarely drank anything but Bud Light. That was due more to budgetary restrictions than taste preference, but still.
I chose a Harp, rummaged through half a dozen drawers until I found a bottle opener. I wandered, beer in hand, until I found the breakfast nook. I stood with my nose near the glass, staring out at the still-bustling city.
I smelled him before I heard him. Honestly, I don’t think I ever really did hear him approach. I smelled his cologne, felt him behind me.
“Don’t turn around,” he murmured.
“I won’t.” The room behind us was dark, so there was no reflection of him in the window. An admission burbled up and out; I had to know what he would do. This was my test for him. “I peeked, earlier. You were going around the corner. You’re really tall, and you have blond hair.”
There was a long, significant hesitation before he responded. “Why did you tell me? I wouldn’t have ever known.”
I shrugged, swallowed a mouthful of beer. “I don’t know.” A lie, but I couldn’t very well tell him my real reason for spilling the truth.
“Hmmm.” I heard liquid glug in a bottle neck, and deduced he was drinking beer as well. “You shouldn’t have peeked, Kyrie.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Strangely, it was a genuine apology.
Why did it matter? I couldn’t answer that question, except to say that it did. There was no point in denying his effect on me, no point in denying that I wanted his approval, his trust. What was it about him that created this reaction in me?
He was standing far enough behind me that we weren’t touching, but close enough that I felt heat coming from him. I should have felt self-conscious about my attire—or lack thereof—but I wasn’t. Not with him. And again, why wasn’t I? I wasn’t a prude, nor was I shy. I could rock a bikini without feeling self-conscious, but I wasn’t a show-off, either. I didn’t flash more skin than I felt comfortable with. The T-shirt I was wearing just barely cleared the bottom of my ass, leaving almost my entire lower half on display for him. And this didn’t bother me in the slightest. I felt…at ease despite being half-naked around a man I’d known for less time than it had taken me to fly here from Detroit.
“I told you not to fail that test.”
“Yes, you did.”
“And yet you still peeked.”
“I’m a curious girl, what can I say?”
“You’re a bad girl.” His voice was low, dark, thick with promise.
“Yeah?” I heard the teasing rasp in my voice, and wondered who it was. Not me, surely. “What are you gonna do about it?” I swallowed hard, waiting for his response.
I felt his fingers pinch the cotton of my shirt, lifting it. He let it rest on the swell of my ass. The underwear I wore was somewhere between lingerie and basic briefs. It was the kind of lacy panty that was molded to my ass, cutting in tight between my ass cheeks. Light pink in color, comfy, sexy. Now I felt revealed, exposed. I wasn’t breathing; I didn’t dare. I’d been bad. Disobedient.
Even thinking in those terms made me squirm with discomfort. I wasn’t a child who worried about disobeying. But yet the feeling persisted, fear mixed with excitement.
Something warm and rough cupped my ass. I swayed, nearly dropping my beer. I tried to breathe. I was getting dizzy from having held my breath for so long. His hand caressed first one side, and then the other. He sucked in a short, sharp breath.
“Bloody hell, Kyrie. So damned perfect.” His words weren’t really meant for me, it seemed, stumbling out of his mouth in a barely audible mumble.
I was about to demur, to remind him I wasn’t perfect, when he spoke again. Louder, to me, this time.
“No more peeking, yes?”
Once again, I opened my mouth to speak when I was cut off. This time, by a quick yet stinging smack to my right ass cheek. It wasn’t hard; it didn’t hurt. It just…surprised me. I gasped at the unexpected contact, and then the gasp morphed into something else when his palm smoothed and gentled my stinging flesh.
“No more peeking, yes?” His tone was prompting, demanding an answer. I was too surprised and mixed-up to form words. I nodded, hoping that would do. Apparently not. The light, sharp slap came to the left side of my butt this time, once again followed immediately by a soothing circle of his warm hand. “No…more…peeking. Yes?”
“Yes…yes.” The answer flew from my lips, breathless, and then I sucked in a long breath, finally able to breathe.
“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” His hand rested on the bell of my hip, casual, possessive.
Familiar. As if it belonged there.
“I thought…I thought you said you weren’t into that?”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I admitted.
“It was a reminder. I expect answers when I ask questions. I would never, ever cause you pain. A bit of a sting, that’s all.” His breath stole over my neck, and his voice rumbled in my ear. God, I wanted so badly to turn around. “And you liked it, didn’t you?”
I knew I had to answer. “Yes.” My answer was barely a breath — it didn’t count as speech. It was a susurrus of mortification.
“If you truly don’t like something, if it causes you prolonged discomfort or pain, tell me. I should, under all circumstances, be able to read your responses to what I do, but if for some reason I miss something, just tell me. But please—for both our sakes—examine yourself before you ask me to stop. Find out if you really truly want me to stop. Or if you’re merely afraid of liking something new.”
I took a long pull off my beer and then, in an instinctual gesture that surprised me as much as him, I think, I leaned my head back until it met his chest. I kept my eyes closed, per our agreement.
“This is all so…much,” I heard myself admit. “So different. So strange. So scary. I don’t know what’s happening to me. You—you do something to me. Just by—I don’t even know—without trying. Like you know all my switches and buttons. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t possibly know what makes me tick this well. No amount of stalking, watching me from a distance, could tell you what turns me on.”
“Yes, you’re right.” His voice, coming from so close, from his chest, from above my head…was loud, pure energy and vibration. “I told you, Kyrie. I can read you like a book. You’re scared, but you want this. You hate the fact that I affe
ct you so much, but you like it in equal measure. The fear makes it that much more exciting.”
Glass touched wood, and then he took my bottle and set it down as well on the table behind us. His hands slid down my arms. His body towered behind me. His breath blew on my neck.
“Eyes closed, Kyrie.”
“They are,” I told him.
“Good.” A brief pause. “Do you trust me?”
“I’m trying. I’m getting there.”
“For all that I’m in control here, this still moves at your speed. I will push your boundaries, push you beyond what you think you’re comfortable with, but not so fast that your fears take over.” Fingers, tangling in mine, big and hard and hot, twining with my own, small and trembling and cool. “Tell me what you want. Right now. One thing that you want to feel.”
There was no hesitation. “Another kiss.”
“Good girl.”
I hated that phrase, the way it was said, praising my response. “I’m not a fucking dog, so don’t ‘good girl’ me.”
He chuckled. “Touchy, touchy.”
“I’m not touchy. I just resent being spoken to as if I’m a poodle that finally managed to sit on command.”
I’d have thought, with this little exchange, that the mood for kissing would be gone. But no. Oh, no. My eyes still closed, I still felt his breath curl over my cheek, sandpaper skin sliding softly against my jaw, warm lips brushing mine. And, just that fast, my complaint was forgotten. I twisted in place, my feet remaining planted, my torso turning and leaning back. It was an offering, yet another way for me to show him that I was giving in to this.
You know how I said I didn’t sleep around on the first date? Well, I rarely even kissed on the first date, either. I wasn’t a prude; I’d said this before. I just didn’t believe in diving headfirst into a physical relationship if there wasn’t some kind of emotional or personal connection in place. I didn’t expect forever love from a guy I was dating. I didn’t expect sweep-me-off-my-feet romance—although it was always nice—but I did expect him to put some kind of effort into getting to know me before he tried to get in my pants.
So why the hell was I letting this man kiss me? Why was I asking him to kiss me? He’d admitted to having watched me for a long time. He knew things about me no one should know. That was still in the back of my head, that question, why did he watch over me? Could it really be called “stalking” if he never made contact? To me, a stalker was someone who watched your every move, sent you creepy letters and made heavy-breathing phone calls, who stood outside your bedroom window and watched you change, whacking off all the while. A stalker was someone with an obsession, an unhealthy, unsafe infatuation. Naïve it might be, but I didn’t believe that of my Mystery Man.
Definitely naïve. I mean, look at where I was. I’d been collected. Collected. That still irked me.
“You can’t ever shut off your brain, can you?” I felt his words on my lips, shaking me from my thoughts.
“No, not really,” I said.
“What were you thinking about?” he asked. “It must have been rather fascinating, if it was able to distract you from kissing me.”
“Sorry. I just…this whole situation is weirding me right the fuck out. I don’t kiss on the first date. I don’t obey. I can’t forget that you watched me, that you know every little thing about me.” I moved out of his embrace, held out my hand, and wiggled my fingers until he put my beer into my hand. “You can read me. You’ve said it, and it’s true. That freaks me out, too. I’m just…I’m freaked out. I may not feel afraid, or in danger, but I can’t stop trying to figure this situation out. And yeah, I can’t really get into a make-out session when my brain is running a million miles a minute, trying to figure out what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into.” I took a sip and sighed after swallowing. “And…why me?”
I felt his presence recede a little, heard him take a swallow of his beer. I faced away and stared out the window. It was a constant effort to not turn around, yet for some reason, it was an effort I continued to make.
“All that is understandable.” He paused to drink. “Why you? Let’s just say for now that…I’ve got my reasons. I chose you because I want you. I know that doesn’t really help much, but it’s all I’m willing to say at the moment. So besides that, what could I do to alleviate some of your fears?”
I tapped my fingernail against the bottle. “I don’t know. A name? A nickname? Something for me to call you? It doesn’t have to be your real name, just…something.”
“Hmmm. That is a reasonable request, I suppose.” A deep breath. “You may call me…Roth.”
“Roth?”
“Yes. Roth. It is…one of my names.”
“You have more than one?”
He laughed. “Of course. Don’t you? Kyrie Abigail St. Claire. One could, conceivably, call you Abby, or Claire. In the same way, part of my name is Roth. It is a truth I’m giving you, and for a man as…reclusively private as I am, that is no small gift.”
When put that way…. “Thank you,” I said.
“You are welcome.” He was there behind me, close and hot and huge, once again. “Eyes closed.”
I did as I was bid. I closed my eyes, forced my breathing to stay even when my instinct was to hold it, bated and anxious, until I knew what he was going to do. Breathe in, breathe out. I was a ball of tension, shoulders bunched, fists clenched, one hand around my beer bottle, the other digging my nails into my palm.
In an effort to prove something—whether to myself or to him I wasn’t sure, nor even what I was trying to prove— I tilted my head back and finished my beer in four long pulls. Of course, I then had to cover my mouth and let out a long, quiet belch.
“Philistine,” he said, an amused lilt to his voice.
I laughed. “Hey, I muffled it.”
“True enough. Now, are you finished?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He took my bottle and set it down. His hands cupped my elbows, slid up to my shoulders. I shivered, and felt my tension ratchet up. “You’re tense again. Relax, Kyrie. I won’t hurt you. Surely you know at least this much by now.”
I tried to force myself to relax but that, of course, was a contradiction in terms. You couldn’t force yourself to relax.
His thumbs circled into the muscles of my back, his fingers kneading my shoulders. That helped. And then I felt him sweep my hair off my neck, over one shoulder. My tongue flicked out and ran across my lips, anticipating his touch, his kiss. What I got was a cool breath blowing until I shivered, and then his lips met my pebbled flesh and the heat of his mouth washed over me. Every part of me loosened and contracted all at once, my tension receding even as eagerness had me expanding and straining.
Another kiss, to the slope of my neck. His finger tugged aside the neck of my shirt, and his lips touched my shoulder. He moved closer, near my throat now. One hand held the thick sheaf of my hair aside, and the other carved down my arm, knuckles brushing the outside of my braless breast. The shivers were constant now, every touch causing my skin to tighten and my muscles to tremble. I tilted my head aside, and his lips stuttered over my neck to kiss my throat. I felt his hair brushing my chin, his bulk leaning over my shoulder. I reached up with one hand, drawing in a deep breath, nerves jangling as I dared to touch him back. My fingers slid along the back of his neck, across his hairline, and into his hair. I heard him growl deep in his chest, disapproval or pleasure, I couldn’t tell, but he didn’t stop me. I let my fingers curl into the soft thatch of closely trimmed hair, wondering at myself, at this situation, at this man, finding no answers and not even really caring. He kissed behind my ear, and his hands drifted down my front, skimming the cotton of my shirt in a not-quite touch.
He grasped the lower hem, fists bunched at each of my thighs. I was frozen, not breathing…I was pretty sure even my blood had stopped pumping for a moment.
“Such thin cotton…” he murmured, his voice rough with suggestion. “I could rip it apart so easily. H
ave you bared to me, just that easily. I could kiss you…everywhere.”
I put my hand on his, between his fists, keeping my shirt down. “Roth…don’t….”
“No?” I felt his hands stretch apart, felt the cotton starting to give. “You’re still scared, Kyrie? Don’t you want to feel my lips on your skin? I know you do. You want it. You’re afraid to want it. You’re afraid to give in to me. But you want to, just as much. Have you ever really given yourself to a man before? I don’t think you have. And certainly never to a man like me.”
“A man….” I swallowed hard, fighting for words. He had my brain spiraling, my body shuddering, my blood thundering, my common sense eroding, and my senses humming. “A man like you?”
“Yes, Kyrie. A man like me.” Another tug of his fists, and I heard a distinct rip. “A man who knows exactly what he wants, and exactly how to get it.”
“And…and what do you want?” I was trying so hard to stay calm, and failing miserably.
Rrrrrrip. I felt cool air on my navel.
“To make you come” —rrrripppp— “harder than you ever have in your life.”
“Shit….”
“To hear you scream. To feel you tremble under my hands.” Rrrrrrrrrrrriiiip. The shirt was torn open to the space between my boobs. One more tug, and it would come free. “I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll cry.”
“Roth….” I wasn’t sure why I said his name. As a plea? Have mercy? Please, yes, I want that? No clue. Only that his name was all that came out.
“Yes, Kyrie. You’ll be saying that, very loudly. You can scream as loud as you want, sweet thing. No one can hear you.” His words should have terrified me, but they only made my thighs shake and my heart thud with anticipation. “Are you ready?”