“Ah, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Yeah, it kind of was,” I said.
He laughed, a gentle chuckle. “Don’t you ever talk dirty, Kyrie?”
“No. Not really.”
“Well, you’ll learn.” He traced the line of my opening with his finger. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“I don’t think you are. Not really. Not for what I’m going to do to you.” He kissed his way down my breastbone, and then his lips came to rest on the slope of one breast. “Remember, not a sound.”
I nodded, and then his finger slid underneath the elastic at the inside of my thigh. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Every single sense was attuned to his finger as it neared my opening. I let my thighs open a bit, felt them shaking. I sucked in a breath, held it, waited. I felt his touch on my folds, brushing over my close-trimmed pubic hair.
“So soft, Kyrie. I can’t wait to feel you.” His words were felt more than heard, pitched just loud enough to be audible.
His finger extended down my opening and then traced up, slid back down and back up. Three times he did this, each time the tip of his finger going slightly deeper. I was wiggling in my seat by the time he had his finger inside me up to the first knuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to have me shaking all over, anticipating, needing. I had to breathe now, and my lungs were expanding and contracting furiously, my chest heaving.
He stilled then, one finger barely inside me. I frowned, groaned, just barely able to restrain myself from writhing my hips to get more of his touch.
“Not a sound, Kyrie. Not so much as a groan.”
“Okay, sorry.”
I was aching, hot and throbbing, wet. Needing his touch, needing him to make good on his promise. I needed this. He was there, right there, but not moving, not touching. And then, just as I was about to ask him to touch me again, he did. His finger slid in, a little deeper. He dragged it up between my lips, and I had to bite my lip to keep silent as the rough pad of his big index finger brushed against my clit. I did gasp, but it was a quiet intake of breath. I tensed, my hands still fisted in his shirt. I let my hands fall, releasing his clothing. One of my hands rested on the armrest of my chair, the other on his forearm, gripping the corded muscle and firm flesh.
I felt his muscles moving as his finger circled my clit. My hips lifted, fell, lifted and fell, moving with the slow rhythm of his finger. And then, suddenly, his finger dipped into my channel, into the wetness and the heat.
“God, Kyrie,” he murmured. “You’re wet. So wet. I love how wet you are. You’re tight, too.”
His words had me blushing even as his finger withdrew to flick against my clit once more, making me flinch and writhe, biting my lip. He circled my engorged nub with his thick finger, and I wanted to moan, to groan, to swear, to say his name. Anything. But I couldn’t. Somewhere, out beyond the bubble of this box, someone was singing. Her voice was powerful, rising and falling, lush and rich, the song growing louder and faster, other voices joining hers. The song was reaching a crescendo, voices overlapping and competing.
His finger slid into me again, going deep, withdrawing, slathering my own juices over my clit, dipping in, moving over me, circling once, twice, three times, dipping in, never letting me find a rhythm, never letting me get too near the edge of climax. He added a second finger, and I wished I could tell him how much I liked that, but I didn’t dare, because if I made a sound, he’d stop, and then I’d die.
I was writhing now, lifting my hips up off the plush seat, seeking release, biting down on my lip so hard I thought I tasted blood. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, grating past my teeth, rasping from my throat. Keeping quiet was proving impossible, and the fact that there were people just a few feet away in the adjacent boxes made this all the more frightening and risky and exhilarating, making my need to stay silent that much more imperative. Yet I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I heard a slight, nearly inaudible whimper slip from my throat, and Roth’s finger stilled immediately. I felt the burgeoning swell of impending orgasm recede, making me panic, frantic. I writhed, gripped his hand in mine and tried to make him move.
“I couldn’t…couldn’t help it…couldn’t help it….”
“I know, lovely girl. I know.” Roth’s voice was in my ear, rough and low. “You’re so close, aren’t you? You want to come. You need to come. But you can’t. Not unless I let you.”
He wanted me to beg. I knew this. I wouldn’t. No. I wasn’t that far gone. I wanted to come, but I wasn’t prepared to beg him for it. I tossed my head from side to side, clenched my thighs tight around his hand, pinning his hand in place.
“Oh, Kyrie. You won’t beg, will you? Too proud for that.” His finger, still inside me, curled, twitched, and I jerked, my body spasming as he brushed my clit. “You’re right there, Kyrie. A few more of these” —he brushed my nub again, and I felt heat and pressure coiling in my belly— “and you’ll come all over my hand. All you have to do is say ‘please, Roth.’ Two little words. It’s not even really begging. It’s just…asking me nicely.”
It was acknowledging his control, his power over me, and we both knew it. But then, that was the entire point of this game, wasn’t it? I had his blindfold on. I was playing his game. So why not this, too? I wanted it, and I was right there, so close. I was on the verge of biting clean through my lip at that point, my hips fluttering in desperation I couldn’t control. Two words. Let him have his control.
“Please…Roth.” Who needs dignity when you can have public orgasms?
At that moment, as the words tumbled from my lips, the song coming from the stage reached its pinnacle, climaxing even as Roth’s fingers pinched my swollen clit and sent rockets of ecstasy firing through me. I clenched my teeth together and let my hips roll violently in time with his two circling fingertips. Just as the pressure in my core reached critical mass, Roth’s fingers dove into my channel, slipped out, dove in, and then resumed circling. It was just enough of a disruption in rhythm to pull me back from the edge. He was making me crazy, making me wild. Growls boiled in my throat, just barely held back, primal sounds of frustration at his games. He could make me come whenever he wanted, and I knew it. He was teasing me. Once more, he slid his fingers deep into me just as I was about to explode. I dug my fingernails into his forearm with all my strength, a plea and a warning. I fisted my other hand into his shirt, jerked him toward me, felt his mouth crash against mine.
“I played your game, goddammit,” I growled. “Now just fucking give it to me.”
His laughter was a long, low rumble, and then, just as I was about to do something really crazy, like bite him, he covered my mouth with his, thrust his tongue between my lips and fingered me right over the edge.
“Come, Kyrie.” It was a command. “Come now. Right now, baby. Right now.”
I had never so willingly obeyed before. He devoured my helpless moan of release with his hungry mouth, kissing me and flicking his tongue against mine and flicking my throbbing clit and pinching it and circling it, pushing my climax higher and higher until I was breathless and my heartbeat ceased and my body was arched up, only my heels touching the floor, my shoulders against the chair. It was too much, too much, too hard, too explosive, wrenching me apart, yet he didn’t relent — he continued to ravage my mouth with his, circling my clit and sliding his fingers into me and driving me to heights I hadn’t known were possible.
Eventually, my body could take no more, and I fell back to the chair, panting, limp. I brushed a tendril of hair away from my mouth, and then let my hand flop to the side. Only, instead of the chair, my fingers found Roth. More specifically, found his thigh, and then his zipper. And the massive, iron-hard erection straining behind it.
Yet, before I could do more than register what I’d accidentally touched, he was pinioning my wrist and pulling my hand away. “Not yet, Kyrie.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“No. Not any of that.”
“You’re just going to stay hard like that?”
A pause. “Yes. It will go away eventually.”
“But won’t that…cause problems?”
“That’s my worry, not yours.” His voice brooked no argument.
Too bad I didn’t plan on listening. “I don’t get it, Roth. I thought that’s how this was going to work.”
“Don’t think you know how this is going to go, Kyrie. You don’t. This isn’t about getting off. For me or for you.” His was pitched low, barely audible over the sound of voices chattering through intermission. “When you touch me, you’ll be looking into my eyes. Don’t you remember what I promised you when we first discussed our arrangement?” I nodded. “What was it? Tell me, Kyrie.”
“You told me we wouldn’t have sex unless I asked for it. Unless I begged for it.”
“Correct. And are you starting to believe me?”
“Yeah, I think I am.”
“Good. Now, fix your dress before Michael arrives with our refreshments.” I tugged the skirt down past my hips, then stood and let it fall to the floor, adjusting it until it felt like it was straight. I felt Roth’s fingers pull at the fabric, adjusting it slightly, and then his hand moved to rest on my hip, possessive and familiar. I sat down again, and I felt his shoulder nudge mine. “I thought you should know, Kyrie…I have never seen anything so beautiful as your face when you come for me.”
“I don’t think I’ve come so hard in all my life,” I admitted, flushing slightly.
His lips touched my ear. “Oh…darling Kyrie. That was just the beginning, sweetheart. The things I’m going to do to you when we’re alone…you don’t even know.” The promise in his voice had me shivering, clamping my legs together at the rush of heat that flooded me all over again.
I could barely focus on the rest of the opera, wondering if he’d touch me again, if he’d kiss me again, wondering what else he could possibly do to me. Yet he didn’t. He simply held my hand, his thumb occasionally caressing my knuckles. All through the opera and the car ride home, I half-expected to feel his touch find my core again, but it never came, and I was left off-balance, wanting more, wanting to touch him, to rip the blindfold off and see him, to see if his erection had subsided, wondering what he would do next.
He held my hand on the elevator ride up to his penthouse, all the way to the door of my rooms, and then he took both of my hands in his, pressing my back to the door.
I tilted my head up, ready for anything.
“Good night, Kyrie.” His lips brushed mine, swift and dry.
That was it? Make me come in the middle of the opera, then nothing? Just…good night?
“Good night, Roth.” I was frustrated, confused.
His hand left mine, opened my door, and I stepped back, turned around, away from him. He untied my blindfold, yet instead of taking it as he had the last time, he put it in my hands.
I saw his hands. They were even larger than I’d expected. I placed my palm against his, comparing. The tips of my fingers barely reached the middle of his, so he could fold his fingers over mine. His hands were rough, callused, thick and strong. The nails were cut close, filed into neat, even arcs. Not manicured or buffed, just cared for. He was still, frozen behind me as I held his one large, tanned paw in my smaller hand. I turned his palm to face down. The skin on the back of his hand was leathery, lined.
“Your hands are rough.”
“Yes.”
“I was under the impression that you grew up…wealthy.”
“I did.”
“But yet your hands….”
He didn’t answer right away, but neither did he pull his hand from mine. I couldn’t help slipping my fingers through his. “I grew up very, very wealthy. My father is, even still, one of the wealthiest and most successful businessmen in the world. You wouldn’t have heard of him, because he keeps a low profile, stays out of the news and such. But yes, you’re right, I grew up rich. Spoiled. I never did a thing for myself as a child. My food was cooked for me, brought to me. My bed was made for me. I was driven everywhere by a chauffeur. I had bodyguards and personal attendants, private tutors. I grew up getting whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.” His voice was so close, pitched to barely a murmur, each word hesitant, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying all this. I didn’t dare breathe for fear he would clam up. “Such was my life until I turned eighteen. I spent a lot of time with my father. He was my hero. I idolized him. I wanted to be like him. I watched everything he did, went to work with him and asked questions and took notes, learned everything I could about business. I was being groomed to be his heir and successor. Or so I thought. Then, on my eighteenth birthday, my father took me to the gates of our estate in rural England, where a brand new BMW M5 was waiting. My father handed me a briefcase, told me to open it. Inside that briefcase was my passport and one hundred thousand British pounds. Also in that briefcase was a Beretta M9, three clips, and a box of ammunition. My father handed me the keys to the car. I will remember his words for the rest of my life. He said, ‘You’re on your own, now, son. That is your inheritance, and it’s all you’ll get from me. Go. Earn your own fortune. You can come back to visit anytime you want. But if you stay longer than a month, I’ll charge you rent, and any money you borrow I will expect to be repaid with interest. I earned what I have with my own two hands, and so will you. Goodbye, and I love you.’ And then he turned and walked away, closing the gate behind him.”
“That’s…kind of cold. I mean, he just…kicked you out, just like that? Cut you off?”
“Just like that. I had the clothes on my back, the car, and the contents of the suitcase. That’s it. I had friends, of course, places I could go, enough money to buy my own flat or stay in a hotel. But yet, I knew enough to know that a hundred grand would vanish rather quickly if I wasn’t careful.” Roth pulled his hand away, finally. “The story of how I ended up where I am now is a long one, and an often unpleasant and dark one, and I will not tell it now.”
“Wow, Roth. That’s…crazy.”
He didn’t respond. “Yes, I suppose it is, at that.” He sighed. “You know, what I just told you is more than I’ve ever told anyone.”
“I suspected as much. Thanks for telling me.”
“Good night, Kyrie.” I felt him back away, and then he was gone, the door clicking closed behind him.
And, for the second night, it took me a very long time to fall asleep.
Giving In
I was a ridiculously sound sleeper. I always had been. My dad used to say that I could sleep through the end of the world. I’d sleep through thunderstorms that shook the whole house, through my alarm clock blaring in my ear. It would take a rough hand shaking me for several minutes before I’d finally wake up, and even then I’d be groggy, disoriented. I drooled when I slept. It was embarrassing. It was part of the reason I’d never lived with a guy, to be totally honest. By drool, I don’t mean a cute little bit at the corner of my mouth. I mean my pillow would be damp when I woke up. It was gross, but I couldn’t help it. And what guy would want to sleep next to a girl who drools a pool of spit all over him and the pillow?
I never woke up in the middle of the night, not ever, not for anything. Once I fell asleep, I was down until my body was ready to wake up.
Yet, two days after the visit to the opera, I jerked awake in the middle of the night. I hadn’t seen Roth since the opera, which had made for several very long and very boring days. I woke up, peering at the clock beside me: 2:39 a.m. Why was I awake? My heart was hammering, thudding in my ears. I peered around the room, but all I could see were shadows and vague shapes, faint reflections of deeper shadows from the mirrors in the bathroom.
My room was almost pitch-black, the only light coming from the clock beside my bed.
I wasn’t alone. Suddenl
y and completely, I knew this. “Hello? Roth?”
“Yes. It’s me. Close your eyes.” His voice came from the doorway leading to the living room.
“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Close your eyes, Kyrie.”
I did as he instructed. “They’re closed. Not that it makes a difference, this room is so dark.”
“Keep them closed.” I heard his voice moving nearer, heard his feet on the carpeting.
I felt the bed dip under his weight. My heart began hammering even harder, pounding in my throat. His hand touched my leg, near the knee, moved upward, to my thigh, to my hip. Up my waist. I was covered only by the sheet, wearing a T-shirt and underwear. His hand slid over my breast, cupped it, and then kept moving. He found my face. His thumb brushed my chin, my cheekbone. And then I felt silk pressed to my eyes, and I lifted my head so he could tie the blindfold.
“I apologize for my absence these last few days, Kyrie. Business called me away. But I’m back now, and I’m going to make up for my departure.” He pulled the sheet down, tossed it aside. “Put your hands beneath the pillow, under your head.”
I slid my hands under the pillow as instructed, and kept my questions to myself. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to do, and I wasn’t about to argue.
His finger traced my cheekbone once more, brushed a tendril of hair away, then slid down the curve of my throat.
“Is this shirt important to you?”
I shook my head, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. “No. The last one you ripped was, though.”
“My apologies, in that case.” He grasped the neck of my T-shirt in both hands, and I felt his knuckles against my breastbone, felt his hands tense, and then the cotton ripped open from top to bottom. I felt his presence leave the bed, heard a switch click. “That’s better. Now I can see your lovely body. You have such perfect breasts, Kyrie.”