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He tilts my face to his and says, “You owned me the minute you showed up at that pool party braless in that black dress. And the only time I’ve ever regretted that was the six years we were apart, and tonight, when I thought you were going to leave me.”
It’s as raw and real as anything he has ever said to me, and I feel myself melt right here in this bedroom, against this wall. I know he has given me this confession, because of what he feels he took away by pushing so hard tonight. And I need to hear it. I needed it so very badly. This answer pleases me and when his lips brushmine, I feel that wall slide away, feel myself allow the vulnerability that comes with absolute trust.
“I want to touch you,” I plead, and he folds me snug against him, the hard lines of his body absorbing the softness of mine. “Not yet, baby. Not yet,” and somehow, he manages to unhook my new silk bra the personal shopper bought me four sizes in, and one actually fit. It’s black, lacy, sexy, but he pays it no mind. He drags it down my arms, tangles it at my wrist with my blouse, and ties me up with it.
His gaze rakes over my breasts, my puckered nipples, and when his eyes meet mine again, the hunger in his stare steals my breath. “You’re beautiful, Harper. Every inch of you.”
The way he says those words, rough, and laden with lust, has my sex clenching. I have never in my life felt alive in the way I feel right now, with any other man.
He reaches up and teases my nipples, gently at first, and then he’s tugging, pinching, to the point of pain that is somehow pleasure. I gasp again and tilt my head back, my eyes squeezing shut. He catches my face in his hand and drags my gaze to his. “Look at me.”
“You’re making me crazy,” I pant out.
“I haven’t even gotten started,” he says, and he pinches my nipple again. I curl my fingers into my palms with the new wave of pain and pleasure. “Why do you want to punish me?”
“I thought you could handle me?” he challenges.
“I’m not sure you want me to.”
“Oh, I want you to, sweetheart. You have no idea how much I want you to.” He kisses me again, and the instant I moan with how much I want him, he denies me his mouth, reaching behind me and unzipping my skirt. And then he’s on his knee, his hands running over my hips, over the silk tights I wore to stave off the cold, but they do nothing to protect me from the wicked impact of his touch.
He unzips my boots and I have no idea why him removing them is so sexy, but oh my God, I’m dying here. I want to touch him, but he’s ensured he’s in full control. The world around him has stripped it away, his father, his brother—me—and he wants it back.
When my boots are gone, he yanks roughly at my skirt, and it’s moments before it’s at my ankles and he’s lifting me, freeing me from its restraint, but I’m not free at all. I will never be free of this man and what he does to me. And I don’t want to be.
He reaches over his head and tugs his T-shirt off, tossing it aside, the bright colored ink on his arms, so damnhot, symbolic of everything that makes him who he is—rebel, SEAL, savant, self-made billionaire. Friend to those he cares about. It all comes together on that sleeve and I never get over how sexy it is, how much it makes me want him. It’s symbolic. His fingers catch the edge of the tights, and he rolls them back just enough to kiss the sensitive skin there. My teeth scrape my bottom lip.
He’s never going to be inside me at this point, I think. But that’s the idea. He wants to torment me. He rolls the tights down lower, feathering kisses on my belly. My fingers ball around my clothing holding me captive when they want to be in his hair. He drags my tights all the way down, wraps his arm around my lower back just above my backside and lifts me, working them off my feet and tossing them aside. When he sets me back down, he squeezes my backside and presses his lips to my belly again, his gaze lifting to mine.
His fingers slide into the wet heat between my legs and I arch into the touch, my lashes lowering.
“Look at me,” he orders again, but his fingers slide inside me and I can’t seem to do it.
My punishment is his hand disappearing and him pushing to his feet, and grabbing my face, and not gently. “You do what I say right now. That’s part of handling me right now. You understand? Unless you can’t anymore. Unless you want to stop and if you do—”
“I don’t.”
“Then you do what I say,” he repeats. “Understand?”
“And if I don’t?” It’s the question I can feel he wanted me to ask.
“Then I punish you.”
Punish me. I should be scared, I should just say no, but I’m ridiculously aroused. “How?”
He squeezes my back side and gives me a little smack. I yelp and he says, “That was a warning shot. I’ll spank you.”
His fingers twine in the silky strands of my hair, tilting my mouth to his, and he devours me with a kiss, claims me in a way no other kiss has ever claimed me.
I’m breathless when he pulls me off the wall and toward the bed, stands me facing it and yanks away the ties on my hands. “Hands and knees,” he orders.
My heart leaps and now I feel vulnerable in a whole new way. “Eric,” I whisper, and I can’t stop the plea in my voice.
He hears it, and turns me in his arms, folding me to him. “Too much?” and there is tenderness in him now I do not expect.
“No,” I say, curling my fingers on his chest. “I’m just—I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous. It’s all about the complete escape.”
