Текст книги "Dangerously Bound"
Автор книги: Eden Bradley
Соавторы: Eden Bradley
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
“Thank you.”
He moved through the door to the right and into what was originally a parlor but was now a sort of lounge for members of the club. It was decorated in early Craftsman style, with a few additions. There were large eyebolts in the floor next to chairs and sofas to which a leash or rope or chains could be attached, and an old gun case against one wall held a nice array of paddles, floggers and crops. Another young woman in the club’s official white leather corset and collar approached with a carefully balanced silver tray holding a decanter of whisky and several crystal glasses.
“A beverage for you, Sir?”
He rarely drank on a play night, but a little extra relaxation sounded good.
He nodded, and watched as the pretty girl balanced the tray with one hand and managed to pour with the other. She smiled as she handed him the glass.
“For your pleasure, Sir.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
He smiled back, paused a few moments to look over her soft curves, the mane of red hair cascading over her shoulders, before nodding his dismissal. She was a pretty little thing, but even if she hadn’t been contracted to train at the house, he wasn’t interested in the slave mentality. Still, he wasn’t dead. He watched her hips sway as she walked away to offer a drink to another member.
He moved through the lounge and back into the second parlor, known as the Spanking Room. This room was more dimly lit and more comfortably furnished, though still in Craftsman style. Here the submissives were mostly naked. Several were draped over a lap and being soundly spanked. Small sighs and cries of pain or pleasure filled the air, and he felt that familiar tingle of anticipation deep in his bones.
He walked through, keeping an eye out for Finn—and finally found him standing in the opposite doorway, heavily tattooed arms crossed over his massive chest, watching the action. Finn was an enormous man, with tribal Maori ink covering most of his body and a short crop of spiky platinum blond hair. His appearance could be intimidating to those who didn’t know him, but despite his wicked Dom side he was a real gentle giant, someone who laughed a lot. His thick Australian accent added to that sense of ease, and he was damn good company.
Finn clapped Mick on the back, his huge hands giving him a good pounding.
“How are you, my friend?” the big man asked.
“Doing okay.”
“I’m not so sure that’s true, but we can talk more later. I’ve set up a few potential play partners for you. Would you like to meet them? Or do you want to relax first?”
“I’d like to finish this drink and hang out for a while.”
“Sounds good. Think I’ll join you. I’ll meet you in the main room in a minute.”
“Sure.”
Mick turned to let himself through the glass-paned double doors that led to the largest play area on the main floor of the house. The lights were even dimmer in there, red, purple and amber lamps casting color and shadow in the room, which was a real dungeon room with padded spanking benches, the big St. Andrew’s crosses that looked like giant Xs made of wood, some of them freestanding in the center of the room and double-sided. There were enormous bondage frames made of heavy wood in the Craftsman style, even with the faux exposed rafters mimicking those under the eaves of a Craftsman building’s roofline. There were other pieces of equipment: chains hanging from the ceiling with thick iron spreader bars or heavy leather cuffs attached, special thronelike chairs made for interrogation scenes, cages lined with fur rugs. In between the equipment were comfortable seating areas for those who wanted to watch and for aftercare use. A number of people were already playing, and the room was filled with naked bodies and an air of wanting that reminded him too sharply of what he’d needed to get away from.
But she’s not here.
No, it was just him, a club that was familiar enough for him to feel at home, a good friend, and the girls he would play tonight to work some of this tension out of his body, and hopefully his damn head.
Finn found him, drink in hand, and they chose a long sofa to sit on.
Finn raised his glass. “Cheers, mate.”
“Cheers.” Mick raised his glass in salute, then tipped it back and swallowed. “Damn good Scotch,” he remarked.
“As always. Do you need another?”
“Not yet.”
His friend studied him for a moment. Even in the dusky colored light he could see Finn’s piercing blue gaze searching his face.
“So,” Finn started.
“So,” Mick finished—or so he thought.
“So, you going to tell me about it?”
“Tell you about what?”
“Don’t try to bullshit me, mate. I’m the mind-fuck expert, remember? My psychology degree has trained me to run circles around people’s minds.”
“Don’t even fucking consider crawling inside my head, old friend. You might not like what you see in there.”
“Do you really think anything could shock me? And that’s starting to sound like whining, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Finn raised a hand when Mick started to protest. “Yes, I’m sure you do mind. Whatever. I say what I think. As you well know.”
“Don’t think I didn’t come here knowing that.”
“In which case you must have wanted to hear what I have to say.”
“Since it’s fucking inevitable,” Mick said, not even trying to keep the wry sarcasm out of his voice.
“Damn right.” Finn leaned back and slung an arm across the back of the couch. “Shall we dance around this a little more, or are you ready to spill?”
Mick blew out a breath, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, avoiding Finn’s knowing gaze. “I hate this transparent communication shit sometimes, you know?” he muttered.
“Then you shouldn’t have become a Dominant. Not in this circle, anyway.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Out with it. There’s no other way, mate.”
“Fuck.” He ran a hand back through his hair. “There’s this woman,” he began.
Finn’s grin was blissful. “Isn’t there always?”
“Yeah. But not like Allie. She’s the one who’s been haunting me since high school. The one I can’t forget. She’s back in town after being gone . . . well, a long time. Years. And she’s into it, the kink. Hard core. We’re playing. And it’s totally fucking with my head.”
“Because you want her or because you don’t? And you don’t have to answer me. You’re the one who has to know.”
Mick shook his head. “I don’t have that answer. I mean, of course I want her. Christ, I’ve never wanted a woman as much. But ask me if I can give her what she wants? What she needs? That I can’t figure out. To be honest—hell, with myself, even—I just don’t know that I’m up to it. What do I know about relationships? The last real one I had was with her in high school.”
“Yeah, fucking pathetic. But from what you’ve told me, that was the real thing. Love, right?”
“Yeah, it was,” he said, an edge of fierceness in his voice.
Love. Christ, he had loved her so damn much. It made his chest ache even now. He’d carried it with him all these years. Carried her with him, unable to ever let her go.
He sipped his drink, his fingers flexing hard on the glass. “I thought some time and distance would clarify things, but it hasn’t done a damn thing. I’ll have to deal with it—with her—when I get home. I came here tonight to forget for a while.”
After several silent moments Mick turned around to look at Finn. His expression was thoughtful.
“It’s your thing, you know, Mick. Your decision to make. I’m thinking maybe you’re too much in your own head.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
Finn grinned. “I know a good way to get out of it.”
“That was my thought, too.”
“Ready to meet Princess, then?”
“Princess?”
His nickname for Allie since high school. Fuck.
He knew the subbie girls often chose cute nicknames, but why did this one have to be Princess?
“She’s a real beauty. Goes down nice and easy. Loves the ropes.”
Shake it off. It’s not her.
“Where is she?”
Finn made a gesture, and Mick followed the direction of his hand to see a petite woman with luscious curves and long hair dyed hot pink. She was dressed in nothing but a pale pink thong and pink knee-high boots. As she drew closer he could see that her nipples were pierced. She smiled shyly as she approached.
“Princess, this is Mick, our visitor from New Orleans. Be nice to him.”
“Of course, Finn,” she said, her voice soft, feminine.
His cock should have been hardening at the sight of her. She had a gorgeous, hot little body, her breasts large and firm, and a beautiful face to match. A prime girl—he was certain her time was vied for at the club.
“Hi, Princess.”
He couldn’t stand to call her that. Could not. Fucking. Stand it.
“Hello, Sir. Or . . . should I call you something else?”
Allie called him Mick.
“‘Sir’ is fine.”
“I would be very happy to play with you, Sir,” she said, looking up at him through long lashes. Her eyes were blue. Not that rich golden brown, like Allie’s.
Stop thinking about her.
That was the whole point in being here. So why was he finding it so damn difficult to do the things he always did with the greatest pleasure?
Finn rose to his feet. “You two seem to be doing just fine. Unless you’d prefer I stay for negotiations, Princess?”
“No, Finn, Sir. I’m fine, thank you.” She smiled, dropped a small curtsy. She was absolutely charming.
Except he was still left entirely untouched by her.
Mick stood, grabbed Finn’s arm, said quietly, “I don’t know about this, Finn.”
“Is she not to your liking? I have Tina waiting for me, but I’d be happy to trade out. She’s an amazing player. Sassy. You’d like her. Of course, Princess is top-notch, too. But if there’s no connection . . .”
Mick shook his head. “It’s not that. She’s as gorgeous as you said and I can tell she’s well trained. But I’m not . . . fuck all, I don’t know what my problem is.”
Finn looked thoughtful, then he gestured to Princess. “Sweetheart, go and wait for me with Tina, that’s a good girl.”
Princess blushed, curtsied to Mick and left. But not before he saw the disappointed pout on her pretty face.
“Oh, that girl back in New Orleans has your head twisted the fuck up, mate, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah. She does. Sorry, Finn. I thought this would be the best thing for me, coming here to play. To work some of this . . . whatever it is out of my system.”
“You know, I’ve seen a few guys in your position, and it seems the only thing that’ll really work is to work her.”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Mick said, his hands fisting at his sides. His head was spinning. “I can’t believe I can’t do this.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Finn said. “Just do what you need to. Go home and fuck her right through the walls. Play her until she screams. Go to the gym and pummel someone’s head in. Go to one of your fights. Work it out, mate. You can handle it.”
Mick clapped Finn on the back. “Thanks for understanding.”
“No worries. I won’t let her go to waste,” Finn said with a wide grin.
“I’m sure you won’t.”
“Good to see you. Try a longer visit next time. Or I’ll come and see you soon, anyway, to talk about working with you. And Mick, let me know how it goes, will you?”
“Yeah, I will.”
He passed back through the club, his brain in a tangle—images of Allie, of the woman called Princess, and a slow, simmering anger. It was himself he was pissed at, though.
Maybe Finn had the right idea, he thought as he got back into the rental car and started the engine. Maybe he needed to go home and go to the fight club.
Punching someone in the face—in a consensual environment, of course—would feel fucking great, he had to admit. Didn’t matter if they hit him back. Hell, that was part of it all, anyway—the chance of being hit. Even the pain, Dom or not.
He needed to find the next flight out of Atlanta. Had to get back to his city.
And fuck it, he had to see Allie.
CHAPTER Ten
ALLIE BROUGHT UP her PowerPoint presentation on her laptop, and the first image popped up on the projection screen she’d set up on one of the tables at Dolcetti.
She breathed in the familiar dry warmth of her family’s bakery and glanced around. The tall jars of biscotti still lined the top of the counters, as they always had. The glass case was filled with fresh walnut shortbread cookies and macaroons, the luscious panettone with the almond and hazelnut icing that was her great-grandmother’s recipe, the colorful torta di frutta. She inhaled the scent of fruit and sugar. The scent of memories.
How many times had Mick strolled in to visit her when she worked in the bakery after school, all swagger even in their high school days? He’d stolen kisses when her mother and her aunts weren’t looking . . .
Her aunts Felisa and Renata, her mother’s younger sisters—identical twins Allie had had a hard time telling apart as a child—were already seated with their cups of coffee. She was just waiting for her mother to finish some work she was doing in the back.
It was Friday evening and the bakery was closed. She knew they were all tired after working all day, but the only day the bakery shut their doors was Sunday, when her mother and aunts spent much of the day in church. And she was ready—she didn’t want to wait any longer.
Where was her mother?
“Are you going to show us a movie?” one of her aunts asked.
“No, Zia Felisa. It’s more like a slide show.”
Her aunt folded her arms. “Hmm.”
When Mick had texted that he was back in town and wanted to see her, she’d put him off, telling him she was presenting her business expansion plan tonight. He’d wished her luck and told her not to be nervous. Which was, of course, totally impossible. This had been her dream for years. It was why she’d learned to be a pastry chef. And it was the one bridge she’d been unable to cross in her life. Well, other than Mick. But they were working on it.
At least, she thought they were. But he was so damn confusing. In one minute and out the next. She never knew where his head would be on any given day. His behavior the night before he’d left town had only muddied the waters that was their relationship even more. If one could even call it a relationship.
Frankly, she didn’t know what the hell they were doing, and she was about out of patience with it. She’d agreed to table any heavy conversation until Mick got back from his trip. Well, he was certainly going to get an earful tonight. Right after she gave her family the earful they’d had coming since she’d first gone to culinary school.
“Mama,” she called, out of patience. “Please come and sit down.”
“I was just cleaning up,” her mother said, drying her hands on her apron as she came out from behind the counter and threw her arms around her. She sank into her mother’s warm embrace—her mother who smelled of sugar after all her years running the bakery. Allie inhaled, smiled.
Her mother pulled back, still holding her shoulders. “You’re too thin, Allesandra,” she said.
Her mother was still a beautiful woman, her hair still the same dark brown as Allie’s, with only a few strands of silver.
“I know, Mama. You told me the same thing when you saw me last week. And I’m sure you’ll feed me up tonight, like you always do. Three months back in New Orleans and I’ll be plump as a Halloween pumpkin.”
“A few curves on a woman are not a bad thing,” her mother said, squeezing her hand.
“Don’t be silly,” Zia Renata put in. “We’re fourth-generation bakers—sugar runs in our blood.”
“That’s right,” her mother agreed. “I can still fit into my wedding dress. Don’t I look just as I did the day I married my Bertrand?”
Allie stiffened. She hated that she did it automatically every time her father was mentioned. But it hurt to see how much her mother still loved him. All these years and it still hurt that he was gone. She’d been a daddy’s girl, and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. She hadn’t been anyone’s girl since he’d died.
Except for Mick, for that lovely time when they were teenagers, when everything had felt so perfect. She’d been utterly convinced they were indestructible. The naiveté of youth, maybe.
Her mother pulled one of the iced panettone from the jar on the counter and handed it to Allie with a smile.
“You always know how to get to me, Mama.” She took a bite, let the familiar flavors melt on her tongue. Forced her thoughts away from Mick.
“I hope so. Now, tell us what this is all about, Allesandra.”
“Have a seat and I will.”
She waited for her mother to get settled, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, then hit the space bar on her keyboard to start the presentation. She saw the screen light up with the graphics she’d made featuring the front of Dolcetti.
“As you can see, this image of Dolcetti includes the storefront next door, because what I’m addressing here today is the expansion of the bakery. And I know, Mama, I’ve talked to you about it before, but please just hear me out. I’ve done a lot of market research, and I have new information for you on the viability of this plan. These are copies of my business plan, one for each of you,” she said, handing them the packets she’d prepared.
Her mother’s features were shutting down, but she remained quiet.
“I’ve already looked into it and the boutique next door ends their lease on August first. They haven’t been doing well, and the manager has admitted to me that she doesn’t think they’ll be able to continue. Not that I’m celebrating the demise of a small business, but the timing would be perfect for expansion. The business is booming, we’re in a great location, so things can only get better. Frankly, right now the only thing holding Dolcetti back from making more money is the limited size—and the limit in menu and services because we simply don’t have enough space.”
She took a breath and continued without looking too carefully at any of them—she didn’t want to see the closed expressions she assumed she’d find there. “This next slide shows a possible floor plan. As you can see from this color-coded chart, taking over the space next door means an increase in usable space by forty-five percent, which would mean more ovens and prep space, a new walk-in refrigerator, more seating in front and another office especially for meeting with catering clients.”
“Honey, we don’t have the time or the staff to do more catering,” Zia Felisa protested.
Allie smiled. “Which is exactly why you need me. I’ve been doing just that—running pastry catering for some of the best restaurants in San Francisco for years. I know how to do this. I know how to make this aspect of a business successful. And because of my background in European pastry, I can re-create our entire menu to appeal to a more modern clientele.”
“We like our old clientele. We have loyal customers who have come to us for years,” her mother said. “Allesandra, I know you mean well, but this just sounds like a big headache to me. And there’s no way this could be done without shutting down for a while. What happens to our customers then?”
“I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve talked with Allister—Jamie’s brother—about doing the build-out. He’s assured me there are ways to do it so we’re not closed for more than two to three weeks at the most.”
“Three weeks?” Zia Renata crossed her arms over her chest. “We can’t be closed for three weeks. We were open two days after Katrina.”
“I agree,” her mother said. “And you know how contractors are—they always go over budget and over on time. My darling, I know you mean well, but why can’t you just come to work with us here, as things are? We could do a little more catering with you here.”
Her heart sank. They weren’t going to listen to her. “More king cakes and a few weddings and birthdays? Mama . . .”
“I know, you think it’s boring, but this is what we’ve always done, Allesandra. We’re all perfectly happy with it. We don’t feel any need to make changes. Other than you baking with us. We would welcome you any time.”
“It’s true,” Zia Renata agreed.
Felisa nodded her agreement.
“But we’re not changing the business,” her mother stated with an air of finality. “Let’s not discuss it anymore. Why don’t you come home with us for dinner? I’m making my famous ziti.”
“I . . . I can’t, Mama. I have to be somewhere.”
And even if she didn’t have plans, she’d need some time to swallow her disappointment. Why had she been so convinced her professional presentation would make any difference? Her family still saw her as a child.
Just like Mick.
Her mother stood up and drew her in, kissed her cheek. “We love you, darling girl. Don’t be upset with us. This simply isn’t for us.”
“Okay, Mama.”
Her aunts kissed her cheeks as she closed her laptop and took down the screen. Her mother waited for her to gather everything, and they walked out together. Her mother locked the door behind them.
“We’ll see you soon, yes?” her mother asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
She kissed her one more time before making her way around the corner to where her car was parked. Allie watched her mother walk away, feeling utterly rejected, utterly invalidated.
Not exactly how she wanted to feel seeing Mick tonight, and needing to confront him. She’d go home, drop her things off at the house and go for a long walk to clear her head, then a quick bath before going to his place. Mick Reid, for once, was just going to have to wait.
* * *
IT WAS ALMOST nine before she made it to Mick’s place. She’d taken a long walk around her neighborhood, which had done her good, then she’d dallied getting herself put together.
She’d missed him so much it made her chest ache with every breath. Missed him so much she’d spent long spans of time simply looking at the darkening bite marks he’d left all over her skin in the mirror, tracing the shape of his teeth. Missed him so much that she hung on to even this memory of their bodies together, the intimacy they’d shared. And yet, she’d lingered rather than running right over to his place. At this point she didn’t know that she wanted to have this necessary conversation about him pulling away any more than he did. She simply wanted to see him. To make the empty ache go away. She didn’t want to talk.
It had to be done, or they weren’t ever going anywhere. Not together, anyway.
Still, when she rang the bell and heard his footsteps on the stairs, her pulse fluttered with anticipation. When he opened the door, dressed in worn jeans, like her, and a tight white wife-beater, his bare feet making him look sensually naked somehow, her body started to melt into a pool of heat and need right away. The turmoil in her head began to fade.
She kind of hated that his sheer, masculine beauty could make her forget everything else so easily, but it had always been like that with Mick.
“Hey, baby,” he said, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead, then her mouth. “Come on in.”
He waited for her to start up the stairs before him, and when she got to the top she set her purse down on the living room floor before settling onto the big leather couch. Mick came to sit beside her.
“You okay?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Rough day.”
“You said in your text you needed some time before you came over tonight. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I guess so. I mean, my life hasn’t actually been changed for it. Which I sort of expected.” She turned to face him. “Does your family still treat you like you’re a kid, Mick?”
“No. They treat me like I’m the bad news teenager. I was, so I guess I can’t blame them. Maybe I still am. They hate my fighting.”
“Well, that totally makes sense,” she muttered. “I’m on the same page with them.”
“Thanks for that.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have come tonight. I’m in a lousy mood.”
“It’s okay, baby. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
She pulled a throw pillow into her lap, running her fingertips over the fabric. “Oh, I was dumb enough to think if I presented my business plan to Mama and the aunts in a professional manner they’d take me seriously. But of course they just shot me down. The same way they did when I tried to talk to them fresh out of culinary school. But Jesus, I have years of practical experience now—you’d think that would make a difference.”
“It should. You’ve had some of the best training in the world—all over Europe. From what Marie Dawn and Neal and Jamie have told me over the years, you’ve worked at some of the top restaurants in San Francisco, that you’re a highly sought-after pastry chef there. Did you tell your family all of it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always kept them up to date about where I’m working.”
“Maybe they don’t understand the prestige of the places you’ve baked for. You know how New Orleans is—we’re convinced nothing else really exists outside the walls of this city. It’s an incestuous culture here, especially for the city’s old-guard citizens, and your family has been here for how many generations? I get it because my family has been, too. They don’t always see the rest of the world. Isn’t your mother’s argument that Dolcetti’s recipes were brought to this city by her great-grandmother from Italy?”
She tossed the pillow aside with a sigh. “And it’s like the art of pastry making just stopped there. Recipes that are a hundred years old. Not that they aren’t fantastic—they are, or the business wouldn’t have survived. But what happens when the old loyal customers are gone? So many new people are moving to the city now that it’s being rebuilt. The old magic always attracts new people. We have to keep up with the times or . . .” She paused, ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry. You seem to know all this already. Guess I’m preaching to the choir.”
“Yes and no. Look, Allie, do you want to go over your presentation and business plan with me? Because it sounds like you have the right idea. I might have some suggestions for you. And the bottom line is, if you believe in this, then you can’t let their stubbornness make you back down. If this is your dream, you have to go for it.”
She had more than one dream.
“Maybe. I don’t know. Right now I’m too tired to think any more about it.”
“Do you need some Travel TV?”
What she needed was for him to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. Her dreams for the family business. Things with him. But even though he seemed to be supportive, thoroughly immersed in the conversation, he was still . . . not quite there with her. That brief kiss when she’d arrived hadn’t been followed up by any further show of affection, and it was making her feel worse. She didn’t know if she should just leave . . . or stay and see if they could manage to find their way to each other tonight.
“I’m . . . not sure what I need,” she lied.
“I have some fresh raspberry sorbet in the freezer. It’s been calling to me for the last few hours.”
“Sure, that sounds good.”
Mick headed into the kitchen, and Allie got up and went to the bookcase against one wall—an old, heavy Spanish-looking piece. On it were a few photographs of his family among the books. She ran her fingers over the spines, peering at the titles. Books on martial arts, which didn’t surprise her, more on shibari rope bondage, which was even less of a surprise. Mixed in were a few fiction titles—thrillers, mostly—a small book of the Tao, which did surprise her, as well as some books on Buddhism by Thich Nhat Hanh. Strange reading for an Irish Catholic, fallen though he may be. But it opened a small window into the man he was today—the man she yearned to know better, and who seemed to be refusing to let her.
Mick returned with the promised sorbet in its carton and two spoons, and she joined him back on the sofa. He handed her one of the spoons.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he said.
Not looking forward to seeing her.
Was she simply feeling sorry for herself? Or was that a realistic expectation? She hated that she had to doubt herself so much.
They sat eating the sorbet for a few minutes in silence.
“I really do think you need to talk to them again,” Mick said.
“I will. You’re probably right.”
“And I do like to be right.” He grinned at her, but she swore some of his usual natural charm was missing.
“Yes, you do.” She smiled, trying to lighten the moment.
She felt desperate suddenly to find a way back to those intimate moments. To find their connection, despite the unspoken issues hanging in the air—or maybe more so because of them.
She stuck her spoon into the middle of the sorbet left in the carton, pulled Mick’s spoon from between his lips and did the same with it. He watched her, an eyebrow raised in question. She set the carton on the big coffee table, then climbed onto him, straddling his lap.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” he asked softly as she settled her arms around his neck.
He wasn’t touching her, no hands on her waist.
She had to remind herself about Marie Dawn’s stupidity ruling.
“Mick, you’re going to kiss me. And touch me. And we’re going to have sex.”
“Okay . . .”
“And we’re going to find a way to reconnect. Because I can’t figure out any other way at the moment, and I can’t stand how distant things are between us right now.”
He had the grace to look a bit sheepish, but only for a moment.
“You know I prefer to be the one calling the shots. Usually I demand it.”
“Believe me, I know. But tonight I don’t want any bondage or pain play. I think it just needs to be . . . us. Just us here, without all the fancy window dressing, you know?”
He was quiet a few moments, simply looking up at her. She didn’t have a clue what was going through his mind, and it was making her uncomfortable as hell. She was sitting on his lap, and he still hadn’t put his hands on her.
“Mick,” she whispered as she leaned forward, bringing her mouth within inches of his. “I need you to kiss me. I need you to touch me. Don’t argue it. Just do it.”
“Bossy girl.”
“Yes. Just . . . for now. Just for now, stop talking and kiss me. Kiss me hard. Make me remember it.”
He blinked up at her, then his shadowed eyes lost their darkness and began to gleam, a pure, crystalline gray.
“I need to remember, too,” he said quietly.
The energy between them shifted and so did he, grasping her hips and bringing her pelvis in until it was seated hard up against his. Then he grabbed her face and kissed her. He pressed his lips to hers, hard, harder. Just the urgent press of his lips until she could barely breathe, his hands loosening their tight hold on her cheeks, going gentle. Then his mouth gentled, too, and it was a pure, sensual fire between them, his tongue sliding into her mouth, so sweet and soft she wanted to cry for everything she felt in his kiss.
