Exquisite Taste Page 7

  A part of me was freaked out by my reaction. How was something so lewd turning me on? It was wrong to be watching a private moment between two people, or three. Standing there, watching all those lascivious things happen, catching myself fighting not to squeeze my thighs together. I was turned on. Ashamed that I couldn’t look away. And intrigued. I wanted to know how it felt to have the thin fur whip against my skin. Fear the sudden rush of pain but be rewarded by the sexual release. The woman’s face was filled with emotion. Need, pain, lust. Watching her release was…hot, beautiful, disturbing, confusing. This was all new to me. I went from being inexperienced in all things male species to level bazillion in sexual knowledge. I was in the minors, who barely knew much about third base, but there I was watching someone pitch for the major leagues, taking notes.

  When we entered the final room, my eyes almost fell out of their sockets. The number of objects hanging before me. My walls immediately went up. Watching was one thing. Participating? I decided in that moment it was not something I wanted to do. I was going to tell him the deal was off. No way was I going to get whipped and tied up. I had respect for myself. But my words failed me when I found myself bent over the bed, fulfilling my curiosity. The touch of the whip felt even better then what I imagined. The rush every time it flicked against my clit. I could feel the rush of wetness between my legs proving how aroused I was. Embarrassed by my response to it all, but I was becoming too far gone to care. I couldn’t even explain how turned on I was. It was intense. New to me. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it never to end. But then he did stop. I wanted to cry. Take my hand to myself and rub roughly until whatever he had built inside me freed.

  I left his office close to dawn having had two of the best orgasms of my life. Strangely none of them due to us actually having sex. I wasn’t terribly disappointed. I mean, from what I felt, I’m not sure I would enjoy him and his large gun up my stuff anyway. I’m a small person, not made for large objects. But then again, I wondered why he never even attempted. Not once did he force me, or coerce me to do anything to him. I left wobbly and light on my feet, whereas he, he looked so on edge he was going to go slay a whole colony.

  Should I have offered? Being the polite thing to do? Okay, dumb question, no. He was blackmailing me! I owed him nothing. Even if it was kind of rude to receive and not give. And it’s not like I was asking for any of this. So there. He gets nothing.

  I shake my head, trying to fight off all these thoughts. Dog. Focus on the dog. Classic conditioning. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t know why I even bother trying to dissect what happened. It’s not happening again. If he thinks I’m going to obey him and show up in whatever’s in that box, he’s nuts.

  Don’t open that box.

  Open it. I bet it’s pretty.

  Who cares! It’s from a deranged control freak who needs to lure women in by fancy things and bribery.

  I still bet it’s pretty.

  I bet it is too.

  Sitting Indian style in the middle of my dorm room, I try to convince myself I can still open the box and see what’s inside without putting it on and showing up at Exquisite. He’ll never know I did. I can just peek, then send it back. With a sigh of defeat, I pull at the lace and unwrap the bow, pretending the excitement swirling in my stomach is due to turkey fritter night in the cafeteria.

  The second the top is off, I gasp. My hands fight between covering my mouth in shock or touching the vibrant green silk.

  “This is so ugly. Put the top back on, Jensen.” I will once I just have a little touch. My fingers brush over the silky material. I pick up the dress and rub it between my fingertips. Before I can stop it, the dress is out of the box and I’m up, holding it up against my body.

  Standing in front of our full-length mirror, I stare back at myself. The dress is absolutely stunning. And, of course, completely open in the back. I twirl it around a few times, knowing I can’t keep it, but imagine myself in it, feeling just as beautiful as the dress itself.

  “You cannot keep her. Put her down and go eat your heart out in turkey fritters. You love turkey fritters. Love them. The mashed potatoes with gravy. Best part of Wednesday. Focus on Wednesday.”

  I can do this. Focus on Wednesday.

  THERE’S ALWAYS NEXT WEDNESDAY.

  It’s my only thought before I pay the driver and step out of the cab, the night breeze hitting my bare legs. The moon is lit to full capacity, leaving the night sky bright. I walk down the alleyway to the secluded door, but I don’t get a chance to knock. It opens just as I raise my arm.

  “You’re late.” The spawn’s deep voice tickles my eardrums. He stands there, looking dominant in his tailored black suit and in complete control. Holding the door open, he steps to the side to allow me entry. How did he know I was here? I look at my watch just as the minute hand strikes nine o’clock.

  “Wait, I’m actually on—”

  “Inside, Ms. Stone.”

  What’s this guy’s problem? “The bossiness is not needed, pal,” I snap, walking past him into the busy nightclub. I look around, amazed at how crowded it is. Apparently, Wednesday is not only popular for turkey fritters but choking and spanking too.

  Damien doesn’t bother to respond. I hear the door shut behind me and immediately feel his presence. He’s extremely close, and when his warm hand hits my lower back, I jump. He’s next to me, the pressure of his hand escorting us up to the bar of the main room.

  “Kade, a bourbon neat, and a club soda for the lady.”

  I step up to the bar, getting Kade’s attention. “Actually, I’ll take one of those as well—”

  “She’ll have the club soda.”

  Kade stalls for a second, but nods at Damien and walks away to fulfill his request.

  “I don’t want a club soda.”

  “And I don’t serve underage people in my club.”

  “Oh, but you can fuck them?”

  He turns, giving me his full attention. “I haven’t fucked you, Ms. Stone.”

  My cheeks blast a deep shade of red in embarrassment. I open my mouth to say something rude, not sure what that’s going to be, but I’m interrupted when Kade returns, placing the two drinks on the bar. Damien retrieves them, handing me the club soda. I want to refuse it, but the way he’s staring at me, I’m suddenly parched. I accept the drink, thankful for the distraction as I take a large sip. His hand is back to touching me in my barest area, silently instructing me to follow him. I do as I’m told, because I suck, and he leads us to a secluded corner of the dance floor.

  “What are we doing? You don’t look like the dancing type.”

  “Who says we’re dancing?”

  “Well…why are we here?” I ask.

  “We’re watching.”

  My eyes widen a smidge. What exactly are we watching? I turn toward the crowded scene, and my attention locks on a couple dancing a few feet away from us. But not just dancing. Like dancing. Using the term bump and grind would be an understatement. They’re definitely doing that but in slow motion. Their bodies aren’t in tune with music, as if they’re creating the movements to beats only they can hear. The man has the woman’s back to him. Their bodies align perfectly, her butt rubbing away at his junk. They seem to be in their own world, not worrying about who will see.

  The man’s hand reaches in front, inching up her short skirt, and I inhale a short breath as his hand disappears beneath her red lace panties. Staring feels wrong, but I can’t seem to pull my eyes away. There is no hiding the man’s fingers as they work in and out of her sex. He starts slow but picks up the pace to the rhythm of the music, his thrusts getting rougher and stronger. Her eyes fall closed. She’s lost. Her mouth parts. His arm lifts and wraps around her neck, allowing his mouth to capture hers. They kiss, their tongues dueling, while he continues to pump into her in the wide open on the dance floor.

  “What do you see?”

  I jolt, forgetting Damien behind me. His warm breath, once again, does things to my body. A shiver of bumps explod
es over my skin. I don’t turn around. I’m embarrassed for him to see how flushed my cheeks are. I’m unsure how to even answer the question. I see so many things. A couple dancing. Lost in a moment. Lust. Sex. Passion. Nothing registers but the feeling they’re sharing as they touch each other.

  Damien’s chest presses against my back, his crisp shirt brushes against the open base of my dress, sending another round of goose bumps pebbling over my skin. The couple continues to dance, and I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from his hand working her. I imagine those hands on me. The feeling of being seduced out in the open. My breathing becomes labored with each pump.

  “Do you think she’s enjoying herself?” His deep voice rings in my ear. My mouth parts, feeling dry. I lick my lips, needing moisture, completely forgetting the drink in my hand. I want to answer, but any words that want to come out are lodged in my throat. I’m so lost in the scene before me, I barely jump when his hand reaches from behind, caressing my thigh. His fingers trail up past the slit of my dress until he reaches the end of the opening. I fight to keep my own eyes open. I want his hands exactly where the man’s are. As if Damien can read my mind, he pushes away the dress and slides his fingers under the silk of my panties. I become lost. Obsessed with the couple in front of me. Aching for what Damien is doing. His warm finger enters me with ease. I’m soaking wet. Aroused. He works his finger in and out while I watch the man do the same. My legs begin to shake as I lose focus on the world around me. My head drops against his chest, wanting to rub myself harder against his working hand. Each thrust, each rush of endorphins he creates.

  “What are you feeling?” His words feel just as sexual as the way he’s touching me. I don’t know why I’m not telling him to stop—why I’m allowing him to expose me and touch me in a way that’s meant to be private.

  “I want more,” I say in a trance as the man’s hand works her harder, faster. The woman’s expression screams pure ecstasy as he finger fucks her violently. Damien picks up his pace, matching the man’s. Yes. God, yes. I become so lost. The woman opens her eyes, catching me staring at her, but she doesn’t turn away or make her lover stop. She doesn’t give me a look that tells me to look away. She holds me with her stare. I feel like I’m violating her privacy, but also sharing something with her—every emotion, expression. She’s close. So close. Fuck. Fuck. What am I doing? Faster. Harder. God, I’m going to come. My eyes locked with hers as she explodes, and I lose my own fight. My throat locks, my mouth opens, wanting to scream, moan, anything, but I’m silent as the orgasm ripples through me.

  The glass of club soda slips from my grip, shattering on the dance floor. Reality crashes into me instantly—what I just did, watched. I open my eyes to the smiling woman who continues to dance as if nothing just happened. I whip around, throwing my head into Damien’s chest. “Get me out of here,” I whisper into his chest, embarrassed beyond belief, but he already has me cradled under his arm escorting me through a side door before I finish my plea.

  I stay hidden under his hold until I hear the unlocking of a door before it opens and shuts. I hesitantly pull away from his comfort and open my eyes to realize I’m in a lavish one-story loft. “Where are we?” I ask, taking in the modern décor.

  “My private loft.”

  I quickly turn to see him walking to a mahogany cellarette. He pulls out two glasses and a decanter, then pours the amber liquid in both glasses, handing me one of them.

  “I thought you don’t serve minors?” I say, accepting the glass.

  “We’re no longer in my club,” he returns, taking a sip. I follow suit, needing the distraction as well as the welcome burn of the whiskey. I take him in a second longer, before needing to break our eye contact. I turn away, taking in more of his place. He seems to be a fan of dark colors. Everything is dim and lacking vibrancy. Some purple and small resemblance of red poke out in the hanging artwork, but besides that, the room gives off an elegant, but depressing, vibe.

  “This explains a lot,” I say, walking over to the gray couch. I sit down, taking another sip of my drink.

  “About what?” he asks, but he doesn’t move.

  “Your dark mood all the time. It’s because you live in such a depressing place. Ever think about lightening it up in here? Or do you prefer to always be grouchy?”

  His brows lift as he looks around the room. “What exactly is wrong with it? Gray is a color of sophistication.”

  I snort. “You mean emotionless? Damien, this place is dull, gloomy. I bet you don’t even turn the lights on in here.”

  He stares at me like I’m totally…right! “You don’t, do you?”

  He brushes his hand through his hair and swallows his entire glass. “I’m barely ever here. And when I am, it’s to sleep. No need for lights when you sleep.”

  I start to laugh.

  “What do you find so humorous?” He places his glass down and sits on the arm of the couch. My laugh dies a bit with him so close. He lays his arms on the rest, crossing his one leg over. Take away the moodiness, and he radiates such power. Dominance. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He does own a sex club. His amber eyes stand out, brightening the room. Even his suit is black and nicely fitted. The three times I’ve been with him he’s been without a tie, leaving the front two buttons open to the curiosity of what’s underneath. I wonder if it’s a ploy to capture more prey. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious at what’s behind door number one. “Are you going to eye fuck me or answer my question?”

  I gasp at his bluntness. “I was not eye fucking you!” I snap back. I was so eye fucking him.

  “Then answer my question.”

  I slam the rest of my drink, set the empty glass on the table, and lay back, resting against the couch. “Only sleeping is not an excuse to turn on the lights. Maybe if you added some life in here, you wouldn’t be so grumpy, or bossy. It just seems…kinda lonely. May I advise getting a plant or something?” I look at him, who in return looks completely thrown off. Confused maybe? So, no plant?

  “You think I should get a plant to help my bossiness?”

  “Yeah, or maybe some colorful mugs for your coffee maker. Those are always a nice touch.” What the fuck am I talking about? My palms are sweaty and I’m suddenly nervous. I’m fidgeting with my hands, wishing I kept the glass just for them to have something to hold on to. Dare I bring my mind back to the scene downstairs. The desire. The essence of lust in the air. I could almost feel the warm exhale of the woman’s breath on my skin while we both lost ourselves under the hands of our lovers. How could I not be reminded of the way his passion-filled questions washed over my skin, his hands molded to my thigh or his fingers touching me so intimately. In that moment, he made me feel he had my entire body memorized as if we’d been lovers for a lifetime.

  No doubt my cheeks are flushed at the memory. I can’t hide where my mind went, nor can he. His hands are to his side, formed into tight fists.

  “Okay, so let’s put the cards on the table. What do you want from me?” I ask, breaking the sexual tension. Not that I really know anything about sexual tension. I’m also not sure why he needs me when he can have a real woman. Someone who could probably rock his world and a resume a mile long of experience.

  “I want to break you.”

  My stomach drops to the floor, and a wave of nausea comes over me. Wow, okay then. Let’s not hold back.

  “Like…break me, break me?” The waver in my voice isn’t difficult to miss as I demonstrate cracking an invisible object in half. Breaking someone can have lots of meanings. And I sadly didn’t get the impression he was a killer.

  I start to wiggle in my seat, unsure if this is where I’m going to die.

  “Relax.”

  “Yeah, kinda hard to do that right now.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. At least…not in the way you’re thinking.”

  Still not sold. “You may have to try a little harder at convincing me.” I look around, trying to find all exit routes.

  “I won
’t harm you in any way you don’t want. I’m not here to threaten your wellbeing. When I touch you, it will be with your consent.”

  “On the dance floor?” I say. I wasn’t sure I gave him consent to do what he did.

  “Did you want me to touch you?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Why did your body tell me otherwise?”

  Dammit! What is this? “You can’t answer a question with a question.”

  “So, you’re denying you melted around my finger?”

  Jesus. “I’m not even sure what you’re talking about anymore, it was so long ago.” It’s been probably like seven minutes. I look around. Where’s that whiskey? An unfamiliar sound echoes throughout the loft. Someone just laughed. I look around, trying to locate the third person in the room. No way could it have been… My eyes land on Damien. Wait, is he?

  “You know how to laugh?”

  He sits forward, and I try to sit farther back, but can’t since the back of the couch is in my way. “Yes, Jensen, I know how to laugh. It doesn’t happen often, but you’ve managed to bring it out in me. Now…” He stands, startling me. Oh dammit. This is where I die. I shouldn’t have mentioned the mugs!

  He doesn’t have time to grab for me as his phone rings, distracting him. This gives me the chance to stand and put some space between us. His smile disappears, his eyes back to dark at my retreat, but he puts his phone to his ear. “Yes… When? I’ll take care of it.” He ends his call without a goodbye.

  “Our night’s come to an end. I’ll put you in a cab.” He makes another quick call, asking Fredrick to have a cab waiting, and places his phone back in the inside pocket of his suit coat.

  “What? Why? I was kidding, I don’t really think you’re going to murder me or anything.”