Inside is a layered cake, rich brown on the bottom and lighter layers of cream on top. Without a word he spears a fork inside and holds it up for me to eat. Chocolate sweetness bursts on my tongue, and I think my eyes roll to the back of my head. It’s too much pleasure, too much goodness.
A soft sigh escapes me, along with the question I’ve been holding in. “Why?”
“Why what?” His eyes are dark, and I know exactly why. This thing between us has turned sexual. Or maybe it was sexual all along. When he tied me up, when he waited for me in the dark.
All of it was leading to this.
My voice is low, a side effect of the decadence, the richness he’s been feeding me. “You could do anything you want to me. Why this?”
“I’m not a martyr, if that’s what you think. I’m doing this because it turns me on. Just looking at you turns me on, hearing your breathy little moans turns me on, touching you turns me on.”
My throat is suddenly dry, and I swallow. “And then?”
“I’m not done with you, Bianca.” It’s like he’s making a vow. “I haven’t even started.”
A shiver runs through me, and I force myself to meet his gaze. He promises so much in that one look. Pleasure. Fulfillment. He promises a future, and that’s how I know it’s a lie.
And strangely enough, that’s how I can trust it. I know all about lies. I grew up with them. I survive on them. It was that awful earnestness that I couldn’t handle, when he thought I might have been a different girl, a better girl—when he might have believed in me. Now he knows the truth about me. There can be no future. Only this.
“Then start,” I whisper.
He was waiting for that—for desire, for permission. I know, because he doesn’t wait any longer. As soon as the word is out of my mouth, he dips his finger into the top layers of cream and presses it into my mouth. He isn’t hesitant. He doesn’t wait for me to let him in. He just pushes his finger inside, smearing heaven on my tongue.
Then he’s leaning down, his face inches from mine. I can feel his heat, his breath.
His mouth closes over mine, hard and demanding. This isn’t a gentle kiss. It isn’t a question.
It’s a promise, just like the look in his eyes. He tastes the chocolate cream, and he tastes me with equal fervor, tilting my head back so I’m trapped against the chair. His hand cups my jaw, tilting me up to open to him, to surrender completely.
It feels as good as I always dreamed. Before I even knew West, when he was just some fantasy of a man who cared. He pleasures me, using his tongue to tease me and taunt me. And at the same time, he possesses me, claiming me with every press of his lips and stroke of his thumb against my cheek. I’m surrounded by him. Everything that came before—the savory meal and the sweet dessert only built to this moment, when I’m tasting him for the first time.
There’s something specific about the way he kisses me, the movement of his tongue, the rhythm he uses. It feels like sex, like he’s already fucking me even though we both have our clothes on. I squirm in the seat, pressing my legs together to assuage the ache.
He notices, pulling back. His lids are low. “You hungry, sweetheart?”
He doesn’t mean for food.
I can only nod.
Please.
His lips curve in a lazy smile. “Me too.”
He bends and kisses me again, and I’m lost to his mouth, his uniquely male taste. Only vaguely do I feel him touching me over my arms and down my sides. And then sudden warmth of large hands cupping my breasts. I gasp, but he’s already gone, already moving downward, tracing a path over my body.
One hand slips beneath the band of my soft black pants. The touch of two fingers against my sex makes me jolt against the tape, but my wrists are still bound to the chair.
“Shh,” he soothes against my mouth. “You want this, baby. I can feel how wet you are.”
I whimper, squirming in my seat, pressing myself farther away—and then pushing right up against his hand in shameless need. “Don’t make me wait.”
It’s the worst kind of torture, feeling his strong hand hold very still. It’s like he’s punishing me for refusing him, and I can only rock against his hand in rhythmic plea.
“We’re done waiting,” he says softly.
He pulls his hand away and stands.
“W
ait. No.” It
was one thing when I thought he was going to fuck me. I’ve had men fuck me before. If they’re gentle enough, I might have even enjoyed it.
What West is doing with his head between my legs is something different. Something sweeter.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes meet mine, and I can see the hunger in them. He doesn’t want the food from the restaurant, though. He wants me. My body, which is spread open to him, already wet.
“I don’t do this.” My voice is too high-pitched.
Too scared.
A rough laugh. “You don’t have to do anything. I’m going to do all the work, baby.”
In another life that’s what this tape and this chair could have meant: letting him do all the work. Relaxing enough to give him control. But we aren’t in that world, where I’d have a choice. It’s a luxury—choice—and I’ve spent my whole life backed up against the wall, hungry and desperate and fighting to survive.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He frames my core with his large hands, pushing my thighs apart. His eyes are almost black as they stare at my sex. “I have a feeling I’m never going to see you after today, whether I taste you or not. And I really fucking want to taste you.”
The words wash over me, and it feels like relief. I don’t really want him to stop, but I’m afraid. Afraid of what he means when he says we won’t see each other again. Because he’ll turn me over to the cops? Because he’ll turn me over to Ivan?
Or because he’s thinking of letting me go? My heart pounds at the thought. And he knows I’ll run far away if he does.
“You’re too much of a Boy Scout,” I say, and even I can hear the challenge in my voice. I want him to prove me wrong, even though it seems almost impossible. How can he change who he is?
How could I have been wrong about him?
His expression is severe. “A fucking Boy Scout. I spent years in the fucking desert, where even looking at a woman wrong could mean her life was over. So I didn’t. I wasn’t a monk. I had hookups when I was on leave. What did it get me, Bianca? What’s the fucking point?”
It rips me apart to hear him questioning this. As much as I want him to touch me, to ignore my protests, I would hate it too. I love him being a Boy Scout. Love the honorable man that he is, his mouth inches from my bare pussy—but he won’t lean in. He just won’t, and it’s killing him.
My hands grab onto the chair, holding myself steady. “Taste me, West. Touch me.”
His eyes are hooded. I know he thinks this is about what he just said—and it is, but not how he thinks. I don’t pity him. The man is kind and handsome as hell. He could score with any girl he sees right now. But he wants me. He wants this. And it’s a kind of honor to be able to give it to him.
And no matter that he questions my motives, he doesn’t wait. He has what he needed: permission.
His head lowers, and he places a kiss on my mound—a chaste kiss only. I feel the heat of it sear me. He touches me everywhere, his hands on my thighs, his torso between my legs, his lips on my sex.
He flicks a glance at me, and I see in it all the banked desire. He’s been waiting longer than one night for this. Longer than the few months we’ve worked here together. It’s like he’s been waiting forever for this, and I feel that even stronger when he returns for an openmouthed kiss against my pussy.
He kisses me like he’s starved for me, tongue digging deep, licking every drop of arousal, teeth scraping gently over tender, swollen flesh.
The basement had been quiet before, but now it’s a riot of sounds. My whimpers and moans, incoherent, babbling. His soft words of praise, murmured against my skin, telling me how beautiful I am, how good I taste—how long he’s wanted me.
He pushes two fingers inside me, and they slide in easily. I’m so slick from what he’s doing, his tongue on my clit and the scruff of a late-night shadow against my mound.
His other hand tightens on my thigh as he fingers me, and I know he’s imagining his cock inside me, how I’d feel tightening around him. I’m imagining it too. I squeeze his fingers instead, and it’s a tease for us both.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
I moan and push my hips against his face, begging for more.
He gives it to me, sucking directly on my clit—and it feels like lightning sparking through my body, sparking at my core and radiating out. The orgasm takes me by surprise, my entire body shaking and jerking against the bonds. I’m held by the chair and the tape, but also his hands and his mouth. I shudder in the small space of freedom I have, rocking against the walls that hold me, pushing against them even as I never want to leave.
It’s only then, as the aftershocks of the orgasm shiver through me, that I feel the tape on my right-hand side loosen and come undone.
T
here’s nothing more
honest than the moment of climax, the pure pleasure of it, the surrender. And afterward there’s an intimacy that you can’t escape. That’s what makes the moment uncomfortable for people who don’t care about each other. It’s what makes the moment poignant now, when West pulls back, his expression still taut with arousal—and a supremely male satisfaction after making me come.
I have to force myself not to feel it too deeply, not to want him too much.
I have to force myself not to show that my hand is loose.
If I pulled away now, he would hear the tape. He would see my arm swing free. And he’d be close enough to restrain me physically. I need to wait until he’s distracted, and physically farther away, like when he spoke to Blue earlier. Then I can grab the gun on the desk and escape.
He’s about to stand. I see the muscles in his arm flex. I feel the rush of cool air as it sweeps between our bodies.
“Wait.” A few minutes ago I said this to make him stop. Now I don’t want him to stop. Stopping means I’ll have to fight my way free. It means our moments in the dark will end.
One eyebrow rises. His lids are still low, his full lips damp with my cream. “Baby?”
Just that one word turns me inside out, the lazy way he speaks it, the sexy confidence.
“What about you?” I ask in a rush, clinging to any excuse. Clinging to him.
“What about me?”
“Let me touch you. Let me…please you.”
His expression turns stark. “Ah fuck, there’s nothing I want more. But it wouldn’t be right. Not like this.”
I knew he was a Boy Scout underneath all that sexy swagger. “So you can get me off, but I can’t get you off? That doesn’t seem fair?”
A smile plays at his lips. “None of this is fair. I want you in my bed, not in Ivan’s office. I want you free and clear.” The smile fades. “But I don’t have that.”
Panic claws at my throat. However much he wanted to taste me, that’s how much I want to taste him. It’s not about salt or about sex. It’s about giving him pleasure. It’s about that poignant moment right after.
“Please,” I whisper.
He tenses. “Oh shit, baby. We can’t. Not like this.”
Then we would never do it, and that thought fills me with despair. If I can get free, he’ll never see me again—just like he thought. “I know it’s not right, West. I know it’s not ideal. But this is how it happened. This is all we have.”
He may not like the way it happens, but he’s a soldier at heart. He understands working with what you have. He understands survival too.
“Christ, baby.” His eyes almost glaze over, his expression so tense it’s as if he’s climaxing. He even presses a hand to his jeans, pushing himself roughly, almost punishing himself for being so turned on.
I keep going, desperate now. There’s only one thing I can bargain with, and it’s the truth. “I wanted you all along. I was lying to you before. Lying to myself. I wanted everything you had to offer, but I was afraid. And then there was this debt. And I’m telling the truth that I didn’t want to do this, I
hated
to do this, because you would find out about it.”
My throat closes up, and I know I was too honest. I went too far, and he’ll never touch me now.
“I don’t have to do this.” It’s almost like he’s talking to himself.
“Do it for me,” I whisper. “Let me. You were right before. We’ll never see each other again after tonight. One way or another I’m going far away from here. Let me remember you like this. Not as the man who caught me. Let me remember you as the man…”
The words fall away as my throat closes. Tears sting my eyes. God, how embarrassing. I wanted to turn him on, and instead I’m crying.
“The man who let you go,” he says roughly. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”
My nails dig into my palms. I can’t even see him through the tears. “No.”
“Would you have given yourself to me so that I would let you go?” A stark pause. “Is that why you let me touch you.”
“No!” But it’s too late. I can tell he’s already sure of it. I can feel his grief over it in the air. He swings away, his hand running over his face, frustration and guilt evident.
And that’s when I know he isn’t letting me go. It was a long shot, but how can he? He wouldn’t be a Boy Scout anymore. Because that’s what he is—I’m more sure now than ever. Even the orgasm he gave me was a twisted sort of gift. He can’t change who he is any more than I can change who I am.
He’s walking away now, and I’m sure he’ll come back. He’s pacing now, distressed.
I can’t leave him that way. He shouldn’t have to make that choice.
In one smooth move, I twist my wrist and turn my body the other way, freeing my arm from the chair in a matter of seconds. I use my free hand to tear the other piece of tape away, and then I’m grabbing the gun in a mad dash. I half expect West to get there before me, for him to be lunging toward the desk in a wild rush.
He isn’t.
He’s standing exactly where I last saw him, his expression more tired than angry.
And God, he isn’t scared at all. Not even when I raise the gun and point it at him. I don’t know why I do it, exactly, except that it feels like what I’m supposed to do. I don’t want to hurt him. I definitely don’t want to shoot him, but as much as I care about him—and I do care, I can admit that now—I can’t let myself be captured.