She couldn’t deny what he’d said, she wanted him, and felt a rush of desire simply from looking at him. And why did he have to smell so damn good? It made it hard to think.
She tried not to inhale, but ol’ Hawkeye Finnegan was sure to notice.
“Relax and breathe, Esme,” he said on cue. “And don’t look so sad. We already know we’re good together, or did you forget Friday night?”
“I’m not interested in a relationship,” she blurted out. “I’ve been there before and we both know how that ended.”
“First, you didn’t breathe. Second, a spanking, a kiss, and drinks hardly comprise a relationship. And third, I’m not collaring or proposing to you, we’re simply talking.”
“What if I don’t want to scene with anyone else?”
“Then you’ll scene with me.”
“Which brings us back to square one,” she muttered.
Leaning forward, his forearms on the table, eyes narrowing on her, he asked, “Do you know why Tristan called me a saint?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” she quipped really pushing it.
“Because I’m known for my patience, but it has limits, Esme. And you, little lass, are bumping up against them hard, right now.” He leaned back and patted the padded seat beside him. “Come sit beside me.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“If it has to be to get your ass over here.”
She didn’t like the deepening of his tone and figured she’d better heed the warning. Grudgingly, she slid out of her side of the booth and in on his, but she hugged the edge keeping as much space between them as possible.
Exhaling slowly, he slipped his arm around her waist, and he hauled her against him, so she pressed against his side from knee to hip to shoulder. “That’s better,” he murmured. “Now we’re going to sit here and get to know one another better, have a few drinks, perhaps dance—”
“I don’t dance.”
He covered the hand closest to his and interlaced their fingers. “Open communication between a Dom and sub are crucial, Esme. Did you have that before?”
“Yes.”
“I expect no less.” Raising her hand to his mouth, he surprised her with not only his lips on her knuckles but the teasing, warm wetness of his tongue. “Now, tell me again you don’t dance.”
She pressed her lips together in frustration, then muttered, “How do you know so much? That wasn’t in my file.”
“I’ve watched you move, darlin’. You have a dancer’s elegance and grace.” He nibbled his way across the back of her hand, then flipped it and brushed his mouth over the pulse point on the inner aspect of her wrist. “Try again. This time with the truth.”
“I took ballet as a child until I was fourteen. I had dreams of becoming a professional dancer.”
“Why did you stop?”
“It’s hard on the body. I had torn ligaments in the same knee twice in one year, and then there was the obvious.”
Still teasing her skin with kisses, he looked up in question.
“Puberty.”
His gaze slid downward, boldly appraising her. “You don’t have the typical ballerina body, but that pleases me. I like softness against me rather than hard edges and sharp points.”
He was in luck; soft is what he’d get with her. Getting a vibe he would frown on negative self-talk, she didn’t say that, however.
“Did I mention you look lovely tonight? You did slinky quite well; that dress hugs your curves to perfection, and all those pretty blushes have brought a glow to your complexion.” He paused to inhale. “Instead of flowers, which make me sneeze, your scent reminds me of the beach. And I’ll refrain from commenting on all the wicked ideas those shoes have given me.”
The five-inch stilettos she’d chosen to wear were of the fuck-me variety; she couldn’t argue the point, so she deliberately ignored his shoe reference. “It’s my lotion,” she muttered, shaken by his compliments and the irresistible pull he had on her. She tugged at her hand. He didn’t let go but lowered them to the table where he lightly stroked the back with his thumb.
“Are you ready to tell me what sent you into a panic earlier?”
“The couple at the next booth.”
“You’ve been in the dungeon many times and seen a lot more than that. Why did it bother you tonight?”
“She called him Andrew, my husband’s name. It…”
“Triggered something inside you. I’m guessing guilt.”
It took effort to look up at him. She found what she expected, him watching her closely. “You’re very perceptive.”
“I haven’t been through it, but I imagine it’s normal for the surviving partner to feel that way when they move on.”
“That’s what I’m told but knowing it’s normal doesn’t make it easier. I’m sorry I freaked out on you. I’m not usually so rude.”
“Ordinarily, you’d have ended up bare-assed over my knee, but you’re working through something. You’ll get there, Esme, but I can’t promise you’ll get the same restraint from me the next time.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered as her backside blossomed with a tingling heat, immediately recalling both the pleasure and the pain to be had while face down over Master Finn’s knee.
Conversation between them halted as the band started another set with a cover of the Goo Goo Dolls’ Use Me. They were good, but the lyrics hit too close to home—so many songs seemed to for her—and she nervously tried to talk over them.
“It’s funny you mentioned the beach. I didn’t have club wear that wasn’t leather. I ended up blowing my clothes budget on shoes and something clingy. It left me skimping on a fragrance. It’s actually called Beach, from Bath N Body Works.”
“On you, it’s priceless.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips again, the smile playing around his lips telling her he knew what she was doing—misdirection—and badly. “It puts me in the mood for a Piña Colada. Do you like them?”
“Yes, especially frozen with chunks of fresh pineapple.”
“Let’s see if our surly bartender can blend us up one, shall we?”
“You drink frozen fruity drinks, sir?” Her gaze swept over him from head to toe, not seeing an ounce of excess fat. Sugar couldn’t be the main staple of his diet, not to keep as fit as he was. “You don’t seem the type.”
“I drink whatever suits me which is usually Teeling’s Irish Whiskey, but you’ve got my tongue greedy for a taste of coconut.”
The blush he’d mentioned spread in a wave of heat from her cheeks down to her throat. When his eyes dipped to the low neckline of her dress, she guessed to the upper swells of her breasts as well.
Equally charming and seductive, Keiran Finnegan was dangerous to her peace of mind and so dreamy it made her ache. His dark wavy hair was a few weeks past due for a trim, but she liked the way it curled around his ears and on his collar. Remembering its silky soft texture, she had to fight the urge to run her fingers through the shiny strands.
Aside from his gorgeous face, his body was divine. He’d seen her in the altogether but she’d yet to have a peek. She didn’t know if his chest had a smattering of hair, a thick pelt or was satiny smooth. And she hadn’t seen him from behind, but she imagined the view of him in his snug black pants was as tantalizing from the back as the front. The same went for his upper body, which rippled and bunched beneath his tight t-shirt when he moved, though it just wasn’t the same as seeing him bare. But maybe it was for the best since she was already having a hard time concentrating with him fully dressed.
A waitress appeared as though summoned though she hadn’t seen him give any signal.
“Did you want something from the bar, Master K?”
“One Piña Colada, Arlene, with two straws. And a shot of Teeling, no ice.”
“Yes, sir.”
When she hurried away, Esme studied the utterly charming Master K who in her mind would always be Master Finn. “I thought you wanted to taste coconut.”
Raising her hand to his lips again, he inhaled, then kissed her fingers just below her knuckles, his tongue slipping out to lick ever so lightly. “Mmm… just the taste I was craving.”
Distracted with his persistent touching and uncomfortable with the topic, she tried to steer him onto a different path.
“Keiran is an unusual name.”
“Not where I’m from, although not as common as Sean or Michael.”
“I could tell from your accent you’re not from LA.”
“It’s the curse of being a southern gentleman, your drawl always gives you away.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you, sir?”
“Nope, I was born in Columbus, Georgia.” He chuckled, seeing her frown. “But I tease you, lass. I’m a hybrid with dual citizenship. My mother is a southern gal, but she fell in love with an Army Ranger one summer and along I came nine months later. She moved to Belfast while I was an infant which is where I grew up.”
“But I thought one of your parents would have to be Irish to have citizenship in both countries.”
“Not necessarily,” he replied, her assumption was a common one. “But I meant the Sciathán Fiannóglach an Airm, which literally translated is the Army Ranger Wing. It’s Ireland’s version of Special Forces. As a young officer, my father, who was born in Northern Ireland, was one of the first to train with the U.S. Army Rangers at Ft. Benning, Georgia. He met a girl, fell in love, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
She had to speak up to be heard over the band as they started another set. “What a romantic story.”
“Aye, except to hear them tell it, it’s steamy. They add details a son doesn’t want to hear about his parents.”
She grinned. “I bet.”
“With family here and there, I’ve been back and forth all my life. I attended USC then followed in my father’s footsteps and served my country. I was in the ARW for most of my twelve-year stint. When I got out, I took a job in security in San Antonio, and when the opportunity arose, returned to Southern California. I now call LA my home.”
“And your parents?”
“Still here and there, though mostly there. I try to get home at least once a year.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland. I hear it’s lovely.”
“It is, but perfect weather year-round, no snow, and the Pacific Ocean are nothing to sneeze at.”
“True. I bet you can’t swim in your ocean either.”
He chuckled. “A swim near the pier in Santa Monica is like sinking into a nice warm tub by comparison.”
She shuddered. “I dip my toes in during August, that’s it. Which means if I ever get the chance to see your home country, I’ll remain a confirmed landlubber.”
“With your coloring, you’d fit in well there, and Esme sounds Irish. It’s beautiful.” In his low, rumbling burr, he made it sound beautiful. “We were distracted with other things the other night. Now we have time. You said your mother lost a bet over your name. How so?”
She almost groaned. He had to ask. It was a long story and one she never escaped.
His head tilted to the side as he studied her. “I understand when things are new with a Dom there is a testing period. I’m fairly laid back, but this tendency to stall you have, could get you in trouble. When I ask a question, I expect a response. How bad can your name be?”
“Bad…”
“Let me decide.”
“Esmerelda Spade.”
He stared at her a moment. “You’re right. Esme is a helluva lot better.”
A laugh escaped. “Don’t hold back, sir. Tell me how you really feel.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, lass, but I have to ask. What on God’s green earth was your mathair thinkin’?”
“That’s just it—green. My mother said as soon as she saw my eyes it came to her.”
He thought a moment. “Esmerelda means emerald in Spanish.” His puzzled gaze swept over her features. “You don’t look Latina.”
“I’m not,” was her deadpan response. “Spade is German, and my mother’s grandparents, with a few greats thrown in, immigrated from Northern Europe somewhere. Which makes me a mutt without a smidgeon of Hispanic heritage.”
“I see.”
She noticed his lip twitch. “Yeah, she’s wacky but loveable. Wait until you hear the rest.”
“There’s more?” he asked in mock horror. “Please, darlin’, say your first name isn’t Gertrude or Hortense.”
“Very funny, señor,” she drawled, then let loose a little giggle. “But you’re close.”
The humor slowly faded from his face, replaced with sympathy. “I was kidding, lass.”
“I’m not. My dad was a nut, too. And a huge fan of detective mysteries. He thought nothing would do except to name his one and only daughter after his favorite detective in his favorite detective novel.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? I haven’t told you yet.”
“I can guess. It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”
She blinked, then burst into laughter. “No, and that would be worse.”
“Miss Marple?”
“No.”
“Agatha Christy? No, that’s two names. How about Dana as in Scully?”
Falling forward with her forehead to his bicep, she shook her head, but he kept guessing.
“I know… Nancy as in Drew!”
“Stop, sir, please, before I pee my pants.”
His face broke into a devastating grin. “I’m kinky. I freely admit it, but even I’m not into that.”
“What?” she shrieked, turning heads. Then in a more regulated voice said, “No. Dear Lord, you’re as big of a goof as my parents. My dad named me Samantha. When I got old enough, I chose to go by my middle name, because, well… You know.”
He stared at her, suddenly sober. “No, I don’t know. It’s a beautiful name, although Esme suits you better.”
“Thank you, and it’s why I use it. The trouble with Samantha is when it’s invariably shortened to Sam.” She looked at him wide-eyed waiting for it to click. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Sam Spade.”
He shrugged and shook his head.
“You’ve never read or seen the Maltese Falcon?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Well, that certainly makes the whole buildup and the story itself pointless. Huh.”
His hands curled around her shoulders, and he brought her in close, then declared in a low, nasally twang, “When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it.”
“You so know it!” she exclaimed.
So very handsome, when he smiled her heart beat faster, but when he grinned, like now, warmth coiled in her belly and sent little tingles dancing in her girl parts below.
“My ma wasn’t one for detective stories per se, but she adored Humphrey Bogart. It was impossible not to know him, or the unflinchingly determined private eye, Sam Spade, when I saw it a hundred times growing up.”
“You’re an awful tease, Master Finn. And, due respect, that has to be the worst Bogey impression I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugged, still grinning. “I’m not offended but allow me to make my own observation. You, Samantha Esmerelda Spade, have got the sexiest laugh I’ve ever heard.” His arms slipped around her, both hands coming up to lie flat on her back pressing them belly to belly, her breasts to his chest. “All kidding aside, I want you, Esme, and I mean to have you.” He bent and ran his lips along the curve of her neck. “I can’t wait to strip you bare and fuck you until you come screaming to the rafters. I want to see you in my ropes, tied in creative ways that will leave you trembling and breathless for more. And trust me, Tristan isn’t the only one who can rig a suspension. If not ropes, I’ll use leather cuffs to bind you to a bed or on a cross, and when I have you helpless, posed with your delicious round ass aimed my way, I’ll bring it slowly from creamy white to pink, to rosy red, and not only be by my hand.”
Moving upward along her jaw to h
er mouth, he hovered, his lips brushing with each delicious syllable when he continued.
“You’ll take what I give you, love how I make you feel, and, I promise, you’ll beg me for more. It’s what dreams are made of”—she’d be damned if the man didn’t throw in another Bogart quote—“and I can’t wait to make yours come true.”
A rush of hot desire tightened her nipples, they ached where they rubbed against his chest and wetness flooded the long-neglected place between her thighs. She gazed into his stunning eyes, unable to speak, barely able to think, except to remember her lie. She did want this, and she wanted it with Finn.
“Too much?” he murmured, gliding his tongue along her lower lip. “If so, you’ll get used to it. I believe in being direct.” Then, he tilted his head ever so slightly and took her mouth in a smoldering hot kiss that Esme could only define as claiming.
“Are you ready to play, little lass?”
Over his shoulder, she could see the huge double doors that led into the heart of Decadence. It would be her first scene, she was bound to draw a crowd.
“Could we… maybe, go upstairs, instead?”
“No, baby, with the band here tonight, more people showed up on a weeknight than expected, and the rooms are reserved until midnight.
“I haven’t played in public in a very long time.”
Tenderly, one hand framed her face, his thumb brushing her cheek in a gentle sweep. “Has that been a problem for you before?
“No, it’s just, I’ve developed a reputation for being distant, and, well… according to Master Eric, a gawker. Members complained. They’re sure to repay me in kind.”
“As beautiful as you are, lass, people are bound to watch, but none would dare say a harsh word. We’ll take it slow. Perhaps a scene at the chain station or on a bench.” He frowned as if remembering something. “Benches fill up first, however.”
In chains, with hundreds of eyes watching her. She swallowed and inhaled slowly.
“You can trust me to take care of you, Esme, but if you’re not there yet, we can wait for a room. It will be Saturday before I’m free again, however.”
Four days, she might die from sexual starvation, or worse, change her mind again.
“I don’t want to wait anymore, sir. And chains, well, as I witnessed earlier, seem pretty hot.”
Dare to Love Again Page 13