by JC Harroway
His frown is formidable. I’ve never seen him upset. Mildly irritated, perhaps, as he’d been at the pool.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’ve just experienced that kind of man, sadly. It’s made me cautious.’ His outrage and confusion tells me that, unlike the rest of the world, he probably didn’t see the love-rat sex scandal that dominated the headlines for a while.
He steps closer so I’m forced to crane my head back to keep his blistering eye contact. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve been betrayed. But I’d never do anything without your consent. Understand?’
I nod, overwhelmed by his powerful, competent and sincere bearing. He’s the calmest, straightest man I’ve ever met. What you see is exactly what you get with Nick.
My doubts evaporate.
‘Thank you.’ The private part of me that I protect, the part I hide whenever I’m in the public eye, craves freedom from constantly projecting BrookeMadden.com. Feeling liberated by ceding control of our chemistry to this man should be paradoxical. But I believe that Nick is focussed on my pleasure. He’s already proved that with his seriously impressive restraint. Not many men I know could walk away from a sexual scenario unfulfilled as he had earlier.
The lift doors slide open, ending what felt like the longest assent in the history of lift journeys. I practically glide to my room, my head full of the possible scenarios. I’m desperate to feel his mouth on mine—those generous lips, usually pulled into a straight line, the scrape of his dark facial hair, perhaps his strong hands holding my face or speared through my hair...
I’m working myself up into a sexual frenzy. Perhaps that’s Nick’s clever plan––to build anticipation so much that I’ll expire if he doesn’t touch me soon.
At my door, I fumble with my key card, strung out on adrenaline. On the third attempt, I succeed. I pause with the door barely ajar.
Nick’s body heat warms my back. His breath tickles the nape of my neck.
‘Good night, Lady Madden.’ His tone is neutral, as always, but now I can’t hear his voice without thinking of sex. ‘Remember to lock the doors, including the one adjoining your suite and mine.’
I shudder at the hidden meaning of his instructions. The adjoining door between our rooms hasn’t once been unlocked. There’s only one reason he’d remind me to lock it and that’s if he’s suggesting I do the opposite.
‘Call me Brooke,’ I say for the umpteenth time, my stomach tumbling. I look up. He’s cast in shadow from the dim corridor lighting, his expression unreadable on the surface. But challenge and the hint of promise glow in his dark eyes, kicking up my pulse and the flutters in my pelvis. I can’t wait to get inside. I can’t wait to do his bidding and earn my reward.
Him.
‘Goodnight, Nick.’
Without another word, we enter our separate rooms.
The closing click of my door jars me into action. I flick on the lights, slip off my shoes and dump my bag. Blood rushes so fast through my head, I feel dizzy with longing and excitement. I pour myself a glass of Scotch from the crystal decanter on the bar to steady my nerves then pad into the bedroom.
Now that it means so much, the innocuous-looking adjoining door looms from the corner of the room. I barely noticed it before. I press my ear against the wood, my heart trying to break free of my chest. There’s nothing but stillness and the thud of my pulse.
Is he there, silently waiting on the other side?
I turn the lock and rest my hand on the brass door knob while my core tightens with need. I crank open the door a notch and peek through the gap. Another closed door, the one on Nick’s side.
I leave my door ajar and toss back the rest of my Scotch.
Anticipation laces my blood with wild energising endorphins. I’m high waiting for him to accept my invitation and just walk through that open door. High at the thought of him watching me. High on the promise of his kiss.
I shed my clothes, leaving a trial on the floor for him to follow as I head for the bathroom. I turn on the shower and with a gasp step under the hot spray. My skin is so sensitive, my nipples already hard peaks under the force of the water. It’s my third shower of the evening, but I feel as if I’ll turn to ash if I don’t somehow quench this fire Nick has lit inside me.
I wash myself all over, the glide of my own hands enough of an aphrodisiac. Nick’s little game of show-and-tell has me so riled up, I’m teetering on the edge of bliss.
I know from the outline of his burly body that he’s one hundred per cent ripped, hard male. His cock at my back earlier felt long and thick. And this little role-play thing we have going on... Just the memory of his gruff voice transformed by desire is enough to clamp the walls of my sex in delicious waves.
I open eyes I hadn’t realised I’d closed and peer through the fogged-up glass in search of him as I turn off the water. But I’m in no way disheartened to discover that I’m alone. Perhaps he watched me shower. Perhaps he’s there now, witnessing the glide of cotton as I towel-dry every part of my turned-on body.
Time to prolong the show. If he likes to watch, what better way to nudge at his restraint than with some good old-fashioned temptation?
I stride into the bedroom naked. The adjoining door is just the way I left it—open an inch or two, no more, no less. My stomach drops a fraction, nerves and uncertainty getting the better of me. There’s no noise beyond the whoosh of my own pulse. No sound of his breathing or tell-tale scrape of his zip.
But what if he is there? What if he’s watching as he promised?
I turn back the sheets and dim the lights. I retrieve my trusty, indispensable dildo from my bag and settle against the cool, white bed linens, my back to a mountain of feather pillows and my legs spread.
He likes to watch...he wanted a show... Well, he’ll get one.
I slide my hand down and stroke myself. I gasp at the first delicious touch, quickly spreading my thighs and locating my clit.
I hear a creak of old floorboards, or I might have imagined it, because he doesn’t appear, nor do I see any movement in the crack of the door.
But the thought of him watching spurs me on. I slide the dildo inside, finding a rhythm that soon has me panting and writhing against my own hand, my stare boldly fixed on the doorway. A challenge and a seduction.
I want him to appear. To join me, put his mouth on my taut nipples and my hungry clit. But also I don’t. I want him frozen, transfixed, helpless. I want him frustrated enough to touch himself while he watches.
This is the hottest sexual experience of my life and he’s not even in the room. For all I know he could be asleep or engrossed in some dubbed Italian movie. Or he might be there right now, watching me get myself off for the second time tonight.
I close my eyes and lose myself in this fantasy, this role, my body aflame. It doesn’t matter where he is; I made something happen. He knows that I want him and that I’ll take him on his terms.
He has all the power and it’s a heady feeling.
My orgasm builds. I hold my trembling legs open as I plunge the toy inside myself, imagining I’m filled with Nick’s cock, his body braced above me, driving into me and driving me insane. As the climax crests, sucking the air from my lungs, I open my eyes and stare at the door, cries of ecstasy ripping from my throat.
When I’m spent, I toss the toy aside and collapse back onto the bed while air barrels into my chest. Wow... That was one powerful orgasm.
But...
Hollowness quickly replaces the elation. Quite literally, anti-climax grips me. I want to see him. To touch him, taste him and test the control of the man occupying all my thoughts and fuelling my shocking fantasies.
Was it all for nothing?
I close my burning eyes, swamped by the familiar loneliness I’ve battled since Dave taught me how foolish it was to trust a lover.
I’d hoped for something brief, intens
e and safe with Nick. I can be myself with him, not the puppet created for public acceptance. I see fire and shadow and dangerous passion caged in him and I want to burn in the darkness until I feel reborn. But has he leashed all those things inside the voyeur in him for reasons I don’t yet understand?
Then I hear a sound and freeze. Keep my closed eyelids still for fear I’ll spook him or discover the noise was just a figment of my wishful thinking.
I lie paralysed for endless breathless seconds. My limbs twitch with the pressure of inertia. My mind screams in the darkness behind my eyes at not knowing if he’s really out there, at arm’s reach.
Irrational fear spikes. It could be anyone there beyond my closed eyelids. But I catch his scent—manly musk, pure Nick. I feel warm breath on my parted lips, my own chest bursting for release.
Euphoria washes over me anew.
Then his kiss lands. Feather-soft at first. It’s barely a swipe of his mouth against mine. I curl my desperate fingers into the sheets, instinctively knowing the minute I open my eyes, the minute I acknowledge his presence beyond responding to his kiss, he’ll withdraw behind his control and distance himself.
This is his fantasy. He’s in charge. And, now I’m finally getting what I want, I’ll do anything to comply. Including nothing.
His lips glide over mine, demanding, building in pressure. I catch the quietest of grunts from his throat. I smile. That small noise brings a surge of triumph. I’m now certain that he was there. He did watch, and that grunt tells me he was as affected by my display as I was performing for him.
So he likes to hold back, delaying gratification. But our chemistry, our attraction, can’t be denied for ever, as this incredible kiss proves. I melt into the mattress as his tongue pushes into my mouth, seeking entrance. His hand curls around the back of my neck, raising my head from the pillow. I open up for him, meeting his tongue with mine thrust for thrust. I moan under his kiss, which is every bit as dominant and decadent as I imagined. And somehow more so for the anticipation he’s just put my weakened body through.
Then it stops. Cool air bathes my lips. His hand leaves my neck.
My eyes flutter open in protest.
Nick is fully clothed, braced above me on locked arms. I catch a brief look of tortured confusion in his dark, smouldering eyes. He can’t control the windows to his innermost feelings the way he controls the rest of his body.
A tiny frown forms between his thick brows, before his neutral mask slips back into place. ‘Good night, Brooke.’ His voice struggles for his beloved control but cracks as, at last, he speaks just my name.
The small triumph pounds my heart. But before I can reply he spins on his heel and withdraws back to his room. The quiet but final click of the adjoining door jabs at my euphoria like a pin popping a balloon.
CHAPTER SIX
Nick
EVERY MUSCLE IN my body fights the urge to interrupt Brooke’s high-fashion photo shoot in the Piazza del Duomo, Milan’s grandest square. This early on a clear November morning it’s way too cold for the wispy strapless gown she’s wearing. No wonder she’s shivering. If only I could bundle her away...
Of course, I do no such thing. She’s a professional. Uncomplaining. And, from the way she looks at me, confused and haunted, her huge eyes made even bigger by make-up artistry. I’m probably the last person that she wants to be around. And every second that Milan’s imposing gothic cathedral and biggest tourist attraction is cordoned off for this shoot costs Brooke’s client money.
I grit my teeth. No doubt they can fix her blue lips with make-up and clever editing. But every shiver that judders through her small frame rips me open. And, after last night, I’m as raw and exposed as I care to be.
Because she was... I’m too scared to use the term perfect. She handed me the reins of the chemistry that I’d stupidly tried to deny, becoming the epitome of strong femininity.
Irresistible.
When the shoot director calls a break, someone rushes over to Brooke with a padded jacket. I follow her inside the makeshift tent that was erected in the square to keep the worst of the elements from the crew and the digital editing equipment. I find Brooke huddled in a corner near the heater.
I hand her a coffee.
‘Thanks,’ she says, her eyes full of grateful adoration as she removes the lid from the cup to blow onto the steaming surface.
‘Do you want my hat?’ I ask, pulling it from my pocket. I don’t give a shit about the hair and make-up they spent the two hours before dawn creating.
‘No thanks.’ She looks away, her expression pinched, as if she has plenty to say but is biding her time.
I get it. She probably expected more than a single kiss last night. But I warned her this would be on my terms. I never promised to be her knight in shining armour, because I don’t make promises. I can usually avoid others’ expectations by keeping my distance.
I’m selfish. Twisted. And rigid. I learned the hard way that anything else makes me weak and I’ll never be that again.
Kissing Brooke has reminded me what’s at stake. I clench my hand inside my pocket as I’m hurled against the wall of memories. I knew I wasn’t good enough for Julia the day we met at a house party. She was smart and beautiful and strong, just like Brooke. She had her life all figured out, even at eighteen. But, despite the divide, we both fell hard and fast. Until my weakness ruined us. I let her down. Left her alone when she needed me most through a single act of recklessness and loss of control. I confused what it is to be a man and became a cliché.
But I also lost more than I knew it was possible to lose. I not only disappointed those who loved me, needed me, but also ripped my own life apart with no hope of repairing the damage that I’d inflicted.
The sickening shame I’ve spent my entire adult life battling rises up, threatening to choke me. This is why I fought my attraction to Brooke. Why it still needs to be managed. Because she makes me feel that I could be back in that desperate place in a heartbeat. She makes me crave something that’s dangerous.
Last night she gave me everything. And it would have been so easy to take it all. To let go of my restrictions and gorge myself on the real Brooke. But, even if I could survive that, I have nothing to give her in return. I’m emotionally barren, as she now knows.
I glance down at Brooke’s delicate frame where she’s engrossed in her knitting project. She carries the knitting bag everywhere. At least the shivering has subsided somewhat, chasing off some of my protective urges. I should never have kissed her, because her trust and her confidences remind me of another woman who wrongly assumed that I’d never let her down.
And Brooke’s already been betrayed big-time by some arsehole. I knew of her before she became a client, but I never really kept track of her personal life. Even after I started protecting her, I focussed my research on known stalkers or death threats rather than gossip. But last night I had to stop myself from searching the Internet for tell-all stories or perhaps a sex-tape scandal.
What kind of lowlifes has she dated—spineless, opportunistic dickheads...? Of course, I’m no better.
I swallow hard, new respect for her blooming in me like fucking sunshine. Even cautious and uncertain she’d made herself vulnerable to me. For me. So I can keep hold of my precious control.
Because, without it, I remember. Without it I feel eighteen again—devastated and with only myself to hold to account. Control and discipline and withdrawal is how I rebuilt my life after my big mistake, so now I’m not even sure that I exist in isolation from those bonds.
And now I’ve been sent the ultimate test—Brooke Madden.
Until I stood behind that unlocked adjoining door last night, I believed I could walk away from her brand of temptation. But some primal part of me, a part I thought I’d mastered years ago, drove me to creep into her room and watch her shower. I already knew her body is perfection. I’ve sp
ent months working for her, watching. And I filled in the blanks with my excellent imagination.
But seeing her naked—pert breasts, a gorgeous rounded arse and a completely bare pussy—I had to loosen my fly at the sight of her flushed, trusting and turned on by the idea of performing for my eyes only. She didn’t know I was there. Anyone who’s spent time in prison, or the army for that matter, learns stealth and silence––and I’ve spent time in both.
But performing for me excited her.
I couldn’t stop watching the sensual glide of her hands against her skin.
Her show—bold and erotic—just about brought me to my knees. It took all my spare energy and focus to stay silent while she pleasured herself with that dildo. When she came, her eyes unknowingly on mine, I followed her, silently spilling over the front of my jeans like a fucking teenager.
That’s what she reduced me to. Me. A man who can fuck for hours and stave off a climax. A man who practises self-denial as the ultimate form of discipline, the way I train my body for maximum fitness and peak performance. A man determined to control this at all costs.
But I couldn’t control the kiss. Because she tasted like summer, cookies and sex all rolled into one delicious experience. Despite coming hard only moments earlier, I struggled to pull my lips away from hers. Like a starving man, I wanted to slide my mouth over every part of her soft, pliant body. To turn her moans into screams. To lose it so badly that I filled her tight pussy with my bare cock and made her come over and over and over until this madness stopped.
All that shocking, ferocious need unleashed from a single kiss...
I look down at the delicate slope of her exposed neck. My fingers itch to touch her skin. But that’s exactly the reason I won’t. I can’t allow myself to feel, which is where indulging those powerful urges with abandon will lead.
Just as I stopped the kiss, a feat akin to ripping out my own guts with my bare hands, I’ll deny myself now. That’s what I’ve done since Julia––kept control over my body. Control over what I am. A man so easily led to recklessness by emotions that it’s safer to fight their very existence.