by Jane Henry
"Come for me," he ordered, and she did, her hips writhing beneath the strength of his hands as he held her, moans escaping her lips as she came so hard he had to hold her down. Fuck if it wasn't the sexiest thing he'd ever seen, Hillary's powerful, uninhibited release. Finally, she sank to the bed and he held her against him.
"Good girl," he crooned. "Good girls deserve rewards," he said with a chuckle.
"I will do whatever you say without question for the rest of my goddamn life," she moaned, one hand over her head, her eyes shut tight.
"The hell you will," he said with a chuckle. "But maybe that'll keep the brat at bay for a day or so."
She opened one eye.
"So. Getting spanked makes me come harder. Duly noted. And if you're really worried about the brat, we can try for round two, just to ensure—"
He flipped her over and spanked her, chuckling as she moaned.
Impossible.
* * *
They sat at her dining room table, drinking beer leftover from the party and chips straight out of the bag, dipped in a jar of French onion dip.
"We can't do that again," he said, leaning back in the chair with a sigh.
"No sex," she said, nodding in agreement. "But that wasn't really sex, it was—"
"Hillary."
She blinked and bit her lip, giving him a fetching grin. "Yeah?"
"We can't do that again."
She seemed to be warring with herself, but in the end, she sighed. "Fine."
A beep came from the side of the table, and she reached for her phone, tapping on it and frowning. "This is the weirdest thing ever," she said. "Someone's got the wrong number. They keep sending me these messages, and I don't even know who it is."
He was immediately on alert as he lifted his hand and beckoned for her to hand it to him. She shrugged.
"It's not a big deal, Matt, it's just weird."
Scrolling through her messages, he saw this was the second message she'd gotten from the anonymous number in two days. The first was a "hi," which she hadn't replied to. After that a second "Hello."
"People with wrong numbers don't keep pestering," he muttered. "What the hell?"
"It's nothing, Matt," she said, as he replied to the text message.
Wrong number. Please stop messaging.
He dialed the phone number, but it just went to an anonymous voice mail message.
"Please leave your message after the beep."
Frowning, Matteo put the phone down and tapped his fingers on the table.
"How weird," Hillary said as she stood, looking curiously over his shoulder. "There's a gift on the mantle. It must've been one that Dom and Heidi left." She reached for it, but as she did, she froze. She turned to face Matteo, her pretty face paling.
"It has my name on it," she said.
"Hand it to me, Hill," he ordered. She obeyed quickly, passing him the small box covered in shiny red paper.
He flipped it around, looking for a card, but there was none other than a tag that said Hillary in bold black lettering. Matteo slid a finger under the fold of paper and tore. Hillary jumped, and he looked up at her in surprise. She was on edge, poor girl.
"Come here, baby," he said. "Sit."
She obeyed, as he continued to open the box. He lifted the lid and when he did, she gasped. Inside, nestled against a bed of white tissue paper, was a pair of silver handcuffs and a black blindfold.
"Is this some kind of sick joke? What the fucking hell?" Matteo muttered, shoving it back in the box as his own phone buzzed. It was a message from Blake.
Shit going down tonight. Keep your girl safe. We'll talk later.
Matteo put his phone down on the counter and scowled.
"Pack your bag. You're coming to my place."
Chapter Seven
Hillary twisted her neck back and forth, appraising her appearance in Matteo's bathroom mirror. She sighed. Her skin was pale from too many days stuck indoors, she had circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, her sundress was wrinkled, and her hair, without the aid of her trusty hair products and blow dryer, was a mass of unruly platinum-blonde waves with an inch of auburn roots showing at the top. But it was as good as she was going to get.
Life lesson: When the hot dominant in your life tells you to pack a bag and head to his place, don't start mentally squealing and picking out your sexiest lingerie. Instead, ask the important follow-up questions, like, "How long will I be on lock-down, Matteo?" And, "When should I tell Tony I'll be back to work?" And, "You do have a hairdryer, right?"
Why had she assumed that a man who had barely two inches of hair on his head would have a hairdryer?
Why had she assumed that a man so obsessed with her safety that he insisted she routinely lock the door behind her when she went out in the hall to check her mail would be remotely reasonable after she'd received all of those text messages and that… gift?
The blindfold and cuffs had been horrifying. If not for Matteo's constant reminders to focus on her daily rules and to trust him, she would have made herself sick imagining how the gift had gotten to be on her mantle. Had Marauder or one of his friends been inside her apartment, touching her things, looking at her family pictures? She wasn't sure if she felt better or worse once Matteo had tracked down the truth—that a guy claiming to be an old friend of hers had handed it to her dad to bring in.
Marauder had handed it to her dad. Had talked to her dad. He'd been near her family.
Hillary shuddered.
Still, that had been over a week ago, and he hadn't contacted her since. Wasn't it likely that he'd given up? Wasn't it, maybe just maybe, time for Matteo to lighten up a little bit? Having Matt or Slay or one of their friends escort her every time she went to Stop and Shop had gotten old. She'd missed so much work that her bank account was crying. It had been nearly impossible to keep her absence a secret from her sister who practically lived next-freakin'-door, and, oh yeah, her sexy, sweet dominant had been a bossy grump with a perma-frown for days.
Definitely no need for the sexy lingerie.
Fortunately, she'd remembered to pack her laptop, otherwise things would have been really desperate. Hillary might not have had any need for lingerie, but she'd managed to channel her sexual frustrations into her writing, and her characters had been finding a thousand new and inventive ways to get it on. In fact, her first novel was closing in on a happily-ever-after.
How pathetic was it when you envied fictional characters?
"Tink!" Matteo's impatient voice was accompanied by a brisk knock on the door. "Let's go."
Hillary rolled her eyes and made a face in the mirror. Why did that imperious tone make her belly flip over in such a good way?
Maybe because he wound you up last Sunday and, no matter how many sex scenes you write, you haven't cooled down?
Last weekend, he'd told her they could never cross the line again, and she'd pretended to agree… She'd been trying to respect his need to keep things platonic, but she didn't understand it. He knew how she felt about him… maybe he wanted to make sure she understood he didn't return those deeper feelings? Or maybe he worried that she was too damaged by what Marauder had done?
He kept telling her that she needed to come to him with her questions and her concerns, but how the heck was she supposed to say, "Why won't you sleep with me?" What if he backed away even further? Still, every time she thought he was relenting, like after that mind-blowing spanking and orgasm last weekend, he pushed her away again. She'd had three sessions over his knee this week, and he'd been extremely focused and attentive each time, but not once had he so much as kissed her afterward.
She threw open the door. Matteo was standing in the doorway, wearing his everyday uniform of jeans, boots, and a tight black t-shirt. Her mouth watered.
"You really don't have to drive me, Matt," she reminded him. "It's just lunch with Heidi at Cara. It's a two-minute drive away, and then I'll be under Tony's watchful eye, plus Tess and Nicole will be right there, and I know all
of the people in the kitchen. It's like having built-in bodyguards."
Predictably, Matteo scowled.
"We've already had this discussion. What have I told you about arguing with me?"
Hillary stifled a sigh. They'd had this discussion a lot in the past two days, and she really ought to know better by now. She cast her eyes down.
"That it's disrespectful. I'm sorry, sir," she said meekly.
"Mm-hmm. Finish getting dressed," he told her.
"I'm finished!" she replied. "Just need to grab my purse." She tried to scoot past him into the hallway, but he wouldn't move.
"That is what you're wearing?" he growled, his eyes roving over her.
Hillary looked down at herself. She was wearing a navy blue sundress with spaghetti straps that crossed in the back, and a frilly, A-line skirt that hit her at mid-thigh. Paired with her flat silver sandals, it was perfectly appropriate for the unseasonably hot September day… Wasn't it?
"Um… yes?" she ventured.
"Um… no," he said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "That looks like the… what do you call it? The thing you wear under the dress," he told her. "It's too fucking sexy. Put something else on."
She frowned. "Matt, I don't have anything else. This is the only dress I brought with me."
"Are you arguing again?" he demanded.
"No! I'm just trying to explain," she told him honestly. "I've worn this before, lots of times, and I…"
She broke off when he took a step forward, crowding her against the wall.
"But I wasn't your dominant before, Hillary," he reminded her, his left hand coming up to cup her cheek and hold her in place.
The way he said her name—her full name—in that deep, serious voice made her nipples tighten. She pressed her head and shoulders back against the wall.
"Yes, sir," she breathed.
"Do you see how revealing this is? Hmm?" His right hand traced a line from her throat, across her collarbone, and down. Hillary swallowed.
"Do you see how fucking sexy you are?" he demanded.
God, what had gotten into him? Please don't stop, she begged with her mind.
His eyes were focused on his index finger as it dipped just below the edge of her dress and traced a path across the swell of her breast.
"Do you see how just the slightest touch," he whispered, his words fanning heat across her sensitive skin, "could make this happen?" He hooked his finger around one spaghetti strap and slid it down her shoulder. "Do you want this to happen, Hillary?"
Oh. Yes.
Hillary's breath was choppy and her heart was racing. Her limbs were frozen, not wanting to move an inch lest she should break whatever spell had come over him, but his focus never wavered. With the same slow deliberation, his finger traced back across her chest and gave her other strap the same treatment.
Her dress fell two inches, almost baring her nipples. He swallowed, his gaze transfixed on her breasts.
Hillary purposely took a deep breath as he tugged… and the dress fell to her waist.
"God," he breathed, echoing her thoughts.
With the same finger, he lightly traced a circle around one hardened nipple and watched it tighten further.
Hillary moaned.
"You're so perfect," he told her.
And then he lowered his head.
With his tongue, he traced the same path his finger had taken, around and around, before finally drawing her nipple into his mouth and biting down gently.
"Ah!" she cried. "Please, Matteo!"
"Please?" he repeated, sliding his tongue to her other breast. "Please what, baby? Do you want this?"
He captured her nipple with his lips and sucked deeply. Hillary felt an answering pulse low in her belly.
"Yesss," she gasped.
"What do you need, baby, hmm?" His left hand moved down from her face to play with her other breast, and Hillary was too adrift in sensation to speak.
"Tell me!" he demanded softly.
Her hips lifted involuntarily. He moved his leg between hers, rubbing against her sensually. "Is this it?"
Hillary whimpered. "Please!" she said again. It seemed to be all she was capable of saying.
"Okay, baby," he soothed her. "I've got you."
He stepped back for a moment, and Hillary almost cried at the loss of friction, but he was back a moment later, on his knees. He lifted her dress and quickly stripped her panties, his big hands holding her steady while his thumbs stroked her inner thighs. She closed her eyes with a low moan.
"Hillary," he growled. Her eyes snapped open.
"Watch me," he commanded.
His compelling green eyes locked on hers, he lifted her left knee to curl around his shoulder, and his mouth dipped between her legs.
Hillary's knee buckled at the rush of sensation, and she cried out. But Matteo's big hands found her hips and held her still while his tongue did wicked, wonderful things, finding and stroking the most sensitive places, until she was mindlessly keening his name.
Then he slipped his fingers inside her, and the pleasure built until it was more than she could bear.
"God, I can't—" she gasped.
"Yes, you can. Take it, baby. You take everything I give you, my good girl," he crooned.
He lifted one hand to torment her aching nipples, and lowered his mouth once more.
Hillary came crying his name, and he eased her through the aftershocks until her body slumped bonelessly against the wall.
He set her leg gently back on the floor, then slowly rose to his feet, pressing tiny, hot, tender kisses against her leg, her stomach, and the swell of each breast. He smoothed the skirt of her dress down her thighs and grasped the straps, which were still hooked around her elbows, to pull the top of the dress back into place.
Hillary stared at him, beyond speech.
His chest heaved and his eyes were wild, but his hands were gentle as they sifted through the hair on both sides of her head, holding her in place.
"Tinker Bell?" he murmured, closing his eyes tightly and resting his forehead on hers.
She swallowed. "Yes?" Oh, gosh. This was it. The moment everything would change.
Her voice was barely a whisper but she was ready to promise him anything, agree to anything he asked.
"Go change your damn dress, baby," he whispered. Then he pressed a firm kiss to her forehead and straightened, taking a deliberate step away from her.
"Better hurry if you don't want to be late," he told her.
Then he strode down the hall toward his living room, leaving Hillary gaping after him.
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
* * *
"Another white sangria, please," Hillary told their waitress. "In the largest cup you can find."
Nicole, who just finished covering the lunch rush, chuckled sympathetically as she wrote the order on her pad. "You've got it, babe. One vat of sangria, coming up."
Across the table, Heidi's eyes widened.
Hillary pushed down the niggle of guilt that popped up in her mind. No one had told her not to drink today, and damn but she needed it.
"Um… another cranberry and soda with lime," Heidi told Nicole.
As Nicole nodded and moved away, Heidi leaned forward and tucked a strand of long, brown hair behind her ear. "Two sangrias at lunch?" she questioned, a thread of censure in her voice.
Hillary brushed an imaginary speck of lint off the fitted blue t-shirt she'd thrown on, along with a plain black pencil skirt, before rushing out to meet Matteo for an extremely tense and silent ride to the restaurant.
Oh, if Heidi only knew. After the messed up, emotional roller coaster of a morning she'd had, it was a wonder Hillary hadn't been doing shots by 11:00 AM.
She squirmed in her seat as the memory of Matteo's hands on her hips, his green eyes looking up at her, made her belly spasm.
But she couldn't tell Heidi any of that, of course. She couldn't tell Heidi anything about her relationship with Matteo. Which
was fine, honestly, because what would she have said? "Well, you see, Heidi, Matteo and I are in a D/s relationship, like you and Dom. But don't worry! It's perfectly safe, because our relationship is completely platonic. Well, except for the kissing. And the mind-blowing orgasms. Oh, and the fact that I'm hopelessly in love with him."
Yeah, somehow she felt that wouldn't go over well.
"Well, the sangria here is great," she said instead, picking at her Cobb salad and hoping Heidi would drop it.
Of course, that was too much to hope for.
"Something's going on with you," Heidi accused. Her eyes narrowed and she set her fork down on her own salad plate with a clink.
Hillary sighed. "Not really," she said. "Just the usual—work, writing, watching American Ninja Warrior."
Heidi nodded slowly and, Hillary thought, suspiciously. "So… nothing you want to talk to me about? Nothing you'd like to discuss with your big sister?"
"Uh… no? Nope. Not that I can think of." Hillary forced a smile and changed the subject. "So, what did you decide about the napkins for the wedding? Orange with the white border? Or white with orange?"
Heaven knew, the best way to distract her sister was to bring up the wedding, especially now that it was only days away.
Heidi's eyes widened, as if on cue. "White with orange? That was never an option! I picked orange with white. The caterers said it was bold and just perfect for a fall wedding, and I agreed. Why? Do you think white with orange would've looked better?" she demanded.
Hillary felt a momentary pang of remorse. Heidi was uncharacteristically stressed about even the most minor details, and the point of this lunch was to get her mind off the last-minute wedding stress, not to make her dwell more.
"No way," Hillary said decisively. "Orange with white was the way to go. Very striking for an autumn wedding."
"Do you think Dom will like it?" Heidi asked. "I mean, I know he doesn't really have a preference about the napkins, for goodness sake, it's just… I want everything to be perfect, you know? Special. It's, like, a way to show him how much I love him."
Hillary snorted. She couldn't help herself.
"Heids," she said, reaching across the table to grasp her sister's hand. "It doesn't matter if you have orange napkins or purple plaid napkins or no napkins at all. If the guests arrived dressed in togas, the caterers served nothing but French fries, and they played the theme from Game of Thrones as you walked down the aisle, I can almost guarantee Dom wouldn't notice. And, frankly, I'm pretty sure Matteo would think that was the most kick-ass wedding he'd ever been to," she said, making Heidi chuckle. "The point is, as long as you and the priest are there, Dom will be thrilled. That's all he wants."