He waved a hand in front of her face, but she gave no response. Looked like the answer was no.
“Now what?” she asked, her voice sounding suddenly small.
He came closer and took her hand. He felt her start, but what had she expected? He put one arm around her waist, his hand resting on her hip. The other hand stayed in hers. He was so tall that she barely came to his shoulder, her body fitting snugly against him.
He moved with her, one foot and then the other, guiding her steps, telling her where to go. He wondered how she felt in the darkness. If she could feel the woods, the creaks and sighs of it. Dappled sunlight on leaves; the press of earth underfoot. He was painfully aware of her hip bone jutting into him, the soft, tender curve of her side. She must have known her breast was brushing against him as they moved, but she didn’t pull away. And he wasn’t about to suggest it.
She must have been able to sense when they came to the lake. The sunlight was warm on their faces, and the path flattened. The ground became softer as he walked her off the trail and over the grass.
“If you’re surprising me with the view, I’ve already been here,” she said.
He smiled, even though she couldn’t see it. “This has nothing to do with the view.”
The fun part was turning her in a circle. He didn’t want her knowing which way she was facing anymore, where she was in relation to the lake, the woods, the mountains behind. When he told her to sit, her hands reached out as her knees dropped to the ground and she felt around.
“What is this?” she said as she touched the blanket he’d put down.
“Get comfortable,” he said.
“Like that’s possible.” But she curled her legs up so she was sitting cross-legged, no doubt wondering what the hell was coming next.
He sat across from her. Close enough that he was sure she could feel him. Not so close that they touched.
“Are we having a séance? Communing with the goddess? Ooh, are you going to flog me?” she teased.
At least she couldn’t see him redden. She was the one in the blindfold. So there was no reason to let her disarm him. “Fun as that sounds, no. I told you I had a different kind of torture in mind.”
“I distinctly remember you promising no torture.”
“You should know better than to trust me by now.”
Mack’s hands flew up to the blindfold. He had to move fast to yank them back before she could slide it off.
“What did I tell you about cheating?”
“I don’t think you mentioned it.”
“The rules are, you play by my rules.”
“I didn’t agree to that game.”
“Too late.”
He kept hold of her wrists and wrangled them behind her back.
“Wait a second,” she protested. “Aren’t I supposed to consent to this?”
“Hold still.” He crossed her wrists, pinning them in place with one hand while he wrapped another strip of fabric around them.
“Someone came prepared,” she said.
“Somehow I had the crazy idea you might be difficult. There.” He checked the knot. “How’s that?”
“Just ducky. I’m having a blast. Please don’t tell me my mouth is next.”
“Tempting,” he said, coming around so he was facing her again. “But I need your mouth for this.”
“Connor.” It came out sharp, the joking gone.
But he assured her he was kidding. He already had her where he wanted.
On her knees. At his command. His cock so hard it was killing him.
Focus. He pulled his hand back so he wouldn’t touch her. This was about the restaurant. About proving himself.
It wasn’t about anything else.
Chapter Nine
All Mack’s senses strained, hoping for something—anything—to tell her what was going on. Panic bubbled within her, the certainty she’d made a terrible mistake. It was so dark under the blindfold, there was no way to cheat and say she couldn’t see anything while secretly saved by a sliver of light.
Then she heard a click, the sound of a container opening. She smelled lemon. Garlic. And something else—vinegar? Herbs?
Suddenly, it all made sense. He’d made a picnic. Before she got here, he’d set up a fucking picnic.
And then hog-tied her to make sure she’d sit and stay for it.
What a prince.
“Okay,” she said. “I get it. Is this supposed to be romantic? Can you untie me now?” She tried to rein in her annoyance since she didn’t exactly have the upper hand, but it was hard. If he’d wanted a date, he could have asked for one. She would have spared him the trouble.
Which, on second thought, was undoubtedly why he hadn’t brought it up.
“No and no,” he said in response to her questions. “I know you don’t do romance, Mack. This is strictly business.”
Mack stopped struggling against her bonds. Was he kidding? Of course she did romance! Not with him, obviously, but how could he—how could anyone—think a woman wouldn’t want to be swept off her feet?
“I like flowers,” she said. She knew it was ridiculous to confess this while she was blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back on the edge of a lake, soaked in sunlight and the whisper of the wind. But in a way, that was why she said it. Sure, he hadn’t called or in any way acknowledged her existence until he needed something. But she was a person, not his plaything.
“You do?”
He needn’t have sounded so surprised. What, did he think she was soulless?
“Sunflowers especially,” she said. “I love how bright they are. Just so you know.”
She wasn’t lying. Billy’s partner, Todd, took to bringing him flowers on the days he couldn’t get out of bed, to brighten the room. Even when the days he couldn’t get out grew to outnumber the days he could, the flowers always made Billy smile. He’d talk wistfully about the world outside, how grateful he was that things kept right on growing. Toward the end he’d say, “You’re going to keep on growing too, Sprout,” using his nickname for her. On the day he died she’d gathered up the flowers in his room, pressed her nose to their soft petals, and cried. It wasn’t only for Billy, although that was part of it. It was every one of the tears she hadn’t shed for every one of the homes she’d been taken from or left.
“I would have thought you’d call things like that, I don’t know, unnecessary distractions,” Connor said. “Why water flowers when you could be working. That sort of thing.” She didn’t miss the snark in his voice.
“How little you know me,” she said. “But while this talk of my cold heart is entertaining, you’re the one who said we were here for work.” She tried to shrug out of her ties as she said, “I don’t quite see how this fits in.”
“Open your mouth,” Connor said.
“Aren’t we bossy.”
“Do it.” His voice was level, calm. A man of infinite patience. Of course he could sit here forever. He had the view of the mountains, the lake, and Mack completely at his mercy. She bet he liked the look of that best of all.
“What are you feeding me?” she asked warily.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t. Just taste it. Don’t think about what it is, or how it’ll sound on a menu, or what kind of restaurant it belongs in. Don’t worry about marketing, business, all that bullshit. Don’t ask what it looks like, where it came from, what it goes with, what’s coming next. Close your eyes, open your mouth, and let yourself taste.”
Fine. He brought the fork to her mouth. Under the blindfold she closed her eyes, even though it wasn’t necessary. It helped let the flavor unfold on her tongue.
The first note was citrus, bright and clean. Then olive oil, fruity and warm. Brussels sprouts, she guessed, flash-fried, barely wilted, still plenty of texture. Shaved small, and there were slivers of something else—almonds? No, hazelnuts. Without the dish in front of her she had to inventory
each item in her mind, and she was sure she was missing something. But Connor was right, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was good.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s next?”
Because the food wasn’t the problem. It was the bigger picture—the concept, the menu, the kind of place where the recipes belonged.
Connor knelt close to her. All she could do was taste what he gave her. Something slightly sweet and soft. She couldn’t place it, and even though he wouldn’t tell her what anything was, she bugged him until he finally relented and told her beets.
“You’re lying,” she said. “Beets don’t taste like that. Beets taste like dirt, and that tasted like little pillows of heaven.”
“I’m thinking it could go on crostini,” he said, “but that seemed too messy to feed you.”
The reminder that he’d planned this—her helplessness, her open mouth, her hands tied, and her eyes closed—made her heart hammer against her ribs. Warmth radiated from her stomach, and her breath quickened. What was happening to her?
They weren’t supposed to be doing this. But his voice was low, his hands gentle, the same way he’d been when he’d guided her down the path. How could someone so dangerous feel so safe sometimes? When he gave her a spoonful of a chilled soup, he used his thumb to wipe a drop from her lip. She flicked out her tongue, licked the drop from his skin. Heard his sharp inhale—or maybe that was her own. She shivered even though the sun was warm.
The longer they stayed out there, the more her world was reduced to smell and taste and sound, the pant of his breathing, the breeze off the lake, her own heart thrumming in her chest.
“What’s next?” she asked softly, after a bite of ravioli rich with cream but still light. She heard another container opening. This bite had a crust, something buttery with a savory inside.
“Don’t think about it,” Connor said, as though he could see her mind turning. “Try to enjoy.”
“I’m not very good at not thinking.”
“I know. But try.”
He fed her another bite. This time it was from his fingers and not the fork. He didn’t touch her, but he didn’t have to. Mack shifted, the cloth around her hands making it hard to find the right position. One where the seam of her jeans wasn’t pressing into her, leaving her uncomfortably aware.
“You okay?” he asked, and Mack hoped the blindfold covered her blush.
“Yes,” she said. “Keep going.”
“Can you picture this with the cardamom bitters? Maybe an orange rind?” he asked about one bite. For another dish it was Thai basil and anise.
“You didn’t hate it,” Mack said.
“It’s a good idea.”
Mack leaned forward as best she could while she still had the indignity of her hands tied behind her back. “What was that? I’m sorry, this blindfold—I can’t quite hear you.”
Connor groaned. “I said, it was a good idea.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Nobody likes a gloater.”
“That’s not true. I’m quite happy gloating.”
“Do you want to try dessert or not?”
“Good girl is shutting up,” Mack said brightly.
“Oh, so you’re a good girl now?”
Or a very bad one, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue.
She smelled chocolate. Milky, rich. Something else—caramel, maybe, but that didn’t seem his style. Burnt sugar?
“Open your mouth,” Connor instructed.
Of course she obeyed.
He brought the spoon to her lips. The bite was soft, smooth. A subtle crust for texture, finely chopped nuts, a hint of vanilla. Cream.
It was delicious. Mack let out an audible moan.
“Good?” he asked.
“More.”
She felt completely bare, helpless to him, asking for it. He fed her slowly, another spoon, making her arch forward, coaxing her with a throaty “That’s it” as she took it in her mouth.
She’d say it happened instantly, arousal like a switch, a flame catching, a lighter flicking on. But she knew it had been building within her ever since Connor sat her down. She could feel it as she squirmed in her bonds, the press of her jeans making her ache.
This was never supposed to happen again. Hell, it was never supposed to happen the first time. But the next taste of chocolate she licked off his finger. Then again off his thumb. She wondered if he could hear her heartbeat or if it was just the blindfold that made everything so loud to her. She wondered if she was crazy, what she was possibly thinking. If he was laughing at her, at how he’d gotten her out here and reduced her to this, whimpering for whatever he offered. Practically begging.
“Connor—” she started. But she didn’t know how to finish.
“What else do you want?” he asked.
She thought about where to take this. “What else do you have?”
“I asked you first.”
“Um. I asked you second?”
“We’re not kids, Mack. Tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“I—” She hesitated, unable to say it. Because if she said it, then it would be something she’d asked for, sought out, made happen on her own. Not something that happened to her, another twist in life she’d been unable to control.
“What else do you want to taste?” Connor asked again, and Mack sucked in a breath. She sensed him close, that smell of flour and warmth, but she couldn’t figure out where he was or what he was doing until she felt the pressure of his hand up her thigh, tight on her hip, and then the sharp, sweet press of him right where that seam was, heat flooding her so she knew he could feel it as she rocked her hips to meet him.
“I know what I like the taste of,” he murmured.
His lips were close to hers; he grazed them, but barely. Mack leaned forward to try to kiss him, but he pulled away. His lips, but not his hand. His hand worked harder through her jeans, and Mack couldn’t believe it was making her this wet to be touched fully clothed. She wanted to wrench out of her constraints, claw at him, and make him stop teasing her like this, but when she jerked her arms the knots wouldn’t slip free. He let out a low, sultry laugh and touched a finger to her chin to tilt her head up.
“I asked what you wanted to taste.”
“Fuck you,” Mack said, breathless and panting. “You promised you weren’t going to torture me.”
His hand pulled away abruptly, leaving a cool feeling where there had once been such heat. Mack whimpered, wanting him back—anywhere, anything, she’d take whatever touch from him as long as it wasn’t this absence.
But instead of listening to her, he stood. She could sense it from the way he shifted and the air seemed to change, a shadow falling over her face as he blocked out the sun.
What an asshole. He was leaving her without any release, her nipples hard, her body desperate to be filled. He had riled her up to prove that he could. The ego on him. The nerve to do this to her.
I’m going to kill him.
As soon as I can breathe.
She ached so hard it hurt, a sharp feeling right at her center. In that instant it didn’t matter that she’d just been thinking this wasn’t so bad, they weren’t being stupid or fighting, they could at least pull a menu together. In that instant, she hated him with an intensity that rivaled the throbbing need between her legs.
“Tell me what you want, Mack,” he repeated. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “You hide behind that mouth of yours. That hard exterior. You act like you don’t need anything. You think the other night just happened like some kind of mistake, and maybe it did, but this time if you want it again, you’re going to have to admit it.”
“You’re wrong,” she spat, a knee-jerk reaction, and he didn’t have to laugh for her to picture that sly grin on his face, like she’d gone ahead and done him a favor by so nicely demonstrating his point.
“Please,” she relented. And then again: “Please.”
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She heard the slide of his belt buckle. Slow, steady. She was going to soak through her jeans if he kept up this pace.
His zipper rang out in the stillness. Mack slid her tongue across her lips. She hadn’t realized she’d done it until she heard his breath catch and realized that was why.
“On your knees,” he commanded.
Oh fuck that was hot. Was she allowed to find that hot? Could she be independent, wear shut-the-fuck-up boots behind the bar, and still be slayed by such a command?
Apparently it didn’t matter what her brain thought on the subject, because her body was responding. She lurched forward, and he reached for her arm to help because of course it was hard to go from sitting to kneeling when you were blindfolded and your arms were tied behind your back and you were still debating whether you were even going to do this at all.
Or, more accurately, you were shouting at yourself that you were a fucking lunatic while you eagerly, desperately brought yourself into prime blow-job position as he took advantage of the shift to tweak your nipples through your shirt and you, starving for him as though you hadn’t just eaten an entire meal made up of small bites, wished he’d once again rip the buttons from your shirt and take what he already thought was his.
But Connor wasn’t playing it the way he had at the bar, when it had been reckless, fast, no time to stop and think through what was going on. This time he was slow, methodical, building her up so hot that it hurt.
“There you go,” he said when she was steady on her knees. “Comfy?”
“Not really.”
“I have to tell you, you look fabulous.”
She bet she did.
“That’s nice. I wouldn’t know, since I can’t see a thing.”
“Ah, but you have you other senses. Taste, touch. I know because you made it clear how much you enjoyed everything I gave you.”
“Does that mean you still think I’ve been good?” She couldn’t decide if she wanted the answer to be yes or no; her thighs would have tightened in anticipation no matter what.
But then he said, “Not too good, I hope,” and it felt like warm water running down her body, melting her, that promise that he wasn’t going to tread lightly with her.
Make Me Beg (The Men of Gold Mountain) Page 6