Her chin brushed the placket of his trousers. Then her cheek. He ought to tell her to be still. To stop. To listen. But his erection throbbed, and his senses yet again overrode his control. “Take it out,” he said, thickly. Lust choking his voice. “Make it yours.”
“It’s been mine all along,” she murmured as she undid the buttons and zip of his fly and hummed her approval of what she discovered. The root of him, painfully tented in boxer-briefs, the silk already damp with pre-come. “Tsk.” She clicked her tongue. “No restraint? Who needs punishment now?”
Lachlan knew that the other dominants at the clubs he frequented would be amused by his disgrace, perhaps even scornful, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not as the girl he’d craved forever leaned forward and took him in her mouth. Fuck. She was a born cocksucker. The plump curves of her lips and her wicked tongue stroked and caressed while she sucked him deep, almost to the back of her throat. He never would’ve pushed her so far so fast, but she pulled him under, locking her jaw and surging up his length.
He barely registered the sounds he made. Animal whines and grunts. He clutched her head, pistoning his hips in time to her movements, his heavy testicles tightening as she took him closer and closer to the brink. She cupped them, fingers playing with the delicate, hot skin of his sac. Fuck. Goddamn it. Perhaps he needed a safe word?
It wasn’t until he’d shuddered through a monster orgasm—half to his knees and utterly slayed as she sat back and wiped her lips—that he realized he’d spoken aloud.
“Risotto,” she suggested, large liquid eyes bright with sensual satisfaction. “I think risotto’s a great safe word.”
His vision was still crossed, his breath still stolen, and his cock as al dente as linguini. He had just enough wits and spirit left to drag her against him and ravage her gorgeous mouth.
Chapter Nine
I’d always known he’d be fun to tease. I just hadn’t realized to what extent. Lachlan Christie, putty in my hands and helpless in my throat as I took him deep. Now he was crushing me close, kissing me madly, licking up the taste of his own surrender. I’d swallowed every spurt, drank him down like wine. He was right: I wanted to do what he asked. For him and for me, because I trusted him. Because I needed him. I could tease and taunt and drive him beyond distraction, but only because I knew he would keep me safe.
Even as he cradled me in his arms, he was softly brushing my neck and jaw with his fingertips, soothing the sore muscles. And then he found where I was wet for him and aching, and he soothed that, too. Each touch was like a lick of flame, and when I canted inward, flew too close, he pulled away.
He wasn’t going to let me finish. Not yet. And I loved it.
This was my Lock. Not the quiet, brooding, creature of before but this powerful, demanding, gentleman beast. “Risotto?” He chuckled as his tongue traced my ear. “Risotto? Really, darling?”
I shuddered at his delicate seduction, my belly curling. There were worse foods to consider while giving a blowjob. Kielbasa, for instance. Or eels. Octopus. Squid. I tried to think of more, but Lachlan hooked two fingers inside my sex and my brain skidded to a halt.
Expletives in every language I knew burst from my throat. I clung to him, and he laughed, the vibration of it running down to my toes. “Lock,” I whimpered, barely getting the precious syllable out.
“Yes.” It was like a curse, that word. He rose with me still clasped close, returning to the sofa. “Yes, this orgasm is as much mine as it is yours. We share this. You come for us.”
He twisted his fingers, palm brushing my mound. No other man had ever touched me like this. No other man could. He pulled me across his lap so I was straddling him, open wide and rubbing his rallying cock. But it was another finger he slid into me. And another. Four as his thumb pressed into the bud of my clitoris. Oh, shit. Oh, my God. I sobbed. Gasped. Rode his fist. Begged for more and less and everything.
“Yes,” he repeated, his eyes as blue as the devil. “Yes, darling. Be a good girl for me.” Always. Forever. I’d never wanted anything else. Even in Cologne, it was Lachlan’s face I’d seen, Lachlan’s body I’d felt against mine. And now here we were. Fantasy was reality. The past was present. I was his, and he was mine. Climax hit me like turbulence. I shook, off-balance and up-ended. “Naya, it’s all right. I’m here,” he whispered in my ear. “Give yourself over to me.”
And I did. I fell apart, and I thanked him for it. Trembling and naked on a private plane in a celebrity chef’s arms, in my stepbrother’s arms, this was where I belonged.
* * *
The hours on the plane to Mumbai were like something out of time. A piece of heaven. As Naya slept in his embrace, Lachlan replayed the sensation of her mouth on him, of his fist sinking into her hungry quim. How could he be so lucky and so bloody damned at once?
He held her close, uncaring of the awkward placement of limbs or the potential for cramps. He kissed her hair, her cheek, her shoulder, and swallowed each half-awake moan and gasp. He’d exhausted her, his poor darling. He’d run her ragged without even letting her know why. And he didn’t regret a single moment of it. She was everything he’d dreamed of and more. His ideal match. Fiery enough to stand up to him, sensual enough to spread beneath him. His cock begged to spend inside her, and Lachlan knew it was the last boundary, the “no turning back.” Here there be dragons. The minute they joined in that most intimate, sacred, of ways, their union was sealed...and their lives undone.
Fuck. His bastard of a father was making the rules from beyond the grave, and he couldn’t even find a way to explain it to Naya. The words were ash in his throat. They’d thought Ranulf’s death would set them free. He’d been one step ahead the whole way. Lachlan wasn’t free. He was trapped. He was doomed. Denial and fantasy would only last so long.
Lock stroked up and down the silken skin of Naya’s bare back. He breathed in the scent of her. Spice and salt and come. He’d finally found her again, claimed her, and he couldn’t keep her. How was that fair? All he wanted to do was revel in her lushness, her dark hair and soft lips. All he could remember was Kyle Attwood’s smug smile. He was going to lose her once more. No matter how tightly he tried to cling to her.
Naya began to stir, so he rose with her, taking deliberate care as he shouldered his way into the jet’s executive WC. A full sink, commode and a glass walled shower awaited them, along with luxurious terry towels and robes. He lacked for nothing. Except a life with her, his other half.
“Five more minutes, Mom,” she murmured, peering at him through her lashes, the slumber in her voice mostly feigned.
He set her on the wide countertop, stepping between her legs and bracketing her with his arms. “We’re due to land within the hour. And as much as the idea of walking through the airport with you bathed in sex appeals to me, I doubt Customs and Immigration would appreciate it.”
Her cheeks reddened, and her beautiful eyes opened fully, sparkling with ruefulness. “Plus, you’re not that sort of Dom,” she pointed out. “It’s way too unhygienic for you. Health department regulations alone have made you relentlessly anal.”
Lachlan chuckled, arching both of his eyebrows. “Relentlessly anal? Darling, you’ve no idea.”
“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me soon enough.” Naya laughed, drumming her heels against the cabinets as he unearthed two new toothbrushes and paste.
They cleaned up side-by-side at the sink, as if the domestic ritual was an old one, and then he went to the shower and set it to running hot. By the time steam shaded the glass walls, he’d stripped the remnants of his funeral suit, leaving his clothes in an untidy pile on the floor. He could ask Naya to fold them, but—as she’d pointed out—he wasn’t that sort of dominant. He didn’t need her to cater to his every whim. Just a few specific ones.
“Wow!” Naya followed the exclamation with an appreciative wolf whistle. “You have a fantastic butt.”
“You should see my rump roast,” he deadpanned immediately. “It’s remarkable.”
And, Lord love her, she giggled. She was such a beautiful mix of woman and girl. She could devour his nudity and then be delighted by a juvenile joke.
“In.” He gestured to the shower cubicle. “After you.”
But her mood was still playful, mirth making her face glow. “I’ve seen this montage,” she reminded. “Shouldn’t we pick out a song first? Some Luther Vandross? Peabo Bryson? Michael Bolton?”
There was no end to her ability to surprise him. “You’re a millennial. How the devil do you even know who Luther Vandross is?”
It was her turn to deadpan: “The Internet.” But then she stuck her tongue out at him, ever his brat. “And you’re a millennial, too, buddy. Even if you act like you’re fifty-five.”
“Fifty-five?” He scoffed. “Please. My sweet spot is ‘mentally forty.’ Old enough for a crush on princesses Diana and Leia, too young to recall disco.”
He wanted to banter with her all day. All year. For lifetimes. But if she wasn’t going into the shower on his say so, Lock would just have to carry her. He swept her up—protesting and sputtering—and over the raised tile threshold, tucking her under the rainfall spray. “Let me take care of you,” he urged as water sluiced over them both. He threaded his fingers through her dampening hair, tilting her head back and watching the drops course down the slope of her nose, the column of her throat and the lush curves of her breasts and hips.
She reached out and touched his slick, slippery chest. “You just like getting me wet.”
Guilty as charged. Lachlan liked her wet. Naked. Accessible. He squeezed some shampoo from the elegant wall dispenser, lathering it between his palms and then working it through her hair. She arched against him, practically purring as he massaged her scalp and neck. They took turns soaping each other up, lingering in the places that made her moan and him curse. And he kissed her. Of course he kissed her. He never wanted to stop kissing her. I could die in your mouth, he thought but didn’t say. I could die in your mouth and be buried in your cunt. Don’t ever let me go. And she held him as tightly as if he’d spoken his wish aloud.
But ultimately they returned to the practical tasks of rinsing and drying, with Naya toweling her hair turban-style before she wandered into the cabin for her bag.
Reality could not be out-flown. Lachlan knew that. He’d bought time, but not enough. Naya had questions and Attwood had leverage. Sooner or later, it would all come to a head.
Chapter Ten
Mumbai in summer was wet and sticky, like navigating through a melting popsicle—though we, thankfully, only had to brave the humidity in short bursts. Tarmac to airport. Airport to private car. The heat wasn’t new, and neither was the city. I’d been here a dozen times over the last two decades, but this was different. This was with Lock.
Lachlan had a flat in Worli, on what real estate developers called the Golden Mile. I’d read all about it in a trendy architecture magazine: his $5.8 million-dollar spread in an ultra-modern high-rise took up an entire floor and was just a stone’s throw from some of the city’s best new hotels and restaurants, as well as the growing financial center. He rubbed elbows with star cricketers and financiers and had been known to entertain Bollywood starlets in the sunken hot tub on his balcony. It was barely visible from passing helicopters and drones, so he was lucky, else a whole lot of other people would be checking out his rump roast.
It was as far from my mother’s early upbringing in Pune as one could imagine, and eons from her days waiting tables in London’s Brick Lane curry houses while she set her sights on training at Le Chateau. I’d lived a solidly upper-middle class life, gone to good schools and couldn’t complain about the privileges afforded me, but Lachlan Christie was rich. Mind-blowingly, filthy rich.
“I’m appallingly wealthy,” he acknowledged as I pressed coins into the hands of the tiny, street-bred con artists crowding around our hired BMW. “I was born into some, and I worked for the rest. But there’s gobs of money in my coffers.”
“Then you won’t mind if I give some of it away.” With one last, regretful look at the kids clamoring and calling me “big sister” in Hindi, I pulled my arm in and sent up the window so we could be on our way. They’d find fresh quarry, or harder hearts, and start all over again tomorrow.
“By all means.” Lachlan waved his hand. “Feed the world.” He watched me with what some might consider arrogant indulgence, but I’d done my homework, memorized every news story and bit of gossip available. I knew he gave hundreds of thousands of dollars a year to charity, specifically ones dedicated to eradicating world hunger. He even funded a culinary school scholarship specifically for underprivileged women. Beneath his brash exterior, he hid a philanthropist—and a passionate man who knew my every pleasure without me having to speak it.
He’d changed into a lightweight white linen suit after our in-flight shower. It only highlighted his fair hair and healthy tan. I’d exchanged somber black for sandals and a wash-and-wear shirtdress in a flattering shade of purple. We could pass for the quintessential vacationing sahib and mem, far removed from the real India. Except that Lock had cooked street food on some of the very footpaths we inched past, and I’d never hid who I was: Nayantara Christie, daughter of Jyoti Kopekar, world-renowned and universally beloved Indian chef. We were tied to this place. Tied to each other. Running from something, and I still didn’t know what. Maybe he would tell me here, in this city that seldom slept. Maybe we’d just spend a week making love. Or maybe he’d flog me until my skin turned red. Anything was possible.
Our driver navigated the web of Mumbai traffic like a pro, taking every in he found and sticking his head out the window to curse someone’s antecedents as needed. Lachlan tried to keep his hands to himself during the trip. Mostly. It sent an illicit thrill through me when he reached out and stroked my kneecap. No doubt Bittu had seen more of a vulgar show from drunken Mumbai party kids after a night of clubbing, but there was something deeply erotic about maintaining propriety, about respect and restraint. Just the touch of Lock’s hand was a seduction; his whisper of “almost there” was a dark promise.
He’d yet to turn pain into pleasure, hadn’t raised a hand to me despite cranky threats of spankings. I knew he was demanding, but what did that mean in the context of kink? My visits to clubs in Europe hadn’t prepared me entirely. They’d taught me about me, about my needs, but not about his. Only he could do that.
I wondered if he could feel the sudden tension in me, if he could hear the shallow shudder of my breaths. He’d caved to my wants before; would he do so again or make me wait until his took precedence?
When the car pulled up to a gleaming multistory complex, I knew I wouldn’t have to wait too long for an answer. Lachlan turned to me and whispered nearly into my lips, “We’re here.”
* * *
Naya was hungry for him. He could feel it, taste it, smell it—thicker than the monsoon season air. She was insatiable, his darling girl. Always ready. Always willing. Particularly if it involved dragging him with her over the edge. Lachlan was hard as stone before they even hit the lobby of his complex, and it was only the knowledge of closed-circuit security surveillance that kept him from pressing her into an elevator wall and taking her mouth.
All things considered, they behaved impeccably, standing side-by-side with their bags and making idle chatter as the narrow car shot up to the twenty-second floor. His floor. Accessible only via a code and a card-swipe.
“What if you want takeaway?” Naya wondered, her brows winging together. “Deliverymen and dabbahwallahs can’t get up here.”
“I’m an award-winning chef. Why the hell would I want takeaway?” he replied, tacking on a supercilious noise for good measure.
“Oh my God, Lock. She rolled her eyes, so reminiscent of her teen years that he almost felt a bit soiled for lusting after her. “You’re so bourgeois.”
He nudged her with his shoulder. “And you’re not? Who was it that refused to stand in a queue at Shake Shack all those years ag
o?”
She nudged him back. “That was because I was hot, not because I’m a food snob.”
“You’re still hot,” he pointed out, dryly, as the elevator opened onto his front room. She blushed, which delighted him. In some ways she was utterly unflappable. In others, so shy. He looked forward to seeing color spread across her gorgeous skin, to striping gold with red and pink.
For now, he was content to see his flat through her eyes. The partially sunken front room opened out to wall-to-wall windows that he kept curtained during the hot summer days. Modern, minimal, masculine design ruled everything except the master bedroom, which was quite the throwback with its colorful pillows and rugs and the enormous brass bed. He’d had it made to his specifications, the burnished framework inspired by those for mosquito netting. He had no need for nets in a climate-controlled luxury flat. He did, however, need bars from which to suspend shackles and sex swings. Because why the fuck not?
Naya laughed, running her hand along the brass fixtures at the foot of the bed. “Wow. That is planning.”
And then some. He’d had years, after all. So much time to dream and to dare. “I’m not impulsive, darling. I’ve always liked to know the recipe, the ingredients and the potential variables, before I start to cook.”
She frowned up at him, her lush lips adorable in their turn-down. “Am I a variable?”
“No,” he assured, drawing her into his arms. “You’re a key ingredient of the main dish. Without you, it would be something else entirely.”
Without her, his life would be something else entirely. It was bliss to just hold her. To breathe in her scent. And to grab handfuls of her dress and push it up, baring her arse to his questing hands. She moaned, grinding against him, and he knew before he even came round and cupped her pussy that she’d be soaking wet. “Since the plane,” she gasped to his unspoken question. “Since forever.” Then she kissed him so sweetly that it nearly broke him in two.
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