by Brynley Bush
I’m trembling in the aftermath of that…assault. As kisses go, that one was epic.
Still holding my face in his hands, he says quietly, “Now tell me why you don’t like to be called Avalon.”
Angry and humiliated that I’d enjoyed that kiss so much when he’d only done it to coerce me into telling him what he wanted to know, I look him straight in the eye. “Fuck. You.”
I’m over his knees before I can even squeal, and he yanks my panties down and smacks my bare ass with his palm.
“Ow!” I try to squirm away, but he just grabs my wrists in one large hand, pins them against the small of my back, and spanks me three more times, hard, before pulling my panties back up and depositing me back on the couch next to him.
My hair is messed up, my face is flaming with humiliation, and my heart is pounding, but there’s an odd and inexplicable awareness rushing through my veins.
“You spanked me!” I say accusingly.
“You deserved it,” he returns calmly. “A submissive should treat her Dom with respect at all times. I let your insolence slide once already. It won’t happen again. Now, are you going to tell me why I should call you Ava instead of Avalon?”
“No,” I say defiantly. I try to turn my face away, but he won’t let me. He grabs my chin again, forcing me to look at him. His gaze is inscrutable as he rubs his thumb across my bottom lip. “Are you always this stubborn, Ava?” he asks softly, his voice raspy.
“Are you always this domineering, Sir?” I counter.
His laugh is a short bark as he drops my chin and turns away, running his fingers through his short dark hair before turning back to face me.
“Why are you here?” he demands. “Do you want to stay in this competition? Do you want to win?”
Anthony’s face looms in my mind, and I feel the familiar churn of hatred and disgust at all that he’s done and all that he’s taken from me, coupled with a newfound sense of retribution and the knowledge that there is finally something I can do to make him suffer, even a little.
“Yes,” I say, my voice soft but resolute. “I want to stay, and I want to win. More than anything.”
“Then you’re going to have to trust me,” he says matter-of-factly. “Beneath the trappings of floggers and handcuffs, D/s is all about trust. We can’t win if you don’t trust me.”
I’m sure what he’s saying is true; Emmett has said the same thing. But how can I explain to Roman that I can’t trust anyone? That the ability to trust was completely and irrevocably ripped away from me two years ago. I decide to go with the more acceptable explanation, which is also true.
“How can I trust you when I don’t even know you?”
He studies me thoughtfully for a long moment, and then he takes a deep breath. “I see,” he says. “In that case, will you go out with me tomorrow?”
“Like, on a date?” Surely the tough and forbidding Dom isn’t asking me on a date.
He nods. “Yes.”
“With clothes?” I clarify suspiciously.
His lips twitch slightly. “With clothes. I’ll even let you choose them.” As an afterthought, he adds, “This time.”
“Okay,” I say with a small smile.
Chapter Five
Ava
When I wake up the next morning, Roman’s gone, but he’s left me a note and a covered platter that’s filled with scrambled eggs, toast, oatmeal, and an assortment of fruit.
I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock. Dress casually. I like punctuality. Don’t make me wait, I read.
I’ve never met anyone so bossy before. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous as sin, or he’d probably never get a date. Maybe that’s why he’s on the show. Then I remember the way he kissed me, and the way fire seems to roar through my veins when he so much as touches me. On second thought, I doubt he has trouble getting any woman he wants.
He hadn’t touched me again last night. He’d told me to make myself comfortable and get some sleep, and then he’d left. To my relief, he didn’t have one of the suites with the cages built into the bed, and I’d gotten ready for bed and slipped under the satin sheets alone. But he must have come back at some point because there’s a slight indentation in the bed next to me, and I can still faintly smell the clean, woodsy scent that is distinctly his.
I eat, shower, and get dressed, and I’m ready to go when he lets himself into the suite promptly at ten o’clock.
The sight of him makes my heart stop. Although it’s been less than twelve hours since I’ve seen him, I’d almost forgotten just how gorgeous he is with those intense blue-gray eyes and perfect bone structure, and how he dominates a room simply by being in it. The air fairly crackles with his presence. He’s dressed more casually—no expensive, tailored suit today—but he still manages to look pretty formal in dark slacks, a fitted T-shirt, and a blazer. I look down at the white denim shorts I’m wearing with a silky olive-colored tank top and sandals, and wonder if I should have dressed up more. How does he always manage to make me feel like he’s got the upper hand?
“I thought you said casual,” I say apologetically.
His gaze roves over me, lingering on my lips, before he says, “You look perfect. Are you ready?”
We take the elevator back down to the lobby, and he takes my hand in his as he leads me out the glass doors. I can feel the electricity again at the touch of his hand, warm and strong, as his fingers close firmly around mine.
“I thought we weren’t allowed to leave the property?” I ask in confusion.
“It’s okay,” he says, pulling me toward a limousine that is parked in the circular driveway. “Trust me.”
I balk. “I don’t want to get disqualified.”
He stops and rests one hand on my hip, turning me toward him. His gaze is searing as he lightly traces the curve of my ear with his finger, and this time the wings of a million tiny butterflies flutter in my belly.
“Trust me,” he says again softly. “That’s what this is about, remember?”
“Right.”
He opens the door for me, and I climb into the limousine, settling myself on the rich leather seat as Roman gets in behind me and closes the door. I buckle my seat belt as the limousine slowly pulls away from the Helix.
I look out the window at the bustling activity of the Strip, studiously avoiding looking at Roman. His overwhelming presence fills the small space of the car, and I suddenly feel far more shy and awkward with him here in the limo on a date than I did last night when I was half-naked in his hotel room.
“Have you ever been to Las Vegas?” he asks conversationally.
I turn back to him, and my breath catches. He’s freaking beautiful. “No, I haven’t.”
“Good,” he says with a small smile of satisfaction. He reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out a black cloth. “I’m going to blindfold you now,” he adds nonchalantly.
“You’re…what?” I stammer.
Before I can react, he places the silky fabric over my eyes and ties it into place behind my head, throwing me into darkness. He’s so close I can feel the rasp of the fabric of his blazer against my cheek and smell the clean soap and woodsy scent of him. The awareness that seems to charge the air whenever I’m close to him is almost crushing now, and I’m thrown more off balance. It’s disconcerting not being able to see, and for a second I wonder if I’m insane. I don’t even know Roman; for all I know he could be taking me to some remote location to have his way with me.
Inexplicably, my core tightens at the thought of being at his mercy, images of me naked under him as he takes what he wants popping up unwanted in my head. I mentally shake my head. What is the matter with me? The show hasn’t started yet, and I’m already becoming totally oversexed.
“Do you always blindfold your dates?” I don’t have anything to compare it to, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t how most first dates go. When he doesn’t answer, I say, “I bet you scare a lot of girlfriends off this way.”
“I don’t have girlfri
ends, and I don’t date,” he states matter-of-factly. “I have submissives, and I fuck.”
That shuts me up, and we drive in silence for a while, and I’m once again wishing I didn’t have this damn blindfold on so I could see his expression. He settles his hand on my bare thigh, and the heat of it burns my skin like a brand. The message is unmistakable; I’m his to touch as he wishes.
“You wanted to know me,” he says finally. “When you can’t see, you have to rely on your other senses. You will begin by learning my voice. By feeling my presence even when you can’t see me.”
I don’t tell him I already know the smell of him, and that the rasp of his voice makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. I’m aware of him in a way that’s almost physically painful.
“Trust me,” he says softly.
“I’ll try,” I manage.
He doesn’t move, and I’m aware of his gaze on me, steady and unrelenting. It’s utterly disconcerting and I want to rip the blindfold off—to see him, to see where we’re going, to not feel so damn vulnerable—but something stops me, and instead I sit quietly.
“So what do you want to know about me?” His tone is casual, as if this were a normal date and I’m not sitting next to him blindfolded, unable to see him, only able to hear the sound of his voice and the thunder of my own heartbeat.
I don’t even know where to begin.
“Um, where are you from? What do you do?”
His hand strokes along my thigh lightly as he answers. “I have an apartment in San Francisco where I live most of the time and another in Manhattan for when I’m there on business. I’m originally from the East Coast, but I went to college at Stanford and fell in love with the city, so I stayed. I run a company in San Francisco that invests in a variety of business ventures, but our primary work is Internet based.”
“You run a company? Like, you own it?” I ask incredulously. “You can’t be over thirty.”
“I’m twenty-nine. I had an idea in college for a web-based stock exchange. It was a good idea,” he adds modestly. “I spent the first two years out of college building the platform and the business, and I made a million dollars the first year we went public. Our revenue has doubled each year since, and I’ve continued to reinvest it in things I believe in, which has been equally lucrative so far.”
“Wow.” If he’s already a millionaire, he can’t be on the show to win the money. “So, why are you on the show, then?”
“A friend talked me into it.” His hand moves a little higher, and I instinctively start to close my legs. “Keep them open,” he commands softly.
Suddenly powerless in the face of his confident commands, I do as he says, parting my knees again. He goes back to stroking little paths across my inner thighs, his nails occasionally scraping across the sensitive skin. I’m having trouble concentrating, and my breathing is shallow. He’s right; without my sight, everything seems more intense, and his voice is wrapping me in its sultry timbre, seducing me with its hypnotic powers as surely as his fingers are igniting my skin.
“What about you?” he asks. “Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“And your family?” he presses. “Do they live in New York also?”
“There’s just my mother. She lives in Seattle.” This is really none of his business, and I have no desire to tell him anything more about my family. “I just graduated from NYU,” I add, veering to a safer topic.
“What did you get your degree in?”
“Marketing and design. I want to do Internet design. Logos, websites, stuff like that.”
I feel ridiculous. We’re exchanging pleasantries like we’re on a regular date, but I’m blindfolded. And he’s not. It doesn’t seem quite fair. I’m desperate to see his face, to read his expressions, or to at least see out the window and know where he’s taking me.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“When are you going to take the blindfold off?” I ask.
“When are you going to stop trying to control everything?” he counters. “I’ll take it off when I’m ready.”
I bite my lip, wanting to ask when that will be, but I know he won’t give me a definitive answer.
He growls, and then his lips are on mine again, pushing my head back against the leather headrest with the force of his kiss.
“Rule number two,” he rumbles. “If you bite your lip, I’m going to take your mouth.”
I lift my fingers, self-consciously rubbing the lip in question. He captures my hand and sucks my finger into his mouth. His tongue flicks across the pad erotically, his teeth nipping sharply, and my stomach drops in response.
“Tell me something else about yourself, Ava,” he rasps, releasing my finger.
I’m drawing a blank. I don’t want to talk about my past, and my present for the past two years has consisted of nothing but school and my job at the Coffee Bean. Not exactly scintillating conversation. There’s the show, but that certainly doesn’t seem like a safe topic when I’m sitting blindfolded next to the man who bought me. “There’s not much to tell,” I say finally.
“I somehow doubt that,” he says, his voice silky. “You seem to have infinite layers. I’m looking forward to peeling each one away until you’re fully exposed to me, hiding nothing.”
I swallow hard. “And what if I have secrets I want to keep?”
His hand has moved farther up my thigh, and he slips a finger beneath the hem of my shorts, tracing the line of my slit through the embarrassingly damp fabric of my panties. “You may hide behind your cool reserve and those enigmatic eyes, but your body can’t lie. Your body will have no secrets from me.”
My heart thunders at his bold assertion. He abruptly removes his hand, and I keenly feel the absence. I’m unnerved without his touch to center me.
“What do you want, Ava?” he asks, his voice low. “Do you want me to touch you?”
It’s tempting. Oh, so tempting. I’ve never felt this way with anyone before. My body is drawn to his like there’s a force field pulling me in. The effect is disorienting, and I suddenly want more than anything to feel the touch of his hands again—somewhere, anywhere—if only to ground me. I nod.
“Say it,” he demands softly. “Tell me what you want.”
“Please, touch me again,” I whisper.
The silence is deafening. I know what he wants. “Please touch me, Sir.”
Then his hands are in my hair, his mouth on mine, ruthless and plundering, claiming me with his lips and tongue. I’m so stunned by the kiss, it takes a minute before I realize the car has come to a stop. Instead of taking off the blindfold, Roman moves away from me, and I hear the sound of a car door opening and then closing. Seconds later, the door next to me opens, and Roman is grasping my hands in his, helping me from the car.
“I guess you’re not ready to take the blindfold off yet, huh?” I grumble.
The sound of his chuckle sets my nerve endings tingling again. “I like you blindfolded. It makes you more dependent on me and dilutes that cool composure that you seem to rely on like it’s armor.” He lowers his voice. “But I also like the hint of fear and uncertainty I see in your eyes when you look at me, so don’t worry; I won’t blindfold you too often.”
My breath catches. That’s supposed to make me feel better?
He wraps a strong arm around my waist and guides me across a smooth surface that feels like asphalt beneath my feet. We’re outside, and the wind catches my hair, whipping it around my face. I can feel the warm sunshine, and wherever we are, it’s noisy, the whapping sound of air being churned like butter filling my ears. The noise grows louder as we come to a stop, and Roman unties the blindfold.
I blink into the sunlight, my eyes unaccustomed to the sudden brightness. We’re standing beside a huge helicopter, its blades slicing the air above us. I look at Roman questioningly.
“Are you afraid of heights?” he asks, tucking the blindfold back into his pocket.
&
nbsp; “No,” I say, shaking my head.
“Good.” He smiles and gestures toward the helicopter. I look back at him once and then climb in as he follows me. He reaches across me, buckling me into the seat, and my body comes alive again at his touch.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“We’ll fly over the Hoover Dam and Lake Mead on our way to the Grand Canyon. We’ll see some of the Canyon and then land at the bottom for a picnic lunch before flying back.”
I look at him disbelievingly, unable to keep the smile off my face. This is beyond anything I’ve ever imagined. Although the circumstances of this unconventional date are seriously fucked up, the man is ruining me for ever dating anyone normal. “Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious,” he says, but there’s a small smile playing at his lips.
“What if I’d been afraid of heights?”
“Then I’d have talked you through it,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he has the power to banish all my fears by the sheer force of his will. I’m starting to wonder if maybe he does.
The pilot shakes hands with Roman and introduces himself to me before giving us headphones to wear that will allow us to hear and talk to him and each other. Then we’re taking off, slowly rising vertically off the ground. We hover for a moment before tilting forward slightly, and then we swoop into the air. It’s like riding on a roller coaster, and I instinctively grip Roman’s hand, needing something to hold on to. His fingers close around mine, and he smiles at me, sending warmth spreading through me. He has a nice smile. It’s the kind of smile that transforms his entire face and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Once we’re airborne, it feels like we’re floating, and I stare out the window, mesmerized by the sight of the Hoover Dam sprawling beneath us as the pilot tells us about the history of the construction of the dam. It’s amazing to see the ever-changing landscape below us from the bird’s-eye view of the helicopter; however, nothing could have prepared me for the magnificent grandeur of the Grand Canyon. As we hover at the rim, I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something beautiful and ancient and beyond comprehension, and I get goose bumps, the hairs on my arms standing up in primordial recognition. The beauty of the vast canyons cracks something in me, and some long-buried emotion swells, filling my senses and overwhelming me. A tear spills down my cheek, and Roman leans over to wipe it away with the pad of his thumb, an odd expression on his face.