by JoAnn Ross
So what if what he was offering was only about sex?
In all her nearly twenty-eight years, until the other night at the camp, she’d only experienced true passion once in her life. But for some reason she’d never truly understood, he’d pulled back, leaving her virginity intact.
Hoping to recreate that passion, she’d married Richard, who’d left her believing she’d only imagined that hot, burning-up-from-the-inside-out way she’d felt with Gabriel.
But then Gabe had come back to town. And all it had taken was one knowing look from those fathomless blue eyes, one touch of those wickedly clever hands, for Emma to realize that she hadn’t imagined a thing.
And, amazingly, the fever was burning hotter than it had ten years ago.
Some things hadn’t changed.
Gabriel still wasn’t offering forever after.
But he was offering a sexual experience women all over the planet could only dream about.
“I can’t spend the entire weekend with you. It’s Jean Lafitte Days,” she elaborated at his arched brow. “I’m Deputy Mayor. I have responsibilities.”
She watched him process that, even as she tried to decide what she’d do about the ultimatum she feared was coming.
“These responsibilities,” he said slowly. Thoughtfully. “How much time they gonna take?”
Emma blinked. “Well, Nate can open the festival by himself. And the food and carnival booth committees have those things pretty well covered.” Roxi had been bubbling up potions for the past month to sell at her pink and gold Hex Appeal tent. “I’m supposed to be co-grand marshal of the parade.” She had been looking forward to riding in that powder blue Caddy convertible rumored to have belonged to Elvis. But compared to having sex with Gabe, it was no contest. “But Roxi can do that.” After all, she already had the wave down pat.
“But, I’m not going to miss giving Mrs. Herlihy that plaque.” Emma lifted her chin, prepared for an argument.
“Which is when?”
“Sunday night.”
“Well, then.” He nodded, surprising her by accepting the compromise. “Sounds like we should stop wasting time and get on with workin’ our way down this list.”
“I have a hard time picturing you doing whatever I say.” It was hard—make that impossible—to imagine Gabriel in a submissive role.
“I’ll do whatever gives you pleasure, chère,” he said in a rough, deep voice. “They’re your fantasies. If I’m doin’ things right, and believe me, I intend to, you’ll be pleasured, whichever one of us is callin’ the shots.”
Emma believed that. Because everything about Gabe gave her pleasure.
“I want to push your limits,” he said. “To show you how far you can go. How far we can go together. I may command you to do things your logical mind never thought you’d do. Things that may even frighten you. But you’ll do them. Willingly. Eagerly.”
“You’re that sure of me?”
His lips curved in a slow, wickedly erotic smile that could have been one Lucifer had pulled out to convince all those heavenly angels to join him in hell. “I’m that sure of us. You’ll do them because you’ve dreamed of them, in the darkest, most secret corners of your mind and heart. You’ll do them because, deep down inside that magnificently lush body, is the soul of a sexual adventuress.”
The certainty of his growled words made her wet. But the part of her who’d overcome the humiliation of being the cheated upon wife, needed to get one last thing clear before surrendering power.
“If you’re looking for a submissive to play French maid to your macho, sexual dominant, you’ve got the wrong woman.”
He laughed at that. A rich, hearty, bold rumble of sound that vibrated inside her every cell.
“Lucky for me the store was all out of French maid outfits,” he said. “I want you, Emma.” He skimmed his palm down the front of her top. “And, if the way your nipples harden at my touch, and watching your blood beating like a bunny in your pretty white throat are any indication, you want me, too.” His words were as soft as ebony silk; his touch, as his fingers plucked at her taut nipples, stole her breath. “Would it make you feel any safer if I promised never to hurt you?”
She believed him with every fiber of her being. And that belief made her bolder than she would have ever thought possible.
She met his hot, sexy gaze with a sizzling, challenging one of her own. “What kind of pirate would that be?”
His bold, pleased grin was echoed in his eyes. “Not a very good fantasy one, that’s for certain.” He tangled a hand in her hair and tugged with a sensual force that sent a frisson of delicious anticipation/fear skimming down her spine. “How about I rephrase that?” The hand that was still on her breast tightened, squeezing her flesh. “I’d never intentionally harm anyone. Especially a woman. Most especially you, mon douce ami.”
My sweet love. Endearments seemed to come trippingly off Gabe’s tongue. But tonight, for this stolen time of midnight fantasies, Emma chose to believe him.
“You’ve got to believe that I’d rather break my own bones than cause you any injury,” he continued. “And I’d never inflict any pain that you’re not willing—and eager—to accept. Or that doesn’t give you pleasure.”
The idea of a painful pleasure was frightening. Exciting. And impossible to turn down.
Having grown up under the disapproving thumb of her mother, it had taken Emma a great deal of effort to develop the self-esteem necessary to rise from the rubble of her marriage and reinvent herself into a woman she could be proud of. If asked, she would have insisted there was no longer a submissive cell in her body.
She was discovering she’d be wrong.
Submission to Richard the dickhead would be a waste of energy.
Submission to a man strong enough to know what to do with such a valuable gift was proving thrilling.
Emma lowered her gaze to the floor. Gathered herself inward. Then, slipping more easily into character than she would have ever believed possible, she gazed demurely up at Gabe through her lashes. Her thighs were quaking; her entire body was pulsating with need with the instinctive, eons-old biological need of a sexual female for a dominant male.
“I believe you, Gabriel.”
Chapter Fifteen
A blue flame rose in Gabe’s eyes. Watching him carefully through her lowered lashes, she saw the flare of masculine satisfaction.
“Now, there’s a good wench.” She wasn’t the only one who could play a role. Then again, she reminded herself, role-playing was what Gabe did for a living.
Did he play these kinds of sexual games with his other women?
Don’t go there.
His gaze was that of a predator, confident of its prey. “Your fate is ultimately in your hands, Emma. Whenever I command you to do something, you’ll respond, ‘Yes, my lord.’ However, if there’s any barrier that goes against your moral code, or which you find too difficult to overcome, you’ll answer, ‘If it pleases you, my lord,’ and I’ll understand that it’s something you honestly don’t want to do.”
“What happens if I respond in that second manner?”
“I suppose you’ll learn the answer to that, if—and when—the time comes.”
It was not the most reassuring of answers. But, even as pinpoints of anxiety prickled her skin, Emma’s body was electrified by the possibilities.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good answer.” He yanked her against him, his arousal a long, hard ridge between them, his mouth taking hers.
The savage, claiming kiss ended far too soon. Emma’s head was still spinning when he released her and picked up the skirt and belt she’d dropped onto the floor.
“Take off your clothes. Then put this on.”
She was uncomfortable about going topless, but since he seemed to honestly enjoy her breasts, Emma decided she could live with that. Fortunately, the skirt was full enough to cover a multitude of flaws.
“Yes, my lord.” She took the skirt and headed tow
ard the bedroom to change. She’d only gone two steps when Gabe grasped her arm and jerked her back toward him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To change.” Even knowing this was just a game they were playing, the disapproving male energy emanating from him turned her mouth as dry as dust. “My lord,” she tacked on.
His long, leather-clad legs were braced apart, his muscled arms crossed over his chest. “Did I give you permission to leave the room?”
“No, my lord, but—”
“There are no buts allowed, wench. Perhaps you don’t understand your position.” He cupped her chin in an unyielding grip and lifted her wary gaze to his implacably stony one. “You are my prisoner.” If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought she was standing before the actual Jean Lafitte. “You will do whatever I say.” His fingers tightened on her jaw. “When I say it.” His other hand grasped her breast and squeezed. Hard enough that Emma gasped.
“If I tell you to drop to your knees on the floor and take my cock between your glossy wet lips, you’ll do so without hesitation. If I tell you to bend over that chair, so I can take you hard and fast from behind, you’ll say, ‘Yes, my lord, with pleasure and gratitude,’ then bare that smooth white ass in a heartbeat.” Her thighs trembled as he ran a wide palm over her ass. “Whatever I demand, you acquiesce to. Quickly. Willingly.” She whimpered as he cupped her. “Is that understood?”
Emma felt the color flame in her cheeks. She was not used to being talked to so strongly by anyone. She was especially not accustomed to being treated like some nameless sex slave.
Yet, that was exactly what she’d agreed to. What she wanted.
She ducked her head. “Yes, my lord.” She risked a glance up at the kitchen fixture that was a thousand times brighter than the muted, flattering candlelight in the cabin. “May your prisoner request that the light—”
“Will be left on.” His rough tone was harsh. Implacable. Exactly, she realized, like his character’s had been in The Last Pirate, when he’d told his frightened captive that she could expect no mercy from a pirate rogue. “Looking at you pleases me.”
“Bu—” Remembering his warning against arguing, she tried a different tact. “Please, my lord.” She placed a hand on his forearm and felt the stony muscle clench beneath her fingertips.
“Either you take those clothes off, or I’ll do it for you.” He trailed a fingertip down the row of pearl buttons at the front of her blouse. “And believe me, if you leave it to me, you’ll never wear them again.”
The buttons seemed to have shrunk since she’d gotten dressed this morning. Emma’s fingers felt large and awkward as she took an unusually long time to unbutton the blouse. All too aware of his steady stare, she dropped it onto the floor, then shoved the billowy skirt down her legs.
“There.” Resisting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts, she lifted her chin and glared at him, submissiveness temporarily replaced by anger darkened by embarrassment.
Was it so wrong for a woman to want to appear beautiful to the man she was about to sleep with? Surely even a size zero, with perky, bought boobs and a spa-toned butt and stomach would feel uncomfortable bathed in such bright, flaw-revealing artificial light.
“That’s a good start.” He nodded his approval. “The bra has to go. I liked the lacy one a helluva lot better.”
A spark of irritation flared. Emma forced it back down again. “Excuse me, my lord. Since I didn’t hear from you yesterday, I had no reason to expect you to make an appearance this evening.”
Gabe arched a brow. “So, my ’tite chatte has claws.” He enjoyed her little flash of rebellion. He didn’t want to bring his luscious little wench to her knees. All right, perhaps he did, but only to take his throbbing erection between her pretty lips.
He had no plans to force her to obey his commands, but preferred to accept her submission as a gift. The scarlet flush spreading across her chest like a fever revealed her struggle with her redhead’s temper. A temper, he suspected, she wasn’t even entirely aware she possessed.
If things went according to plan, Emma was about to discover a great many things about herself. Including the depths of her capacity for hot passion.
She reached behind her back, the quick, furious gesture pushing her breasts out in a provocative way that had him wanting to thrust his hard-on between those soft white globes. Emma wasn’t the only one struggling with control. Gabe was definitely teetering on a razor’s edge.
The way she tossed the bra aside suggested that she found it no more appealing than he did. He was going to have to take her shopping at one of those frou-frou lingerie shops in New Orleans. Gabe liked the idea of watching his voluptuous wench model skimpy bits of silk and lace for his approval. Of course, the trick would be managing not to take her in the dressing room.
Then again…That idea was unreasonably arousing. In fact, Gabe was finding everything about the lushly sexy Emma arousing.
“We’ll burn those underpants,” he said. “They look like something a nun might wear to keep impure thoughts at bay.”
“If it pleases you to do so, my lord,” she said between gritted teeth.
“Does my captive wench have a problem with my command?” He moved closer, causing her to gasp when he scraped his thumbnail across the rosy pink tips of her breasts.
“It does seem like a waste of money. My lord,” she tacked on.
“Ah, but I’m filthy rich,” he reminded her. “From all the plundering and looting we pirates do,” he tacked on, struggling to stay in character when what he wanted to do was to drag her by that wild mass of unruly red curls into the bedroom, or hell, onto the floor, and bury himself deep into her moist, welcoming warmth. “You’ll take them off. Now.”
Her hands went to the elastic waistband. Then paused. She glanced up at the light again. “I don’t suppose—”
“I want to see you,” he repeated. More sternly this time. Both he and his privateer alter ego intended to make this point perfectly clear. “I enjoy your voluptuous body.” He put his hand beneath a heavy breast and lifted it to his mouth, drawing forth a ragged moan from between her parted lips as he suckled deeply on the satiny flesh.
“It suggests you’re a woman with other appetites.” He moved to the other breast, dampening it with his tongue while his hand moved between them, over the soft swell of her stomach, downward over her mound, to the drenched crotch of the underpants he was tempted to feed to the gators. Who probably had enough sense in their reptilian brains not to want them, either. “God, you’re wet.”
Her hips were rotating in unconsciously erotic little circles, as she ground her pelvis against his caressing touch in a way that triggered primitive impulses. “I can’t help it, my lord.”
“Definitely a woman of lusty appetites.” Growing impatient, he shoved the white cotton down, and cupped her. Which was all it took to make her come in a hard release, arching her back, practically collapsing against him.
“That’s one,” he said, vastly pleased with himself. And with his Emma. He’d never met a more responsive woman. Nor one whose lustiness equaled his own. Certainly not all the women he’d been with over the years since leaving Blue Bayou, women who were, according to some artificial, arbitrarily imposed standard of female looks, some of the most beautiful women in the world, who, if truth be known, more often than not failed to live up to their sexy billing.
It was, after all, hard for a woman to give a guy a blow job when she was so concerned about smearing her lip gloss or the number of calories in semen, that she totally forgot about the guy whose dick was in her mouth. And it was damn hard to have bend-each-other-into-pretzels monkey sex with a woman who was all the time sucking in her already concave stomach or clenching her nearly nonexistent butt in hopes it’d look smaller.
Once he was certain she could stand on her own, Gabe released her and lifted his hand to his mouth. “You taste sweeter than ruiz au lait, chère.” With his eyes locked on her widened
ones, he slowly licked her essence from his fingers, one at a time. “Now, let’s try out those new clothes your lord and master bought you.”
Although he’d wanted the damn ugly panties gone, Gabe nearly swallowed his tongue as she rid herself of the white cotton underwear with a sexy little shimmy of her hips. Then she stepped into the skirt and fastened the wide belt around her waist. The heavy material flowed over her hips in a way that would’ve obscured her smooth white thighs. If he’d left it the way it had originally been designed. Which he’d had no intention of doing.
“I had the shop sew on some extra fasteners.” He reached behind her, gathered up a fistful of rough brown muslin, and attached it to the Velcro strip on the belt.
“Gabe!” Shocked, she looked back over her shoulder at her sweet, bared ass.
He glowered at her from beneath lowered brows. “What did you call me?”
“I’m sorry. My lord.” She actually ducked in a cute little curtsey that had him thinking that one of these days they might revisit that French maid idea. “It’s just that I’m so…bare.”
“All the better for me to see you.” He turned her around and smoothed his palm over the bared flesh. “Touch you.” She yelped as he lightly smacked a rounded cheek with his palm. “Punish you if you dare to disobey my commands. Or perhaps”—he spanked her again, then let his fingers linger—“just because it pleases me to do so.” He tilted his head, studying the faint mark. “Pink’s a flattering color for you, chère. Reminds me of ripe strawberries on cream. I’m thinkin’ I could eat you up with a spoon.”
He splayed his hands on her hips in fine pirate fashion, turned her back to face him again, making the same adjustments with the front of the skirt. “It keeps you accessible to me at all times,” he explained in a voice roughened with his own almost unbearable hunger. This master stuff was proving harder than he’d imagined. “And you’ve got such a sweet little pussy, you should show it off more often.”