by Naima Simone
She rocked back, her lips parting in shock. But in the next instant, she steadied and squared her shoulders. “Fine. I’m not going to beg you. I’m through with that.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? Had she begged someone else? Anger curled in his chest, a tight, burning knot. Who? “One thing I’ve learned in the last few years is life doesn’t come to you; you have to grab it for yourself. And I’m tired of waiting, of depending on other people to decide what is right for me or what I need—deserve. I do that. I’m doing it. So if you won’t help me, give me what I need, someone else will.”
She turned, and a veil of crimson slammed down over his eyes.
“The hell you will,” he snarled. Fuck that. Fuck. That. He shot across the floor and slammed a palm against the door. The barest of inches separated his chest from her back, his erection from the worship-worthy curve of her ass. He drew in a rough breath. Surrendered to the need to brush his lips over her hair. “Do you think you can threaten me?” he rasped. “Don’t try to force my hand, baby. I’m not the boy you knew.”
“And I’m not the girl you knew,” she shot back, turning to face him. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, and he fought not to soothe the offended flesh…to slick his tongue over it. “If you don’t do this for me, I’ll find someone who will. Your club isn’t the only one in Boston. I’m going to do this, Rion. Once I walk out of this club, you won’t see me again.”
“Just what do you plan on doing, Harper? Going home with any random motherfucker who promises to turn you out?”
“God, you’re like a dog with a bone. You don’t want me, but no one else can have me either?” She cocked her head to the side. “But that doesn’t matter because it’s not your business, is it?”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Harper,” he warned.
“Only if I lose,” she whispered.
They stared at one another, a high-noon showdown that neither backed down from. In her dark brown eyes, he spied determination. Resolution. Damn it. Bile churned in his gut and raced up the back of his throat at the thought of some bastard putting his hands on her creamy skin. Kissing her, screwing her. Another man wouldn’t give a damn about her needs, about calming her fears and introducing her to the kind of sex she believed she wanted. No. Not going to happen.
Slowly, he dragged his hands down her arms, pausing to squeeze her wrists, then released her. He stepped back, placing distance between them. But not far. Close enough he could still inhale her sultry, strawberry-and-cream scent. Sweet, clean, mouth-watering. And soon he would have it. Anticipation, hot and thick, rolled through him.
“All right, Harper,” he drawled. “You win. But I have one condition.” He paused. Waited for her nod. “One night. I’ll give you everything you came here looking for. I’ll fuck you. Make you get on your knees for me. Make you come. Over and over again. On my face. My fingers. My dick. As often and as hard as I say. But only for a night.”
Because no way in hell would he grant her another opportunity to rip him apart. This time, he would be the one to walk away.
Chapter Three
She’d won. Why did that sound so ominous?
Harper studied Rion, but his stoic expression—hooded gray eyes, unsmiling mouth, sharp lines of his face—revealed nothing. That sent another shiver tripping down her spine, but it didn’t eclipse the excitement swirling in her chest and belly. The delicious, unsatisfied pulsing of the flesh between her legs. Or the relief.
After cajoling and browbeating herself into entering Lick tonight, could she have started over at another club? Approached a complete stranger and asked him—trusted him—to introduce her to the pleasure, the release, she needed? Let him touch her like Rion just had? She shuddered at the thought of having another man’s finger sliding through her folds, torturing her clit. No. God no. The answer reverberated inside her like a struck gong.
And, almost as important, was his stipulation. One night. Fine. She hadn’t come here for more than sex. Open herself up to the agony of loss and disappointments? No, thank you. On that condition, they were in complete agreement. Besides, it lined up with what she remembered about him, too. As he’d once told her, he didn’t do relationships.
Yet, he was her private shame… No. Not Rion. Her lust for him. Her desire to have him stare at her with that hypnotic, steely gaze as he broke her with pleasure. To see his big body shudder over hers…feel him stretch and fill her… Even when she’d married another man.
Maybe her coming here, to him, had more to do with moving on with her life. Maybe it was an exorcism of sorts. Finally being with him—finally discovering for herself what being on the receiving end of his control, passion, and pleasure was like—would free her of him.
“What are your hard limits?” His question jerked her from the past, from herself.
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Your hard limits,” he repeated, his piercing scrutiny unsettling. As if he could peer into her thoughts and expose them one by one. “Since we only have a few hours, I need to know what you absolutely refuse to do, and what you’re willing to explore.”
Slowly, like a sleek, big cat, he circled her. Stalked her. As if he contemplated how to take her down. How to just take her.
“Harper?” he purred against her ear. Not one part of his body touched her, yet she felt surrounded by him. His heat, his wood, earth, and skin scent. And sex. He carried the fragrance of uninhibited, wild, raw sex in his skin.
“I hadn’t thought…”
“Yeah, you have.” Gentle but firm fingers pinched her chin and tipped her head to the side, tilting it up. His dark, knowing gaze captured hers as effectively as his hand clasped her face. “Don’t lie to me. Whatever you tell me here, whatever we do—you’re safe. There’s no shame, no guilt in anything we do or say. I promise not to use anything against you, not to hurt you. And in exchange, you give me honesty. We clear?”
She nodded. Honesty, talking—they weren’t her strong suits. For her, honesty, at least about her feelings, had been sacrificed for compromise. Talking had been martyred for not rocking the boat. But to have this—to have him for this night—she would try. Trusting him would begin before she removed one article of clothing, before one kiss or touch. For her, it was the biggest risk.
“Good,” he murmured, removing his grip. “Now, answer my question.”
Closing her eyes, she inhaled, and took the plunge. “No asphyxiation.”
“What about this?” He slid a hand around her collar bone, and she shuddered at the intimate contact. Though he was a businessman, calluses toughened his palm, and they abraded her skin, a direct contrast to the softness of the caress. “Easy,” he soothed, the low timbre of his voice another layer of touch. Slowly, he eased his hand up until his fingers and thumb encircled her throat and applied the lightest of pressure. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t shut off her air supply. But the warm, sensual weight of him there bottomed out her belly, had her clenching her thighs against the thrilling pulse there, against the rush of liquid heat. An image of them together, his hand around her neck, drawing her up and back as he fucked her from behind shimmered across the back of her eyelids. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she whimpered. The hold was dominant, controlling, but not frightening.
“No?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed. Slicked the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “I—this is okay.”
She felt his nod as he released her. “What else?”
“I don’t want to be gagged or masked.” They struck too close to home; she’d endured both in her marriage, figuratively, anyway. She wanted to be free of them.
Rion stilled behind her as if he wanted to question, but instead he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Blindfold?”
She shrugged. “I’m not against it. I…” She swallowed—courage—and confessed before she could surrender to the urge to stifle it. “I want to watch.”
Even though he’d promised her he wouldn’t use anything she’d shar
ed against her, she still waited, bracing herself for the ridicule, the shaming. Unbidden, Terrance’s voice lashed out at her like a ghost from beyond the grave. Do you want me to treat you like a slut on the street? You’re a wife, not a whore. Act like it.
But it didn’t come. And the relief almost buckled her knees.
“Anything else?” he pressed.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, and huffed, disgust at herself heavy in the sound. “God, you must think I’m an idiot. Or worse. A Fifty Shades wannabe.”
“I’ve thought many things about you over the years and tonight. Idiot isn’t one of them.” His fingers on her hip tightened briefly. “You said you like to watch.” When she nodded, he splayed his big hand across her belly, his thumb grazing the underside of her breast. A tease of a touch. Nowhere near enough. “Okay. Do you like a little pain, Harper? Enough to sharpen the pleasure? Paddling. Spanking your clit. Can I spread you wide, tie you down?”
“Yes,” she said on a gust of breath. Oh God, yes.
“I can have your pussy, but what about your ass? Ever let a man take you there, Harper?”
She shook her head, lust stealing her ability to speak. “No. Never.” She swayed, her ass brushing against his erection. Damn. He was hard…big. Her sex spasmed, milking emptiness. It hurt. “I-I don’t know. Maybe.”
“We’ll go slow,” he promised. “If something makes you uncomfortable, tell me, and we’ll stop, okay?” She nodded, and he grazed his lips over her ear. Technically their first kiss. “Give me a word, Harper. We won’t do anything hardcore, but I still need a safe word from you. If you say it, I stop, no going back. It ends.”
His assurance comforted her. This might have been a fool’s errand—running headlong into a situation she really couldn’t comprehend with her limited knowledge. But with Rion guiding her, she was safe, protected. And damn it, she wanted it. Needed it. Whatever he would show her tonight, expose her to… She. Needed. It.
“Rosebud.” From Citizen Kane. The first movie they’d watched together. Rion’s favorite, starring his idol, Orson Welles.
Silence followed her murmur, and Rion stiffened. Tension seemed to vibrate from him, and she curled her fingers into a fist. Stupid. She shouldn’t have introduced sentimentality into this. She should have—
“Fine.” He slid his hands down her arms, covered her clenched fingers. Slowly unfurled them and enfolded them in his. “Welcome to my world, Harper.”
Chapter Four
What are you doing?
The question ricocheted off the walls of Rion’s skull as he led Harper from his office and into the dark hallway. His conscience tried to poke the What the hell stick at him, but the lust beating at him like a fist and the delicate but heavy weight of her hand in his overrode any pricks of latent morality. The fact he was corrupting the one person he’d once prayed would remain innocent and pure didn’t elude him. He’d been everything her parents had called him—trouble, no good, a gangbanger—and he’d tried to stay away from her. But when Harper would have none of that, he’d protected her instead. And now, years later, he was the one escorting her into a world that she shouldn’t even know existed.
The devil would have his name on a special VIP list for this.
“Oh my God, Rion, it’s beautiful.” She halted behind him, tugging her hand free. He turned as she lifted a hand to the mural on the wall. Because of the dim lighting provided only by mounted sconces, many people didn’t spot the deep reds, blues, and purples of the art surrounding them. But he hadn’t added the paintings for them—they were for him. Still, like the photography, Harper had noticed. Because she knew him like no other person, aside from Sasha and Killian.
He stepped back and slipped his hands in his pants pockets, granting her the time to study the art. Her delighted gasps and murmurs sent satisfaction surging through him.
“It’s The Masque of the Red Death.” She sighed, tracing the tall grandfather clock with its hands forever frozen at midnight with her fingertips. She moved on to the masked revelers in their ornate costumes, the grand ballroom with a delicate but hypnotizing chandelier, and the mysterious robed figure. The short story by Edgar Allan Poe, with its symbolism and darkness, had been one of their favorites. “You…” She glanced at him over her shoulder, wonder lacing her voice.
“I commissioned it.” Building the club had been a joint effort, but his friends had left the decor to Rion. He hadn’t been stingy with money or the thought put into each aspect of the design. And he would also be a liar if he claimed Harper hadn’t entered his mind when he’d detailed what he wanted in The Loft. After he’d stepped in when two asshole jocks had her pinned against the lockers, knocking textbooks out of her hands and squeezing her ass on the sly, she’d befriended him. Even when he’d initially tried to ice her out. Harper had been stubborn in her quiet way. So he’d relented. Knowing he could never bring her home to his shitty apartment where his father laid out his guns like her mother probably displayed Better Homes and Gardens magazines. Knowing he could never walk her down the streets of his neighborhood because to the men loitering on those corners and in the doorways, she would be seen as a thing they could use, abuse, or kill to get to Rion. And yet, he’d still hoarded her friendship.
And she’d introduced him to the classics such as Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, H.P. Lovecraft, and movies like Citizen Kane, Journey into Fear, and Othello. She’d opened up a new, vibrant, beautiful world that had been shut off to him before. If not for the unforgiving, ruthless existence he’d been born into where the son of a mob hitman didn’t waste time on “sissy shit,” he might’ve been a cinematographer, combining his love of movies and photography. Through sheer doggedness, and Harper’s unflagging belief in him, he’d suffered his father’s disdain and occasional beatings and refused to give up on dreams of something better. This—the club, his friends by his side, his freedom, and his photography—was his better.
“I based the idea of The Loft on the story,” he revealed.
“The Loft?” She turned, an eyebrow arched.
“This upper level”—he waved his hand—“is The Loft. It’s a part of Lick but separate from downstairs. To gain entrance here, a person has to go through an intense application process. We interview applicants as well as conduct a background investigation. That might seem overboard, but all things considered, it’s not just prudent but necessary.”
“All things considered?” she repeated, slower, and maybe just a bit wary.
Good.
“Harper, do you know what an aphrodisiac club is?” He stalked closer to her, not stopping until his chest was a breath away from grazing hers. Though lust simmered in his gut, he didn’t touch her. The conscience he’d believed drowned out, waved one last desperate arm, offering her another opportunity to back away from this path she seemed determined to tread. “It’s not a BDSM club. Or rather not just a BDSM club. We offer more than that. Whatever a person finds sexually exciting aside from demeaning or unsanitary fetishes and illegal acts, we offer. It’s not just about the kink—although there’s plenty of that—it’s also about the fantasy. Behind each door”—he nodded at the multi-colored doors on either side of the hall—“is a room for a particular desire. If you want to be spanked, tied down, watched, or just somewhere to express yourself, Lick is a safe place to do so.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” she breathed. “You’re trying to warn me away again. But that doesn’t scare me. It sounds…beautiful.” She sighed, and the whisper of sound seemed almost wistful, envious. “Freeing,” she added.
Unable to help himself, he cupped her jaw and rubbed his thumb across her lush bottom lip. “Freeing? That’s an odd choice of word. Have you been in prison until now, Harper?” What had that asshole she was married to done to her?
“All of us are in some way or another, right?” She deflected the question, but he didn’t miss the forced nonchalance in her voice. He’d allow it…for now. But at some point tonight, she would giv
e him the answer. “Will you show me now?”
He leveled one last, long look at her, and she met his stare. Neither moved except for his deliberately firm caress over her mouth. Finally, he dropped his hand and shifted backward. Once more, he enclosed her fingers in his and headed deeper into the world he and his friends had created.
Walls had been torn down and added in the converted space, fashioning rooms and large play spaces. As they neared the end of the corridor, he stopped in front of a light blue door. He opened it and strode inside, bringing Harper with him. Easing to the side and behind her, he allowed her to soak in the scene before her. Her sharp gasp reached his ears, and she stiffened, her fingers locking his in a vise grip.
She’d stated she wanted to watch. In this room, that need was not only indulged but encouraged.
Several leather couches of varying lengths, large armchairs, and long, wood tables dotted the large room. Dim light from three sconces deepened the shadows in the black-painted room. On the wall nearest them, a bartender served drinks to the twenty or so people occupying the area. The ages of the men and women ran the gamut from early twenties to early sixties, and they wore tuxedoes, expensive dresses, jeans, and slinky mini-dresses that barely covered their asses. Several lounged on the couches, drinks in hand. Some men had women perched on their laps, hands casually fondling breasts or sliding between parted, bare legs. Others leaned against the walls or crowded into the corners, their grunts and low cries peppering the air.
But none of them were the focal point of the room.
The naked couple behind the glass wall held that honor.
The couple, a well-built man, his dark hair cut close to his head, and a slim, blonde woman with breasts too buoyant to be real, stretched out on a wrought-iron bed that wouldn’t have been out of place in a country bed and breakfast. The bed rested on a raised platform and was turned sideways so the audience had an unhindered view. The large, white pillows and eyelet blankets added a sweetness to the sin taking place on top of them.