by BETH KERY
“Francesca, don’t—”
She tapped her finger on the screen.
“Cesca, you didn’t just—”
“She did,” Caden interrupted, sounding stunned and a little impressed. “She just told off Ian Noble and hung up on him.”
* * *
“Are you sure you want to do this, Cesca?” Davie asked, after she’d chosen a tattoo of a paintbrush.
“I . . . I think so,” she mumbled, her bright burst of defiance in the face of Ian’s arrogance flickering weakly.
“Of course she wants to do it. Here, have another drink for courage,” Justin suggested wisely, handing her his etched silver flask.
“Ces—” Davie said worriedly, but she took the flask. She winced at the feeling of the whiskey sliding down her throat. She hated hard liquor.
“I don’t like my clients to drink alcohol before they go under the needle. Increases the bleeding,” the bearded, shaggy-haired tattoo artist said gruffly as he entered the parlor where she stood with her three friends.
“Oh, well in that case—” Francesca hedged, seeing a possible out.
“Don’t be a wuss,” Justin insisted. “Bart isn’t going to send you away because you’ve had a drink or two, are you Bart? He has serious ethics, but he forgets about them pretty quick when cash is on the line.”
The tattoo artist glared at Justin, but Justin glared back.
“Lower your pants and get up on the table then,” Bart snapped.
Francesca began to unbutton her jeans. Davie, Justin, Caden, and Bart watched as she laid, belly down, on the table.
“Here, let me help with that!” Caden volunteered eagerly as she began to work her jeans and panties down over her right buttock. Davie grabbed his arm, halting him with a forbidding scowl. Caden just shrugged, grinning sheepishly.
“Right here?” Bart asked roughly a few seconds later, stepping forward. His touch on Francesca’s skin sent a shudder of revulsion through her.
“Yeah, you could make one of those gorgeous dimples above her ass a sort of paint pot for the dipping brush.”
Francesca started at the sound of Justin’s subdued tone. She peered sideways. Justin was regarding her partially bared ass with frank male interest.
“Maybe we should have a look at the other cheek just to get a clear picture of things,” Caden suggested.
“Shut up, you two,” she grated out. It made her uncomfortable to have Justin and Caden look at her that way. Maybe this was a stupid idea after all. Her thoughts scattered when Bart approached, a tube in his hand with a needle protruding out of it. She noticed that his fingernails were dirty. She feared needles. The whiskey seemed to boil in her stomach.
“Wait, you guys, I don’t know about this,” she mumbled, her eyes clamped shut as she tried to fight off a wave of dizziness.
“Come on, Cesca. Hey . . . what the fuck—”
Her head sprang up at the sound of Caden’s surprised exclamation, the abrupt gesture sending her hair flying in her face and temporarily blinding her. She felt Bart’s grip on her jerk as if someone had grabbed his arm.
“Let go of her this instant, or I swear I’ll make it so you never live or work in this town again.” Bart’s grip on her jeans slackened. “Francesca, get up.”
She followed Ian’s concise instructions without thinking twice. She clambered off the table and pulled up her jeans, gaping at Ian’s furious, rigid countenance in stark disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
He didn’t reply, just continued to pin Bart with a lancing stare. After she’d fastened her button fly, he put out his hand and grabbed her forearm. She stumbled after him when he began to stalk out of the parlor. He paused in front of the dazed trio of Davie, Caden, and Justin. He seemed to loom over them like a dark, forbidding tower.
“You three are her friends?” Ian asked.
Davie nodded, his face looking pale.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
Justin seemed to come to himself. He stepped forward as if to argue, but Davie cut him off.
“No, Justin. He’s right,” Davie said soberly.
Justin’s face turned brick red, and he seemed prepared to argue, but Francesca stopped him this time. “It’s okay, you guys. Really,” she assured Justin tensely before she followed Ian out of the tattoo parlor, her hand firmly gripped in his.
She had trouble keeping up with his long-legged stride once they were walking along the dark, tree-lined street. She really didn’t think she was that drunk, so why had the world taken on the sheen of unreality ever since she’d heard Ian’s authoritative voice ordering Bart to let her go?
“Do you mind telling me what the hell you think you’re doing?” she asked breathlessly as she trotted next to him.
“You dropped your guard again, Francesca,” he said with tight-lipped fury.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
He came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, pulled her into his arms and swooped down, kissing her roughly. Sweetly. Why couldn’t she tell the difference when it came to Ian’s kisses?
She moaned into his mouth, her body going rigid before it molded against his long length. His taste and scent hit her like a tsunami of lust. Her nipples pinched tight, as if that sensitive flesh had learned to associate his taste with pleasure. He tore his mouth from hers way sooner than she’d expected—or wanted—given how hot and hard he felt.
God, how she wanted him. The blazing, obvious truth hadn’t fully hit her until that moment. She’d never considered that a man like Ian would be interested in her sexually, so she hadn’t allowed herself to fully acknowledge her desire for him.
The distant streetlight made his eyes gleam in his otherwise shadowed face as he looked down at her. She felt anger and lust resonating off his body in equal measure.
“How dare you even consider letting that unlicensed scumbag put a needle to your skin? And what kind of a little fool bares her ass to a roomful of slavering men?” he bit out.
She gasped. “Slavering men . . . those are my friends.” She blinked, absorbing the rest of what he’d said. “Bart doesn’t have a license? Wait . . . how did you even know where I was?”
“Your friend shouted the name of the tattoo parlor loud and clear while we were on the phone,” he said scathingly, stepping away from her and leaving her flesh vibrating in protest at his absence.
“Oh,” she said slowly. She watched as he lunged across the grass to the curb and whipped open the door to a dark, sleek, very expensive-looking sedan.
She looked at him warily. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“If you choose to get in, the penthouse,” he said succinctly.
Her heart started to play a drum solo in her ears. “Why?”
“Like I said, you let your guard down, Francesca. I told you what I was going to do to you the next time you did. Do you recall?”
Her world narrowed to the glint of his eyes in his darkened face and her heartbeat crashing against her eardrums.
Never leave yourself undefended, Francesca. Never. The next time you do, I will punish you.
Warm liquid rushed between her thighs. No . . . he couldn’t be serious. She experienced a wild thought that she should run back and participate in the silly, drunken antics of her friends.
“Get in the car or don’t,” he said, his voice less harsh than before. “I just want you to know what will happen if you do.”
“You’ll punish me?” she clarified shakily. “What . . . like spank me?” She couldn’t believe she’d just uttered those words. She couldn’t believe it when he nodded once.
“That’s right. Your transgression has earned you a paddling, too. I’d give you more if you weren’t a novice at this. And it will hurt. But I’ll only give you what you can take. And I would never, ever harm or mark you, Francesca. You’re far too precious. You have my word on that.”
Francesca glanced at the lights of the distant tattoo parlor and back at
Ian’s face.
This was a madness she couldn’t resist.
He said nothing—just closed the door after her when she got into the passenger seat of his car.
Chapter 4
The elevator door slid silently open, and she followed him into the penthouse, experiencing equal parts trepidation and excitement.
“Follow me to my bedroom,” Ian said.
My bedroom. The words seemed to echo around her skull. She’d never been in this wing of the enormous condominium, she realized distractedly. She trailed behind him, feeling like a schoolgirl that had been caught red-handed. The undeniable anticipation she felt seemed to hint at something she couldn’t quite fathom; somehow, she knew that if she crossed the threshold into Ian’s private quarters, her life would change forever. As if Ian understood this, he paused in front of an ornately carved wood doorway.
“You’ve never done anything like this before, have you?” he said.
“No,” she admitted, wishing her cheeks didn’t flame. They both spoke in hushed tones. “Is that all right with you?”
“It wasn’t at first. I want you so much, I’ve had to come to terms with your innocence, however,” he said. She lowered her lashes. “Are you certain you want to do this, Francesca?”
“Just tell me one thing first.”
“Anything.”
“When you called earlier tonight . . . while I was in the car? You never said why you were calling.”
“And you’d like to know?”
She nodded.
“I was here alone in the penthouse. I couldn’t work or concentrate.”
“I thought you said you were going to be entertaining.”
“I did say that. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. No one else would do.”
She inhaled raggedly. It did something to her, to hear him be so honest.
“That’s when I went into the studio and saw what you’d painted yesterday. It’s brilliant, Francesca. All of the sudden, I knew I had to see you.”
She dipped her head farther to hide how much pleasure she felt at his words. “All right. I’m sure.”
It was he who hesitated, but then he reached and twisted the knob. The door opened. He waved his hand and she entered the room cautiously. Ian touched a control panel and several lamps glowed with golden ambient light.
It was a beautiful room—sedate, tasteful, luxurious. A couch and several chairs were arranged in a seating area before a fireplace immediately before her. A stunning flower arrangement of red calla lilies and orchids in an enormous Ming vase had been placed on a table behind the couch. Over the fireplace was an impressionist painting of a field of poppies; if she didn’t miss her guess, it was an original Monet. Incredible. Her gaze caught on the huge four-poster carved bed to the right decorated, like the rest of the room, in a rich brown, ivory, and dark red color scheme.
“The lord of the manor’s private quarters,” she murmured, giving him a shaky smile.
He waved at another paneled door. She followed him into a bathroom that was larger than her bedroom. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a folded garment wrapped in clear plastic. He set it on the counter.
“Go ahead and shower and put on this robe. Only the robe. Leave all your other clothes. You’ll find everything you require in these two drawers. You smell like stale smoke and whiskey.”
“I’m sorry you disapprove.”
“I accept your apology.”
Her temper flared again at his quick reply. A small smile tilted his mouth when he saw the return of her defiance. He’d obviously expected it.
“You please me, Francesca. Beyond measure.”
Her mouth fell open in surprise at the compliment. Would she ever learn to read him?
“But you must learn to please me in the bedroom,” he said.
“I do want to,” she said quietly, surprising herself by her candor.
“Good. Then to start, I’d like you to shower and put on this robe. When you’ve finished, come out to the bedroom, and I’ll administer your punishment.”
He started to walk out of the bathroom but paused. “Oh, and wash your hair, please. It ought to be a crime for all that glory to smell like an ashtray,” he muttered under his breath before he exited, closing the door behind him with a brisk click.
She just stood there for a moment on the pristine marble tile floor. He thought her hair was glorious? She pleased him? How could he possibly be having thoughts like that about her? How could he kiss her until she thought she’d spontaneously combust and yet look at her at times like she was about as interesting as the paint on the wall?
She showered thoroughly, enjoying the experience more than she’d thought she would. The glass-enclosed stall steamed up quickly, the tendrils of warm mist seeming to caress and kiss her naked skin. It was nice to lather up with Ian’s hand-milled English soap, cover herself in his clean, spicy scent. Fortunately, she’d shaved before she went out to McGill’s, so she didn’t have to worry about hairy legs.
Would he spank her while she was naked?
Of course he would, she answered herself as she slid open the glass door to the shower and exited. He’d told her point blank he wanted her naked beneath the robe. She extricated the garment now from the plastic wrapping. Was it brand new? Did he keep a supply of robes on stock for the women that he “entertained”? The thought made her a little sick, so she shoved it out of her brain, focusing instead on finding a comb for her wet hair, deodorant, a new toothbrush, and a bottle of mouthwash. Everything was arranged so neatly in the cabinet that she took special care returning the items to their proper places.
She folded her clothes and set them on an upholstered stool. Her reflection in the mirror caught her attention. Her image stared back at her, her eyes looking huge in her pale face, her long hair hanging damp. She looked a little scared.
So what if I am scared? she thought to herself. He’d said he was going to spank her and that it would hurt. She’d agreed to his apparent warped sexual practices because she wanted Ian so much.
It came down to which was greater: her fear or her desire to please Ian.
She walked toward the door and opened it. He sat on the couch, a tablet in his lap. He set the device on the coffee table when she walked into the room.
“I lit a fire for you,” he said, his gaze running over her from head to foot. He was still dressed in the same clothing he’d been wearing when he’d barged into the tattoo parlor—dark gray tailored pants and a blue-and-white button-down shirt. His long legs were crossed negligently. He looked utterly at ease. The light from the fire flickered in his eyes. “It’s cool tonight. I didn’t want you to catch a chill.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling awkward and uncertain.
“Take off the robe, Francesca,” he said quietly.
Her heart skipped a beat. She fumbled with the sash and drew the robe off her shoulders.
“Set it down there,” he instructed, pointing to the chair next to her, his gaze never leaving her. She draped the garment over the back of the chair and stood there, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, studying the intricate pattern of the Oriental carpet beneath her like it held the secrets of the universe.
“Look at me,” he said.
She lifted her chin. There was something in his gaze she’d never seen before.
“You’re exquisite. Stunning. Why do you look down, as if you’re ashamed?”
She swallowed thickly. The embarrassing truth came unstuck from her throat. “I . . . I used to be overweight. Until I was nineteen or so. I . . . guess I still have the confidence of my former self,” she explained, her voice barely above a whisper.
A subtle of-course expression flickered over his bold features. “Ah . . . yes. But you seem so sure of yourself at times.”
“That’s not confidence. It’s defiance.”
“Yes,” he mused. “I understand now. Better than you might think. It’s your way of telling the worl
d to go fuck itself for ever having the gall to look down its nose at you.” He smiled. “Bravo, Francesca. It’s time you learned how beautiful you are, though. You should always control the strengths you have available to you; never let them languish or, worse, allow others to be the ones to control them for you. Come stand before me, please.”
She went to him on shaking legs. Her eyes went wide in confusion when he picked up a jar sitting on the cushion next to him. It was so small, and Ian had filled her senses so completely, she hadn’t noticed it before. He unscrewed the cap and put a small dollop of the thick white substance on his forefinger. Glancing up, he noticed her bewilderment.
“It’s a clitoral stimulant. It increases the sensitivity of the nerves,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” she muttered, even though she didn’t.
His gaze dropped between her thighs. Her clit pinched with arousal, his stare stimulant enough. “I’m very selfish when it comes to you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I always give a submissive pleasure if she pleases me. I’m not usually concerned if she feels it while she’s being punished, however. She might have to endure it to get her reward. I find I’ve . . . changed my tune a bit with you, however.”
“Submissive?” she asked weakly, her brain sticking on that part of his reply.
“Yes. I’m a dominant when it comes to sex, although I don’t require elements of bondage or dominance to get me turned on. It’s a preference for me, not a necessity.” He sat forward on the couch so that his dark head was inches from her belly, his nose near her sex. She watched as he inhaled and then briefly closed his eyes.
“So sweet,” he said, sounding a little undone.
She had no time to prepare for what he did next. He boldly plunged his thick finger between her sex lips and rubbed the cream thoroughly on her clit, his touch sure . . . electric. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out as concentrated pleasure shuddered through her. “Tonight, I’ll punish you, and I won’t lie. I’m going to enjoy it. Very much. But I want you to feel pleasure as well. Your nature will determine most of that, but this cream will help to swing things in the right direction,” he said as he continued to massage the emollient onto her clit. He glanced up and saw her bewilderment. “I won’t have you trained to fear this. I don’t want you to loathe your punishments. In a word, I don’t want you to fear me, Francesca.”