by Christa Wick
"Great!" I pried at his fingers. "I'll send you a recording."
"I made my own already. Listening to you is the only thing that helps me sleep -- after twenty years, Riona." He slithered closer, repositioning his hold on me and snaking his other arm behind my back so that he could lock his hands together. "When I had my first dream after two decades, it was of the two of us talking in the dark because I hadn't seen your face."
His head butted gently against my side. "And then I saw your face and a few months after that, I saw the shots Rick took in Dallas and I didn't have to dream about us in the dark anymore."
At some point while Simon was talking, I had started crying. I wanted to toss more sarcasm at him, like how the only compliment he'd given me was that my voice put him to sleep.
"I like your sass and intelligence." He pushed up onto one arm, half releasing me but keeping me thoroughly pinned by the press of his lips against my neck. He knew right where to kiss, right where to place his free hand so that I turned into him.
I pushed at his chest, my entire body burning with the need to press closer to him, knot my fingers in his hair and crush my lips against his. "You need to stay on your side of the bed."
He nipped the lobe of my ear but retreated. The last of him to leave my body was his hand, his palm sliding across my aching breast. A moment's squeeze and then he pulled away to the far edge of the mattress so large it could fit four bodies.
"Why the ropes?" I asked. I had more than my fill of talking to him on topics of design, our many skirmishes still a sore spot despite his confession that at least part of his critiques were meant solely to keep calling me. At least I hoped he had only designed a room to look like Snow White's dress as some nefarious plot to get me on his side of the Atlantic.
"You don't want to know, pudding."
Simon slid closer to the center of the bed, stopping when he was close enough to stretch out his arm and capture a lock of my hair. He wound it around his finger and gave it an almost imperceptible tug and then another.
I wiggled my way closer, protesting his answer before I had a chance to consider that I truly might not want to know.
"There are many reasons to want to tie a woman up, many ways to do it," he explained. "A length of silk rope, velcro straps on a hospital bed..."
In an asylum, I thought, my imagination curling around the words he seemed reluctant to voice. I thought of him at twelve, visiting his mother before her death. Pre-teen, hormones just beginning to rage, a mind that didn't even have the comfort of sleep as an escape from obsessive thoughts.
I wrapped a hand around his wrist. He released the lock of hair.
"Here in the west," Simon continued. "People use shibari and kinbaku interchangeably. But the first ties a woman in place, the second sets her free, but only after it strips away all her pretenses."
On his side as he spoke, Simon rolled toward me. His right arm and leg crossed over my body, their weight settling against me. His hand began to massage lightly at my neck near the curve where it joined the shoulder. He moved the rest of his body so that it was flush against my side.
"Beautiful women are full of pretenses." His lips found the same bend in my neck as his hand massaged on the other side of me. "Otherwise the world would shred them. The ropes hold her tight, secure, makes her, if only for the moment, property to be preserved and protected. She starts to sweat, to squirm..."
Just as he had in New York, Simon stopped what he was doing to pant in my ear, signaling to me that I had lost control of my breathing.
"Don't make me break my promise, Riona."
I exhaled, the sound of the air leaving me harsh and prolonged. Once again Simon had soaked my gray lace panties through and through. I sucked another breath in, helpless to stop the way my body surfed the top of the mattress in needy waves.
Pushing the bedding out of the way, his hand slid down the front of the chiffon nightgown to find the curling edges of the bottom hem. He cupped my mound and squeezed.
"Make me break my promise, and I'm taking you into The Vault."
Throat tight, I struggled to respond. "Then stop talking dirty to me, damn it."
Withdrawing his hand, Simon chuckled. "I intended for you to do all the talking, love."
"Right," That had been his suggested compromise: the two of us in bed, in the dark, with me talking. "Let me think."
Not that thinking was possible after he ended his reminder with that particular term of endearment. I started babbling to fill the silence before he repeated the word or said something else that rendered me equally senseless.
"I still can't believe you are Baku--"
"Babu? Like in the Jungle Book? Really, Riona, I almost feel insulted."
In the dark, I couldn't see if he was pulling my leg or really thought I was calling him an ape or something. Reaching behind me, I tapped the base of the lamp, bathing his body in light.
Big mistake. I was in bed with an Englishman who looked like his veins were filled with Viking blood. I could see it in his face, in the seafoam green eyes that had stolen their color from the waves his ancestor's boat had cut through centuries ago. I could see it in the tousle of dark blond hair that looked a pale ash brown by night when the room was half shadows.
I rolled quickly away, tapping again at the base of the light only to find him tapping on his lamp so that the room remained gently lit. I glared at him over my shoulder. "You're not helping!"
He grinned at me and then his eyes darted toward my bottom. "I'm a man, pudding, and the view I'm getting right now demands I keep a light on."
My hands darted to the hem of the wisp of a nightgown he had provided and then to the bedding. "I thought you were interested in seeing if you could sleep?"
"I'm interested in many things." Pretending to be a gentleman, he helped me tuck the blanket under my chin and then he brushed the back of his finger against my cheek. "But, above all things, I'm interested in you -- anyway I can have you. Conversation..."
He moved closer, the folds in the blanket ensuring there was no flesh on flesh contact other than his hand cupping the side of my face.
"Snuggling," he continued before his lips ghosted along the edge of my jaw. "Kissing, or just resting here in quiet and basking in your body heat."
"Let's try that last bit," I whispered. "It's the safest."
Taking a moment to turn off the lamp on his side of the bed, Simon repositioned himself along my body. His leg rested over my thighs and one arm across my chest to have his hand curl around my shoulder.
"And just a bit of a snuggle," he said, planting a soft kiss just below my ear.
********************
I fell asleep with Simon holding me like that, his thumb stroking hypnotically across my collar bone. I woke a little after dawn to his deep, peaceful breaths, our positions little changed. I tried to will myself back to sleep so that I wouldn't wake him. But the feel and smell of him sparked my imagination, changed the rhythm of my own breathing so that I roused him.
He slid on top of me, his arms braced at my sides and none of his weight bearing down on me. "Good morning, beautiful."
I smiled up at him, my nose feeling the sting of joyful tears. I had been with men in the past, fucked them, but never woke up next to them. I had been the one out the door with the desire to put the man in my past, my body and heart dissatisfied.
Knowing my smile was stretching into a full, slightly demented, grin, I tried to force a more sober mask in place.
"None of that, pudding," Simon admonished. His head dipped down for a sedate kiss against my forehead. "Whatever you're feeling, I want to see it."
My hands slid from the mattress to capture his narrow waist. The urge to run my fingers elsewhere almost overtook me. My nails dug lightly at his skin before I planted my palms against his chest and gave a light push. "All I'm feeling right now is my bladder."
His chest flexed against my hands and his shoulders gave a light jerk as a short laugh erupted from him. He ro
lled off me, stealing all the bedding so that I had only the thin, sleeveless, and nearly skirtless nightgown to protect me against air that had chilled overnight.
"Off with you then." He gave my thigh an understanding pat and then a little push. "I'll order morning tea while you're away."
I started to bound off the bed when I remembered the prior evening's promise -- no chance of sex until the morning tea.
My gaze darted in his direction to find a fat grin on his handsome face. He arched one dark blond brow, the narrow strip of daylight sneaking into the room dancing mischievously in his eyes. "Unless you want to skip the tea and get straight to the cream?"
I gasped, a little surprised despite everything that had happened. Surprised and pleased, heat spreading across my skin at the thought of crawling back into bed.
Without answering him, I hopped up, snatched the bedside robe and disappeared into the bathroom. With the door shut, I pushed my panties down to my ankles and relieved the pressure that had built overnight. I wiped, squirming because my flesh was very sensitive to the touch. Sensitive and coated with arousal that had started flow from inside me, my juices clear and sticky from the idea of a morning with Simon -- in his Vault.
Heart thumping, I washed my hands then soaked a washcloth with hot water. I ran it over my face then peeled off the nightgown, rinsed more hot water through the cloth and ran it over my shoulders. I knew I wanted Simon, but complications remained.
In the middle of my twenties, I shouldn't have even thought about talking to my oldest brother before having sex with a man I desired. If I had to talk to Dylan first, I didn't know how long I would be waiting because I absolutely couldn't pull his attention away from Mishka.
Lost in thought, I refreshed the washcloth several more times, giving myself a bird bath when I could have stepped into the shower instead. I ran the steaming fabric over my aching nipples, across my stomach, between my thighs. A shiver ran through me, my entire body starting to shake.
That decided the matter. Talking to Dylan would have to wait. He didn't have a veto right, anyway. Things would be smoothed over -- eventually. His opinion of Simon would have to change because mine wouldn't.
Finished freshening up, I returned to the bedroom, the nightgown and my panties abandoned on the bathroom floor. I had a moment to scan the room and find Simon absent before I almost had a stroke at the sound of a well-oiled cart being wheeled into the outer room.
The paintings!
I was about to race back into the bathroom to hide for the rest of my life when Simon returned to the bedroom, his body wrapped in a thin silk robe as black as the room hiding behind the big screen TV.
"Pudding, what's wrong?"
"I heard the service cart. Please tell me..." I couldn't bring myself to even speak the possibility that one of the staff had seen the paintings.
"I met the bellboy at the elevator." Softly smiling, Simon pushed against me, his hands sliding into the robe to find my flesh. He planted one palm against the small of my back. The other cupped one cheek, the fingers squeezing at my bottom as his mouth covered mine.
Oh, my sweet, merciful...
My brain started to melt at his kiss, the furnace between my legs kicking into action. His hand moved from my back to my front, his persuasive fingers coaxing me into parting my thighs. Stroking at my clit, he walked me backwards. The bend of my knees met the frame of the bed and I started to fold.
Down I went, my bottom hitting the mattress and the robe falling open as Simon's kiss descended. Bypassing my breasts, he wound his arms around my hips and nudged my legs apart. Lips fastened on my clit and then his tongue began to move.
I shattered a few heartbeats later, my release erupting with a scream that echoed in the king-sized bedroom. I writhed along the mattress, my cunt locked in pleasure that was almost painful from how strong the contractions were that ran through me. I strained, trying to control it, to retreat, but the contractions kept rolling through me. I screamed again, hips jerking. My hands seized my head, my fingers knotting in my hair as Simon continued sucking and another bucking wave rolled through my body.
"Oh, pudding, I promise you're going to take much, much longer the next time," Simon chuckled before biting lightly at my hip as he moved up my body.
I blushed over how I had come so quick and so hard. My thighs were a wet mess, the flesh heated and shiny. My pussy still spasmed, pushing out more clear cream that his fingers played in.
"Not if you don't stop touching me," I whispered, wanting anything other than the cessation of his hand against my sex.
"Mmmm..." Simon nuzzled my neck as he pressed a thumb against my clit and pushed three fingers deep into me. "Maybe we'll go for a high count this morning and practice restraint tonight."
Feeling the sweet tension repossess my cunt, I knew restraint would be impossible. I wanted his cock out, wanted to ride it. I felt like a wild woman unleashed, dripping with need, every inch of my flesh hypersensitive.
Until my phone started vibrating within my clutch, the small purse threatening to dance off the edge of the nightstand.
"I'm so sorry..." My hands wrapped around Simon's shoulders to urge him away.
"Last night's 'business'?" he asked.
I nodded, reaching for my purse and feeling a million shades of rude. Pulling the cell phone out, I saw that the call was Dylan.
"I'll prepare the tea service," Simon offered, planting a quick kiss on my shoulder before exiting the room.
I pressed the icon to accept Dylan's call and cautiously placed the phone against my ear, my whispered greeting barely audible.
Hearing nothing but a sigh from Dylan, my heart started pounding.
"What's wrong?" His silence after I answered caused two scenarios to run rampant inside my head. Either some tattletale at the hotel had contacted Dylan or there was bad news on Mishka. I didn't care how much of an ass chewing I was in for if someone had ratted me and Simon out, I just wanted Dylan's sigh not to be about the big Russian.
"Sorry, baby girl," Dylan answered. "I'm just exhausted. Jo-Jo wanted to keep you up-to-date, but she can't talk about Mishka without crying this morning."
Tears sprung immediately to my eyes. "What did you hear?"
"Nothing, nothing and more nothing," he answered. "I've got Austin Long involved now..."
I relaxed a fraction. The oilman not only knew Mishka and had close ties to Russia because of his company, but he was ex-Special Forces.
"That's good, right?" I asked, a begging inflection to my tone.
"It might get us ears and eyes in Moscow that we don't already have. What we really need is surveillance, some way to..."
He trailed off and I gave a small prompt. I knew what he was talking about but also that it wasn't wise to talk about such things over the phone. "I thought we had experts?"
"All the Russian experts are in Russia." Another sigh followed, heavier than the first. "We could offer them all the money in the world and they wouldn't lift a finger. And just asking could be a death warrant if it got back to the wrong group."
Seconds passed in silence before I heard Dylan's sharp intake of air. "That's enough doom and gloom. Nothing gets solved sobbing about it. I need you to rein Simon in so we can launch on time and then I need your butt home so I have one less body to worry about."
"I love you too, jerk," I said, knowing the conversation was over before the line went dead a second later.
Wrapping the robe around me, I went into the outer room to find Simon sipping on a cup of tea and reading the morning paper. Hearing me enter, he looked up and the serene set of his beautiful mouth collapsed.
"You've been crying." Setting down the cup and paper, he started to rise.
"Please, don't get up." I sat down next to him, tucked my feet under me and rested my head on his shoulder. My libido had fled and I didn't know when it would be returning.
Simon picked up his cup and handed it to me. "Drink this. I'll pour some more for both of us and fix you a pl
ate."
I took a sip, pleased to find it heavy on the cream and sugar. My gaze surfed over his lean body as he stretched forward and arranged a few morning cakes on a piece of china. There were several blank spots on the tray, suggesting he had already eaten some while I was on the phone.
"I'm surprised you indulge," I said. "I figured you must be all protein smoothies and salads."
"Well," he answered, settling against me once more. "You'd be surprised at the number of calories you can consume when you don't sleep."
I frowned, all of the information from the day before rushing at me. "So you really haven't slept for twenty years? I can't wrap my head around the idea."
His shoulders lifted. "There are a few medical precedents before me. One is a disease mechanism some people inherit. It doesn't hit them until middle age, when they've already passed the genes on. They usually die within two years once their sleep center shuts down."
My chest tightened and I reminded myself that Simon had survived twenty years like this. Looking him, his body glowing with health, there wasn't any reason to believe he would be dead from his condition in the next two years.
"I was taught adaptive techniques six months after...the incident. Once they realized I wasn't sleeping. Meditation, biofeedback. I was down to sixty pounds before I could finally trick my brain chemistry into thinking I'd had sleep."
He stiffened against me. I put my plate and cup on the coffee table then placed my arm across his chest in a loose hug. "You don't have to talk about it -- any of it -- unless you want to."
"Thank you." He turned to face me, our arms around one another. "I would much rather know why you were crying."
I wanted to cry again but for a totally different reason. Or maybe the same reason. I was sad and happy at the same time. Sad because my friend was missing, sad because Simon had been hurt as a child, but happy that I was on the couch with him, that something inside me that had felt empty for so long was finally full, overflowing even.