by Amber Lin
She raised her fingers to her mouth, just to see. Her lips tingled, extra sensitive, curved into a small smile.
When the elevator doors opened, Hailey stepped into a dark room. Déjà vu assailed her from when she’d come up with Lock. Before she’d had sex with him or signed the contract. Before she even knew who he was. It felt like a lifetime ago, as if that had happened to a much younger version of herself, but that had only been last night.
While she’d been gone, he’d drawn the curtains, blocking out the glossy sunlight she’d seen earlier. Recreating the intimacy they’d already shared. He was in front of her before she realized it, surrounding her before she thought to fight. She was up against the wall, pinned there by him, and she sighed in unexplored relief. A rocky cliff, this relief, only safe from a distance. He ran his mouth down her jaw, along her neck, hurtling her closer to crashing waves. God, how quickly they could turn to sex. The only thing they had was sex.
“You’re in trouble,” he muttered.
She was gasping, panting. Drowning. “I came straight here.”
“Not good enough.” He paused suddenly, his body stilling. Only then did she realize how she’d been practically riding his thigh. Good Lord.
Deliberately, as if to make sure she couldn’t misunderstand, he grasped her hand and raised it above her head. The other followed, leaving her captive in the bondage of his body, his fingers biting into her wrists. Did he see how much she yearned for that? Did he realize it bound him too?
“Did you find who you were looking for?” he muttered.
She’d talked to some people, but now all she could see was him. He filled up her vision and consumed her breath. “Not yet.”
“Even if you had, you would have to stay. Three nights.”
“One down,” she whispered.
“One down,” he agreed, nudging hard flesh against her hip. “And when I woke up, you were gone. What was I supposed to do with this?”
He was taunting her. Testing her, something whispered inside her. A deep-seated feminine knowledge that knew exactly how to deal with a man in this state, needy and cruel. He wasn’t the only one hungry for it. He wasn’t the only one who wanted it to hurt. That thick, pulsing erection, probably sticky with precum. What was he supposed to do with it?
“You have a hand,” she whispered.
He chuckled darkly. “I’m going to enjoy making you pay for that.”
God, she was counting on it.
*
With her wrists trapped under one hand, he was free to explore her body without her fingers asking questions, making demands. He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes flashed curiosity and heat. She wet her lips, pink tongue darting and retreating, drawing him in. The scent of maple syrup lingering on her breath. She probably tasted like—
No. He wasn’t going to kiss her. His goal was torment.
He skimmed the length of her arm, over the top of her breast, down her belly, lingering just below her navel until she rocked against his thigh again. That wet mouth falling open, the damp heat scorching him. Something about her face, the flush in her cheeks, the widening of her eyes—he’d had lap dances that weren’t this lewd, this delicious.
“Are you going to, you know, spank me?” She bore down on his thigh, as hard as she could with her body pinned, grinding, finding the friction he was trying to withhold. But her voice was light, like she’d asked him if he was going to make lemonade. If he did, he wouldn’t use any sugar. Except he would, for her. If she asked him with that same voice and pressed herself against him when she did.
Her nipples were hard points pushing against the thin fabric of her T-shirt. She’d gone downstairs like that, no bra, tits on display. His tits to play with. He flicked one with his thumb, pinched it between thumb and forefinger and rolled it cruelly. Kept rolling it. She squirmed, arching herself more fully into his hand, sucking that bottom lip into her mouth. He could make her use her mouth again, tie her hands, fuck her face. He could spank her like she so obviously wanted, needed. He could carry her to the bed, spread her legs, and consume her long past the point she begged him to stop. What did he want? He wanted to kiss that syrupy mouth while she jerked and writhed and came all over his leg.
“Fuck it.” He let the gravitational pull of her mouth draw him down, let his tongue slip into the space between her lips.
She did taste like syrup. Like waffles. And a home he’d never known. The warm slide of her tongue against his. The soft, sweet swirl of it. It was too much. She tugged against his grip, trying to yank her hands free. Probably so she could draw him down deeper. He didn’t let go, wouldn’t. He pinned her more tightly. Bit at her lips. Tweaked her nipple harder. Anything to put an edge on this sweet ache. Still she bucked against him, harder and faster. Frantic.
“Oh God.” She moaned her orgasm into his mouth. And then she stilled. He’d gotten his wish.
“You’re going to pay for that too.”
*
Hailey spent the final pulses of her orgasm on the hard ridge of his thigh. The soft, worn denim of his jeans was now damp from her excitement, but she couldn’t find any embarrassment. Her whole body felt wrung out, sated and soft and impossibly desperate to do it again. He’d flipped a switch inside her with that contract, found the secret sexual part of her and put it on display. She tried to rock against him, to nudge herself toward another peak, but he tightened his hold on her wrists, pulling her up on her toes. He shook his head.
She managed not to say a word she was thinking, not please or more or never ever stop, but he knew anyway. She could see him read them from her eyes, feel the way his cock jerked against her hip in response.
His thigh disappeared from between her legs. His firm hands released her. She was spread lewdly against the wall, and all alone for it. It would have been cold without the fire in his dark gaze, licking its way down her body.
“Here’s what’s going to happen next,” he said. “You’re going to walk over to that sofa and bend over the side. You’ll flip your skirt up so I can see that tight little ass. And then I’m going to spank you until you’re so fucking wet it drips down your leg.”
His voice was like crushed granite, washing over her and leaving her skin butter smooth. She could see herself following his directions. She could feel a phantom drop of arousal along the inside of her thigh.
“And when your pussy’s nice and wet, all swollen and thick, I’m going to wrap you around my cock and fuck you until I explode.”
God. Her body twisted inside, in ways that were no longer pleasure—she was pulsing with something else. With need. The world had gone black-and-white. White was the empty space, the left behind, the sunny smile to hide all her pain. He was inky black, coating her with knowledge and filling her up inside.
“Now,” he said.
On shaking limbs made of rubber, she pushed off the wall and walked to the sofa. Its hard angles and shiny leather didn’t look inviting, but when she draped herself across the side, it molded to her body. She reached back and flipped her skirt up. The sound he made as he sucked in a breath said he didn’t know she’d been bare underneath.
As his footsteps came closer, she pressed her face into the cushion. Her world narrowed to the smell and feel of leather, to the ache of fear in the pit of her stomach. How much would it hurt? Too much?
Or even worse, not enough?
“You went running around the hotel,” he asked, “like this?”
The way he said like this sounded exactly like completely naked.
“No one could tell,” she whispered.
He made a sound of disbelief. “This skirt’s the size of a dish towel.”
“I crossed my legs.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, and he sounded angry; he really did. But he also sounded awestruck. Almost grateful, especially when he added, “You really wanted this.” Like he couldn’t believe his luck.
The first brush of his hand over her ass made her jump. He molded the flesh
with a possessive touch, a gentle pinch. Blunt fingers probed inward to her slippery folds. She was ready to take him, slick and swollen just like he’d said. But not dripping. He’d made promises when he had her against the wall, and he owed them to her now.
A rush of air was her only warning before his palm landed on her ass. Soft enough to be a warm-up, but hard enough to let her know he wouldn’t disappoint. The second came on the other cheek, with slightly more force. He took his time, pulling back and finding a new part of her to abuse. She imagined him watching her skin shudder and turn dark.
“Your ass looks beautiful likes this,” he said hoarsely.
Her inner muscles clenched in answer, and as if he heard her, his fingers quested there, searching her out, finding all her secrets. Two fingers circled her clit until she was on the verge of coming. He pulled away. A rush of air, a slap of flesh. There was a rhythm to his madness; of course there was. This rock star who held a stadium of people in his thrall. He could turn anything into music, even the sounds of hurt and longing—especially those.
Every inch between his hand and her flesh wound her up, drew her tight. Every warm flash of pain let her go. She loosened with each blow, with each turn of his fingers around her clit. He never let up, and she never wanted him to. He was sliding his fingers deep inside her, finding a spot that made her writhe on the slick leather, and she was coming apart.
She almost didn’t believe the tickle on her leg, how he’d promised her, how he’d delivered. Until he swooped low to lick the trail of arousal, from mid-thigh up to her drenched outer lips, a wet slide along the proof of his words. And at the top he nipped her. She would have shot up then, except for his hand on her lower back.
“Stay still. I need to fuck you now.”
He didn’t wait to see if she’d comply. A tear of foil and a rustle came from behind as he slipped on a condom. The broad head of his cock sought her entrance. He pushed inside without delay, demanding and greedy. She felt him part the walls of her sex, felt her muscles clench around him.
“That’s right. Milk me. Make me spill inside you.”
Her body tightened helplessly around him. “Lock?”
He groaned. “Baby.”
She wasn’t sure what she was asking. All she knew was that they’d almost run out of promises. She’d bent over the couch, and he’d spanked her. He was going to explode, and then what? They were on a speeding train, and she could see the end of the track. Two more days and it would be over. Warm leather caressed her throat as she swallowed.
He rocked inside her, so careful she knew he was close. All he had to do was let go. All she had to do was close her eyes and pray they’d be okay when it was over. She’d never known that sex could be an act of faith, but now that she was here, beneath him, surrounded by him, she couldn’t imagine any other way.
He was falling, groaning. He caught himself on the cushion under her, his hand beside her face. His skin glistened in the faint light, sweaty from spanking her, from fucking her. She reached up to grasp his wrist. On a whim, she placed a kiss on the silky skin of his inner arm. He paused behind her, a beat of indecision. A moment of communion.
Then he was wild, pushing inside her—deeper, harder.
She held on tight, to the earth beneath her and the wrist in her grasp, sure she could hold it all together. His grunts were tinged with desperation, like he couldn’t get there fast enough. His other hand crushed her hip, holding her down for his invasion.
He came with a rough sound and short, pulsing thrusts. His body felt rigid, levered off her but connected where it counted. In that moment he was purely carnal, a sexual being who’d found completion. She could almost believe that was all it had meant.
Almost, except for the gentle kiss he placed on her temple when he sank back down.
Chapter Ten
The ringing in his ears didn’t immediately subside. That orgasm had nearly blown the top of his head off. He’d been wound so tight, every slap vibrating up his arm and down to his balls. Pleasure building and building until he had to unzip his pants and fist his cock—squeeze it hard at the base, just to take the edge off—while he worked her over. While he gave her exactly what she wanted, again and again.
And God, the sounds. The smack of flesh against flesh. The rhythm of moan and whimper. The keen when he slipped his fingers into all that wetness.
Lost in those sounds, he’d played her like a song.
He sat on the floor beside the couch, eyes level with her reddened ass, barely able to hear his own thoughts. Just the song. It was so pretty, the melody, and that ass, marked with his handprints. Branded. He reached up to touch his handiwork but hesitated. It would sting. Wasn’t that the point? To make it hurt?
Not now. Now he wanted to peel her off the arm of the couch and cradle her. Smooth back her sweat-damp hair. Kiss her temple again. All this sweetness welling up. What was he supposed to do with it?
He’d smacked some asses before, but never like this. Never with such…purpose. He’d wanted to punish her for all the things she’d made him feel. And now that he’d done it, he was feeling even more. Feelings he couldn’t even name.
Shit. He shook his head, like that would stop the ringing. If it hurt, so be it.
But it didn’t hurt, not if he judged by her soft mmmm of pleasure or the way she arched into his touch like a kitten. She’d probably curl up in his lap and sleep if he let her, but they were both too sticky for that.
“Shower.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but once he did, it felt right. He needed to clean up his mess. And clean up.
“Oh, okay.” The sigh she made, so forlorn, nearly undid him.
He stroked over the curve of her calf. “I meant for the both of us. Can you stand?”
He wasn’t even sure if he could stand.
“Dunno. I’m not feeling very…connected to my body right now. Except for where you’re touching me.”
“Then I’ll have to keep touching you.”
He scooped her up and carried her across the room, over the threshold, into the marble-tiled expanse of the bathroom. She was heavy in his arms, a solid weight, despite how small she seemed. Setting her on the edge of the tub, he flicked the water on full blast.
“Not too hot.” Her voice was soft, dreamy, disconnected. He didn’t know if he should be worried or proud. He thrust his wrist under the jet to test the temperature. Very warm. Exactly how he felt right now.
He lifted her again and helped her step over the tub. She stood under the steamy spray, rivulets of water running down the length of her body, and shivered. “Don’t leave.”
Usually needy pissed him off, but with her it loosened something inside him, untied a knot he didn’t know was tangled. He felt so responsible. “Like I said, this is for both of us.”
He stepped in behind her and grabbed a bottle of shampoo from the little shelf in the wall and filled his palm. Massaged her scalp with the ginger-scented cream as she leaned into his touch. He worked up a lather, let the soap slide down her neck and over her shoulders. He followed the suds with his hands, trailing fingers over the tips of her nipples, down the curve of her waist and over the rise of her ass. He couldn’t stop touching her. Wouldn’t. He turned her to face him, letting the water rinse away the last of the soap. Finally she opened her eyes. Clear and bright. “Thank you.”
Almost a sigh, that thank you, such reverence. It was like a hand around his cock. She grabbed the tiny bottle of shampoo he’d used and soaped up her hands. Her touch was light as she smoothed over his slick skin. Soaped his chest. Her fingernails dragging over his nipples, down the xylophone of his ribs, sending electric bursts of pleasure rocketing under his skin. Jesus, he couldn’t think when she was touching him.
He pinned her palms flat against his chest. “I need to get ready for the show tonight. You should dry off.”
The look on her face. Pained. Fuck. Without thinking, incapable of thinking, just wanting to erase that look, he released her hands, pulled her cl
ose and kissed her so hard she’d have a different hurt to worry about. When she softened in his arms, he let her go.
She touched her fingers to her lips and stumbled out of the shower without a word.
*
By the time she emerged from the bedroom, room service had come and gone. A tray of silver dome caps gleamed by the dining table like some sort of trophy, a reward after very good sex. And seated at the head of the table was the victor, wearing only jeans hanging low on his hips.
She hesitated at the edge of the plush rug. Its thick pile curled over her toes. How could they keep it so white? The robe she wore was white and plush too, everything cloud-like and insubstantial. An image flashed through her mind, a freeze-frame of Julia Roberts wearing a white robe in a hotel room much like this one. Of a lover she hadn’t exactly chosen but who’d chosen her. That situation was different, completely different, because a contract wasn’t the same as a paycheck. And because there was no fairy-tale ending in her future.
Lock looked up from a notebook he’d been reading. There was a glint in his eye she didn’t quite recognize. Not the curiosity from the first night or the lust glaze from this morning. This was…cold. Clinical.
Almost mean.
“Waiting for something?” he asked, and she didn’t know the answer, couldn’t tell him if she did.
Whatever warmth he’d given her in the shower had evaporated. He’d opened the curtains, and the sun drew his face in bright streaks, remote as a painting. This was him getting ready for a show. This was him pulling away from her. Should she leave? She didn’t want to leave.
He raised an eyebrow. “You must be hungry.”
She took a step back at the frost in his tone. “I already ate.”
“That was breakfast, three hours ago.”
Had it really been three hours? She was losing time, losing him. Losing herself, and she wasn’t sure where she’d be found again. Outside this hotel, where food was bought with money instead of room numbers? Back home in her two-bedroom apartment, making mac and cheese for supper? But it didn’t have anything to do with what she ate or even how she paid for it—that was the problem. The change was inside her, and she wouldn’t be able to go back to the way things had been.