“Your sex life includes two men. I’m one of them.”
“And you’ve slept with half of Spain?”
He laughed. “No. Look, it’s not relevant. I’m trying to make this easier for you. All the late-night commuting must be exhausting.”
She shook her head. Ivy was the most alive she’d been in weeks. “I like it.” She expelled a soft sigh, and tried to explain. “I was in a relationship for a really long time. Steve and I spent so much time together we became a part of each other. I don’t want that. I want this to be casual. Light. Easy. So that when it’s time to walk away, we can both do it without difficulty.”
He nodded, but there was a spark in his eyes that somehow Ivy just knew registered his objection.
“I love sleeping with you. But this isn’t a relationship. We’re not a couple. It’s easier for me to remember that when I sleep in my own bed. Alone.”
“And you would forget if you slept with me?”
“I am sleeping with you,” she deliberately misunderstood him.
He made a grunting sound of frustration.
“I need to feel in control of this,” she said quietly, desperately. “I can’t get hurt again.”
“I’ve told you, I have no plans to hurt you.”
Her smile was wistful. “Nor did Steve.”
And nothing, no smile, no expression of grief, could soften that blow. The last thing Rafe Santoro wanted was to be compared to Ivy’s ex.
*
He stared at the box, frustration making him frown.
He didn’t know what the hell was the matter with him. Ivy was right. He didn’t want a relationship any more than she did. He’d never been into a woman for long – his relationships burned fast and bright, but they always ended, and this would be no different.
At some point, he’d go back to Spain, and Ivy would get over her ex, and this would end.
Rafe swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.
The ex.
That had to explain his singular obsession to break her. To make her give him more of herself than she was willing. It wasn’t about Ivy, nor was it about desire. It was about ego.
Rafe damned well hated that she was still hung up on the idiot who’d broken her heart. The bastard didn’t deserve Ivy, that much was obvious.
Something like a sharp blade seemed to perforate the edges of Rafe’s soul.
Ivy was using Rafe to get over Steve. That had been obvious from the beginning, and Rafe had fallen in with the plan. So why was he so angry about it now? Why did that knowledge make him feel like dragging Ivy to his home in Spain and holding her captive until she couldn’t even remember her ex’s name?
He dug his nails into his palms, turning back to the box with a sense of destiny.
Ivy wanted him to seduce her; she wanted him to seduce her to a point of forgetfulness and oblivion, and Rafe would do just that. If she wanted this to be just about sex, if that made her feel better, then he’d go along with it.
And he’d have fun, while he was at it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BOX ARRIVED ON Saturday morning. Ivy was reading the news on the GBRTV iPad app, listening to Adele, and was on about her fifth cup of tea when the knock came.
Her heart leaped.
Rafe?
Ridiculous.
He’d been very quiet since their lunch the day before. He hadn’t asked her to his apartment, and she hadn’t offered. She might crave him bodily, but she was in control of her cravings and whatever they were.
She padded to the door, cinching her robe more tightly around her waist as she pulled it inwards.
“Miss Hennessey? Sign here, please.” The delivery man held a white box towards her, and Ivy took it, juggling it on her hip as she ran the stylus across the electronic pad.
“Thanks,” she murmured, kicking the door shut with the heel of her foot and moving back down the hallway. She pulled at the ribbon as she went, because she was impatient. She recognised Rafe’s scrawl across the front of the box and curiosity was chewing through her. She placed it on the table to finish, pushing the lid off and separating the tissue paper with mounting fascination.
A card was on top of black gauze.
Wear this tonight. Only this. And bring the rest. 8pm. And Ivy, you will be staying over because you’ll be too exhausted to move.
So far as romance went, it was non-existent. Good.
She frowned, pulling the black fabric out and gasping as a seriously skimpy and sexy negligee emerged. It was all transparent black lace, and she could tell just by looking at it that it would only just cover her bottom.
Mmm, she thought. Perhaps.
She bit down on her lip as she reached back into the box and her fingers gripped something cold and hard.
She lifted it and froze.
Handcuffs.
And not flimsy novelty ones, either. These were hardcore, impossible to break free of, police-grade cuffs. She pulled at them with a sense of growing awareness, and then stuffed them back in the box. They made a sound as they chinked against something else.
Something metallic.
Her frown deepened as she reached in and now two little clothes pegs came out, with gem-stones dangling from either end. Strange. What could they be for?
Wishing Lisette was there to ask, and also incredibly relieved she wasn’t, Ivy stuffed it all back into the box and carried it hastily up to her room. The Thames glistened beyond her little dormer window – the window Steve had used to love to look out of. She barely saw it. Her heart was thrilling.
Did he expect her to balk at whatever kinky night he had planned?
Ivy grinned.
Far from it. She couldn’t wait…
*
She stood at his door, so excited she could burst. The negligee was on, and she’d worn nothing else, just a beige trench coat she’d borrowed from Lisette and a pair of stilettos. The handcuffs and pegs were in a beaded black clutch she’d brought.
Adrenalin pumped in her veins as the ocean at high tide.
He wrenched the door inwards, his eyes dropped instantly to her coat.
She stepped into the apartment and, before he could untether it, she did so, pushing it apart and letting it drop to the ground. She stood before him in a dress that made her more visible than if she were naked. The intricate swirls of the fabric drew attention to her breasts in a way that was impossible not to stare at.
“Even better on.” The words were hoarse. He circled his finger in the air and she spun, sexy, womanly confidence making her emboldened to strut through his apartment a little way, then spin and move back to him.
“Stop,” he commanded. “Did you bring the other things?”
“Yeah. What are these pegs?” She murmured, reaching into her clutch and pulling them out.
“Oh, they’re not pegs.” He took them from her and, before she could fathom what was about to happen, he clipped them over her nipples. They worked a little like the old-fashioned clip-on earrings Nanny Anderson had worn, that Ivy had occasionally tried on. For a few minutes they were fine, but the longer she’d kept them in place, the more the pain had become an actual thing. She was guessing these worked on the same principal.
“Seriously?” She asked, her eyes meeting his.
For a second something in his expression shifted, softened, and then he was back. The tycoon she’d first met. That she occasionally forgot he was, because he became, simply Rafe to her.
“How can you run a major online news app and not know what nipples clamps are?”
“I guess our x-rated news buy is down,” she retorted, spurred to defensiveness by the implied condescension in his question.
“This looks fantastic on you,” he said, his voice gravelled and deep as he swerved the conversation away.
She swallowed. “It feels kind of amazing.”
His eyes narrowed and then he grabbed her hand and pulled her, with urgency, through his apartment, to a room she’d never been
in before. A bedroom, with a door that led to the outdoor area.
“Why don’t you use this as your room?” She asked. It was larger than his, and beautifully decorated.
“I prefer the other.”
She turned around to ask him why, but he was undressing, slowly, deliberately, his eyes on hers. And words and thought flew from her mind.
She stared at him and her nipples, already pinched and throbbing, strained, erect and squashed by the metal.
“This feels strange,” she said, lifting her fingers to the jewels.
“Leave them,” he growled, then, softened. “Unless they are painful.”
“I think it’s good pain,” she whispered, her eyes huge.
“You’ll know if it’s not.”
She blinked her lashes. “And then I’ve got permission to remove them?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Of course.” He was naked, and so beautiful she stared at his body hungrily. “You’ll tell me if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”
She nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. “I don’t think that’s likely.”
He nodded, a muscle jerking in his jaw. She felt a sense of hesitation in him, and she wanted to overcome it. “I want you,” she muttered. God, it was so much more than that. She needed him. Badly. Desperately. As he walked towards her, she dropped her hand to her feminine heart, her fingers lifting the negligee so that she could touch her throbbing tangle of nerves.
He stopped walking and stared, his body immovable, his expression taut as she threw her head back, her eyes focussing on the ceiling.
“Cristo,” he swore, and he closed the distance, lifting her hand, and kissing her fingers, then slipping one into his mouth. Her knees buckled and he caught her around the waist, holding her tight to him. The feeling of his mouth around her finger, knowing he was tasting her essence, was almost too erotic to bear.
He drew her with him, towards the bed, but once they reached it, he turned her around to face the bedhead and gripped her wrists. He clipped a handcuff around her wrist, and then tethered it past a bedpost, then clipped her other wrist to it. She was imprisoned.
“I hope you have the keys,” she joked, but her voice was strained, her brow dotted with perspiration.
He didn’t answer. He moved to stand behind her and bent her forward from the hips, so that her head was level with the mattress, but several feet away.
His fingers on her hips were firm. She gasped as he pushed the negligee up, and she bit down on her lip, impatience making her groan. She stepped her feet apart, wider, and rolled her back, wanting him to take her, the waiting almost killing her.
Her breasts were tingling with pleasure and an intense discomfort that only built the sensations of need. “Please,” she whispered, a husk of sound.
He ran his hands over her back, along the lace of the negligee, and at her shoulders, he dug his fingers into her muscles, massaging her in a way that made her hips tremble and her thighs ache. “God,” she groaned, arching her neck backwards. His fingers caught her hair and he pulled on it. Not hard, but enough to make her body throb.
He kept one hand in her hair while the other ran down to her clitoris and he padded his thumb over the sensitive, exposed nerve cluster.
She swore, tilting her head forward and he laughed, a husky sound of acknowledgement, but still he didn’t speak. His fingers dropped from her hair suddenly and came to her breasts. He flicked one of the nipple clamps, and she cried out. But it was a beautiful sensation. Hot and dark; exactly like him. Combined with the heat he was stirring at her heart, she was a puddle of need.
He dragged his hand outwards, running along her upper thigh, then her hip, and coming to the sensitive flesh between the swell of her buttocks.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, and she nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” His hand curved around her buttocks, and she moaned, every part of her alive and jerking and almost insane with need.
“I just do,” she groaned, low and slow, the words a tremor in her throat.
“Good.” And he thrust into her, without warning, yet her slick, moist core immediately answered, tightening around him, squeezing him, welcoming him back.
She needed him in a way she doubted she’d ever forget.
Every movement was a mark of his possession. His supremacy over her; his domination. She couldn’t admit it to him, and she could barely admit it to herself. Except in moments like this, when his body filled hers and she knew she would do anything, say anything, give him anything to keep feeling this way.
His hands crept to the clamps and he jerked them off. The relief was almost a pain. Then, his fingers began to move over her nipples and she groaned as the sensations overwhelmed her.
Her orgasm was more intense than she knew possible. Fireworks exploded in her breasts; her entire body vibrated with the strength of it. She grabbed the bed post and held on for dear life as the feelings soared her into the heavens. And he didn’t stop moving, even as her world was cracking apart. She sobbed – a cry thick with pleasure.
He stilled.
“You are in pain?”
“No,” she screamed into the darkness of the bedroom. “Don’t stop.”
His expression was grim but he took her and he made her his in a way he’d been wanting to do since first they met. He owned her body, and they both knew it.
His own release was close, but he wasn’t finished yet. He fumbled for the keys and unclipped one of her wrists.
“On the bed.” He hadn’t meant to sound so gruff. The word was a dark command and yet she sent him a look of complete sex-struck adoration as she scrambled onto the bed in the negligee that had seemed like such a great damned idea at the time.
She was panting, hard, her cheeks pink and eyes glazed, but he didn’t give her a moment to recover. His wrists took hers and lifted them above her head, so that he could fasten her hands once more, this time behind the slatted bed head.
“How are you feeling?” He asked, his eyes dragging over her body.
“I’m floating,” she said softly.
“And we’ve just begun.”
A tremor of excitement ran rampant in her gut. “Really?”
He thrust into her in answer and she cried out, her body quivering in response. He grabbed the negligee and dragged it up her body, slowly, tantalisingly, and at her breasts, he made sure to let the fabric strain across her pink, swollen nipples.
She arched her back, moaning loudly. Still he dragged it higher, until it had brushed her nose. Then, he stopped, leaving it thick and bunched across her eyes and arms, so that she was as blind as the night was dark.
“Feel this,” he commanded, and now he moved inside of her, watching as she sucked in a deep breath, her teeth sinking down on those beautiful lips, and he brought his mouth down onto her sensitised, throbbing nipples, rolling his tongue over them and lashing her with every single fibre of his being. She was shivering beneath him, her body unused to these sensations. Hell, that went both ways.
She was an angel in his bed. A heaven-sent delight. Perfect for him in every way.
No, just sexually, he reminded himself, dragging his hands down her body.
She whimpered, and he smiled, then paused.
He was close. So close. And he wanted to savour this.
He pulled out of her, his body heaving in complaint. He ignored it. When he finally came, it would be worth the wait.
He dragged his mouth from one breast to the other, and she begged him to take her again, rolling her body from side to side and pulling her arms hard as she tried to reach for him. He pressed a hard kiss against her mouth and then dragged his lips down the centre line of her stomach, between the valley of her neat breasts, the indent of her belly button, and lower still.
She cried out, loud and sharp, when his tongue found her most sensitive cluster of nerves and his lips moved over it, sucking and licking until she was murmuring over and over. He felt her come, he tasted it, and he knew he could become
addicted to doing that to her. The sense of power was ruling his head, his heart, and God knew, his cock.
He thrust a finger deep inside of her, and her muscles were still vibrating from the explosion.
“How do you feel?” He asked, though he could feel her heart rabbiting beneath him, her pulse rushing like a tornado.
“I’m dying,” she groaned. “I didn’t know it could be like this.”
Ego and pride swelled in his chest. Good. He wanted to give her what no one else had.
He reached for her wrists and undid the cuffs once more. She pulled the negligee off instantly then looped her arms around his neck, her eyes meeting his without a hint of concern.
“I like this,” she promised, as though she understood he’d pushed a barrier he wasn’t sure she’d wanted pushed. “I had no idea this was out there. These feelings. My body. It’s like I’m alive for the first time in my life.”
And she lifted up on her elbows, her mouth seeking his, kissing away any doubts that he was dominating her own sexual needs with his own.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, inviting him in. He pushed away, standing to the side of the bed, staring down at her, and then reaching for her and lifting her over his shoulder.
She squawked noisily. “I can walk.” Then, she laughed. “Or maybe not. My legs are like jelly.”
His smile was instinctive. He carried her not because he thought he needed to, but because he wasn’t willing to relinquish any connection with her. Not even for a moment. The door that led to the deck was unlocked. He strode onto the enormous balcony.
“Someone will see us,” she whispered.
“No,” he smiled. “We are higher than anyone.”
Looking around, she could see that he was right. “Still. It’s London. Someone must be watching. Somehow.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to just be reckless?” He asked, and before she could respond, he manoeuvred her onto his length. The last semi-cohesive thought Ivy had before sensations drowned out her mind was that she adored being a caveman’s quarry.
And he was the quintessential caveman. In this mindset, he was pure alpha male, Me Tarzan. You Jane.
Bedding his Innocent Mistress Page 9