by Sky Corgan
When he opens the door, all the air leaves my lungs in a woosh. My clit pulses with desire as I soak him in, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and expensive sneakers with a towel draped over his shoulders. It looks like he just finished running or working out. His muscles are popping, and the fine sheen covering his body makes me focus on how cut he actually is. It also makes the V pointing towards his dick look that much more delicious. I want to run my tongue down it, to taste his skin. It's a sick thought, one I normally wouldn't have. He's just too damn irresistible though.
“Are you going to stare at me all night, or would you like to come in?” He steps aside, giving me a panty melting grin.
It's starting to feel like my jaw is broken. The shock value of everything that's happened lately isn't lost on me, and I can't believe how clearly arrogant he is. I didn't think I was being that obvious, but apparently I was.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I step past him and am instantly assaulted by the smell of something savory coming from the kitchen.
He closes the door behind us. “I'm running a bit behind, trying to get everything done at once, but I managed to whip us up some dinner.”
“Dinner,” the word sounds foreign. “Doctor Reddick,” I turn back to him, “I'm here on business. You wanted to go over some of the furniture selections I made for you.”
He places his hand on the small of my back to urge me towards the dining room. The gentle touch feels electric as my body processes it irrationally. He's touching you. You like this, yes. You want more of it.
“Nothing good comes from working on an empty stomach, and I'm very hungry.” He ignores me, leading me to the table and pulling a chair out for me to sit.
Not knowing what else to do, I take my seat and wait for him to serve me. He picks up the plate in front of me, along with the one at the head of the table, and disappears into the kitchen. I'm left staring down at the worn wooden tabletop, thinking of the dining room table I picked to replace it, wondering if it's too plain. This one looks like it was expensive in its day, with intricate carving along the sides and legs. The one I selected is far more modern, sleek and angular. The only artistic aspect is cracked glass insets. I hope he likes it. Maybe he hates it. There's really no way of knowing until I ask.
He returns shortly with a bowl of salad in one hand and one plate in the other while the second plate is balanced on his forearm as if he's done it a hundred times before.
“Were you a waiter in a past life?” I ask as he sets the salad down before grabbing the plate on his forearm and placing it in front of me.
“I was a waiter in this life, a long time ago.” He rounds the table to sit diagonally from me.
The meal laid before me looks super healthy. Baked salmon with some kind of green sauce on it and spears of asparagus next to it with cherry tomatoes and garlic. No carbohydrates.
“Damn, I forgot plates for the salad.” He starts to get up.
“Don't worry about it. I can make room for it on this plate.”
Lucian smiles at me politely before sitting back down. He nudges the asparagus aside on his plate and grabs the tongs to portion out some salad onto the empty space. Then he offers the salad bowl to me. I take it gingerly, mirroring what he did, not wanting to look like an idiot.
“You didn't have to cook for me,” I say shyly.
“I didn't. I cooked for me. You just happened to be coming over around dinner time, and I didn't want to eat in front of you.”
His blunt reply puts things into perspective, and I have to fight to keep a frown from taking over my face. This isn't a sweet date. He didn't cook for me because he wanted us to share this meal together. He only did it because it would have been rude not to.
I take a bite of the fish, even though my appetite has receded. It's surprisingly good, flaky and buttery-tasting. Then again, I'm not sure why I'm so surprised. His breakfast was amazing, and he does have a gargantuan kitchen, which suggests that he enjoys cooking.
“This is a big house for just you,” I try to make conversation.
“It is,” he replies absentmindedly.
“To be honest, when I came for the initial consultation, I was sure that you'd be married and have kids.”
His gaze is piercing, as if I just struck a nerve. He grunts, and we fall into silence for several seconds while I try to decode the meaning of his reaction. Either he's offended that I suggested he's married, or he really is married, and he just doesn't want to talk about it. Now, I desperately want to know which one it is, but I know better than to press the subject. I need to tread carefully—to keep him happy so that he'll want to continue working with me.
“Derrick wanted to come, but my boss said that you specifically requested to work with me.”
“I did.”
I'm starting to get the feeling that I should just keep my mouth shut and eat, but I can't. The silence will drive me nuts. “So, tell me more about this house. It's absolutely gorgeous.” My eyes float up to the chandelier hanging overhead.
“I think I already told you it was my parents' house.”
“You did.”
“That's all there is to know.” His expression is completely disinterested.
“Did you always live here? I mean, did they give it to you after you graduated from college?”
“I'm not sure if I like the dining room table you picked out. I'd like some more options. Nicer chairs. I'm not fond of the cracked glass insets either. They look...well, broken.”
“Do you at least like the color?” I ask apprehensively. The mood seems to have shifted. Maybe this will be a professional meeting after all.
He nods. “The black looks fine. It's not what I expected you to choose, but I'm okay with it.
“I assume there's certain furniture stores your company shops at. I'd like to look at the furniture with you, help pick it out, physically go to the stores and make sure it's to my liking before we place the order.”
“Certainly.” I scratch my ear. “My boss told me you wanted to be more involved. What made you change your mind?”
He stops eating to stare at me for a moment, his jaw set. The contemplation on his face sends a shiver racing down my spine. “Something piqued my interest.”
He continues eating, and I suddenly feel full. Curiosity and emotion swirl in my stomach from his cryptic words. There was a strange sensuality behind them, yet he didn't sound sensual at all. Perhaps I'm just reading him wrong. Maybe I'm hoping for too much. I want to ask what he meant, but I'm afraid of the answer—afraid that he's not really interested in me. Though that's what I should want, the very thought hurts.
“The food is delicious,” I tell him as I rearrange things on my plate. I'm blushing, and I don't even know why.
“Cooking has always been a passion of mine. I would have been a chef, but it doesn't pay nearly as well as being a surgeon.” His eyes widen for effect.
“I can imagine.” I smirk. “Unless you're Gordon Ramsey, or someone like that.”
“Men like Gordon Ramsey are few and far between.” His lips crack into a smile, and I feel an overwhelming sense of joy that I amused him.
“So are brilliant plastic surgeons.”
I expect him to respond, but he doesn't. He simply continues smiling between bites until the moment passes, and we fall into silence. For some reason, it doesn't bother me as much now. My appetite, though still small, returns enough to help me finish off the meal.
When we're done eating, he takes our plates back to the kitchen, and I pull out my tablet and boot it up to start going over my furniture selections with him. He returns shortly, pulling his chair around to sit beside me. The closeness makes my heart flutter, even though it's completely nonsexual. Just knowing he's half-naked and near me does things to me—things my body isn't used to experiencing from being in close proximity to a man. What I'm feeling is more than physical attraction though. There are too many amazing things about him. His confidence, his tenacity, his kindness, his way with wor
ds. Everything about him draws me closer, like a moth to a flame. And even though I know I shouldn't want to get closer, even though I know I'll get burned, some subconscious part of me doesn't care.
We spend the next thirty minutes interacting professionally, which feels completely foreign to me. It turns out that Lucian likes most of the stuff I picked out, but he still wants more options. He doesn't like not being able to touch the furniture and see it in person before committing to a purchase. I can understand that in regard to sofas and beds. In fact, it's a rather common concern. It's just interesting that he wants his hands in all things.
“Having you be physically present to approve every piece of furniture is going to make this process take a lot longer,” I tell him gently.
“It's my money.” His lips pull into a strained grin, and I cower a little.
“I'm just letting you know.”
“I'm well aware.” Now, I'm just annoying him. It's written all over his face.
“Well,” I take a deep breath, “I think that's about it. If you can send me your schedule and let me know when it will be convenient for you to go look at furniture, that would be great. I'll send you a few more selections for each room that I've got so far. You can let me know what you like, and we'll go from there.”
“Sounds good. I did notice, however, that you haven't picked out anything for my bedroom yet.” He watches me shut down my tablet and shove it into my purse.
“I'm waiting for Derrick to put together the digital blueprint of your bedroom.”
“Why is that necessary?”
The question catches me off guard, and I hesitate a little. “I suppose it's not.”
“Good, because I'd really like to work on that room first.” He gives me a serious look, as if doing anything other than what he wants is not optional.
“Alright,” I draw out the word before quickly recovering and reaching into my purse for my camera. “I came prepared.” I hold up the camera like it will magically save the day. “Let's go snap some pictures of your bedroom, and I can get working on it first thing in the morning.”
“Sounds good.” He nods before standing up and leading the way.
My eyes play over the muscles of his back. It's like he's carved out of stone. He's so perfect, all the way down to the dimples just above his ass. Mmm his ass. I just want to grab it.
When we get to his bedroom, I make sure I raise my gaze before he catches me staring. Then my attention immediately shifts to the space, and I start taking pictures. As with the rest of the house, there are too many pieces of furniture and quite a bit of clutter. Aside from the obvious, though, one of the first things I notice is that all the picture frames on his dresser and bedside tables have been placed glass-side-down. Whatever is beneath them, he doesn't want me to see, which only makes me that much more curious. Even though it's a bit unsettling, I decide that some things are better left unknown. If our relationship, in whatever context, ever gets to a point where he wants to share, he will. I have to believe that and not pressure him.
I'm snapping the last few pictures when he walks up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. It takes me a minute to realize he's pulling off my sweater. Once I'm aware of that, I quickly turn around, moving out of his grasp.
“What are you doing?” I ask, even though I'm already fairly certain of his intentions.
His blue eyes are dark, a telling sign that I'm right. “I was just making you more comfortable.”
“I am comfortable, Doctor Reddick.” I pull the sweater back up.
“Is that so?” He takes a step forward, towering over me, a picture of sexy, intimidating masculinity.
I don't back down. “It is so. I'm almost done here, then I can leave you alone to enjoy the rest of your night.”
“I can think of a few ways to enjoy the rest of my night, and none of them involve you leaving.” He reaches up to caress my cheek, and electric waves zip through me, turning on every nerve that has anything to do with my arousal. The room suddenly feels ten degrees hotter, and I feel oh so weak.
You can't do this. You promised Derrick that you'd keep things professional from here on out. I know you want to give in, but if you do, things will only get worse. You'll be more emotionally screwed up than you already are. Maybe you'll even cry again.
That last thought makes me grab his hand to push it away, but the minute I do, he's sliding his other hand into my hair and drawing me to him for a kiss that steals all of my breath and resolve. Soft lips. Perfect lips.
His tongue seeks entry into my mouth, and I allow it almost reflexively. He holds me against his rock-hard body as we kiss. I close my eyes and enjoy the ride, allowing him to lead. My heart pounds as I realize that I've opened Pandora's box. Backing out now would be offensive. And in truth, I don't want to. I want a do-over from last night—a chance to redeem myself.
Aggressively, he pulls my sweater over my shoulders. This time, I don't resist. I drop my arms to my sides and help him take it off the rest of the way.
His eyes bore into mine, so intense that I feel a tingling of submission inside as he backs me up against the bed. By the time my butt hits it, he's already working to get my shirt over my head. The second that my skin is exposed, his lips are on my collarbone. I crane my neck to the side and moan from the soft feel of his kiss coupled with the roughness of his hands as they wrap around my waist and draw me to him again. My pliable body seems to mold against his wall of muscle. I still feel embarrassed for being so fluffy, but if it bothered him any, we wouldn't be doing the things we are now.
He places a line of kisses around the front of my neck before finding the zipper of my skirt and pulling it down. It amazes me how his hands seemed to hone in on it, as if he's very experienced at taking off every manner of women's clothing. He probably is, I think with a frown. After all, he does work at Flesh on the weekends. Beyond that though, I'm sure that he sleeps with a lot of women. The thought makes my arousal wane, but I quickly try to push it away. Nothing good ever came from over-thinking things like this, especially when my goal is redemption.
As my skirt falls to my ankles, Lucian grabs two fistfuls of my ass and hoists me up onto the bed, then he presses his body between my legs to kiss me again. I dare to touch him, sliding my hands over his shoulders to drape them around his neck. Touching him adds a whole other level to my arousal. I've never been brave enough to do it before, though he's certainly done a lot of touching on me.
His hands curl around my pantyhose, and he begins to remove them slowly. When he moves back to pull them over my hips and down my legs, I catch a glimpse of the tent in his pants. He must not be wearing any underwear, because I can see the outline of his cock perfectly. Shaft, glans, and all. So thick and ready for me.
“Get up further on the bed,” he instructs once my shoes and hose are off.
I scoot back, being mindful of my injured ankle. The last thing I want to do is make it worse.
I expect him to toss my hose onto the floor, as he's done with my other clothes, but instead, he wads them up in his fist and crawls up onto the bed beside me. He moves over me like a predator, his gorgeous eyes looking almost dangerous. It makes me feel oh so horny.
“Give me your wrists,” he demands.
When he sits up beside me and begins straightening out my hose, I know his game. At this point, I'm pretty sure he's the MacGyver of restraints. If I wasn't wearing hose, he probably would have pulled the tie string out of his pants to bind my wrists. It's a bit disturbing that he can't seem to enjoy having sex without tying me up first, but I decide to go with it. He is a Dom, after all, and I'm sure his kinks run deep.
This time, he isn't anywhere near as gentle with restraining me. In fact, it would take great effort for me to wiggle free, which is worrisome. As he loops and knots the hose around my wrists, his eyes occasionally dart to my face, and I can't help but wonder if he's gauging my level of discomfort from being bound so tightly. Even though it makes me a bit nervous, I decide to tru
st him. He's not really a stranger to me anymore. I don't think he'd actually hurt me.
“Lie down and put your hands over your head.”
I do as I'm told, watching his every move. This time feels different than last night, somehow. It's like we're back at Flesh. I'm completely submissive, putting my pleasure in his hands. Thoughts of work and how this will affect the project are on the back burner as I focus on enjoying my time with him. I feel addicted, and in this moment, nothing else matters other than seeing what he'll do next.
Lucian leans over and pulls open the bedside table drawer. He extracts a blindfold very similar to the one he used on me at Flesh. I wonder if he's drawing on the familiarity to keep me calm. That's probably thinking too far into it though.
So many thoughts are going through my mind as I watch him straighten out the strings on the back of the blindfold. I can distinctly remember feeling the loss of not being able to see his shirtless body the last time I had a blindfold on. Back then, I had never expected to see him again. This is the third time I've seen him shirtless, and while I'd love to keep looking at him—to drool over his perfect muscular torso—it's not as important as it once was.
There's still the issue of trust, though. Being blindfolded and bound, especially to this degree, makes me incredibly vulnerable. He could do anything he wanted, and I wouldn't be able to stop him. But we've been in this position before, and everything turned out alright. It turned out better than alright. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
I allow him to slip the blindfold over my head, though I can't help but feel uncomfortable.
“I can trust you, right?” I ask apprehensively.
He pauses before sliding the blindfold over my eyes. “I don't know. Can you?”
A knot tightens in my chest as I pray to God he's joking. That's not something you say to someone before you blindfold them. As a Dom, he should know better. Part of BDSM is about building trust. He's not doing a very good job right now.