Dangerously Bad

by Eden Bradley

  He noticed now how thick her black lashes were, curling at the ends. How the flush on her cheeks only brought out the perfectly curving cheekbones even more. How delicate her chin was beneath the plush pout of her pink mouth.

  He ran a fingertip over her lips, needing to touch them, to make her smile, and she did. And he smiled. He couldn’t help it. He’d never felt so damn pleased with the presence of a woman in his life.

  Never before . . .

  His chest went tight. Fuck.

  But he wouldn’t think about the words that had run through his head, unbidden and unwanted, or that he’d never felt this way or thought these things about anyone. Not Eileen. Not Bess. He couldn’t think about it. Not now, when he felt so ridiculously good. After all, they’d not promised more than sex and play to each other, and that’s all this was. Spectacularly good kinky sex. He hadn’t done anything to mislead her, and she was no innocent thing he was leading down the kinky path. It was all fine.

  Right?

  Then why was his heart slamming against his ribs without him even being out of breath? Why did he feel this need to touch her? Just touch her face and her hair and stare at her, drinking her in, as if he couldn’t get enough?

  Don’t think about all that shit. Nothing more than the aftermath of a killer orgasm. That’s. Fucking. It.

  That was it. Right?

  CHAPTER

  Seven

  LAYLA WOKE TO the pleasant weight of Duff’s big hand on her breast. She turned to look at him, but he was dead asleep. How was it possible that this enormous, wicked man could look so sweet while he was sleeping? But then, he was sweet to her, in between all the wickedness. There had been plenty over the weekend, which reminded her that it was Monday morning and he’d have to get up soon and take off for work. Glancing at the clock she saw it was a quarter to seven. All she had with him was another few minutes.

  Why did that feel like precious time? She was being ridiculous. She’d only known the man for a week—it had only been eight days since she’d barged into his shop and told him to back off. It wasn’t like her to let things progress so fast. It wasn’t like her to let things progress at all in the last year. Did that mean she was ready for more? Or was it only because he was the first man she’d wanted to submit to since she’d left her last failed relationship behind? The first man to bring that out in her since then, and in such a spectacular fashion she was completely unable to resist. Maybe she should have been resisting. Maybe it would have been better to just stop this madness now, and go back to her comfortable life, with no dramatic ups and downs, with nothing to scare her, no one to leave her. No one to matter.

  Morbid thoughts on a rainy morning.

  She usually loved the rain, and this morning it was a light rainfall, just enough to hear through the windows, to cool the air deliciously. Pulling the blanket up around her shoulders, she rolled onto her side, allowing herself to revel in the heat of Duff’s big body next to hers. But watching him sleep made her want to touch him, and she knew if she did, seeing him walk out the door would feel even worse.

  Blowing out a breath, she flipped onto her back. What in the world was wrong with her? Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared up at the ceiling. And suddenly she couldn’t wait for Duff to leave. She was still brooding when the alarm on Duff’s cell phone went off. He slapped at it to shut it off, then grabbed her, his eyes still closed, and pulled her into a bear hug.

  “Hey. Aren’t you going to be late?”

  “What? Yeah, probably. But you feel better than riding my bike in the rain will. You feel better than most things.”

  She started to smile, then stopped herself.

  Don’t give into it. It doesn’t mean anything.

  “I can make you some tea, if you want,” she offered.

  “Nah. I’ll stop and get some. What do you have planned today?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly with sleep.

  “I have to meet with one of the galleries where I show. We’re going over placement for some new pieces. Then a few errands, and tonight I want to start a new piece.”

  “It’s pretty fucking awesome, what you do. Have I told you that?”

  “Um . . . maybe?”

  “Well, it is.” He pulled her in tighter, burying his face in her neck, then kissing her there. She didn’t want to shiver in response, but her body had other ideas.

  “Hey, lovely? What’s up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just went tight as piano wire all over. You crashing again?”

  “No, I . . .” Was she? Or was she simply being reasonable about what was or wasn’t happening here. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll take a nice, long shower and have some hot chocolate. I’ll be fine.”

  He dragged her body onto his strong, broad chest, until she had to look down into his face. His dark brows were drawn. “You call me if you need to—you hear me?”

  She started to shake her head. “Oh, I really don’t think I’ll—”

  “Layla,” he interrupted. “You know the rules. You call me if you find yourself crashing. Now, who else can you talk to if I’m unable to pick up the phone?”

  “I can talk to Kitty. Or Rosie.”

  “She’s Finn’s girl, yeah? Great girl. Great tattoo artist, too. She did the biomech piece on my forearm soon after I arrived from Scotland. Glad you’re friends with her.”

  “So am I.”

  “All right. Will you do it? Call one of them if you start to drop and you can’t reach me?”

  “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  “Not entirely.”

  She rolled her eyes, partly because she knew he could see right through her. “Okay, I promise.”

  “Good girl.” He grabbed her and kissed her firmly on the mouth. “Gotta get up and head to work.”

  Placing her on the mattress, he stood up and stretched, his wide, muscled back to her, and she couldn’t help but admire with some degree of awe the taut muscles of his ass, his narrow waist, the bunching and flexing of muscle across his shoulders beneath the gorgeous Celtic artwork. She watched quietly as he pulled his clothes on, then his big black boots.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here and give me a kiss, woman,” he ordered.

  She moved toward him and lifted her chin, expecting a small peck, but he wrapped her up in his arms, and her stomach knotted as he held her tight, then kissed her hard and thoroughly. Her body wanted to melt with heat and desire, but something inside her was warning her to hold back.

  Duff pulled back a few inches and looked down at her, and she was struck once more by the utterly masculine beauty of his face, the metallic gleam of his hazel eyes.

  “We’ll talk later about whatever is going on with you, princess.”

  “I kind of hate that I can’t hide anything from you,” she grumbled, glancing down at the bedcover.

  “Just doing my job,” he joked.

  But his words went through her like a punch in the gut and she looked back up at him.

  “Shit. Sorry, lovely. You don’t think that’s what all this is, do you?”

  “I really have no idea what this is, Duff,” she admitted. “And I hate that I’m being such a damn girl about it. Maybe I am crashing. Because this is not me.”

  He stroked her hair with a gentle hand and said quietly, “I like you being a girl. Wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t think you’re being weak or needy or any of that other crap we men spew at women to keep our distance. I . . .” He paused, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Somehow I don’t want to keep my distance from you.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  He grabbed her chin and forced her gaze to his. “No. I don’t, in fact.”

  Leaning in, he kissed her, then kissed her again, and again and again until she finally gave in and opened her lips for him.
Opened herself. She was still afraid this would end disastrously. But she didn’t seem to be able to resist Duff Stewart. And as he turned to leave, she breathed him in as he stepped away from her and out of her house, wondering if she’d ever be able to.

  • • •

  THE DAY HAD dragged, despite Layla doing her best to keep busy. She’d done her grocery shopping, lingering over the produce, catching herself daydreaming about the way Duff kissed her. She’d gone to her gallery appointment, but had found herself distracted by images flitting through her mind—images of the huge phallus she’d sculpted after that first meeting with him, and by images of Duff himself: his eminently kissable mouth, the muscles running through his forearms, his boots. She had a major crush on those boots, but only because of the man who wore them.

  She’d dropped by Midnight Ink to see if Rosie was available for lunch, forgetting the tattoo shop was usually closed on Mondays, and when she tried calling her cell, Rosie hadn’t picked up. Then she’d taken a long drive, but even that was no help. She swore she could still smell him all over her car, and had finally turned around and headed home. Now she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, searching her face for some sign of the strangeness she was feeling.

  I am a mess.

  But she felt damn good for being a mess—sore in all the best places, inside and out, and the tiny ripples of pain only made her smile. Had it simply been too long since she’d had a chance to remember what it felt like to be a well-played bottom? Or was it something more?

  Oh, yes, there was a glimmer in her green eyes, and her damn cheeks were glowing, despite her lack of sleep—Duff Stewart knew how to keep a girl up. But in between, hadn’t she slept like a baby in his big, strong arms?

  She scowled at her too-giddy reflection in the mirror. “You’re talking like you’ve never seen a man before in your life. Like some schoolgirl who’s just lost her virginity to the hottest guy in school.”

  But she had lost her virginity to the hottest guy in school when she was seventeen, and he hadn’t made her feel like this. Not even close. Neither had her long string of poor choices—Adrien, her first musician, whom she’d met the year after she’d graduated from high school. He’d been so damn pretty for a bad boy, and insanely charming—and he was her first kink experience. It had been relatively mild—a little spanking, rough sex, some biting—but it had been a sexual epiphany for her. Then there had been Marcel, who was a star New Orleans chef. It had taken her eight months to realize his “dominance” was nothing more than bossiness, a bad attitude and an inflated sense of entitlement. Then it was Vincent, the race car driver, who had expanded her BDSM realm with wax play and nipple clamps and her first flogging, which had really gone to her head. But she’d been a bit wiser that time—six months in she’d caught him cheating and been too pissed to pretend it wasn’t happening. Then there was Jimmy. She’d been single for a while, bottoming at the clubs, and had thought somehow that she’d learned better. She should have known better than to date another musician, especially a friend of Adrien’s, especially a lead guitarist. But she’d met him at a kink club, and he was known there as a Dom. He was seven years older than her, and she’d made the mistaken assumption that with age came wisdom. She’d thought he was the real thing—real enough that she’d wasted two years of her life with him. Oh, yeah, she’d paid her dues with men—with cheating men—and she didn’t quite trust her own judgment any longer.

  How much had she learned in her year off from men? Enough? How could she possibly know?

  Turning from the mirror with a small huff, she reached for the small window next to the sink and unlatched it, pushing it open. What was on the other side was a little secret, of sorts, something she used to comfort herself. It wasn’t really ridiculous, if she didn’t allow herself to think too much about it. She reached through to let her fingertips drift over the tiny house made of twigs and bits of copper wire that had turned a lovely aqua shade with oxidization, with a single tiny brass dragonfly on the roof and glass marbles inside—her little faery house. She’d made it soon after she’d moved in, after one of her terrible breakups. It was set in the crook of an old crepe myrtle tree that was just beginning to drop its bright pink blossoms. She pulled at the hinged door, pushing the blue and green marbles nestled inside around with one finger. The tiny structure was always charming, but it had been a while since she’d needed the comfort of it. Duff was messing with her head, and she didn’t like it.

  Except that she kind of did.

  Turning back to the bathroom mirror, she pushed her curls back from her face, blowing out a long breath.

  “Okay. Get it together,” she murmured.

  But all she could think of was his scent, his touch, the vulnerability in his voice when he’d talked to her about his past. The man had opened up to her, and she had a feeling that, like her, it wasn’t something he did often, if at all. She loved that he made her laugh, but she also sensed the jokester in him was partially a cover for some not-so-deeply-buried pain. It made her feel for him, and his openness reached out to the pain she carried herself. And it was all a little too overwhelming.

  Stalking from the bathroom, she moved through her bedroom, intending to go out to her studio and lose herself in clay. But she stopped just short of the front door, knowing she was too damned distracted to work. She paced the living room for a few minutes, her hands fisted at her sides as she fought the sensations in her chest—the tightness and flutter that felt so good and so awful at the same time—before giving in and picking up her cell phone to dial Kitty at the salon.

  “Allure Salon. This is Kitty.”

  “Hey, it’s me. What time are you out of there tonight?”

  “I’m almost done. Why do you sound weird?” her friend asked.

  “I do not!”

  “Okay. But, yeah, you do. All breathless and stuff.”

  “Jeez, Kitty. Thanks for not cutting me any slack.”

  “What kind of friend would I be if I did? So, are you gonna tell me?”

  She blew out a breath. “Yes. That’s why I called, I guess. Can you meet me after work?”

  “Sure. Want me to come over? I can bring chocolate. And booze, ’cause it sounds like it’s going to be one of those nights. It’s been a hell of a Monday, so I don’t mind.”

  “Crap. I’m sorry, Kitty. You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just too many clients who don’t understand why I can’t take them from their natural brunette to platinum blond in one day without their hair cracking and falling out. The usual. But luckily I’m out of here in a few minutes, so I won’t have to kill anyone. How’s seven fifteen?”

  “Perfect. I’ll order some Indian food.”

  “Oh, goody! I love it when you cook for me.”

  That made her laugh. “I actually can be domestic. Sometimes.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. Meanwhile, Indian is just fine. Be there in a bit, honey.”

  She felt a bit better after they hung up. She only had to make it through another half hour without driving herself crazy.

  By the time she’d dug up the menu to her favorite local Indian delivery and placed their order—tikka masala for her and butter chicken with jasmine rice for Kitty—Kitty was knocking on the door. She opened it and hugged her friend.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “For you? Anytime, honey—you know that. Let’s get a good buzz going while we wait for the food, and you can tell me everything.”

  They settled on the sofa with the Malibu and pineapple juice Kitty mixed for them in the kitchen, and Layla leaned back into the pile of pillows, her feet curled under her.

  “I love Malibu,” she said.

  “I know you do—that’s why I brought it. So, tell Mama Kitty what’s made you all weird.”

  Layla grinned, shaking her head. “You know I love how straight and to the point you are, but tonight I just wi
sh . . . that you could read my mind without me having to say it out loud.”

  Kitty reached out and patted her arm, her sweet face softening. “You know I would if I could, hon.”

  “I know.” She smiled at her dear friend, then took a breath and simply began. “Okay, be honest with me—is it crazy to think I’m falling for him after only eight days?”

  “I don’t know. How is the sex?”

  “Amazing. Off-the-charts amazing. Fucking fireworks on the Fourth of July. But that’s not all it is.”

  “Well, it never is just the sex, is it? But that can be where it starts.”

  “This is the thing, Kitty—this man is so big and tough, and I mean really badass. He’s so damn dominant, I can’t even begin to fight it. I know that’s part of the attraction—sort of being sucked under by his natural dominance. But he doesn’t lord it over me the way a lot of men do. The way most men seem to feel they have to. He simply is that way. But he also doesn’t take himself too seriously. He shows me who he is, warts and all. I know there’s a lot more to him than what he’s told me, but he really has opened himself to me in this short period of time we’ve had. And I don’t think it’s an act. I really don’t. I know my judgment has been absolute shit when it comes to men, but this last year off has been good for me, and I think I’ve learned a lot. Some, anyway. I’m much better at protecting myself from the dogs and the Dom wannabes. I think this guy could be the real thing.”

  Kitty arched one blond brow. “A real man? Or a real Dom?”

  “All of it. I think he’s being sincere with me, which sort of blows my mind, because after my history, I wasn’t certain I could ever trust anyone again. In fact, I’ve been pretty damn opposed to the idea, but here I am, trusting him, giving myself over to him, and it feels right. Is that crazy? Please tell me if I’m crazy—if I’m losing my mind here.”