Three Dirty Secrets (Blindfold Club #4)

by Nikki Sloane

  Now it was Thursday and I sat in the exam room of my doctor’s office, determined to overcome the childish fear. If Silas could lie with me in complete silence for hours, I could get over the needle phobia. He’d texted earlier today and asked if we could meet for lunch, but I’d told him I was following his advice and getting the prescription for injections.

  He reminded me again of his offer to stick it in me, and I’d grinned to myself.

  The pain relief drugs worked fairly well, but keeping them down during the onslaught of a migraine was difficult. The injections would solve the issue. I watched my doctor’s stylus pen stroke on the tablet as she finished filling out the script, and just that action made my palms sweaty.

  I went to the gym and worked out, and ran the rest of my errands, avoiding picking the prescription up, but finally forced myself to go to the pharmacy where the bored-looking pharmacist walked me through the entire process of loading the injector pen, how to change syringe cartridges, and of course, how to knowingly puncture my skin with a needle.

  “Make sure you hold it against you for at least five seconds,” the guy said. “Otherwise you won’t get all the medicine.” He demonstrated by pushing the blue plunger, and the sharp needle gleamed.

  “Oh, Christ,” I muttered. Maybe seeing the needle was enough of a warning to my body. You see that? You give me another fucking migraine and I’m sticking that in my arm.

  I read the patient instructions for use two more times on the train ride back to my place, because my memory of the demonstration went hazy once the needle had come out. As I walked into my apartment building, my phone rang. Payton?

  “Hey, what’s up?” Usually I called her since I was the one who needed her to fill in for me.

  “What’s the story between you and the tattoo artist?”

  She was Joseph’s best friend, but I didn’t think he was much of a gossip. Apparently I’d been wrong. Had she found out Joseph covered Silas’s evening at the club?

  “We hooked up a few times, but we’re keeping it casual.” The lie tasted wrong in my mouth. My feelings toward him were much too strong.

  “Bringing him to my wedding as your date is casual?”

  I dropped my bags on the table and froze. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your RSVP card. It says Silas is your ‘plus one.’ Unless you’re dating a different Silas and the tattoo artist is your side piece?” I could hear her smile through the phone.

  “I didn’t RSVP.” I hurried to the fridge where I’d stuck the invitation. It had arrived the Monday after Matt moved out, and in the chaos I hadn’t done anything with it.

  “I’m looking at the card,” Payton said. “Ms. Regan Wilson and guest, Silas Getty.”

  The invitation was one of those fancy folder types. I dug through the tiny folder, but the reply card wasn’t there, and neither was the envelope to send it back in. What the fuck?

  “Holy shit.” On Sunday night he’d been gone a long time before he’d come back to bed with the beer and the water. Plenty of time to take the card. “He must have filled it out and sent it back.”

  She laughed. “So much for casual. I like this guy’s style.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t.”

  “So, I should put you down as solo?”

  Tara’s words echoed back to me, that she’d be solo at the wedding. Oh my God, Tara. I hadn’t seen her since our night together. I didn’t have any regret about what we’d done, but what if she wanted more? If I brought Silas that would send a clear message. “I . . . let me figure out what the fuck is going on and call you back.”

  Silas didn’t answer my call. I hung up without leaving a message and sent him a text to call me ASAP. I put my groceries away and my gym clothes in the laundry basket, and the longer I waited for him to return my call, the more annoyed I became.

  Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. I scrolled through my texts and looked up the gallery’s number from when Payton had given it to me. It was quarter to six and should still be open.

  “SG Gallery.” The male voice wasn’t Silas.

  “Can I speak with Silas?”

  “He’s not available, is there something I can help you with?”

  I paced my living room. “Andre? This is Regan, I was at last week’s showing. Any chance you can tell me how to get a hold of him? He’s not answering his phone.”

  “He’s in the studio working. I don’t interrupt unless it’s urgent.”

  The statement hung as Andre waited for me to clarify whether or not this was an emergency. It wasn’t, but I was pissed. “It’s not urgent,” I said. “But if you see him, tell him I’m on my way.”

  The weather had turned cold, and I pinched the front of my coat tighter as I hustled up the steps of the underground CTA stop. When I hit the street, I was battered with the nighttime wind and tucked my head down. I’d yo-yoed back and forth about what he’d done the whole way here. Part of me wanted to say no to the wedding date just on principle, but the other part desired it. Any excuse to be with him.

  The sign on the gallery said it was closed, but I could see Andre sitting behind the desk, and he rose when he spotted me through the front glass. He unlocked the door and held it open, smiling warmly as I came in.

  But he exited, pulling his own coat tight. “Can you lock this behind me? I’ve gotta run.”

  “Did you stay because of me?” Now I felt bad. “You didn’t have to.”

  “It’s fine. Have a good night.” He pulled the door closed and stood in the wind, waiting for me to turn the lock. He was gone as soon as it was done.

  The gallery was dark except for the security lights in the back. The paintings and photographs in the empty space looked forbidding, yet sexier, like this. I felt a blush heat my face when looking at the red painting, the one I’d told Silas reminded me of two people fucking. How in the world had his painting of implied sex gotten me to blush?

  Music thumped from the back, and I went down the narrow hall to his studio.

  It was much too loud in here. The music was a driving rap song, all bass and hook. It made sense, I supposed. The repetitive song was a pattern. Silas had his back to me, hunched over the table, his hands blackened with charcoal dust. His jeans looked well-worn and the black t-shirt complimented the tattoo curling down his left arm.

  “Silas.”

  He couldn’t hear me. I slipped off my coat and hung it on the back of his desk chair, pausing when I saw the picture on the printer. It was an extreme close-up of pale skin. The freckles across my chest, as I recognized the pattern instantly. No one else would know it was me. He’d been right. Up close like this, the image was pretty.

  Stop thinking like that. You’re pissed, remember?

  I went to the side of the table and glared up at him, my hands on my hips. I said it harsh and loud. “Silas.”

  The music blared from the set of speakers on the table where his phone rested, but I grabbed his attention. He did a double take when he saw me. The first glance was annoyance and the second was pleasant surprise.

  “Shit,” he said over the music. “I thought you were Andre. What are you doing here?”

  I leaned over and clicked the volume down. “You weren’t answering your phone and we need to talk.”

  Like a perfectly trained man, he went on alert at this phrase. His eyes drifted up and to the left as he searched his brain for what he’d done to bring those words into play.

  “You stole a wedding invitation and sent it back.”

  A guilty look washed over him, but it was fleeting, and replaced with amusement. “Yeah, I did.”

  “What the fuck?”

  He set down the thick black pencil and rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. His fingertips were filthy. “I’m available, and I thought it’d be fun.”

  Was he messing with me? “You can’t just decide that without talking to me.”

  The stone-colored eyes blinked and went stern. “I know, but I warned you. When I see some
thing I want, I go for it. Are you planning to go to the wedding?”

  I furrowed my brow. “That’s not the point.”

  “Which means, yes. I figured if you weren’t, it wasn’t a big deal. People flake on weddings all the time.”

  “Yeah, rude people.”

  “So don’t be rude and take me as your date. Joseph and Noemi will be there. I recognized the name on the invitation.”

  I put my hands flat on the table as I seethed. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “I’m not. It’s your choice. Do you want me to come with you as your date?”

  I was supposed to blurt out no, but the word died on the tip of my tongue. I’d sworn to only lie to him when absolutely necessary. My gaze dropped down to my fingers spread on his table as I fought my confusion.

  My voice didn’t have as much fire as I wanted it to. “I don’t like what you did.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, but I’m less sorry if it works.”

  “You could have just asked like a normal person.”

  He pretended to look offended. “And invite myself along? That’s rude.” He turned serious. “I felt like if I did that, you’d say no, or worse, you’d bolt. You were pretty hard to nail down just on grabbing dinner.”

  He was right. If he’d asked me point blank, I would have freaked and demanded we keep things casual. It would be easier to change the RSVP from two down to one, rather than the other way around, though.

  The illogical side of me was rationalizing to get what I wanted.

  “I knew it was stupid,” he said. “And I’m a guy. We don’t like going to these kinds of things, but fuck it. I’ll go if it means I get to spend time with you. I saw the opportunity and I took it.”

  “You forced it on me.”

  “Yeah. Did it work?”

  I sighed. My voice was less confident than I liked. “Maybe. But don’t pull this shit again.” I pushed off the table and marched toward my coat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m still pissed. I can’t just turn that off.” The angry rap music wasn’t helping either.

  He moved quickly, standing in my way, his dark hands held up to stop me. “Stay. It’ll be more fun to be angry here than wherever you’re planning to go.”

  “Is that right?” My tone was laced with sarcasm.

  “Come on, let’s get naked.” The playful expression morphed into something dark and wicked. “You first.”

  “Nice sales pitch, but I think I’ll pass.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up in an evil smile as he marched up to me and his shadow blocked the light. “No, I don’t think you will.”

  Now I was thoroughly annoyed. “Why’s that?”

  “I think you want this almost as badly as I do, Regan. You’re going to take your clothes off because I’m putting my hands on your fucking body in a few seconds, and you don’t want me to ruin your clothes.”

  He left me standing there in surprise and went back to the table. He picked up the charcoal pencil and rubbed it between his palms, covering his hands with even more black dust.

  It was impossible to have friction without heat, and it flickered through my body, warming all the way down to my toes. He’d told me to take off my clothes, but again it was really a choice. I could stay as I was and call his bluff, do as he asked, or walk away.

  What would those dark hands do? Would they leave perfect black handprints against my ivory skin? The image was too powerful to deny. I locked my gaze on him, only breaking it for a moment as I tore my sweater up over my head.

  Lust made his eyes heavy as he watched me shed the plain white t-shirt and work the snap of my jeans. I tugged them off and tossed them to the floor with aggression. “Okay, done. Put your filthy goddamn hands on me.”

  Fire flared so hot, it made the room scorching. He came at me, but I held my ground. His hands lifted to cup my face—wait, no. That wasn’t his intent. I inhaled sharply when he put both hands around my neck.

  I fought the instinct to break his hold with a counter maneuver and deliver a strike to his solar plexus. There wasn’t any tension in his fingers as his hands wrapped around my neck, they simply rested there. It was dominating, but it was exciting, too.

  When his hands released me, Silas made a noise of satisfaction. The sight of his black handprints on my neck obviously pleased him. My pulse sped to a million miles an hour. Did these handprints ringing my neck look like a collar? Like he owned me?

  “The bra,” he said on a hurried breath. “Take it off.” He gazed at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d seen, and my hands moved instantly. The clasp was undone and I slipped the straps down my shoulders, letting the bra fall away. My exposed breasts felt heavy and aching for his touch, which he seemed eager to do.

  He filled the weight of one in his hand, pressing his dark, rough palm against my pale skin. As he peeled his fingers away, we both looked down and admired the perfect gray handprint he’d left. God, it was sexy. He instantly did the other breast so I had a matching set.

  “That looks fucking amazing,” he said. “Stay right like that.”

  Silas fled to the sink and washed his hands as quickly as possible, sending soap and water droplets flying as he scrubbed furiously, and then dried off with a handful of paper towels.

  His camera was tugged out of a bag, turned on, and settings were adjusted like he was being timed. He turned the camera sideways, and snapped portrait shots, moving swiftly my direction. “Turn so your back’s to the table,” he said. “Put your hands on the edge and lean back.”

  I preferred to give the orders, but I didn’t mind it when I was in his artistic hands. I gripped the edge of the wood and arched my back, jutting my breasts up toward the ceiling.

  “Perfect, just like that.”

  I couldn’t hear the camera shutter over the rap music. The aggressive, dirty song had annoyed me at first, but now it lent itself to the atmosphere. It was intensely erotic.

  When the song changed to a new one, and Silas had snapped several dozen pictures, I became impatient. He was down on a knee at my side, shooting at an upward angle, and my neck grew tired of holding my head back.

  “Enough,” I ordered. The irritated emotions lingered and were ready to find an outlet.

  He climbed to his feet so he towered over me, and his expression . . . it was raw and primal. “I’m not done. Get your ass on the table.”

  I stared at him, brilliantly stunned. Did he have a death wish? “No.”

  He leaned over and set the camera far across the table, safely away from both me and the edge, and then moved the canvas he’d been working on, sliding it to the side. Without warning, he stepped between my feet and scooped his hands under my ass, lifting me up. I was plunked down on the table, hard and with a loud thump. My mouth fell open and I prepared for fire to come spewing out of it.

  There was plenty of fire in his expression already. Dark, and sexual.

  And words failed me when he undid his belt, sliding it free from the loops. I sat, glued in place, as he coiled each end around a fist. My body tensed the split-second before he used it as a lasso behind my neck, but he’d done it simply to pull me into his devastating kiss.

  I’d been yanked tight against him so my legs were wrapped around his waist. The tough fabric of his jeans teased me through my panties when he rubbed his erection against my clit.

  He wanted to play like this? Great. I was game.

  Chapter

  SEVENTEEN

  The belt went slack and fell from his hands. I pushed my breasts against Silas’s t-shirt clad chest and reached over his shoulder, grabbing a handful of cotton on his back, tugging the shirt over his head. He flung it away and came back to me hungry. He wrapped his hands on my wrists and placed my palms on his warm, tattooed skin.

  The music, the situation, and his actions were the perfect storm to set me off. I dug my nails in and raked them down his chest, leaving pink track marks, adding to his patterns. The m
uscles in his jaw tightened and he grimaced, but a moody Silas was a hot-as-fuck Silas.

  His grip on me strengthened. It was the only warning he gave me before lifting my wrists and slamming me back, pinning me to the tabletop.

  “You want it rough?” he teasingly snarled in my ear. “Let’s do rough. I’ll fuck this pussy so hard you’ll feel my dick inside you for days.”

  Holy shit. I turned my head to him and grinned like a fool. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  He kissed me, but it wasn’t about connection. This was dominance and control, and so goddamn sexy. His lips were harsh and possessive, and at the end of it, he used his teeth, biting into my bottom lip. All the while his enormous hands held mine tight against the cool wooden veneer, keeping me locked in place beneath him. A desperate moan ripped from my throat. I was turned on so much it was painful.

  Silas lifted up, and his fingers pressed hard on my skin. Could he feel my pulse racing beneath his fingertips? He drove me wild when he flashed a cocky grin. His pelvis swiveled, slamming his hard-on into me. I had to bite back the groan, not wanting him to see how crazy he made me. He had enough advantages already with his striking gray eyes and patterned ink.

  “Your jeans are in my way,” I said, shifting my hips so I could rub on him.

  “Your underwear’s in mine.”

  He released my wrists, passed a hand over his hair to push it back, and then his fingers curled at the black silk covering my hips. Only he didn’t pull my panties down. His monstrous hands yanked furiously, muscles flexing over his knuckles as he ripped. I gasped at the aggressiveness, but also in discomfort. It wasn’t like in the movies where the fabric gave easily. The threads shredded through the silk, carrying me up until it finally tore free and I collapsed back onto the table with a loud bang. Silas dropped the destroyed scraps of fabric to the floor.

  I was completely naked and vulnerable to him. His predatory gaze gave me chills as he stared at my body. He took his fill of looking, and then lunged forward, burying his face between my thighs.

  “Oh, fuck, yes. Eat that pussy,” I ordered. My hand fisted his hair to lock him in position, and I began to move on him. Sliding my pussy on his face. Riding his magnificent tongue.