by Amy Daws
“I was a mess that night.”
“You were a mess until you weren’t…Until you took control. Until you asked me to kneel. Then you were the most beautiful fucking woman I’ve ever seen in my life. That was a turn-on for me, like something I’d never felt before. So this isn’t an entirely selfless request I’m putting out there.”
My body quivers in response to his words. His voice is like a sexy caress over a quiet part of my soul that I’ve been hiding for years. I reach up and grab his face in my hands, taking in every one of his features. Suddenly, a strong, overpowering sense of ownership nearly chokes me. He is mine to use, to please, to care for. To give and take from. I want him this way. I want to embrace whatever this is we’re doing and dive in head first.
My voice is strong when I reply, “Okay, then. Let’s do this, Gareth Harris. I’m all in.”
He licks his lips, a pleased smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. He reaches down and lifts me up onto the hood of my car, tucking himself perfectly between my legs so we’re nose-to-nose. He dips his mouth close to mine, but I pull back with a sharp intake of breath. “Not the lips,” I remind him.
His jaw ticks once before he drops his mouth down to my neck and kisses me there, nibbling at my flesh with tantalising bites. He moves to the other side of my neck as his hands slide up my ribs and squeeze my breasts through the soft chiffon.
I hook my ankles behind his back and pull him in snugly so his dick presses into the heat of me. His large, firm body feels so good, I forget everything I was worried about. “Take me inside,” I command.
He pulls back and looks at me so seriously, I think he’s going to say something bad. “Okay. And just for your information, I’ll be giving you the code to my gate.” His deep voice vibrates against my skin as he leans in and peppers my jaw with feather-light kisses. “Because while you and I are doing whatever it is we’re doing, I promise you that I won’t even look at another woman.”
My heart thunders in my chest from the uneasy feeling I get over his promise. His devotion. The look in his eyes. The sincerity of his touch. I believe him. I believe him more than the day Cal said, “I do,” to me. It’s crazy how a sex-only relationship can still be so committed.
Needing to lighten the mood, I grasp his face in my hands and reply, “That’s good to know because I do not want to see that bird bath killer I just turned into a minute ago ever again.”
He doesn’t laugh like I thought he would. He stares down at my mouth and with a deathly serious tone, he replies, “That’s a bloody shame because I kind of liked her.”
I whack him on the chest, a gesture I’m actually growing quite fond of. He chuckles as he helps me down off the car and opens the driver’s side door for me. “I think it’s time to get your car out of the road, don’t you?”
His wink elicits a smile of my own. “Would you like a ride?”
“Yes, Sloan Montgomery. A real ride this time.”
I hurry into the kitchen to tell Dorinda and her son, Robert—who prepares my meals for the week—that they can head home for the day. I have about an hour before the security guard I hired will arrive, and I intend to make good use of that time. Dorinda gives me a curious sort of look as she collects her purse and makes her way out the kitchen side door where their car is parked.
Dorinda has been with me since I bought the house, so she knows I don’t bring women out here. In fact, I don’t bring anyone out here. Sloan sort of just slipped in on a technicality I guess.
When I first moved to Astbury, I had hopes that my family would visit a lot. I spent a load of money on an interior designer to make it a place where people would want to come and stay. Essentially, the exact opposite of what we grew up in.
I still remember when our father moved us all out of the Manchester flat. It was tight quarters with four kids plus newborn Booker, but it was cosy and happy. It was a place I was excited to go home to.
Then Mum got sick and Dad suddenly uprooted all of us to live permanently in the enormous Chigwell house he had purchased in East London. They hadn’t owned the property long, so Mum never got a chance to furnish it before she became bedridden.
After she died, Dad got rid of as much of her memory as he could, including everything from the Manchester flat. The Chigwell house was so barren and cold, I remember the boys loved playing with their cars in the foyer because their voices echoed off the walls and marble flooring.
We all still congregate in that house for Sunday dinners despite the fact that we don’t have many great memories. The truth is, the only good ones I have of that home are when we sat around the kitchen counter, using tomato sauce bottles as players to go over football formations with Dad. Those were the only times he ever spoke to us with any sort of care.
Needless to say, my kitchen counter doesn’t have stools. But furnishing this house was all for naught because Dad has never stepped foot back into the city of Manchester since Mum died, let alone Astbury. And my siblings rarely visit. Probably because I never invite them.
The longer I live here, the less I want them to visit. Like a proper masochist, I find myself going back to London and staying in the home I swear to hate. A therapist would have a field day with me. It’s only recently that I realised the life I’ve built for myself here in Manchester seems to be more and more pointless.
I leave the kitchen and find Sloan wandering in the sunken living area to the right of the curved staircase. She’s running her hands over a mirrored credenza in front of a huge glass window on the west wall. The sun casts down on her long, chestnut locks as she watches Dorinda’s car drive away.
I clear my throat, drawing her attention to me. “Well, you’re here now. What do you want to do with me?”
Sloan’s eyes rove over my body, and the smile that plays on her lips is almost wicked. What has been running through that head of hers while I was talking to Dorinda? Gone is the insecure, hostile woman from outside. The woman standing before me, sliding the short black scarf around her neck back and forth, is a bloody siren calling in ships from the sea. It’s enchanting. On the surface, she’s peaches and cream with a sweet, pleasing sort of nature. But there’s a fire beneath the surface of her that cannot be denied.
“For starters, I have a gift for you, Harris.” She nods her chin over to a sconce on the sitting room wall where there’s a garment bag hanging. “I was up most of the night making that for you. It seems when I’m pissed off, I’m kind of productive.”
She giggles to herself as I stride over and unzip the bag to see a deep navy suit inside. I run my hands down the fabric, relishing in the signature softness of everything Sloan buys for me. My voice is awestruck when I croak, “You made this?”
I look over and she shrugs. “Freya did most of the sewing but, yes, I designed it.”
I pull out the shoulder on one side to get a better look. “I had no idea you were capable of this kind of work.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Gareth.”
I turn to look at her big brown eyes blinking rapidly like she’s not sure herself of who she is. Well, I hope whatever we’re about to embark on helps her with that because I know she’s a hell of a lot more than she lets on.
“Do you want me to try it on?” I ask, hoping this will be our foreplay because, for me, it sounds about as hot as a student, professor scenario.
Her nose wrinkles with embarrassment. “You can do it on your own later. For now, I’d like a tour.” She turns on her heel and crosses her arms over her chest like she’s an estate agent at a business meeting. “And you can do it with your shirt off.”
“Oh, can I?” I blurt out, smirking like a prat and marvelling over her swift change of demeanour.
“That’s what I said.” She licks her lips in a vain attempt to hide the naughty grin threatening her serious façade.
“Whatever you say, Treacle.” I pull my T-shirt off and drop it on the floor by my feet. Sloan’s eyes are like a slow burn spreading over every hair on
my chest, causing my stomach to flex in anticipation.
She clears her throat. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Attempting not to laugh at the hilarity of this situation, I do my best to give her a tour without getting an erection. It’s not without great effort, though, considering she’s eyeing me, not just like a piece of meat, but her piece of meat. It’s a huge fucking turn-on.
I gesture to the doorway on the opposite side of the living room, which leads down a glass-lined hallway into a media room with a projection screen and theatre-style seating. Sloan nods appreciatively and asks some questions about the kind of movies I like to watch. I correct her with the word “films,” and our familiar American versus English banter makes me smile.
We progress down the hallway into the training room that’s kitted out as nice as a commercial gym. I have a lot of the same equipment we have at the Trafford Training Centre because, even on off days, I’m always training. Staying fit is part of my job the same way a CEO has to check his emails every day.
Past the gym is where I can tell Sloan’s eyes really light up. “You have a pool!” she squeals, waltzing past me and greedily checking out the indoor pool room. The sunlight beaming in through the glass skylights reflect colourful sparkles on her face as she grins back at me. “How often do you use this?”
“Never,” I reply honestly.
Her jaw drops. “What? I would be in this every day!”
I shrug. “It’s not big enough to swim laps in, so I don’t really see the point if I can’t use it for exercise.”
“What about for fun, Gareth?” She arches a challenging eyebrow at me.
I can only reply truthfully. “I don’t have very much of that I’m afraid.”
Her gaze narrows as she walks toward me, her heels clicking softly on the concrete. She drags her pointer finger across my bare chest and says, “Let’s see about changing that, shall we?”
I rush through the rest of the tour, my job of preventing an erection becoming painfully more difficult the longer I feel her eyes on me. The more we move around the house, the more confident she gets. It’s like some kind of odd foreplay for her to watch me show off my home.
I take care to leave my bedroom for last and feel a triumphant sense of relief as we finally reach the doorway. “I think you’ve been in here before.”
Her smile is playful. “A time or two.”
She splays her hand flat on my chest and pushes me backwards into the room, walking with me all the way to the tufted sofa at the foot of the bed. With firm hands on my shoulders, she pushes me to a sitting position.
“I had a lot of time to think last night when you kicked me out of your house.”
“I didn’t kick you—”
“Shhh.” She presses her finger to her lips and lowers her chin. “I’m talking. You’re listening.” She eyes me thoughtfully, then closes the space between us so her chest is in my face as she climbs onto my lap. With her legs on either side, she straddles me, her hands holding onto my neck for balance as she makes herself more comfortable.
It’s intimate. It’s confident. It’s exactly what I want from her.
My hands itch to run up her back, but I keep them fisted beside me instead. This is about letting go of control. This is about listening to her wants. Not my own. And having her on top of me has me craving that sort of mind-numbing release I had with her last year.
She flicks her long, wavy locks over one shoulder and I have to bite back a moan as the delicious scent of her perfume invades my senses.
“So I thought about how much sex is about trust.” Her golden eyes dance on my chest as she moves her hands forward and begins raking her fingertips over my pecs in firm, massaging strokes. “Especially the kind of sex we’re going to be having where we’re not actually in a relationship with each other.”
“I’m listening,” I husk and close my eyes as she squeezes my shoulders and rolls her hips on my lap.
“To build trust, I think it might help to have your eyes covered the entire time we have sex.”
My eyes widen instantly and I begin to argue. “Sloan—”
She presses her hand over my mouth, bringing her face up close so I can see the green loop around her pupils again. “I’m in charge, Gareth. You want it and I’m taking it. You need to trust me to guide this ship because I’m ready to try this for real. Last night was an amuse-bouche. This is going to be the main course.”
I swallow slowly, the erection growing in my jeans becoming painful against the zipper as she greedily grinds down on me. She begins rocking and swirling her hips, alternating between the two. Her arse pops up behind her like she’s fucking double-jointed.
“Fuck me, Sloan.” I press my forehead to her chest. I’m quite positive I won’t live through this experience but, bloody hell, it’ll be worth the ride.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” she says, slowly undoing a couple of buttons on her blouse right in front of my face.
I pull back to watch her unfasten three more before she slips her hand inside the material, revealing a white lace bra and a whole lot of lush skin. She drags her finger down the swell of her left breast and hooks the cup of her bra with her index finger. A hint of her pink nipple peeks out, and I know instantly that I will do whatever the fuck she wants me to do.
“You tested me last night. Now I’m testing you today.” She pulls off the thin, black scarf from around her neck and holds it out in front of me. “Just let yourself go to only follow my commands. I promise you, it will be worth it.”
Darkness consumes me as she wraps the fabric around my eyes and takes away the arousing sight of her. As a texture sensitive person, it’s a disarming feeling to have my sight taken away from me. Seeing what’s coming helps me prepare for things that may cause a negative reaction from me. But I trust Sloan more than most when it comes to my body. She’s known how to touch me from the second we met. And the light in her eyes that seared into me just before she blindfolded me turns me on more than the flesh on her body. If this is what she needs, I’m going to give it to her. One hundred percent.
Her lips brush against my earlobe as she pulls the knot tight. “Trust me, Gareth. Those moments when you want to stop, when you want to think, when you want to control…Just push yourself past those feelings. Force yourself to be in the now with me. No past. No future. Just my voice.”
I can feel my Adam’s apple bob in my throat from the sultry tone and I want it. Now. I want my jeans off. I want her clothes off. I want to be inside of her. I want everything she’s denying me.
More than anything, I want to be free. From my mind. From my thoughts. From my past and my future. I want this.
“Let’s do this, Treacle.”
My panties are soaked as I slide off of Gareth’s lap and stare at his gladiator body, shirtless and blindfolded in front of me. His scruffy jaw. His chest rising and falling in suspense as the sound of my clothes dropping to the floor narrates the scene.
It’s erotic as hell. To have a man so strong, so masculine, so intense and mysterious just sit here and wait for my next move is the most sensual experience of my life.
“What are you doing there, Tre?” he asks, his voice more timid than before. The anticipation is clearly weighing heavily on him.
“I’m getting naked.” I bite my lip so I remain serious because this is serious. He’s trusting me to be confident, and I’m trusting myself to be woman enough for this. That’s why I had to do this blindfold thing. I said it’s for trust and it partially is. Mostly, it’s because I feel like I need a barrier between us. A shield to hide the crazy nerves roaring in my limbs.
I don’t want to be nervous. I want to be brave. I want to dive into this arrangement head first and live for once in my damn life. I can do this.
Once fully naked, I glance at my reflection in the glass wall of his closet. My heart falters. I barely recognise the woman staring back at me. She’s naked and curvy, and her hair is tousled in a sexy, effor
tless sort of way I could never recreate on purpose. She has a wild, excited look in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a long, long time.
The idea is insane because I work in fashion. Mirrors and appearance are the cornerstones of what I do. I take great care to present myself on a level that my clients will be comfortable with. I look the part of a stylish stylist.
But at some point, I stopped looking at my reflection. I was focused on the clothes, and the hair, and the makeup, but I didn’t actually see the person staring back. Maybe it’s because I didn’t like who I saw.
But I like who’s staring back at me now. I like her a lot.
“Sloan?” Gareth’s voice snaps me out of my reverie.
My reply is instant. “Stand up.” My jaw is taut, legs wide, eyes assessing his every muscle.
His furrowed brow lifts curiously as he uses his thick forearms to push himself to a standing position. Now that I’m completely naked and barefoot in front of him, he seems like a giant. I’m five-nine, but I push six foot in heels, so Gareth is normally only an inch or two taller than me. As we are now, my eyes barely meet his jaw.
It doesn’t slow me down. “I’m going to touch you, Gareth. A lot,” I state, stepping so close to him that I can feel the heat of his skin on my nipples. “Will that be okay?”
The wrinkle in his brow indicates that he’s nervous. “S—sure.”
“You have to trust me, Gareth,” I reply, pressing a firm hand on the thick bulge in his jeans. “If you put all your trust in me, you don’t have to worry about your texture sensitivity. I’ll tell you how to feel.”