by Lilli Feisty
It was turning her on.
And every time she looked at it, she saw Ash’s intense green eyes, saw his lips tilt up in that cocky smile, felt his warm hands on her body. Remembered what his lips felt like kissing her, breathing against her skin.
As she climbed into bed, her nipples hardened, recalling the way his thumb had lightly grazed her sensitive flesh. His hands were… magic hands.
Magic hands?
She pulled up the covers to her chin. He had her thinking like a ninny, thinking with her body and not her brain. She was too smart for this, too smart to fall for a charmer like him.
Like Cartwright.
Do not go there.
But her gaze drifted back to the sculpture, and she felt her body’s own arousal. The miniature image of a female form, sitting cross-legged, her arms bound behind her body with rope. It looked so real, the way the woman’s head was tossed back slightly, as if in ecstasy.
Much like Joy had probably looked earlier that night, when Ash had stepped between her legs and kissed her throat.
The thought sent a throbbing to her sex, made her open her thighs just a bit, but it only made her feel empty, made her crave something, even if she wasn’t sure what it was. Powerful submission. Every time she looked at that sculpture, that’s what she thought of, and she realized she was curious to know what it was like. And she was positive she knew a man who could show her exactly that. Hell, for some reason, he even seemed to want to, which was strange. She wasn’t exactly a model, and she’d seen his work, knew what he was used to, and it wasn’t Joy. She was the opposite of tall and thin, and the thought of him seeing her less-than-perfect naked body sent a jolt of fear shooting through her.
But she couldn’t help but wonder. If she agreed to let Ash tie her, what would he do? Would he tie her hands behind her back, like the sculpture? Just thinking about it made her wet, and she slid her hand under the covers to lift the hem of her T-shirt, to reach underneath and pinch her nipple.
Would he do that? Would he pinch her, taste her, bite her?
Would she let him?
She imagined she was helpless. She imagined it was his hands roaming across her skin, reaching between her legs and sliding under her panties. She spread her legs and imagined it was his mouth biting on her nipple until it stung and she gasped, until she moaned aloud. She could almost feel what it would be like to be powerless as he spread her labia open with his hands and stroked her, using his long, beautiful hands to finger her clit, used those fingers to fuck her, harder and deeper, until she was screaming for release, and all the while tied, vulnerable to his touch….
She arched against her hand, rubbed harder, used her own wetness to slide her palm around her pussy, to work herself. She wanted Ash to fuck her. She wanted to feel his long, hard body against hers, touching her, using her.
The thought was shocking, wrong, even. What modern woman wanted to be used by a man? But as her arousal built, as her own moans of pleasure filled the room, her mind wouldn’t release the idea, and as she pulled her clit tight between her fingers and pulled, she imagined it was Ash’s teeth sucking her flesh.
She tried his name out loud, softly at first. “Ash,” she whispered into the stillness. A shock of pleasure bolted through her, so then she whimpered, said it louder. “Ash.” Losing it completely, tossing her head as she pinched and pulled and tugged, crying out, “Ash, yes, Ash!” She came against her hand, her nipple squeezed tight between her other fingers, her body shuddering beneath the covers as she cried out. And even as she climaxed, she was thinking she wanted Ash to do to her anything he wanted.
Anything at all.
Chapter Three
So, are you in?”
Ash looked across the diner table to where his old military buddy, Juan Romero, sat across from him. He hadn’t seen the special-ops soldier since Ash had left five years ago, but the five-foot-eight wall of muscle looked even more solid than he remembered. Judging from the huge pile of pancakes the guy had just consumed, Ash concluded he was spending a lot of time at the gym burning calories since he’d been discharged.
Ash preferred cheeseburgers for breakfast and shoved the last bite into his mouth. “You only need me to monitor? No fieldwork?”
“We need a contact here, someone who speaks the language and can get the local data on road conditions. You still have your contacts overseas?”
Ash nodded, adrenaline already sparking in his blood. No amount of security clearances would get him the firsthand information he’d need to keep the ground crew safe as they transported oil tycoons and other private parties across some of the most dangerous grounds on the planet. Ash was known for being able to uncover the most up-to-date information on local fighting, and he used that information to devise the safest routes for transport. Despite being out of the business for so long, he was sure he’d be able to catch up quickly with the latest technology, and today’s satellite and computer equipment would only allow him to be more accurate than ever.
Romero drained the rest of his coffee. “So. I’ve already got a signed contract for a year of private security duty in Iraq. I’ve handpicked my team. You remember John, Andy, and Christof, right?”
“Definitely.” They were all ex–special-ops guys, all the best at what they did, and Ash had executed many missions with them, including that last ill-fated operation.
“I just need a computer guy here at home to manage everything and make sure our gadgets work.”
Ash leaned back, staring at his ex-teammate across the red Formica table. The diner was themed with 1950s decor, complete with an old jukebox and a black-and-white-tiled floor. With his military haircut and crisp shirt, Romero looked like he would have fit right in had this actually been the fifties.
Unlike Ash. He was anal about most things in life except his appearance. He hated worrying about his hair, and he often forgot to shave. It was incongruous to the rest of his personality, but there it was.
He’d hated that part of the military, having someone else tell you to cut your hair and what to wear, exactly what time to go to sleep and get up. But Romero was offering private work, so he wouldn’t have to worry about any of that.
Ash said, “I gotta tell you, Romero, your timing couldn’t be better. Turns out, I’m between projects at the moment, and I’ve been looking for something.”
Romero chuckled. “Ain’t we all?”
“Are we?” He’d predicted he’d grow out of this feeling when he hit thirty, but, at thirty-five, Ash was more restless than ever.
“And you wouldn’t have to leave the area. I know that’s important to you because of your mom and sister. How are they doing, anyway?”
“You know. Fine. The usual.” He ignored the look of sympathy that flashed through Romero’s eyes. “Count me in,” he said, purposely changing the subject.
“Great. I expect to have things going in the next week. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Ash nodded. “Definitely.”
Romero brought his coffee cup to his lips and swallowed. “So, Hunter, what have you been doing with yourself these past few years, anyway? I know you were in private security after you left, but when did you quit?”
“About a year ago. The company I was working for got bought out, and I was outsourced.” He shrugged. “I had stock, though, so I didn’t have to worry about money.”
Romero whistled appreciatively. “Nice. And since then you’ve become a man of leisure?”
Ash hesitated, for some reason uncomfortable sharing his erotically artistic endeavors with his special-ops teammate. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.” Romero’s words stung. Ash already felt guilty for taking time off, for taking photographs when he should have been working. Yeah, he had money in the bank, but he had a family to worry about, a mother and a sister who needed him. He was all they had—he’d never forget that.
“It was hard to find men who weren’t attached. You know, to a wife and kids.” Juan grinned. “Somehow I knew you’d st
ill be a bachelor, though.”
Ash fidgeted with his fork, laughing wryly. “I guess I just haven’t found the right girl.” But an image of Joy flashed through his head, with her bright red hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Her skin had felt so good beneath his hands; he could get used to that feeling.
“It’s for the best,” Romero said. “Guys like us aren’t made to settle down. We get antsy, you know what I’m saying?”
Ash did, all too well.
Romero grinned. “Well, I need you here for now, so don’t get too antsy on me yet.”
“I won’t, Juan. I’m signed on now, and you know I’ll have your back.”
Romero reached across the small table and gave Ash a soft punch to the arm. “You always did, Hunter. You always did.”
The next day, Saturday, Joy came up with a million reasons she should cancel going to Ash’s that night. As she sat at her desk in the gallery, she kept peeking at the number one reason, which was hidden in her file drawer, the tiny sculpture she’d stolen from Ash Hunter.
It was as sensual as ever, and her little self-love the night before hadn’t dampened her reaction to the piece one bit. Even now, looking at it made her tingle everywhere. And knowing Ash had crafted something that caused such a reaction in her made her excited and scared to see him again.
Excited because she wanted those hands on her body.
Scared because she’d stolen from a guy whose life seemed to revolve around defense and security.
“Well, well, look who’s on time for once.”
Joy looked up to see her boss, the portly Mr. Panos, waddling over to her desk. Straightening, Joy met his dark, accusatory stare. “Good morning, Mr. Panos. How are you today?”
“I’ll be better if you tell me you got that exclusive I’ve been asking for.”
She shut the drawer. “I’m working on it. I have a meeting with a promising artist tonight.”
“Good. In this economy we need a big name right now, and something edgy. I’m depending on you, Joy. Your fancy art history degree may look pretty on the wall, but if you can’t sell art, you need to start thinking about teaching or something. You know what they say, those who can’t do teach. And those who can’t teach, teach art history!”
Joy bit her tongue to keep herself from retorting. Instead she watched Panos waddle away, his backside ticktocking from side to side like a huge pendulum. She picked up her pencil and released her anger through some free-flow cussing: Fuckwad dicknose bucket-of-lard asshole. . .
There. She drew little hearts and flowers around the words, and when she felt calm again, she took a deep breath, tore up the paper, and threw the tattered pieces into the garbage.
Their receptionist, Andrew Xiao, pushed through the front door and placed a paper cup on her desk. “Nonfat latte.”
“Thanks. I need this. I just got reamed by Panos. Again.”
With his Mohawk, black mod boots, and wool sweater, Andrew looked like he’d just stepped out of an Urban Outfitters catalog. Sipping his coffee, he rested one skinny, jean-clad hip against Joy’s desk and rolled big brown eyes. “Panos is such a moron,” he said in a low voice, and still the words echoed in the empty space.
Looking around the gallery, she sighed. It was dead. “We had one couple come in earlier, but when they didn’t find any impressionist landscapes, they left in a hurry.”
Coffee cup in hand, Joy started pacing the concrete floor. “The problem is location. We need to be down on the East Side where all the other modern galleries and shops are, not on Union Square where the art scene died five years ago.”
“No shit. Fortunately this place seems to be more of a hobby for the owner than anything else. I doubt he’ll shut us down.”
Joy paused in front of an enormous abstract. The artist was slowly moving her work to the east galleries but was letting Joy keep a couple of pieces, mainly because Joy had begged her to. “We’re losing our artists.”
“Have you thought of applying anywhere else?” Andrew asked gently.
“The thought of starting at yet another gallery…” It seemed every time she changed jobs, it was just proof that her art history degree had been as useless as her family had told her it would be. There was always museum work, but she loved finding new artists, exposing the public to new and exciting cultural finds, seeing their looks of delight after Joy hung a piece on their walls. She shook her head. “I just can’t do it, not yet.”
She looked around the space, at the same art that had been hanging on the walls for months. The place was starting to look stale, even to her. “We just need something amazing to set us apart, to make people want to come here.”
Andrew looked skeptical. “Any ideas?”
Her gaze went to her desk, and she pictured the stolen artifact inside. She gave Andrew a tiny smile. “You know what they say, right?”
“Every rose has a thorn?”
“Besides that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “They say sex sells.” And all Joy needed was the sex to sell. And she knew just where to find some.
Joy clenched her shaking hand into a tight fist and rapped three times on Ash’s door.
She hoped she looked okay. What did one wear to a professional-possibly-could-end-up-in-bondage date?
She’d changed about ten times before settling on a plain brown knit dress. She’d worn her hair down and attempted to tame it with smoothing gel, and she’d even put on some green eye shadow in the hopes of giving her boring hazel eyes some life.
On her feet were her usual flats. It was either this or tennis shoes. Unlike most girls, Joy didn’t have a shoe fetish, and her closet displayed this by its dismal selection. Every time Joy entered a shoe store, she tended to get over-whelmed by the choices and always left empty-handed.
Now she wished she had worn some sexier shoes. Heart thumping, she waited for him to answer the door.
What if he knew about the sculpture? What if he was angry?
What if he tried to kiss her again?
What if he wanted to tie her up? The idea had been at the back of her mind ever since last night, and she knew that she could be persuaded.
Easily persuaded.
No, no, no. You stole from him; you can’t have sex with him!
The door opened, and he was there, grinning at her, those little lines around his eyes crinkling again. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. For one second, she forgot why she’d been scared to come here.
“Joy. Come on in.”
“Thanks.” She dipped her head and crossed inside, taking a moment to feel the warmth of his body as she passed. Why did she always seem to heat up whenever she was anywhere near his vicinity?
Stepping inside, she took in the spacious flat. The style reminded her of her oldest brother’s modernist decor. The old building space had obviously been remodeled, and the style was eclectic mid-century, most of it open space. Huge windows took up an entire length of the far wall, and Joy gasped aloud when her gaze landed on the beautiful view of the San Francisco skyline.
The kitchen was to the right, with modern concrete countertops and stainless-steel appliances. It seemed to shine, as if it was rarely used. In fact, the entire place was spotless and orderly, from the carefully arranged bookshelves that spanned the wall next to the glass dining table to the uncluttered desk under a spiral staircase; Ash Hunter was obviously a neat freak.
Strange. You wouldn’t guess from his appearance.
Pulling her bag off her shoulder, she went to the low, brown sofa, above which hung a huge black-and-white photograph of a naked woman, bound in rope from ankle to shoulder, suspended, hanging horizontally in midair. Mesmerized, Joy dropped her purse onto the couch and then shrugged off her coat and dumped it onto the cushions, all the while staring at the photograph. She couldn’t see the woman’s face, which was hidden by her long dark hair that hung nearly to the floor, but she could see the curve of her breasts, her nipples, and her ass. Joy’s pulse ratcheted up another notch. What was it about Ash’s art tha
t made her so aroused?
“You like that?” He picked up her purse and coat and hung them on a coatrack.
She nodded. “Very much. It’s a shame you don’t want to take photographs anymore. I can’t believe you’re just giving up.” And maybe I can persuade you to change your mind.
“Yeah.” But she heard something in his tone of voice, as if he was unsure, and the way he was staring at her made her think she’d give up her collection of silk scarves to know what he was thinking at that moment.
“Is your studio here?” she asked.
He jerked his head to the left, and she followed his gesture to a large alcove. His photography studio, obviously. There was an old-fashioned camera on a tripod and several umbrella lights scattered around the floor. Joy took a step toward the staging area, where a large piece of black fabric hung opposite the camera. Then she turned and gasped.
Right. The rope bondage—that was what was making her heart race, what was perpetuating that erotic nuance that was hanging heavy in the air. And it wasn’t like she could ignore it; the rope was directly in her vision now, multicolored nylon looped around pegs, dotting the entire opposite wall, forming colorful circles from floor to ceiling.