And what Dorian had discovered last night, when that fire had led him places he’d never thought he’d go, was that he wanted real. He was done with playtime.
But was Erika?
Because he could sit here and think through a thousand different scenarios to energetically explain his point of view until she surrendered the way he liked best, but if the only reason she was here was because she wanted to hurt Conrad... Well. That didn’t exactly fit in with all the futures he was building in his head.
He sat with that for a moment. And didn’t like it. Not when she’d given herself over into his hands so beautifully, so completely.
Dorian was hard just thinking about it. Hard and something more—in a kind of awe, really, at her ability to kneel. To submit. To bend to his will, and find herself brighter and more beautiful on the other side.
Fundamentally, he didn’t believe—maybe he couldn’t believe—that what had happened between them hadn’t gotten to her.
He figured it was possible she’d come after him for revenge, then found herself on her knees, significantly more compelled by their dynamic than she’d planned. Because the bedroom games she’d played before weren’t the same thing as the true, real connection that had blazed between them. No game could touch it.
And that connection was worth anything and everything, as far as Dorian was concerned. Especially when, until last night, he had truly believed that he would have to pack these needs of his away, meet a perfectly nice girl by regular means instead of in his club, where he could ask her for a list of her soft and hard limits, and sentence himself to a life devoid of all this glorious color.
He could get off by having vanilla sex, if he had to, as he’d told Erika last night. He had before, and he’d told himself that he would again. There had been times when he’d assured himself it wasn’t even a great sacrifice. Not when he had found it so difficult to find that true connection he craved out there in the clubs, and Lord knew that even vanilla sex was better than going without.
That was what he’d told himself. And he’d been more than halfway to convincing himself that he really, truly believed it. He’d even assured his grandfather that this would be the year he would start looking seriously for an appropriate wife.
And he had. He’d gone on a few perfectly nice dates with lovely women who did absolutely nothing for him. And he’d been gearing himself to simply...choose one and commit himself, if not to his own happiness, then to hers.
But today he found himself standing in a life that looked exactly the way it had yesterday, but was wrecked from the inside out. Changed entirely.
By one mouthy, spoiled, impossible brat who made his cock hard and his heart kick, even now.
Dorian set down his second cup of coffee, ran his hands over his face and accepted his fate. It was done, as far as he was concerned. And Master Dorian did not dither when he’d made up his mind.
He set about getting what he wanted.
And one thing Dorian was very, very good at was getting what he wanted.
He needed to get Erika to admit what had happened here between them, by whatever means necessary, and no matter what revenge fantasies she might have been cooking up in that fascinating little mind of hers.
He also needed to call his best friend, tell him what had happened—or at any rate, a highly sanitized version of what had happened, complete with a full accounting of Dorian’s intentions—and accept whatever reaction Conrad might have. Even if it was violent.
Dorian fully expected it to be violent.
But he was prepared to accept the consequences. If he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have done it.
He blew out a breath, picked up his mobile and dialed Conrad’s number.
Because there was no way he would be able to conduct the conversation he needed to have with Erika in the way he wanted until he talked to her brother.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Conrad said when he answered his phone. In the background, Dorian could hear the sounds of a major city. Paris, if Conrad was at home. Though in truth, the man traveled as much as Dorian did, and could be anywhere. Dorian hoped, given what he expected Conrad’s reaction to be, that it wasn’t Berlin. “Really. You’re not going to believe it. I’m getting married.”
“Funnily enough,” Dorian said, because there was no point doing any of this unless he was all in, “that was what I called to talk to you about. And I’m pretty sure you will believe it even less.”
* * *
Erika woke up when sunlight streamed in the windows, bright and warm on her face.
She knew exactly where she was.
Berlin. Dorian’s massive penthouse. Dorian.
For a moment, she let herself lie there as she was, curled up naked in his bed with the most extraordinary feeling that she...belonged there.
That she was safe at last. Cared for the way she’d always dreamed. And right where she was supposed to be.
But Erika knew better than to let herself get carried away with dreams that could never come true, no matter how at peace she felt in this bed. In this home.
She sat up gingerly, expecting there to be pain, but the ache in her butt was minimal and really almost...pleasant. Her pussy felt sensitive. Not exactly fragile, more...greedy. If anything, she wanted more of it.
More of everything. More of this. And more of him.
She shoved her hair back from her face, looked around and wasn’t surprised to find herself alone in the massive bedroom.
Images from the night before chased each other through her head, one more vivid than the last. Different emotions buffeted her, but it was as if she’d stuck her head out the window in the middle of a storm. She could feel the wind, but it didn’t sweep her away. And when she took a deep breath, then let it out again, she found herself smiling.
Because she felt like a new person.
She crawled out of the bed, running a hand down one of the dauntingly thick and sturdy posters, pretty sure she knew exactly what Dorian did with them. To her surprise, even after everything that had happened the night before, the notion sent a thrill spinning through her, pulsing its way down into her greedy pussy.
When she would have sworn up and down, her body rejected the very idea of morning sex, as a matter of policy. Apparently not Dorian’s kind of sex.
She padded into the bathroom and took her time in the oversize shower, letting all the many showerheads send hot water pounding into her as she slicked a body gel over her skin that made her smell like him.
She smoothed her wet hair back from her face when she got out, and wondered if it was because she knew Dorian that she felt so comfortable helping herself to his hairbrush. His products. And even one of his shirts. She tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up like this in the house of the random dominant man she’d pretended she wanted to find last night, but she couldn’t. She doubted very much that she would have stayed overnight. And if she had, she certainly wouldn’t have slept like that, crashed out in the deepest sleep she could remember having since she was a child.
Because when have you ever felt safe? a voice inside her asked.
Erika didn’t want to answer that. Because she knew the answer, of course, and it made her sad. She pressed a hand against her belly as she wandered downstairs, cataloging the faint pull here and whisper of something there, reminding her that she’d had a long and eventful night.
Had she ever.
She wished she was a lot more sore, she realized as she crossed the great room where she’d cried and come and had learned things about herself she’d never known were there. She wished her ass was far more sore than it was. She wished she could feel him, so long and thick and demanding as he’d pounded into her. The scrape of her breasts and her cheek against that rug as she’d come and come, his cock hammering into her to make sure she kept on going.
Erika wan
ted to wear him on her skin.
And she didn’t really want to ask herself if that was healthy, because it felt right.
She was too warm again when she padded into the kitchen, so bright with all the light of midday pouring in, and found Dorian there.
He was dressed in a T-shirt that made a symphony out of those arms of his that she appreciated a whole lot more this morning. And in new ways. Because of the pain he could inflict, the pleasure he could wring out of her, and the safety she’d found only and ever there.
But she kept that to herself as he fixed her with a dark, simmering look.
She could feel the tumble inside her. Something defiant that lit her up, and made her want to poke at him—though it was at odds with that shimmering thing that wound around and around, settled in her pussy and made her knees feel weak.
“How do you feel this morning?” Dorian asked, his voice polite. Cool.
Irritating, she thought and glared at him.
“I’m great,” she said. “Never better. You?”
“Erika. That wasn’t a random pleasantry. I want you to provide me with a detailed and honest inventory of your feelings. Can you handle that?”
And all that light tumbling around his sleek, pristine kitchen made her silly. Or bold. At the very least, it reminded her that it wasn’t last night. Not anymore.
“While I’m cataloging my feelings, maybe you can ask yourself why it is you have to be so incredibly patronizing.”
“I’m not patronizing you. You seem euphoric. I want to make sure you’re not peaking on your way into a serious drop.”
“I thought that’s why you brought me a snack last night.”
“What happened was intense,” he said gently, as if she might not have noticed. “Emotional responses to that kind of intensity and vulnerability often show up later.”
It was the way he said that, maybe. As if he knew things she didn’t—about herself. Erika found herself crossing her arms, even though she knew it made that shirt of his ride up her thighs.
Or maybe she wanted to linger for a moment in the way his dark gaze moved over the extra bit of skin she’d revealed. Because she felt a little bit like a junkie, desperate to see that flame blaze in his eyes again.
“If you have feelings about last night that you’d like to share with me, this is a safe space to do that,” he said in a remote sort of way, as if he was conducting a seminar on BDSM and was modeling appropriate behavior. And suddenly Erika was flooded with emotion, all right. Assuming fury counted. “No need to observe protocol. You can simply tell me how you feel, ask me questions or share any thoughts you might have that you think I should know.”
“I feel that you’re being unnecessarily condescending to a woman you had sex with when most people pretend to exchange numbers, have three seconds of awkward conversation and then leave. Will there also be a questionnaire? An exit interview?”
His dark eyes gleamed, and the power there almost made her gasp. But all he did was smile. Slightly. “Is there a way that you can share those sentiments without resorting to name-calling and insolence, do you think? Right now that’s a question. The next time I get you naked and on your knees, however, you may find there are consequences for such responses.”
Erika hugged herself a little bit harder. “All your life, you’ve been just like this. Aloof. Arrogant. Even when you were a teenager.”
“I’m delighted you were paying attention.”
He moved to an espresso machine that had its own countertop, and pulled two shots. Then he pulled out a carton of cream from his great steel refrigerator, poured a hefty dollop into the cup and slid it to her.
And Erika’s stomach twisted a little as she stared down at it.
“How do you know how I like my coffee?” Her voice was faint.
“You’re not the only one who pays attention.”
She felt shaky, suddenly. She wished she had something better to wear than one of his shirts with the sleeves rolled up. She wished her hair wasn’t still damp and clinging to her neck. She wished she could, just once, control herself before making a mess.
“I really am fine,” she made herself say. She lifted the coffee he’d made her and took a sip, then forced a smile. Because, of course, it was perfect. Exactly how she liked it. “Better than fine, now.”
“Why am I not surprised to hear that?” Dorian asked, and the lightness of his voice was at distinct odds with all that intensity in his gaze. It made her worry. It made her wet. “Most people have intense reactions to their first real BDSM experience, but not you, of course. Not Erika Vanderburg, recklessly careening through life, heedless and untouched by anyone or anything.”
And she might have described herself that way yesterday, but she didn’t like him doing it. Not today. It felt like a slap of his hand, and not because he was teaching her a lesson, but because he wanted to hurt her. A crucial distinction.
“I do not careen. I travel. I explore.”
He smiled again, but it didn’t exactly soothe her. He slid a plate in front of her, and it took her a few moments to realize it was...food. He’d put together a typical German breakfast of rolls, cheeses, meats and sausages. There were jams and honey, butter and mustard. Even boiled eggs.
And as she stared at the feast he quietly set out before her—matter-of-factly, really, as if he served her food every day of her life—Erika realized she was ravenous.
He’d known that, somehow. He’d known it in the same way he’d known exactly how to touch her last night to make her break, then burn.
Something deep inside her quivered.
But it didn’t keep her from eating.
“Why did you leave university?” Dorian asked, conversationally.
It was a strange question, but she had warm German bread and she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything else.
“It wasn’t the right place for me,” she told him.
“Was it not for you or was it another way for you to practice self-sabotage?” he asked, his voice so mild she was starting to smile at him before his words penetrated. “That is what you like to do, is it not? You were a decent student, by all accounts. I believe your brother even praised you after your second-year marks came in—and you couldn’t have that. You only like attention when it’s negative.”
She swallowed, carefully, and set her roll down. Suddenly she wasn’t hungry any longer. “What is this?”
And though she was standing there at the counter across from him in his bright and happy kitchen, she felt as if she was back in that hallway. What was wrong with her that she wanted to kneel while he took her apart? Again?
Yes, please, something in her whispered.
But he wasn’t finished.
“When your father died, you went off the rails. Your brother took on all the responsibility, and you chose instead to make certain you were the enduring thorn in his side. I assumed that was because you were as thoughtless and empty-headed as you’ve acted over the years, but you’re not, are you? You only want people to think you are.”
“People think what they want.” She scowled at him. “And I never asked Conrad to take responsibility for me. It seems to have escaped both his notice and yours that I actually have a living, breathing parent.”
“Your mother might be the most truly self-centered human being I’ve ever met, and my father is an addict.”
He wasn’t wrong about Chriszette, and yet hearing him say that about her felt like a betrayal. Erika might complain about her, or want to complain about her, but she didn’t like Dorian doing it. Especially because he was right.
Now he was studying her like she was a book he was reading and finding lacking. Deeply, profoundly lacking.
For once in her life, Erika didn’t know what to say.
And the longer she stood there, gazing at him—or scowling at him—the more that f
eeling of well-being that she’d woken up with eroded.
Stupid, she thought, the sharp little voice in her head far too much like her mother’s. Always so stupid.
Because it really hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that while she had gone on a significant journey last night, he’d been...doing what he did. To Dorian, there was no connection between a moment in a ballroom two years ago and today. He wasn’t the one who had taken it upon himself to search her out. He hadn’t done “research” all over the globe, trying to figure out how to get next to her. While she felt profoundly altered by what happened last night, he didn’t.
Clearly.
Because the Dorian who stood there across a granite countertop from her looked exactly the same as he had when he’d tried to cut her down to size in Greece.
And suddenly, everything that had happened between them seemed dirty. And not in the hot way. Soiled, not sexy.
Why had she gotten on her knees? Why had she crawled? Why had she, a grown woman, let this man spank her like a child and then fuck her like some kind of whore?
And how had she curled up in his arms like all of that was a gift, then slept more soundly than she had in years?
She could feel her pulse everywhere, her heart in her throat as if she might get sick.
“Oh my God,” she said, soft and horrified, her eyes wide. “You hate me.”
Something changed, there in the intensity of that dark-coffee gaze. “I don’t hate you.”
“I think you do,” she said, shaken. “I should have realized. Here I was, thinking this was some kind of connection, and you were just...”
Dorian leaned forward, keeping his gaze trained on her, and she wanted to run away. Get away. But she couldn’t seem to move.
“Were you chasing a connection when you came into the club last night? Or was it something else?”
Teach Me--A Sexy Billionaire Romance Page 9