Wicked Torture

by J. Kenner

  Noah's, however, is the first I've visited in this particular building. And his unit has, hands down, the best view of the river I've ever seen. "This is stunning," I say as I press my hands to the glass and look out at the sunset over the water. It's not quite six, but it's early November, and the world is illuminated in orange and purple as twilight engulfs the city.

  I start to turn, but Noah rests his hands on my shoulders. "Wait. Just stay there."

  There's heat in his voice, and my pulse kicks up in response. "Here?" I say, as his palms slide along my arms, so that his hands are over mine on the glass. He's moved closer, too, and now his body is flush against mine so that I can feel every inch of him. The brush of his hands. The hardness of his chest. The tease of his lips against my hair.

  But it's the insistent pressure of his erection against my lower back that has me pushing against him, instinctively wanting to increase the contact between us as his hands begin a slow exploration while his mouth dips and his tongue teases the back of my ear.

  "Noah." His name is a whisper. A moan. A plea.

  "Did you think I wouldn't remember?" he murmurs. "Did you think I'd forgotten how this made you melt? How I could take you right to the edge and then feel you tremble in my arms?"

  I close my eyes, reveling in the sensation. In the heat that is spreading through me in response to his touch and his words.

  With one hand, he tilts my head to the side, then kisses his way down my neck as his other hands slides under the white cotton tee I'd worn under my black blazer. I'd tossed the jacket over a chair as we'd come into the condo, and now I'm applauding my own forethought. I want nothing between us, and I'm relishing the sensation of his hand beneath the shirt and the electricity that shoots through me as he touches and explores.

  He releases my head, then slides that hand down my body as well. Slowly, he peels up the shirt, then pulls it over my head and tosses it aside. I'm facing the window, and I can see our reflection. His mouth in my hair. His hands cupping my breasts through my lace bra.

  "You're as beautiful as I remember," he says, tugging the cups down to expose my breasts. He takes one of my hands and lifts it, then positions my palm over my breast. "Touch yourself, baby," he demands, as he slides his hand down to the zipper on my slacks.

  I close my eyes, rolling my own nipple between my thumb and forefingers. It's hard and sensitive, and I gasp as the need builds inside me. As his fingers dip lower and lower, first teasing me at the band of my panties, and then lower still until his fingertip strokes my clit, making me moan as I spread my legs, wanting more. Faster. Harder. Everything.

  "Tell me you like that," he demands.

  "I do."

  "Open your eyes."

  I obey, then hear my own shudder of excitement at the image reflected in the window. Me, with my legs spread and my pants still on, his fingers inside my fly as he teases me to the edge. My shirt, crumpled on the floor. My own hand, kneading and twisting my nipple, in a futile attempt to make the pressure grow, to make it bigger. Hotter. More.

  My face, lost in need. Painted with desire.

  And Noah, still fully dressed, holding me up, supporting me even as he is claiming me.

  "I like that picture," he says, his fingertip still slowly circling my clit. "There's only one thing I'd like more."

  I lick my lips, waiting. Trying to stand still. Trying not to shatter under the riot of sensations he's set loose in my body.

  And trusting that whatever he wants of me next will take me that much further.

  This is the Noah I remember. The man who held my pleasure in his hand. Who knew my body as well as I did.

  A man who could set me on fire with nothing more than a glance. Whose fingers worked magic on me, and whose cock filled me. Whose words set my imagination soaring.

  Slowly, he lowers his mouth to my ear again. And slower still, he whispers, "I want you naked."

  A shiver cuts through me. I picture myself standing between him and the window. Seeing myself as he touches me. Feeling the brush of his clothes as he pulls me close. Vulnerable. His.

  Boldly, I reach back and unfasten my bra, then let it drop to the floor. I'm wearing canvas flats, and I kick them off.

  I hear him draw in a breath behind me. A simple thing, but the sound is just slightly uneven, and I know that he's as turned on as I am.

  And that, frankly, makes it even hotter.

  I keep my back to him, but my eyes are locked on his in the reflection. I lower my hands to my slacks. They're already unzipped, and now I slide my hand along the waistband, then shimmy out of them, finally kicking them aside.

  For a moment, I stand defiantly in my underwear, as if to turn the tables and make him plead with me. But the truth is, I want this, too. I want to stand naked in front of him. I want to see the heat in his eyes as he looks at me.

  That's the power I have, and I want to wield it. I want to bring him to his knees.

  I want an explosion.

  Because there's too much passion lingering between us. It's wild and it's dangerous and it's combustible. And until we burn through it, it's going to tie us together.

  And as much as I wish we could get back to the past, I know it's not possible.

  We have to get past this thing.

  I know it; I'm certain of it.

  But right now I'm so damn grateful that the only way clear is through the man himself.

  Noah.

  For right now at least, I'll take the moment. I'll take Noah.

  And, I think as I peel off the panties and then stand naked in front of the mirror, I'll take as much of him as I can get.

  "Kiki." His voice is low and reverent, and I draw a shuddering breath as I watch his face as his eyes trail down my reflection. My lips, slightly parted. My breasts, small but firm. And right now, with nipples as hard as pebbles.

  He puts his hands on my waist and glides his palms over my silhouette. The curve of my hip, then the form of my thighs. And as he does, he lowers himself to his knees until I feel his mouth at the small of my back.

  Gently, he turns me around, then pulls me close. I bite my lower lip in anticipation, then close my eyes as his thumbs trail slowly up my inner thighs, each pausing at the juncture, the pressure maddening, but in the best possible way.

  I press my lips tight together, determined not to beg no matter how much I want to.

  Then his mouth is there, his lips on my pubic bone, then lower over the smooth skin of my waxed mound. Now I'm biting my lower lip, and my legs are weak, and even without asking, I shift my stance, spreading my legs, inviting his touch.

  His tongue flicks lightly over my clit, and I gasp, an electric-charged shudder running through me.

  And that was just the beginning.

  He repeats the motion, only this time he doesn't pull away. Instead, his mouth closes over my pussy, his tongue teasing and his mouth sucking. And there's no way that I'm going to win this battle. I have no choice but to find support in Noah, and so I bend forward, then clutch his head, both in order to keep myself steady, and to make sure that he doesn't stop. Not now. Not yet. Not until--"Oh, God, Noah."

  The cry is ripped out of me, my body breaking apart under the force of the explosion that came fast and hard. My hands are in his hair, twined with those fiery strands, and I force his head to stay in place, his tongue working its magic until the last gasps of the orgasm fade away, and I step back, breathing hard.

  And, yes, wanting even more.

  "You're still dressed," I say, an accusation in my voice.

  He glances down at himself, then looks at me, his smile both playful and inviting. "So I am. What do you intend to do about that?"

  I don't answer. At least not in words. Instead, I pull him to his feet, then step closer, so that I'm only inches away. Slowly, I unbutton his shirt, then push it off his shoulders before tugging down the sleeves and pulling it all the way off.

  I let it fall to the floor, then press both of my palms against the hard planes
of his chest. I slide my hands down, lower and lower until I reach his belt. I have it unfastened in no time, and I quickly unthread it.

  I'm about to let it drop to the floor with the rest of our clothes when he shakes his head. "I don't think so," he says, and before I can protest, he's made the belt loop around itself, and tightened it around my wrists.

  "What are you--"

  "I think it's time we moved this party to the bed," he says, then gives the belt a little tug before he leads me that direction.

  "On," he says, when we've crossed the studio, but I hesitate. The condo is a studio, so there are no interior full walls except around the bathroom. The bedroom area is in a corner, defined by the exterior walls of the studio, an interior halfwall, and a set of freestanding bookcases.

  As we'd crossed the condo, I'd noticed a collection of framed photos on the far wall, and now I disobey Noah's order so that I can get a closer look.

  Even across the room, they'd seemed familiar, and now I realize why. They're highly erotic images, but shot so beautifully there's no question but that they are art. In each photo, the model's face is hidden, but the pose and the posture are open and honest and full of blatant sexuality.

  I've seen these images before, actually. They're prints from a traveling exhibit of work by a photographer named W. Royce, and I'd seen the show--A Woman In Mind--in Dallas, and thought it was brilliant.

  "You have good taste," I say. "You picked some of his most exceptional prints."

  Noah's eyes register surprise. "You're familiar with the show?"

  "It's great."

  "The photographer's a friend."

  "Really? Well, tell him I'm impressed." I walk around the bed so that I can get closer to one in particular. A woman with her hands bound to the bed, not with rope, but with a man's belt.

  A warm flush spreads over my body, and my nipples tighten almost painfully.

  I glance over my shoulder back at Noah. "Is that what you intend to do to me?"

  He meets my eyes. "No." His fingers run over the leather of the belt. "That was just playing. Leading you to the bed."

  "Oh. Why not?"

  "You know why not."

  He's right. I do, and I turn away, lost in a sudden memory. We'd played those kinds of games before. Nothing hard core, but lover's games. Handcuffs and ropes. Spanking. Once, even candle wax.

  Games, yes, but the kind that require trust. Commitment.

  And those are two things we've lost.

  "Later," he says gently. But I know better. We'll never get to that point because this isn't a relationship. It's not going to grow.

  On the contrary, tonight is a wall. A cure. A terminus.

  The thought disturbs me more than it should, but I brush it off, then flash him a smile. "Good," I say. "Because right now, I need these hands."

  Before he can ask what I mean, I give him a little shove onto the bed, then force him onto his back when I straddle him.

  I make quick work of his slacks and shoes, and in no time at all, he's naked beneath me. "There," I say. "That's better."

  His eyes flash with green heat. "Much."

  He starts to say more, but I silence him with a kiss, then move my lips lower and lower, until my mouth is brushing over the smattering of hair on his chest, then down the straight line to his navel, and then down the final line of hair arrowing toward his very large, very ready cock.

  I use my tongue only once, licking from his balls to the tip as I keep my eyes on his. "I want you inside me," I say, and am rewarded by his low, eager groan.

  He edges sideways to get a condom out of the bedside table, then rolls it on. I approve, but at the same time it makes me sad. Because we used to be so far beyond that.

  "Kiki?"

  I realize I'm frowning, lost in the past, and I shift my expression, even as I shift my body to straddle him.

  "Good girl," he says as I rub against him. I'm so wet already, my core clenching in anticipation. In want. In need.

  "Touch me," I demand, and he strokes me, his fingers teasing my clit, then plunging deep inside me, making me wild. Desperate. Until I can't take it anymore and I lower myself hard and fast, taking him in, and then again and again. Deeper and deeper until he's filled me, and I'm riding him, and I don't ever want to stop. Because this is Noah, and we fit.

  We've always fit.

  A momentary wave of melancholy crashes over me, but then it disappears as rational thought is pushed out of my mind. Replaced by need and pleasure and vibrant passion.

  Faster and faster I ride him, until finally he grabs my hips and slams me down hard.

  I cry out, overwhelmed by the sensation of being filled so completely, coupled with the added friction against my clit.

  A wild orgasm rips through me, turning me inside out, shaking me to my core as my body milks Noah and he explodes inside of me even as I tumble over the edge and burst into a million bright new stars.

  I'm as limp as a rag, utterly exhausted, completely drained--and I feel wonderful. We're spooned together, his arm draped over me, his chest against my back, and I'm breathing deep as I start to drift, anticipating reliving every delicious moment in my dreams since my body is too spent to survive another round in real life.

  "This is what I wanted from the moment I saw you singing at The Fix," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder. "But I never imagined we'd get here."

  His words are innocent enough. And yet they rouse me back to consciousness, causing me to shiver as pinpricks of something akin to worry skitter over my skin.

  "We can't," I begin, then let the words hang because I don't know where to go with them.

  "I think we just did. And pretty well, too."

  "No," I say, rolling over to face him. I draw a breath, gathering my courage. Because the truth is, I need all the strength I can muster to say what needs to be said. "No," I repeat. "This wasn't a beginning, Noah. It was an end."

  He props himself up on his elbow, his brow furrowing as he studies my face. "What are you saying?"

  I lick my lips. "That this isn't--this can't--go anywhere." He looks like he's about to speak, but I rush on. "You were right. There was a thing. Powerful, intense, and unresolved. That's what this was, Noah. What this had to be."

  "What?"

  "Closure."

  His expression hardens. "And if I don't accept that?"

  "Pretty sure this is the kind of thing we need to be in agreement on." I smile gently. Considering I'm still basking in the afterglow, I know that my words landed like a bomb in the middle of a garden party. "And besides, I start work for you on Monday, and I'm not fucking my boss."

  He sits up, the sheet pooling around his hips. I look away. After what I've just said, I have no business ogling his abs or fantasizing about what's under the bed clothes.

  "Technically, you're not an employee."

  I cock a brow. "I have a reputation in this business, and I don't intend to tarnish it. But honestly, Noah, even if we were discreet, we both know that I'm right. Tonight wasn't a beginning, it was an end. Whatever we had before, it's long gone."

  "Were you in the same bed I was? Because I don't believe that."

  "I do." I blink, and tears spill from my eyes. "I'm sorry, but I do."

  He reaches up, then gently brushes away my tears with the pad of his thumb. "Then we start over. We worked together once before. We got to know each other. We fell in love."

  And then you broke my heart.

  He's saying all the right words, but I can't erase the past any more than I can change it. It hangs over us like a flashing red warning sign telling me to beware. Reminding me that my heart isn't any stronger than it was all those years ago.

  Warning me not to trust. Not to fall. Not to hope.

  I did all those things before, and then he left, taking my heart with him.

  He left, just like I'd known he would. Just like everyone does.

  He left, and it destroyed me.

  It's taken years to put the piec
es of me back together, and now that I'm whole, I know better than to trust or to hope.

  Noah Carter is a craving, nothing more.

  And now that I've binged on him, it's time to push away from the plate, gather my self-control, and just say no.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice thick with unshed tears. "I really am sorry, but it's time for me to go."

  8

  Noah couldn't sleep after she left, and the two fingers of the local Still Austin Bourbon Whiskey he'd downed weren't helping. He reached for the bottle, then stopped. Another drink wasn't going to help any more than the first one had.

  The problem was that she'd tied him up in knots, and it wasn't a familiar feeling. Women just didn't get under his skin. Not anymore. Not like that.

  They hadn't for a long time. Years.

  Not since Kiki, actually. And wasn't it ironic that here she was doing the same damn thing to him all over again?

  From the first day that he'd met her, she'd filled his thoughts. The way she chewed on the end of her pen when she concentrated. The way she sweetened her iced tea with one splash of Diet Coke before offering him the rest of the can. The way she'd work late into the night rather than leave one tiny detail of a project hanging, but still managed to leave work far behind when it was time to play.

  Even now, he could remember the look of surprise on her face when she'd finally stood up on his surfboard, then the way she'd sputtered with delight--not the least bit embarrassed--when she'd immediately fallen off again.

  For months, it had been her smile that filled his mind whenever he closed his eyes. Her voice that urged him on, assuring him that all the time he was spending at the computer was going to pay off. That she believed in his talent, and that he was going to make a huge splash one day.

  And he'd told her the same thing. He'd watch her pluck out a melody on her guitar, her voice adding words to the music that filled his apartment. He'd been amazed by the way she could sit and scribble out lyrics, profound and beautiful and sweetly sad, and then spend days and weeks massaging the words until what he'd foolishly believed was perfect grew into something transcendent.

  He knew he had a gift for tech, but that was tangible, the numbers representing some physical property. The gift she had created emotions, and it both awed and fascinated him.

  She'd filled him up back then. Her passion for her work underscoring his own. They'd worked hard and played hard. They'd fit together perfectly. And though he'd been so damn young back then, he'd believed that they would grow old together.