by HELEN HARDT
As if reading my mind, she says, “I missed you. Why didn’t you call?”
“I was busy,” I say.
“You couldn’t find two minutes?”
I rip the mask off my eyes, grab her cheeks, and blurt out words before I can stop them. “Baby, if I’d called, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from getting on a plane and flying back to you.”
She inhales swiftly.
“I couldn’t do that. I did it once, and I nearly lost a deal because of it. I had to take care of business.”
So easy.
So easy to kiss those lips…
But clearer heads must prevail. I’m expected at the gala, and I promised Skye a night out.
“Christopher’s waiting,” I say. “Let’s go.”
She grabs the bag sitting next to the door.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Oh.” Her cheeks redden. “You said for me to bring over some clothes and stuff.”
“And you assume we’ll be going to my place?”
“Yes,” she says boldly.
“You assume correctly.” I stare at her, the nipple clamps burning in my pocket. I need to put them on her now, before we leave. “Remove the top of your dress.”
She slips one strap over her shoulder, slowly. I suck in a breath. She slides the other strap over her shoulder and urges the fabric downward. The only thing standing between her breasts and me is a strapless bra.
We stand there, gazes locked, until— “Fuck it.” I crush my lips to hers.
Her lips are already parted, and I thrust my tongue between them. Fucking bra. Between those gorgeous tits and my fingers. I unclasp it deftly and toss it to the floor. Then I cup her breasts, thumbing her hard nipples as I deepen the kiss. Our mouths are one, giving, taking, licking, kissing. She reaches downward, toward my crotch, and grasps the bulge beneath my slacks.
Fuck the gala. Fuck the gala. Fuck the gala.
I groan into her, a low, melodic hum like the beginning of a rolling clap of thunder.
She arches, grinds into my thigh, still holding my clothed erection—
I break the kiss and inhale sharply. “Damn, Skye.”
So easy. So easy to lift her in my arms, carry her to the bed. Pound her into next week.
But all my plans for tonight. I can’t do them here.
And the gala…
I’m expected there…
And the nipple clamps.
I pull the chain from my pocket. “Your tits are so beautiful, your nipples so hard. God, I want to suck and bite them until you can’t stand it.”
“Go ahead,” she says boldly.
Every ounce of strength I possess is required not to do as she asks.
“Later. For now…” I position one of the clamps around a nipple.
She jerks.
“Easy,” I say. “This won’t hurt.”
“It won’t?”
“Not unless you want it to.”
I tighten the tiny screw slowly, squeezing her nipple, all the while a phantom hand tightens around my cock.
“Good?”
She nods, her lips parted.
“You look incredible right now,” I say. “So fucking sexy.”
My words are just words. “So fucking sexy” doesn’t begin to describe Skye’s newly bejeweled nipple. Once I clamp the other, just a flick of the chain will send her reeling.
I’ll control her sensations all evening.
Fuck. This isn’t anything I haven’t done before, but my level of excitement is a hundred times higher.
I adjust the second clamp around her other nipple. “Beautiful. So beautiful. Are you ready, Skye?”
“Ready for what?” Her words come out on a sigh.
“For this.” I yank on the chain between the clamps.
“Oh!” Her chest and the tops of her breasts redden, her nipples protruding as the clamps bind them.
She reaches toward my bulge, and again, all my willpower is required to brush her hand away, which I do reluctantly.
“Time to go, baby.”
“Braden…”
“I know. This will keep you on edge tonight. Right on edge and under my control. You aren’t to touch that chain, Skye.”
“But it’s on me. How can I not?”
“Because you won’t. If you do, I’ll know.”
“But how can you—”
“I will know. Trust me.” I pull her dress upward. “I want you to go without your bra tonight.”
“But the clamps will show.”
“No, they won’t. Your nipples will show, which is hot. They’ll be hard all night and will jut out farther than the clamps themselves. No one will be the wiser.”
“But—”
“And I’ll be able to subtly pull on your chain whenever I want.”
She gulps. “That will…”
“Drive you wild. I know. That’s the point.” I lean down and bite the shell of her ear. “Then maybe you’ll know how completely out of control I get just thinking about you.”
She nearly stumbles. Nice. I’ve got her in a haze. An edgy haze. Exactly where I want her. I steady her, and damn, just gripping her makes my cock take more notice.
“Go now. Fix your bloodred lips.”
She nods and walks to the bathroom.
I head into her kitchen and open cupboards until I find a vase for the roses I brought. I set the resulting bouquet on her small table.
When she returns, she gazes at them. “Thank you,” she says, “for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome. Are you ready?”
She nods.
Good.
She’s ready.
So am I.
For a night neither of us will ever forget.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Mr. Black,” Byron Daniels, one of the opera board members, says, shaking my hand, “we’re so glad you’re here. I’ll escort you to your table personally. Who’s this lovely lady with you?”
“Skye Manning,” I say. “Skye, this is Byron Daniels, a member of the opera board.”
Skye smiles radiantly, though her lips tremble just a touch. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Manning. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Our table is the best in the house, right up front, and it’s a table for two, as opposed to the others that seat eight or ten. A chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon and a platter of berries sit waiting.
“They think we like this better than Wild Turkey,” I whisper to Skye after we’re seated.
She giggles. A server attends to us quickly, opening the bottle and pouring two flutes. He hands one to Skye and then the other to me.
I take mine and clink my glass to hers. “To control,” I say, casting my gaze down to her breasts.
I’ll be controlling her all evening via the nipple clamps.
I’m looking forward to it more than she knows.
“To control,” she echoes and takes a sip of the champagne.
It’s crisp and dry, and though I don’t drink sparkling wine often, Dom Pérignon is in its own class. The bubbles effervesce against my tongue and seem to explode as they crawl down my throat.
The room is already full of guests. I don’t attempt to speak to anyone. People seek me out, come to me, schmooze me. Takes me back to the early days of the company when I was the one doing the schmoozing. I sucked at it. Ben was the schmoozer. He still is. My brother could sell a life estate to a dying man.
Peter Reardon and Garrett Ramirez sit a few tables away from us. When Peter looks Skye’s way, I dart him a glare. He looks away quickly. My architectural planning committee hasn’t made the contract decision public yet, so Reardon and his father may think they still stand a chance.
They don’t.
&
nbsp; “Braden!” George Stanford, chair of the opera board, approaches our table.
I rise and shake his hand.
“We can’t thank you enough for your generosity,” he says.
“I’m glad to do it.” I nod to Skye. “George, meet my girlfriend, Skye Manning.”
My girlfriend. I’m not unaware of how strange the term sounds coming from a thirty-five-year-old businessman. I’m not sure I’ve ever used the word before.
George holds his hand out to a still-seated Skye. “A pleasure, Ms. Manning.”
“Please, call me Skye.”
He nods and turns back to me. “We had a great response this year. The gala is sold out. The first time that’s happened in fifteen years.”
“Interest in opera must be growing in Boston.”
“It is, especially among the younger crowd. I think young people are finally tired of the same old hip-hop and are willing to give the classics a try.”
“It’s probably also because you’ve added some contemporary opera to your season the past couple of years,” I say, smiling.
George laughs. “Yes, that was a great idea you had, Braden. Seems to have paid off handsomely.” He turns to Skye. “Tell me about yourself, Skye.”
She jerks and meets George’s gaze. I can’t help a slight smile. She wasn’t listening to our conversation. She was busy people watching. It’s what she does. A photographer thing, I’d guess.
“I’m a photographer,” she says.
“Interesting. What kind of photography?”
“Mostly social media at the moment, but my dream is to photograph for National Geographic someday.”
“Interesting,” he says again and turns back to me. “How did you two meet?”
Loaded question. I’m hardly going to tell the chairman of the opera board that I sent a snide Instagram comment to Skye’s employer.
“Skye used to work for Addison Ames,” I say.
“Oh, I see. Used to?”
“Yes.” I take a sip of champagne. “She’s on her own now, doing her own social media influencing as a way to get her photography seen.”
“Social media.” George shakes his head. “Call me old-school, but I don’t get it.”
George is at least twenty years older than I am. “The opera guild has an Instagram account,” I say.
“I’m sure we do, but I’ve never seen it.” He laughs. “Good to talk to you, Braden. I’ll see you onstage after dinner.”
I nod as George goes on to the next table.
Skye takes a sip of champagne as she continues to look around the room. A moment later, she touches my arm gently. “Excuse me for a moment.”
I nod.
She leaves our table and walks around the room, darting her gaze here and there, until she disappears near the entrance. I soon see why when I look at her phone. A post pops up on my Instagram feed—a selfie of Skye in front of the banner at the entrance to the ballroom.
At the Boston Opera Guild Gala! #operaguild #formalball #supportthearts
Comments follow almost instantaneously.
Love your lips! What color are you using?
Just as instantaneously, she replies.
Night on the Town lip stain by Susanne. Perfect for an elegant evening!
I catch sight of her reentering the ballroom. Instead of returning to our table, though, she heads to the table where Peter Reardon and Garrett Ramirez are seated.
Icy rage curls at the back of my neck. What the fuck is she doing?
I play it cool, though, as several guests are approaching me. I say hello and shake hands, still watching Skye out of the corner of my eye.
Peter and Garrett both stand. At least they’re being gentlemen. Or playing the part, anyway. Nope. Take that back. They’re both staring at her tits now.
Those tits, over which I have control.
Fuck. I ought to waltz right over there and give Skye a good yank on the chain. Remind her who she’s with.
Not that I think Reardon or Ramirez are competition, but still… They’re staring at my woman’s tits.
My woman’s tits.
God, I’m fucked in the head. She’s not my woman. I’m not falling in love.
This is nothing but what it is—two adults who are attracted to each other having a good time.
Except I had to mentally remove her from my mind while I was in New York…and I wasn’t even wholly successful.
Damn it. Those tits are mine. Those lips are mine. Those legs are mine.
That woman is mine.
Once the guests are done schmoozing me and leave, I glare at Peter and Garrett. After a minute of what I hope is casual conversation, Skye looks toward our table.
She smiles.
I don’t.
Peter and Garrett both sit down.
Do not sit down at that table, Skye.
She doesn’t, thank God. Another moment later, she makes her way back to our table. I excuse myself from the newcomers who have swarmed around me and take her aside, walking her swiftly out of the ballroom and to a secluded hallway.
“What was that?”
“I was talking to Peter and Garrett. They’re the only two people here I know.”
“You know a lot of people. I’ve introduced you to everyone I’ve talked to.”
“That doesn’t mean I know them.”
“You know them as well as you know Peter Reardon.”
“Not really. Peter and I have danced. We’ve had a drink.”
I grip her shoulder, not hard but in a way that makes her know I’m serious. “For God’s sake, Skye. Are you trying to drive me to distraction?”
She wiggles against my hold. “I’m trying to have a good time here.”
“Being with me isn’t a good time?”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I just—”
I grab the chain beneath her silky dress and yank.
“Oh!”
“Don’t forget who you came with,” I say.
“I haven’t forgotten. I—”
I yank the chain again, this time slightly harder.
I swear to God, everything she feels on her nipples I feel quadrupled in my cock.
“Dinner is being served now. We’re going to go back to the table, eat, and then we’re leaving.”
“But it’s a ball. Aren’t we going to dance?”
“No,” I say. “We’re leaving after they thank me for my generous donation, which will happen right after dinner.”
“But—”
“No buts, Skye. You’ve already driven me out of my mind tonight. It’s time for me to return the favor.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
I take Skye’s arm and escort her back into the ballroom.
The crowds have dispersed a bit as people take their seats for dinner. Servers bring out plates covered in silver domes.
We’re nearly back to the table when someone steps in front of us.
“Don’t you two look stunning?”
Addison Ames, dressed to the nines, of course, in what couldn’t have cost less than about ten grand. Only she would have the nerve to speak to us after firing Skye. I won’t be drawn into her drama, and I won’t allow Skye to be, either.
“Nice to see you,” I say shortly.
“And you, as always,” she says curtly and then tugs on Skye’s other arm and whispers in her ear.
Skye reddens slightly but stays calm and mature. I have no idea what Addie said to her, but this isn’t the time or place to rehash it.
I whisk her quickly to our table, where we sit down.
Servers place plates in front of us almost immediately. “Don’t let her get to you,” I say.
Skye nods, and though she tries to hide it, I feel her demeanor change.
She places her napkin in her lap, picks up her fork, but then sets it back down. She’s upset, and I want to help. I need to help.
And I also can’t stop thinking about that chain beneath her dress that’s begging for a yank.
“Braden,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“She’s trying to ruin me.”
I lift my eyebrows, anger surging through me. Addie has upset Skye once again, and I won’t have it.
“What has she done?” I ask.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
All the time in the world when it comes to Skye.
She sighs. “The day you went back to New York, I got an email from this place called New England Adventures.”
“The hot-air balloon place?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Have you ever ridden in a hot-air balloon?”
I shake my head. “No. Not yet, anyway. I’d like to try it sometime.”
“You’ll be doing it without me,” she says. “The idea scares the shit out of me.”
I smile and trail a finger over her sexy forearm.
And think about those nipple clamps.
“Anyway,” she continues, “they wanted me to go up in one of their balloons and take some photos and then do some posts. They had this great name for the campaign already. ‘Skye takes to the sky.’ I figured I’m new at this influencing thing, so I can’t really say no to opportunities, right?”
“Right,” I say. “Good to know you listen to me.”
“God, Braden, why wouldn’t I listen? You’re an expert at business. Look what you’ve done.”
I nod. Yes, I did it. With Ben’s help. With…some other help that I don’t like to think about.
Skye continues, “So I called the person who emailed me, Tammy Monroe, to get some further clarification. I tell her how scared I am of plummeting to my death from a balloon, and she assures me how safe it is, how it’s controlled by the FAA and all. She offers me a test ride for free, and if it’s not my thing, I can bow out. So I agree to go on a balloon ride the next day.”
“How was it?”
“It wasn’t,” she says.
I lift my eyebrows again.
“I mean it didn’t happen. But I’m getting ahead of myself. We talked about payment, and I followed your advice. I didn’t take the first offer, except that I actually did, because she explained they were a small operation and couldn’t offer the kind of money Susanne could.”