by Tara Leigh
It does.
I deposit Aislinn on the bed in the center of my room and she immediately sits up, hissing as she puts weight on her ass cheeks. I’m not surprised; she landed hard. “Turn over.”
She looks appalled. “What?”
I don’t move back, don’t do anything to change the fact that I’m towering over her right now. When it comes to Aislinn Granville, it’s clear I have to up my intimidation game. “You’re not going anywhere tonight. Do as I say and you’ll have access to all of your things tomorrow.”
“Even my phone?”
“Yes.”
“And the Wi-Fi password?”
I grind my teeth. “Yes.”
Aislinn’s narrowed glare widens with this small victory, her pupils still dilated from desire as she rolls over on her stomach, her face turned away from me.
I don’t mind.
Because if I know she’s not looking at me, I can let my features soften as I admire the smooth skin that is still slightly pink from the heat of her bath, the sculpted shoulders that taper to a tiny waist, bisected by the delicate ripple of her straight spine. And her perfect, peach-shaped ass.
Aislinn’s ass is a thing of beauty. Two lush globes, firm and flawless—except for the bright red splotches that are practically glowing. Yeah, that would hurt.
I take a moment to let my gaze sweep over her lithe thighs and shapely calves, lingering over the ankles that could easily fit within the span of my thumb and forefinger, and the high arches separating the heels of her feet from the pads of her toes.
I like her like this. I enjoy liking her like this. Quiet. Almost submissive.
I especially like that Aislinn’s fast, shallow breaths betray her awareness of my interest. Because she is interested, too.
“Stay,” I command, heading for my bathroom. There, I catch sight of my face in the mirror and am doubly grateful that Aislinn turned away from me after I placed her on my bed. Because the man who looks back at me is a stranger. A familiar one, but I don’t recognize the adoring half-smile that pulls at his lips or the softness of his stare. The man in the mirror is the type that celebrates anniversaries with champagne and flowers, leaves corny poems on pillows. He cuddles.
Fuck that.
I splash cold water over my face and squeeze my eyes closed, remembering the interrogation from earlier, summoning the echo of a man’s screams. I live in a world of domination and consequences, pain and death.
I can afford to buy anything and anyone.
But I cannot risk falling for a woman.
Not even Aislinn Granville.
My enemies, and they are many, would be thrilled to discover I had an Achilles’ heel. They would do anything to break it, crush it, kill it.
All in the hopes of destroying me.
Which is exactly why Aislinn is in my home right now. Since her mother’s illness, Aislinn has stood beside her father at every public event, every photo op. The epitome of well-bred grace, Aislinn both softens and improves Granville’s image as the hard-charging, ambitious DA with aspirations of Gracie Mansion and even the White House.
She is his Achilles’ heel, and the reason she is in danger.
So, even if I wanted to, I can’t get attached to Aislinn. I will keep her here temporarily while I eliminate the threat to her safety.
But anything more would mean never letting her out of my sight.
As I stride back into my bedroom, a glass bottle in my hands, I wonder if that would be such a bad thing. To keep this beauty always within sight, within reach.
There is a tug low in my gut, a warmth that spreads to my bones.
It would be nice. Very nice.
But the reality is, to love a woman would be to make her my prisoner.
Maybe Aislinn senses this. Maybe that is why she risked being trapped in a fiery blaze rather than remaining locked inside my home. She values her freedom. Just as I do mine.
I’ve faced all kinds of evil, spent years in prison myself. And I wouldn’t wish a lifetime of captivity on anyone—not even my greatest enemy. I’d rather lose my life than my freedom.
I toe off my shoes as Aislinn glances at me from over her shoulder, uncertainty creeping into her expression. “What are you doing?”
“If I don’t massage your muscles, you’re going to be sore for a week.”
She grabs the edges of the duvet, flinging it over her body. “Actually, I think I’ll be fine. If you could just grab my—”
“The clothes you haven’t burned are probably being washed right now. And since I have plans for that delicious ass of yours, fine isn’t good enough.” I unclasp her fingers from the fabric and swat the offending material from her body. “Your clumsiness has afforded you a reprieve, Aislinn. Pain has its place, preferably to intensify pleasure. And since I don’t particularly enjoy seeing marks on your ass that I didn’t put there, I’d like them gone as soon as possible.”
I sit down at the foot of the bed and pat my thigh. “Come here.”
Her wary eyes flick from my face to my lap and back again. “No.”
No? Even in pain, this woman is still so damn stubborn.
My voice lowers an octave, the pace of my words slowing. “I have two settings. The cruel man you would do well to fear. Or the skilled lover. And I can promise you, you will enjoy the latter significantly more.”
She still hesitates. “Are you asking me to trust you?”
“No,” I say. “And I’ll give you some unsolicited advice. If a man has to ask—run.”
She bites down on the soft pout of her lower lip, considering my words. I wait, holding Aislinn’s gaze until a shuddering breath expands her ribcage as she rises to her knees and crawls across the mattress, her plump breasts swinging enticingly with her movements. I keep my hands at my sides as she lays over my lap, her breasts pushing into the duvet just past my left hip. I’m sure she can feel the swell of my erection pressing into her belly, though she doesn’t comment on it.
The oil I drizzle along the ridged column of Aislinn’s spine is one I have custom made in Chinatown. My workouts are brutal, and sometimes the work I do is even more so. I figure the salve will work just as well on Aislinn.
A muffled moan slips from Aislinn’s mouth as I begin rubbing the slippery concoction into her tense muscles. Starting at her narrow neck and easing it into the gentle rise of her shoulders, digging into the indent below the sharp cuts of her shoulder blades. The ridge of muscle that clings to either side of her spine, the curved frets of her ribcage.
Pouring more into my hands, I spread it over the joints where arms meet shoulders, then rub it into her upper arms, elbows, forearms, even each of her hands. They feel like kitten paws within mine, small and delicate and so very sweet. Aislinn’s claws are sheathed now, all attempts to lash out at me rubbed entirely away.
I started this process because of Aislinn’s ass, but for now, I avoid the area entirely, skipping over the tempting swells to focus on the straight lines of her thighs, loving the hitch in her breath as my hands delve between them. It takes immense restraint not to continue farther, expanding my exploration to the heat of her core. But I move on, digging my thumbs into the tendons at the backs of her knees, then the muscles of her slim calves. I grip each ankle and pull her tiny feet toward me. Her toes are as relaxed as her fingers, the nails painted pink, and her arched instep is smooth and sensual.
Aislinn’s initial moan is the first of many. The sounds she makes as I massage and manipulate her body are a magnificent symphony I wish I could record to play once my time with her is over. It will end, I’m sure of it. And the nagging worry that I won’t be able to recall the exact pitch of her shimmering gasp or the vibrating tenor of her groan is bothersome.
The only thing worse would be dislodging her to get my phone, breaking the spell I’ve put her under.
After several long minutes, I reach again for the bottle, tipping it to draw a liquid line between the base of Aislinn’s spine and the tiny dimples, like perfec
tly symmetrical thumbprints, that sit above her ass. She tenses slightly. All this time, running my hands over nearly every square inch of her body … it’s all led up to this one particular part.
I enjoy the strategy of power. Analyzing it. Acquiring it. Exploiting and manipulating it for my own purposes.
It’s taken long years to get to this precise moment in time. To have Aislinn Granville naked and vulnerable, entirely at my mercy, to do with as I wish.
Of course, anyone that knows me knows this: mercy isn’t in my vocabulary.
But Aislinn doesn’t know me, and I find that I’m not quite myself with her.
I cap the bottle again. Back when I first started seeing the Chinese healer, it had smelled like a combination of curdled milk and cat piss. But now, with the amount I pay him, it smells like damp earth and fresh herbs. A scent that mixes well with Aislinn’s natural honeyed sweetness.
Using smooth strokes, I caress the curves of her ass, working from the outside in, leaving the round pink patches for last. Another pour of oil and they glisten.
Aislinn lets out a hiss when my palm covers the tender spots, her hips grinding into my lap as she tries to escape the pressure. Biting down on my own groan, I continue kneading the oil into her tender flesh. Meanwhile, Aislinn continues trying to evade my hands, pushing her knees into the mattress and swiveling her hips.
She probably doesn’t realize that her thighs have inched slightly apart—but I sure as fuck do.
And this man can only take so much of being a masseuse.
“Enough,” I snap, pressing one hand on the small of her back and slipping the other along the crack of her ass. The oil has slipped into it, and it’s like a greased slide. My fingers easily travel to the tightly pleated aperture that flutters against my touch.
Aislinn isn’t moving anymore. Now she is as still and rigid as a carved marble statue. Except that her smooth skin is slick with oil. “Have you ever been fucked here?”
Her response is a cross between a squeak and a gasp.
“It’s just a question, Aislinn. Nothing will happen between us without your consent. Yes or no.”
“No,” she whispers.
I am unsurprised. But very, very pleased.
Moving my hand downward, I feel Aislinn’s sharp shudder of relief vibrate against my thighs. It is too soon though, because even as my fingers reach the wet heat of her slit, my thumb slides against the clenching ring of muscle again.
God, she is so damn tempting, every part of her. The resistance and surrender, her smooth skin and curved body and quick mind.
And right now, with my hand flat on her back, her belly pressing down on my cock, my thumb covering her ass and my fingers sliding into her sweet slit, there’s only one word to describe Aislinn Granville.
Mine.
14
Aislinn
What is this man doing to me?
I feel like a lapdog with the head of a lion—inviting his touch even as my mind is telling me to rip his face off.
It is torture—but not because Damon King is cruelly demanding my submission.
I am reveling in his possession. Exalting in his attention. Craving his touch. Craving him.
And I know I should hate it. I should hate him. Hate with a capital H. Hate.
I certainly did yesterday.
In some ways I still do. I hate him for arrogantly summoning me here. I hate him for not respecting my time or responsibilities. I hate him for using my loyalty to my father against me. I hate him for locking me in a room—targeting my deepest vulnerability without even knowing it.
But I love what he’s doing to my body. Love how he’s making me feel. Love. It.
Spread across his lap, naked, my muscles are singing from the incredible massage he’s given me. My mind is buzzing from the scent of his skin.
And my body is claimed by the hand between my thighs.
It doesn’t feel wrong.
It doesn’t feel quite right either. I am riding the nebulously exciting edge between the two.
And enjoying it, just like he said I would.
Maybe the normal rules don’t apply to Damon King. Or to me, when I’m with him.
I’ve spent my whole life following rules, walking a straight line with only the slightest, smallest deviations before quickly returning to my narrow path. Until tonight.
I’m trapped here, in this room, by this man. And yet I’ve never felt more free.
What is King doing to me? Clearly, he’s making me lose my mind. He’s stealing every shred of my self-control.
Insane or not, my thighs edge farther apart, my pelvis rolling forward. Because my body doesn’t care that my mind is hanging onto sanity by the thinnest of threads. My body wants friction, a release. My body wants King’s body … in me. Now.
The realization hits my brain like a gunshot. I practically buck off the bed. This isn’t normal. This isn’t acceptable. I need to leave, immediately. Me and my vibrator will be just fine.
But King only pushes me down, and despite my wriggling, his fingers don’t pierce me. I’m both relieved and ridiculously disappointed.
“Is this how you want it, Aislinn? Do you want to struggle, taunting me into overpowering you, taking what I want so you can tell yourself afterward that you didn’t want it too? Because that’s too easy for a spitfire like you. And it’s boring as hell for me.”
I twist to the side to glare at him. “Do you know that you’re insufferable?”
His throaty chuckle drowns out the quick panting of my breath, the tip of his finger dragging through my slit. “Aislinn, you’re fucking dripping. Your body is begging—why deny it?”
I look away. “I don’t beg.”
“Oh no?” I feel his thumb press against my puckered hole and I squirm against him, clamping my lips together. I won’t beg for an orgasm, and I won’t beg him to stop either. His thumb probes and pushes, not hurting, not invading. More of a firm exploration. It feels dirty and depraved, and so, so sensitive. There are nerve endings there I never knew existed. Nerve endings that aren’t at all upset by what King is doing.
When just the tip of his thumb breaches me, I can’t help the squeak that escapes my mouth. It feels like my entire world is confined to that one tiny area. King leans down to whisper in my ear. “This little hole clutching my thumb so tightly will take my cock soon. And believe me, you’re going to fucking beg for it.”
I am tempted. God, am I tempted.
But I can’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t.
He pulls out of me and I exhale a shaky breath, too relieved to respond, too turned on to protest. But King doesn’t remove his hand from between my thighs. Instead, two of his fingers slip inside me, and by the way they glide in, I know just how obvious it is that I want this.
Not just this. Him.
My long, low groan is proof of my pleasure, and also my shame. I push my face into the thickness of the duvet until my nose is mashed into the firmer mattress. I can’t breathe, can’t see … but at least, as his fingers slide even farther inside me, curving slightly so that they are pressing on my back wall; at least I can muffle my next groan.
Until I can’t. Because King’s hand, the one that had been splayed across my back … it moves. Following the path of my spine, he fists the messy topknot I’d thrown my hair into earlier, yanking on it in a way that is just shy of painful, so that I am turned toward him again. “Don’t hide, Aislinn. Not from me, not from anyone.”
His gaze is direct and arrogant. Darkly sensual. I manage a slight nod even as the pressure deep inside me mounts. Because suddenly I don’t quite know which of his fingers is inside me and which is sliding over that desperate, swollen, aching bundle of nerves that is so ripe it feels like it’s about to split apart.
It doesn’t. But I do.
Almost.
I’m so close. Infuriatingly close … when King’s movements still. “Tell me you’re not loving this, Aislinn. Tell me you want me to stop.”
Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
I’m looking at him, but I don’t even understand what he’s saying. I’m in that in-between phase where I’m over the edge but haven’t let go yet. I need a push, just the slightest push. With a needy howl, I edge back onto his fingers and roll my hips.
King makes a tsking sound with his tongue. “You either want this, or you don’t. Which is it?”
“I do,” I practically scream. I want it. I want him. So. Damn. Bad.
King holds my stare as he does something, I don’t know what. I don’t even care. Because in the next instant, my orgasm is so sudden, so powerful, I can only gasp as it breaks over me. I am flattened by it, unable to breathe as the pressure hits and pounds.
I’m too surprised to look away or even close my eyes. I’m staring straight into King’s dark gaze as I clench around his fingers, my cry a high-pitched whine that unspools between us like a golden thread.
The waves finally recede and I collapse back onto his lap, drawing great, gasping breaths as if I’ve run a marathon.
What. The hell. Was that?
That wasn’t an orgasm. Not any kind I’ve ever had.
What I just experienced was a full-body paroxysm of the most intense pleasure I’d ever felt.
A total body detonation.
Domination.
Courtesy of Damon King.
Motherfucker.
15
Damon
I give Aislinn a few moments before lifting her from my lap and tucking her beneath the covers. As her head sinks into the pillow, I’m met by a stare that is resentful. Even a little hostile. “Was that why you brought me here?”
I steel myself from recoiling. The threat against Aislinn is real. But maybe I’ve only replaced it with another one.
Me.
“Go to sleep, Aislinn,” I say, more curtly than I mean to.
She closes her eyes.
And for several minutes, I sit and watch her. My hard-on still raging. Just … watching.
She is white and gold and bronze all over. But her lashes are the deepest, richest midnight. They lay like fans across the rise of her cheekbones, as if I dipped my thumb in ash and left crescent-shaped smudges on her skin.