A French Whipping (21 page)

24

“JUST ASK,” ROLAND
said finally, when they were a few minutes from Nick’s apartment.

Annoyed, Nick tapped his fingers on the armrest of the passenger door. “All right. Why didn’t you tell me that you’d traded our encryption software for information?”

“I didn’t think you’d approve.”

“I don’t.”

“There you go.”

“Roland, he’s a criminal.”

“I know that, but if I have to choose between stopping Keenan or stopping a low-life supplier like Justice, then I choose Keenan.”

Nick gritted his teeth. He agreed, but it still felt . . . wrong. There had to have been a better way to get the information they needed. “You should have told me. Did you tell Milton?”

Roland’s jaw tightened.

Nick nodded. “So . . . no.”

Roland shook his head. “This way it’s on me. All of it. You, Milton, Blake—you’re good.”

“No one asked you to take on ‘all of it,’ you shithead. We’re your partners, your friends.”

Roland didn’t respond.

“Damn it.” Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose. “All right, what do we do now? We haven’t learned much beyond that he is with a woman and that he’s been talking to someone about papers. Who do we know that can help us find out who might be supplying him with documents?”

“Interpol would know. I can reach out to them and see what I can find out. Milton said he was coming back tomorrow. He might have some ideas of where to look on the Net.”

“All right.” Nick nodded. “What do you need from me?”

Roland pulled into Nick’s garage and stopped in front of the elevator. “Keep Blake safe and happy.”

Nick met his gaze for a long moment and nodded again. “I would have agreed, you know. To keep her safe.” He got out of the car and watched as Roland drove off. The elevator dinged behind him. He turned around to see Blake, wearing a long red nightgown and a silk robe in a floral pattern. She must have seen him on the surveillance camera. Her feet were bare. She was holding the kitten in one arm and giving him an arch look, as if reminding him of their earlier conversation.

Nick swallowed and took an involuntary step forward and then another, as if she’d caught him in a net and was dragging him ever closer and closer. He joined her in the elevator without saying a word and she pushed the button to close the doors and send them up.

She stood very close to him. He could see that she’d put on more makeup than she usually did. Her lips looked glossy and wet.

“Hi,” she murmured with that mouth and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his shirt.

“Hi,” he replied.

In her arms, the cat was purring, a low rumbling sound. Nick found himself wanting to make the same sound as he stared into Blake’s eyes.

The elevator dinged and Blake turned, deliberately brushing the robe back to show the way the silk gown clung to the curves of her ass. Damn.

Nick forgot why he’d been annoyed moments before, he forgot about Keenan, he forgot about everything except the promise he could see in Blake’s eyes. She’d said she was looking forward to discussing . . . permission.

He followed as she strolled into the living room, noticing vaguely that she’d lit candles and dimmed the lights. The air smelled expensive, like rum, tobacco, and vanilla. She set the kitten down on the couch and turned around, standing with one leg peeking out from the slit that ran down the side of the gown.

Nick stopped where he was, taking in the picture of her standing with candlelight flickering over her luscious body, her curves accentuated by the clinging silk. Her nipples were already taut, pressing against the nightgown, swelling against the seams of a gown that he could easily shred with his hands.

“Have a seat.” She ran her hands over her breasts, brushing against her nipples.

Nick obeyed, taking a seat in the armchair without any hesitation.

She leaned over him, providing a deep view of her cleavage, and drew one knee up and placed it alongside his hip. He stroked her quad, sliding his thumb and fingertips along the line of her muscle.

“I’ve been exploring,” she bent down to whisper in his ear.

“Good,” he replied, though he had no idea what she was talking about. He touched her hip.

Tracing the curve of his ear with her tongue, she nibbled gently. “I found something interesting upstairs, something I’d like to do.”

Upstairs.
He never brought anyone upstairs. His hand stopped moving on her thigh. She leaned back, a slumberous expression on her face. Bending to kiss him, she straightened away from the chair. “Stay here.”

Nick had no intention of moving. God, what had she found? The ropes? Would she really be willing to?

She stepped in front of him again, holding one of the large books of photographs from some of the most prominent modern Shibari artists. She was going to let him tie her. His fingers twitched against the arms of the chair.

She straddled his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, and opened the book to a page depicting a woman on her knees, her arms pulled behind her and connected to her ankles, her breasts crisscrossed and outlined by ropes.

“I considered this one first”—Blake held the book up to him, holding it open—“but then I didn’t see how you could slide inside me.”

Nick swallowed. “Sex isn’t always the point. It’s about the way it looks, about surrendering.”

“Oh, I know.” She pouted. “But I’m spoiled. Tied or not, I want that cock inside me.”

He was a big believer in giving her what she wanted. He licked his lips. “Which one did you pick?”

She turned the pages slowly, letting image after image of bound, blindfolded, suspended women pass in front of his eyes, giving him plenty of time to imagine her in those positions.

She finally settled on an image of a woman on her back, her arms bent at the elbows and secured beneath her, the white button-down shirt she was wearing shoved aside to show her breasts and belly, both outlined by ropes and knots. Blindfolded and head thrown back in anticipation, her knees were drawn up and her calves secured to her thighs and hips with intricate knots, holding her spread and open for penetration.

“This is what I want,” she murmured, wriggling on his lap. “I want you to do this to me and then take me.”

Nick took the book from her and set it aside, stroking his hands up her thighs and under the tight silk at her hips, ripping the delicate seams. She gasped and her legs spread even wider on his lap. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. He could smell her, already ready for him beneath the gown.

“You’ll have to be a good girl”—he squeezed the flesh at her hip—“and do what I say.”

“I will,” she promised, squirming a little. “I’ll do everything you say.”

“Then go to the bedroom and put on one of my shirts. Don’t button it. And then find one of my ties, so I can cover your eyes.”

“Okay,” she breathed, staring at him, and for a moment he wondered if she wanted to call it off and just fuck right here.

“Go.” He removed his hands and took a long, steadying breath. Tying her up like that would take some time; just thinking about it was bringing him close to the edge of losing control.

Blake hurried down the hall, half running in excitement, her inner thighs damp with the endless wanting. God, his eyes when she’d told him she wanted him to tie her.

She’d lit candles in his room as well, and made the bed in preparation. With swift efficiency, she stripped off her robe and gown and left them lying on the floor. Naked, she went into his closet and found a white button-down shirt and a blue silk tie. She slid her arms into the sleeves, appreciating the crisp, clean scent, and rolled them up to her elbows. As requested, she left the shirt open, and simply draped the tie around her neck.

With the tie brushing her breasts, she climbed onto the bed to wait for him on her knees, facing the door.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Within seconds, he was standing in the doorway, rope in hand. He’d taken off his shirt and shoes, leaving him wearing only a pair of jeans that rode low on his hips. Blake swallowed. God, he was so beautiful.

He didn’t say anything; he stalked toward her, his eyes hot, set the rope near the foot of the bed, and climbed up in front of her. Blake was breathing too fast, her chest heaving.

He reached out and pulled on one end of the tie, sliding it slowly from around her neck.

“Lean forward.”

Blake licked her lips and obeyed, bending forward so that he could secure the tie around her eyes.

He was gentle, but not particularly careful; some of her hair fell forward into her face. Blake had never been blindfolded before. She could hear him breathing, hear the ragged edge as he exhaled.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, and she felt the bed move beneath her as he got off the bed. She heard the sound of his dresser drawer opening and the crinkle of paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he ordered.

Closing her mouth, Blake waited. Suddenly she smelled something she was sure was perfume, a rich perfume with mossy undertones and a sharp note that she couldn’t identify. Breathing in, she gasped as she felt a cool silky touch at the base of her throat.

“The first time I smelled this, I thought of a lightning storm, and then I thought of you.”

That was the smell, the charge of lightning in the air, the crackle of something about to explode.

Gasping, she let her head fall back as he touched the stopper to her wrists and at the crease of her thighs before she heard the soft snap of the lid being replaced. The bed shifted; he was leaning over, and she guessed that he was setting the perfume on the nightstand.

She waited, listening, her hands on her thighs, as the heady smell of the perfume rose around them.

He moved closer to her; she could feel the heat of his skin, could feel the brush of air as he moved.

“Put your arms behind your back,” he said softly, and Blake could have sworn she felt the heat of his gaze. She obeyed, putting her arms behind her back and gripping the opposite elbow.

“I’m going to start by draping the rope around your neck. It’s linen. It won’t hurt.”

She felt the brush of the braided rope against her cheek and sighed.

“Okay?” he whispered, his lips brushing the spot.

“Yes,” she replied, barely able to speak, already lost, already seduced by simply being with him, by knowing that she was safe.

He lifted her hair and the soft weight of the rope settled around her neck, trailing down her chest.

“I’m going to wrap you several times around your chest and breasts and secure your arms against your sides.”

“Okay,” she gasped and felt herself trembling.

She felt his knuckles brush against her as he wrapped and twisted the rope down her chest. The rope constricted around her breasts, squeezing them just enough to make her gasp, and she fought the urge to tense, to resist as she felt the bonds tighten her arms against her sides. Behind her, he secured her wrists to her elbows, allowing her to release her grip.

“Relax,” he whispered and dropped a kiss on the muscle between her neck and shoulder. “Let the bonds support you.”

Blake breathed out and deliberately loosened her shoulders, relaxing into the rope, tried to imagine it cradling rather than binding her.

“I want you to lean back.”

Blake obeyed slowly, uncertain of her balance with her arms secured behind her back, but soft brushes of his hands against her skin eased her fears and she leaned against the hot muscles of his chest, sighing in relief at the familiar feel of him against her. One of his hands slid along the rope at her neck and covered her breasts, thumbing the nipple.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured. “The knots against your white skin . . . your face as you surrender. God.” He bent his head to her neck. “Blake, my Blake. Lean all the way back. I’ll catch you.”

Blake did as he asked, falling backward into his hands as he lowered her head to the soft down coverlet. Her feet were still beneath her butt, and she felt the stretch in the top of her thighs. She arched her body, lifting her chin and letting her lips part, imagining what she looked like to him, her upper body bound, her breasts peeking from the edges of his shirt and the taut lines of the rope.