Being Me (23 page)

Lazily he tweaks the rosy tips until they are hard knots, and sweet, delicious sensations ripple through me. I grab his wrists. “Stop. We have to leave. I have to get dressed.”

“Just making sure you’re ready.”

“I am ready. That’s the problem.”

He cups my breasts and pushes them together, leaning down to lave both of my nipples at once. My lashes flutter and my hand goes to his head. I don’t have it in me to tell him to stop. I’ll just have to dress faster. I don’t notice when he reaches for one of the nipple rings. He’s just suddenly slipping it over one of the swollen, aroused tips.

I bite my lip and stare down at the dangling jewels. “Hurt?” he asks, flicking it with his finger and sending darts of pleasure straight to my sex.

“No,” I breathe out. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Satisfaction slides over his handsome face and he dips his head low again, rasping my bare nipple with his tongue. This time, as I watch him place the second ring into place, I’m aroused by more than the sight of the jewelry on my body; it’s also the idea that Chris will be thinking about this all night.

He lifts me to the counter and spreads my legs, his palms traveling up my thighs, stopping at the slick swollen flesh of my sex, where his thumbs stroke and tease. “Are you thinking about fucking me, Sara?”

“No. I’m thinking of
you
fucking
me
.”

He laughs, a deep, sexy sound that turns me to soft, melting honey. I feel myself grow wetter beneath his touch, and so does he. I see it in the darkening of his gaze, the amber heat dancing in the depth of his green eyes.

“As much as I’d like to fuck you, baby, it’ll be all the better for the wait.” He holds up the clit ring and proceeds to close it around the swollen, sensitive bud. He presses my legs apart wider still. “Don’t move. I want to look at you.” He takes a step backward.

I yank the robe shut and scoot off the vanity, positioning myself in front of him without touching him. My chin lifts. “You teased me. You can wait until later to see me.” I sidestep him and put distance between us, before whirling around to face him. “Now out, and let me put my dress on.”

“No bra and panties.” It’s an order, the alpha Chris I know and find so damn arousing, in all his glory.

“We’ll see.”

He’s closed the distance between us and pulled me hard against him in an instant. “No bra. No panties. Understand?”

His heart thunders beneath my palm. He is not unaffected by this exchange. He does not have all the power, but his need for it permeates the air, as alive as I am when he is touching me.

I press to my toes and kiss him. “Yes. I understand.”

For a moment he’s stiff and unyielding. The next his hand is melded on my back beneath the gaping robe. His lips brush mine, then his tongue, a whisper of a touch before it’s gone. “How is it that you always do exactly what I don’t expect you to do?” he asks in a gravelly voice. He sets me away from him and exits the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

I stare after him for several seconds, wondering if doing the opposite of what he expects is a good or a bad thing. But the truth is, I don’t try to be someone else with Chris, as I have with other men in my life. I’m rediscovering myself, or perhaps finding myself for the first time ever.

With an inner shake, I spur myself into action, sliding on my black thigh-highs, black high heels, and finally, the emerald green dress. No bra. No panties. Already, the rubies are teasing me unmercifully just as Chris had with his mouth and fingers. I inspect my reflection in the mirror, loving the dress even more than I did in the store. The vibrant green complements my pale skin, and the dress hugs my body without being overtly sexy. And thankfully the fitted bodice provides enough coverage to hide the ruby-covered rings on my nipples.

Reaching for the bathroom door, I pause a moment as adrenaline pours through me at the idea of Chris waiting beyond. I step into the bedroom to find Chris leaning against the front door, one leg crossed over the other, his arms over his chest. He watches me expectantly, silently willing me to walk to him, and I am powerless to defy him, aroused by nothing more than the way he consumes the room, and me, with it. He tracks my every step, touching me without touching me, seducing me with the promise of the pleasure he’s proven that he, and he alone, can give me.

I stop in front of him and still he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for me. “Turn around.”

Doing as he says is automatic. He’s right. I crave these moments where he’s in control and anticipation simmers low in my belly to discover what he intends next. With him I can let go, when I don’t dare do so elsewhere or with anyone else.

A cool sensation slides around my neck and I become aware of the necklace he’s hooking at my nape. Surprised, my hand goes to the jewel at my throat, and he leans down and whispers. “Go look in the mirror.”

Curious, I rush to the bathroom to stare into the mirror at the round emerald pendant with diamonds glistening like stars around the edges, where it dips into the V of my neckline. Chris appears behind me, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror, and the connection delivers the now-familiar punch of awareness he creates in me that never gets old. There is a stark hunger in his expression that runs far deeper than the ripe physical need between us. This gift matters to him. It’s special, nothing like the tokens my father gave to my mother, and my liking it is important to him.

“It couldn’t be more perfect,” I say softly. “Thank you.”

His hand splays possessively on my stomach, and he buries his face in my hair, his mouth pressing to my ear. “You’re perfect.” His voice is rough.

Everything Chris does is as raw and real as the pain he struggles to bury in some deep, dark cavern of his soul. And I dread the moment he discovers just how
not
perfect I am.

After leaving our hotel room, Chris and I step into the packed elevator. Chris leans against the wall, settling me under the crook of his arm, and his touch is like a hot, welcome branding too intimate for the public setting. The rubies dangle between my legs, a teasing friction against my clit that, while not painful, is inescapable—as is the thick ridge of Chris’s arousal against my backside. Chris nuzzles my neck, and I shiver. I can almost taste his pleasure at my reaction, and his hands travel up and down my rib cage, tugging the silk of my dress and the jewels on my nipples. My hands go to his, holding them steady in a silent reprimand, and his soft, sexy rumble of laughter touches my ear.

My lips curve at his playfulness, and the contrast of this moment to another occasion when I wore no bra and panties, at the winery, strikes me. I’d scolded myself for daring to see romance in what was a sexy adventure. Even meeting his godparents that
warm August night still left me wondering where Chris and I were headed. I could easily spin doubts and get tangled up in all that could go wrong tonight if I let myself. The list of worries is long. Chris’s return to Paris. My impending career decisions. My secret. My gut clenches and the elevator opens.

I step off the car and mentally leave my concerns inside. Tonight Chris needs me to be clear and present. My Dark Prince is teetering on the edge of darkness over Dylan, and I have to be the rope he clings to for a lifeline.

Once in the corridor, Chris twines his fingers with mine, and this small, intimate act makes my heart squeeze, warming me far more than the gentle sway of the jewels between my thighs while I walk. I cut him a sideways glance to find him doing the same to me, and it is as if I’m experiencing a summer breeze. He floats inside me and completes me, and for the first time in my life I have a sense of being in a relationship, rather than being alone or possessed. Ironic, I think, considering this is the same man whom I’ve all but begged to claim me and possess me. He is dark passion and wicked heat and I can’t get enough of him.

We exit the hotel into the warm, cloudless night, dozens of stars shining brightly above, and I slip my small sparkling black purse over the thin emerald strap on my shoulder. The private car Chris ordered for us is waiting, but we turn when we overhear an elderly couple, also attending the gala, struggling to find a cab.

Chris and I share a look of understanding before he addresses the couple: “You can join us. We’re headed to the same place.”

A sleek 911 halts beside a doorman, and I have a momentary flashback to the night of the wine tasting at the gallery. I’d
walked out of the gallery to find Chris leaning on the 911, my father’s car of choice. I’d compared the two men who are incomparable, and the smiles Chris has just put on the elderly couple’s faces drives home that point.

Inside the back of the car, sitting in the middle, I begin chatting with the woman beside me. Chris settles his hand on my knee, his thumb absently caressing my silk stocking, heat seeping through to my skin. Darts of pleasure shoot up my leg and straight to my swollen, overly sensitive clit.

It’s becoming impossible to focus on my conversation, and when I can take no more, I grab his hand and hold it still, shooting him a warning look.

Chris arches a brow. “Something wrong?”

I cut him a look and spoke softly. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Yes,” he agrees and his lips twitch. “I do.”

“Of course you do,” and the fact that he does is enticingly erotic rather than enticingly frightening. It’s also the reason I hold his hand for the duration of the ten-minute drive.

We exit the car at the Children’s Museum, where the gala is being held, and cameras begin to flash. Chris’s discomfort is palpable as we walk the red carpet laid out on the stairway to the entry, and I’m not surprised when he declines visiting the press room. His dislike for the spotlight and his willingness to put himself there for his charity speaks volumes about how much this cause means to him.

Once inside the building, we pause under a massive archway that is the entry to the main triangle-shaped event room, where about one hundred guests mingle in the open area between
us and the band performing on the opposite side of the room. Music echoes upward, spiraling into the massive dome covering us, and I am in awe of the artwork painted on its interior.

Reminded of another wall closer to home, I cannot help but say, “This reminds me of Mark’s office. You painted his wall, didn’t you?”

There is a slight tightening around his mouth. “Yes.”

“Yes? Just yes?”

He shrugs. “He swore he’d sell one of my paintings at Riptide for a ridiculous figure and I agreed to paint the wall if he did.”

“And you donated the money to the hospital.”

I watch the emotion flash across his face and his expression becomes all hard lines and ridges. “It paid for Dylan’s treatments and set up a trust fund for his family they don’t know exists yet.”

I feel his words like the punch in the chest I know they are to him. “You and Mark seem to do a lot of good together, but you have a strange relationship.”

“We have a business relationship.”

“But you were once friends.”

“
Friends
is a word used too loosely by too many people,” he comments dryly, and clearly he has had enough talk of Mark. He motions to a table of food. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving,” I say, but I’m bothered by the way he avoids the topic of Mark.

Chris’s hand slides around my waist, discreetly molding us hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and all thoughts of Mark are gone when he softly murmurs, “I’m starving, too—and not for food.” And he looks like he wants to gobble me up right here and now.
My body reacts, and my lack of panties makes the damp heat between my thighs more than a little evident.

I blush, and I don’t know why. Less than an hour before, the man licked my nipples and attached rubies to them, but there are just these moments when Chris is such a powerful male that I melt for him.

And he knows it. I see it in his face, in the wicked heat burning in the depths of his green eyes. I don’t care, either. I don’t fear him knowing how I react to him as I once might have. I watch as a slow, sensual smile slides onto his lips, and with it I am relieved to see the dark lines and ridges of moments before fade away. “Ah now,” he says softly, seductively, “there is my sweet little blushing schoolteacher. Seems I haven’t corrupted her completely just yet.” He pauses. “But I’m working on it.”

“You accused me of corrupting you.”

“You did, but in all the right ways, baby.”

My brows furrow. “What does that mean?”

“If you don’t know yet, you will.”

He sweeps me into the crush of the crowd, leaving me guessing his meaning, which shouldn’t surprise me. He is all about coded double meanings, and hidden messages I understand later, if at all.

We survey several tables of food and stop at one filled with a variety of finger foods. We fill small plates and do our best to eat between chats with the many people who want to talk to Chris. I’m finishing a bite of a finger sandwich when out of nowhere, it seems, Gina Ray, a rather famous actress, who according to a Google search once dated Chris, appears by his side.

Her hair is brown silk, her dress red and cut to display her
ample cleavage, which she presses against Chris’s arm as she hugs him. “Chris!” she exclaims. “So good to see you.” Her voice is a rich, lovely mix of wild vixen and Hollywood bombshell, just as she is.