Darker (7 page)

I take my time. This is the first chance I’ve had to wander round, explore this place where Nathan lives for half his life. And on closer examination it really is very impressive. The airy lounge area opens into a dining space, which then extends off into the kitchen. Like at Black Combe, everything is state of the art, expensive, classy. From the black granite worktops to the glistening halogen hob, from the huge flat-screen TV to the Bose sound system, everything is top quality, designed for comfort, and for luxury. The leather sofas facing each other across the lounge, the beautiful oak dining table and matching carver chairs, the Aubusson rugs scattered around the hardwood floor, all speak of taste and perfection. There is modern art on the walls, not an area I know much about, but I am sure Nathan has chosen well. The place is pristine, spotless. He obviously employs someone to look after it all for him—I can’t somehow imagine the sexy Mr Darke flitting round with a duster.

Small personal items are placed around the space—a photo of Rosie on top of an upturned beer crate—very trendy, a Leeds United supporters’ scarf dangling over the back of one of the dining chairs and a guitar case leaning against the kitchen worktop.

I can’t help myself, I have to open it, have a look at the instrument inside. I lift it out carefully, a Fender acoustic guitar, not top of the range but certainly sweet enough. I dig around in the case for a plectrum and, finding one, settle on the arm of the sofa, the instrument across my knees, and strum gently. I listen for the tone, absently twisting the tuning pegs on the neck to get the perfect sound. I may be making my living as a violinist just now, but in fact my best efforts are on the piano, which I play to concert standard. There really isn’t any musical instrument, though, that I can’t get a decent tune out of within a few minutes of experimenting and I reckon this sweet little Fender will be no exception. I remember myself in time—it’s rude to just pick up someone else’s instrument and play without permission. I’d go spare if anyone messed with my violin. Regretfully I place the Fender back in the case and prop it up against the worktop where I found it. And hope he hasn’t heard me.

I stroll over to the floor to ceiling picture window and realise it is actually a patio door, leading to a stunning rooftop terrace and garden. There is outdoor furniture, ornamental trees in huge pots and even two life-size statues of sheep, grazing on a small patch of grass. Real grass? Looks like it. And all with breathtaking views over the Leeds city skyline. Private, secluded, Nathan’s own little oasis in the heart of the city.

But for all the high-end interior design and stunning location this place is not a show home. It’s a place that is lived in, played in, enjoyed. The overall effect is one of invitation, of welcome. It’s not quite Black Combe, but still, I love it.

I really do need to find him now, though, before he gets irritated and comes looking for me. My instincts tell me I should avoid irritating him if I can. Glancing around there are only two other doors Nathan could have gone through. I know which is his bedroom, obviously, and which is the guest room I used on Thursday, when I was getting ready for the awards dinner. I try the first possibility and find myself looking into a small home office. A quick glance tells me, not surprisingly, that it’s fully fitted out, dominated by a mean-looking desktop computer with a huge screen—I remember that Nathan is an architect so probably uses CAD. He also has a traditional drawing board under a large window, no doubt catching the best natural light.

I step back, closing the door softly, and turn to the last remaining possibility. I turn the knob and open the door, peeping inside. Wow! This is it. This is the most beautiful, luxurious bathroom I have ever seen. I step inside, close the door and lean back against it, taking in the sight.

The spacious room, tiled in black with shiny brass fittings, is dominated by a huge bath. The bath is deep and wide, and looks to be made of wood. It’s full to the brim, topped by a layer of rich bubbles, and Nathan is lounging at one end, his arm slung casually over the side, a glass of what looks to be orange juice in his other hand, watching me quietly.

“You took your time, Miss Byrne. I guess you’ve been exploring?”

“Yes. I had a look around. Is that okay? I didn’t mean to pry or anything, it’s just that this place is… Well—wow, look at all this!” I step forward, eyes wide and open-mouthed, turning slowly to take it all in. The heated towel rail, the piles of fluffy cream-coloured towels, another multi-jet shower behind a teak semi-screen, another loo discreetly tucked away behind more teak. A double sink unit set into a polished teak vanity, the shelf above sporting such mundane necessities as toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap and a flannel.

But the bath, the magnificent bath, is centre stage, free-standing in the middle of the room, with a small step in front of it. There are shelves at the rim level, to two sides, where Nathan has placed a jug of orange juice, a half bottle of champagne, opened, a small bottle of chilled water and two small white tablets in a tiny porcelain dish. No candles, but the lighting is soft, seductive. And the scent of pine and forest fills the steamy air.

He smiles, obviously cool with my curiosity. “No problem, you’re welcome. I’ll do the grand tour for you later. And you can demonstrate your prowess on my guitar again. Another of your private concerts, perhaps?”
Oh hell, he did hear then…

“But now, come and join me, Miss Byrne,” he says, still smiling softly, but the thread of steel is back.

“Is this thing made of wood?” I ask, incredulous. I’ve never heard of a wooden bath. “Won’t it leak?”

“Yes. And no, it won’t leak. It’s seasoned, treated teak. Built for warmth. And comfort. And pleasure, Miss Byrne. So get in. Now, please.”

I catch the warning note in his tone, but find I’m not quite so easily cowed anymore. With an impressive show of defiant bravado, somewhat undermined by my need to use the step to clamber up onto the bath I sit on the edge, looking down at him. I’m still wearing his shirt and making no move yet to undress for him.

His gaze hardening as he notes my show of defiance, he takes a sip of his orange juice. And offers me one last chance. “My shirt looks much better on you than it did on me, Miss Byrne, but take it off now, please.”

I turn to dangle my bare legs and feet in the tub, still perched on the edge, watching him, waiting, defying. Goading him. Sooner or later Nathan’s Dom persona is going to surface, and recklessly I rather think I’d like to see that now.

Nathan does not disappoint. Discreetly setting his drink down, he gives me probably a full five seconds more to comply with his instructions before he lunges for me, grabs me and pulls me in, shirt as well. The bath is about three feet deep and I am under the water, struggling in his strong arms for the few moments he takes to pull me, gasping, to the surface. Coughing and spluttering I fight to push my masses of wet hair away from my face and glare at him, spitting outrage and accusation.

He is unmoved. “The shirt, Miss Byrne. Or do I need to duck you again?”

“The list said no drowning.” I snarl at him, affronted by this breach of our agreement. How dare he!

“You’ll know soon enough if I decide to drown you. The list also said obedience. Immediate, no arguing. So, for the last time, Miss Byrne…?”

I know when not to push it—my Dom is back in full force, and scary as hell. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, starting to unbutton the shirt but struggling with the wet fabric. Apart from holding me by the waist to steady me and keep me afloat he doesn’t help, just watches me fiddling with the buttons until eventually the shirt floats free. He grabs it and tosses it out onto the tiled floor before taking a long look up and down my body. Appreciating, admiring, owning…?

“Much better. Now, your medication, Miss Byrne.” He passes me the porcelain dish and, docile now, I scoop the two painkillers into my hand, tossing them into my mouth as he passes me the bottle of water to wash them down. I screw up my face at the bitter taste.

“They’ll do you good. Now, do you want a more pleasant drink as a chaser? Juice? Buck’s Fizz?”

“Er, what are you having?”

“Bit early for me to hit the hard stuff. And anyway I want to keep a clear head, and you’ll be glad of that soon enough when I get to work on your sweet little body. But you? If you want a drink that’s fine. Might even steady your nerves.”

I’m tempted, but probably best not. “Just juice, please. I think I’ll keep my head clear too.”

His lopsided grin is his only response as he pours me a glass of orange. Then turning me easily in the water he pulls me against him, my back up against his hard chest. He reaches round me to hand me the glass, then lays back, his arm loosely around my middle. He picks up his own glass again, takes a leisurely sip. Then, putting his drink down on the shelf alongside his head he reaches out, picks up a small remote control. Pointing it at a wall-mounted sensor on the opposite wall he presses a button, and a moment later the room is bathed in sound. The wonderful, melodious sound of classical guitar. I feel myself relax against him, immediately enchanted by the music. I love classical guitar, play a bit myself but not in this class. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the naked acoustic beauty of Milos Karadaglic’s
Latino
.

“Like that?” He murmurs the question softly against my ear. I nod contentedly. “Mmm, thought you might. And later you’ll play for me again?” It could be a question, a request, or perhaps an instruction. I decide to test the water, so to speak.

“Maybe,” I respond. “Depends how much I dislike you after the waxing.” No harm in flexing my own muscles, such as they are. Occasionally. And it seems I’ve got away with it. This time. No further words required, I lie back, luxuriating in the warm, scented water, lulled by the delicate, evocative, intricate strains of Milos’ exquisite skill.

Nathan stretches out his arm again and flicks a switch. Suddenly the water explodes into fizzy frothing all around us as the jacuzzi jets start up. His arm tightens as I shift, startled by the swirling waves, then loosens again as I relax.

I’ve been in jacuzzi spas before, public ones in the gym or swimming pools, but never one that felt as fabulous as this one. The sensation is wonderful, a warm, soft, all-over massage. I let my legs drift upwards, floating, trusting Nathan to hold me, keep me afloat. I sip my juice then put the glass next to his, closing my eyes as I lay my head back on his shoulder. With his free hand he gently caresses my breast as we savour the sensuality of the music and the foaming, churning, gurgling spray tingling and swirling all around us. After a few minutes Nathan moves, shifting both of us more upright. His knees are between mine and he uses them to gently ease my legs apart, exposing my sensitive flesh to the jets shooting up from the bottom of the bath.

“Just wriggle around. Position yourself so it catches you just right, just where you like it most,” he whispers in my ear. I do, and it feels fabulous, the warm disembodied pressure directly against my clitoris. I groan in ecstasy as he tightens his hold to keep me in position, holding me in place as the waves of delight flood over.

“Can you come like this or do you need more? Do you want me to help?” His whisper is low, husky. I can feel his erection hard and big under my bum and I wonder what ‘help’ he has in mind? Anything would be wonderful. I wriggle against him in answer and he chuckles softly, tipping me forward onto my knees. I reach for the opposite end of the bath with my hands, while Nathan spreads my knees as wide as the bath will allow. Which is pretty damn far.

He enters me quickly, slipping into me from behind whilst still making sure my clit continues to receive the full benefit of the jets shooting at me from below. He moves slowly, sliding in and out so tenderly I feel I could cry. This is gentle fucking with bells on! It’s soothing, so, so comfortable, and so, so very slow. The tension and tug towards orgasm build little by little, softly, creeping up on me until I start to clench, shifting my body to increase the pressure, silently seeking more. But Nathan is ruthlessly unhurried and I have to wait, eventually tumbling sweetly, softly, into my climax. The familiar sparkle and internal fireworks shoot through me as I come, clenching around him, screwing my hips around as I instinctively bear down on him, begging him without words to increase the pressure on my sensitive inner walls. Responding at last he thrusts, sharp, hard, hitting that exact spot with unerring accuracy as I convulse, moaning, gasping my gratitude.

I feel the hot spurt inside me as he climaxes soon after I do, then he pulls me backwards to sit astride him. He is still buried deep inside me and apparently going nowhere, his finger now gently, lightly circling my clit. The effect is more one of calming than of arousal and I open my legs wide to appreciate it fully.

“Enjoying your bath, Miss Byrne,” he murmurs.

I can only sigh, roll my shoulders in contentment. He gets the idea and lightly kisses the top of my head, continuing to caress me with his fingers. “Tell me how you feel, right now…” he whispers.

“I feel fine. This is so good.”

“Your body feels fine, I can tell that. But what about your head?”

“My head?” I am at a loss, what is he after now?

“I can control how your body feels, pretty much. Pleasure, pain, I can deliver. On demand. Agreed?” Still bemused as to where this is going, but with a growing sense that it could be important, I try to gather my thoughts.

“Eva? Do you agree?”

He isn’t letting up, so I answer, whispering, “Yes. Agreed.”

“When we talked, in my office on Friday, you told me you wanted to explore the physical side of your sexuality. Did I understand that right?” At my silence he prompts, gently but insistent still. “Eva?”

“Yes, yes that’s what I was trying to say. Not sure it came out quite like that, but yes.”

“Okay. And you also said you wanted to understand, experience your emotions better. Relationships, being around other people, liking yourself and being liked, being loved… Did I get that right too?” This is much more personal. Much more intimate. But he’s still spot on. Did I really say all that? Did I really let him see, hear all of that? Did I really hand him all that power to hurt me? And more to the point, starting to panic, can I get it back now?