Fearless (11 page)

“Emma, relax,” Beckett says with a laugh. “There's a place downtown that specializes in costumes for events like this. I know the owner. He's expecting us in the morning.”

“Do you have your costume already?” I ask suspiciously.

“Yes. I didn't know until last weekend that I would be inviting a date or I would have coordinated our costumes.”

“Okay, tell me what you're wearing,” I demand. “No, wait,” I add with a laugh. “Let me guess. A peasant? I can totally see you in one of those white blousy shirts. You'd actually look pretty hot with your dark hair and skin. Kind of like a dangerous pirate.” A little shudder of desire rolls over me at the thought of him, dark and dangerous in a white shirt and black boots, taking me prisoner…

“I'll remember that,” he says knowingly with a dark look in his eyes.

Oops, time to change the subject.

I tap my chin thoughtfully. “You're definitely not the peasant type though, so probably not. I've got it. A court jester!” I giggle as he arches his brow. “No? Are you wearing a kilt? I hear the traditional way to wear one is without underwear,” I add wickedly.

“Emma,” he says warningly, “unless you want to be dressed as a tavern wench, I suggest you stop.”

I try, unsuccessfully, not to smile, but I can't help it. I love it when he's playful with me. It's so at odds with his usual stern reserve. “Okay, I give up. Tell me.”

“You'll find out tomorrow.”

“What? Are you serious? Why won't you tell me?”

“Because I don't want to,” he says seriously, as if that explains everything. “It will be a surprise.”

“What about my costume? Do I get to surprise you?”

“No, not a chance,” he says definitively. “I get to pick yours.”

“That doesn't seem fair,” I pout.

“Emma, you said yourself you've never been to a gala. Trust me.”

“You say that a lot,” I grumble. “But you're right. I have no idea what would be appropriate. So you win.”

I get up to clear the dishes and he joins me, washing the dishes while I put the leftovers away. I finish first and pour us both some more wine, admiring the view of his muscular back beneath his form fitting t-shirt as he works at the sink. I watch as he dries his hands carefully, and focusing on his long, competent fingers makes my mind wander to the things those fingers are capable of doing. I realize, belatedly, that I have been staring a little too long. Beckett has turned around and his eyes are on me, watching me watch him. I blush.

“Alright,” he says, crossing the room to where I'm standing in three easy strides. “Enough. You've been edgy and tense since I got here. What's going on in that intelligent but tireless brain of yours?”

I lower my gaze, still not ready for this conversation, but he cups my chin in his hand, forcing my gaze to his.

“Lainey says you're dominant,” I blurt out.

“Lainey's very perceptive, particularly since she's never met me before,” he says with a steely quietness.

I let out a deflated breath, trying to avoid his unyielding gaze. “So you are,” I say with resignation.

“Look at me, Emma,” he commands, and dammit if I don't look him in the eye, even though I want nothing more than to run away.

“Does that bother you?” he asks softly.

“No. Yes. I don't know,” I say miserably. “I don't even know what it means, exactly. I mean, I looked it up, but there seems to be a lot to absorb,” I trail off.

Still holding my chin, he kisses me softly, his lips like velvet.

“Let's talk,” he says gently, linking my fingers with his.

“Okay,” I say, letting out an uneven breath. “Let's go outside.” My backyard is private enough that no one will hear us, but public enough to provide me with a feeling of security. Given the way I seem to fall in bed with him, hopefully talking outside will ensure I don't get distracted by those warm eyes and clever hands.

I lead him outside and he whistles softly as takes in the oasis that is my backyard. I have to admit, it's pretty spectacular. It's my happy place—the place where I can always find peace. A wisteria covered arbor shields my small patio that is filled with planters overflowing with plants and flowers, and several wicker chaise lounges with bright floral cushions surround a low table covered with candles. A flower lined brick path leads to two black rattan egg-shaped swing chairs suspended from the sturdy branches of a huge oak tree.

“This is wonderful,” he says with amazement.

I shrug as I follow him down the path. “Nikki and I like to sit out here and read,” I say by way of explanation.

Both chair swings have thick, white seat cushions and an assortment of pillows lining the sides and back of the chair. He sits down in one, settling himself into the seat. He holds out his hand and I let him pull me down next to him. The chairs are roomy; in fact Nikki and I sometimes share one, but Beckett is much bigger than Nikki and I practically have to sit in his lap for us both to fit, my legs draped across his. As he wraps an arm around me, I have to admit it's nice to feel his hard, undeniably male body so close against mine. Giving in, I lay my head on his shoulder, my hand resting on his chest. He covers my hand with his. Suddenly, it doesn't seem so scary to talk about domination and submission when I'm cuddled up next to him, his arm reassuring as he holds me close.

“Okay,” he says. “What exactly did your friend Lainey tell you?”

“Just that you were dominant. I agreed wholeheartedly, since you are clearly extremely bossy, but that wasn't what she was talking about. Apparently, I don't read the right fiction or I would have already known,” I add darkly.

Beckett chuckles.

I continue. “So I decided to do a little research, and I…well, now I don't know what to think. You totally fit the description to a tee. You're commanding and imposing and you can just look at me a certain way and get me to do whatever you want. It's really irritating. The first time we were together, you made me hold onto the headboard while you basically did whatever you wanted, which could be either normal kinky or dominant kinky. And you ordered me into the shower the next morning, which made me mad at the time because I thought you were being an ass but maybe you were just being dominant. On the other hand, we had pretty normal sex after that, and I was on top and you seemed pretty into that.”

“I love intelligent women, but does that brain of yours ever stop thinking?” Beckett asks, amusement mixed with exasperation.

“Not really,” I admit. “It's a curse.” I nervously trail my fingers over his chest. Do I want to know? I don't know if I do or not. I don't want this, or us, to change, but I realize that just because I don't acknowledge it doesn't mean it's not true. “So….are you dominant?”

“I think you've already answered that for yourself,” he says gently. “I like to have control in my life. I told you that from the beginning.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, frustrated.

“It means I'm confident and decisive and successful in my career. It also means I have exacting standards and I don't settle for less than what I want. When it comes to you, outside the bedroom it means I'll be protective and I'll probably try to tell you what to do, but since your life's goal seems to be to defy me, you'll push back and we'll work out a compromise, just like any other couple who respect each other does. Now in the bedroom…” He chuckles darkly and I get goose bumps. “I want you to give yourself to me, to trust me enough to let me take you past every inhibition and fear that you have. I want you to submit to me and give me control over your body, at least some of the time.”

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because it turns me on.”

My insides clench. “What if I don't want to?”

“Then I will respect that,” he replies, nuzzling my hair. “It's not essential to my pleasure, especially with you, as you should know from last weekend. It's just an added dimension that I enjoy and that I want to explore with you. And despite your independence, or maybe because of it, I think you want to let go of that control you hold on to so tightly. But I'm not going to make you do anything. I want your surrender to be given to me freely. It's got to be consensual and pleasurable for both of us or it won't work. But nothing is going to change what we have between us. I'm not going to let you go.”

I have never felt more confused. He's bossy, controlling, and aggressive, too aggressive, but my pulse is racing and my skin feels far hotter than the warm evening warrants. In some ways I barely know him, yet I've never had such an honest conversation with anyone before. The Mother Teresa side of me, as Lainey calls it, is telling me this is wrong and I should run, but judging by the dampness between my legs, some other more primitive part of me is aroused by the idea of giving myself wholly to this gorgeous, erotic man who wants to do scandalous things to me. Could he be right? Do I really long to give up control and be dominated?

“Do you want another glass of wine?” I ask abruptly, getting up from the chair swing.

“Sure,” Beckett says steadily, unfolding his large frame from the chair and following me into the house.

The sun has gone down while we were outside, and my kitchen is dark except for the pillar candles on the bar that I lit before dinner. I don't turn on a light as I uncork the bottle and refill both of our glasses. I hand him his glass and take a healthy gulp from mine.

“So um, what do you like to do when, you know, you're being dominant?” I ask, my teeth biting my lower lip.

Beckett pins me with his gaze. “You had a taste of it last weekend when I told you to hold onto the headboard. I didn't restrain you with anything but my will, but you gave control to me. Did you like it?”

“Yes,” I whisper, looking down.

“Trust me,” he says, his voice low. “I will push your limits, but I will never push you past them. And if you want to stop, you say your safe word and we stop.”

I feel like I've been thrown into an alternate reality. How else do I explain the fact that I'm having a conversation about safe words with a wickedly gorgeous man in my kitchen, much less that I'm actually considering doing things with him that would require a safe word.

“Aren't I supposed to have a list of the things I don't want to do?” I ask a little desperately.

“No. Trust me, Emma.”

Strangely, I do. I've never been with a man I trusted more. There's something about Beckett Black that makes me feel safe. Maybe it's because he's a doctor, or maybe it's his absolute confidence and control in any situation. Whatever it is, I just know that I trust him, and some part of me desperately wants to embrace the unknown and explore this newfound sensuality I never even knew existed. I want to take a chance, to throw caution to the wind and be what I've dreamed of being—fearless. I like the sound of it. Fearless. It's going to be my motto. In that instant, I know what I want to do. I want to say goodbye to timid Emma, the one who is full of doubts and insecurities. I want to quiet Tim's voice in the back of my mind complaining about me being a prude and uptight. I want to be fearless.

“I trust you,” I say, slipping my hand into his. His eyes warm with approval, and I'm surprised to realize that I know his body well enough to feel him almost imperceptibly relax. I'm touched to realize how important to him my agreement had been, even though he'd been careful not to pressure me. I take a shaky breath.

“So, exactly how long have you been thinking about doing, um, things with me?” I ask.

“You have no idea,” he says with a groan, burying his hands in my hair and ravishing my mouth with his. He can bring me to my knees with a single kiss. I grip his deliciously tight ass, grinding my pelvis against his hardness.

I pull back slightly, my lips mere inches from his and whisper, “Tell me one thing.”

“Be careful Emma,” he says warningly, his voice low and dangerous. “Don't ask questions unless you're sure you're ready to hear the answers.”

“I want to know,” I insist, and I do, even though my heart is pounding. I try to remember some of the things I read when I'd researched the subject. “Have you ever wanted to spank me?”

“More than once,” he growls.

“Really?” I say, surprised. “When?” I am somehow fascinated.

“Alright, Angel, we'll play this out,” he says, his eyes glittering with desire. “My palm definitely itched when you led me to believe I had just ordered wine for a recovering alcoholic, and when I told you to get into the shower and you instead tried to tell me what I was thinking, I wanted nothing more than to take you over my knee. You goad me constantly.”

I remember the looks he'd given me, and the way it had made me squirm.

“What would you have done?” I egg him on, emboldened by the way he's looking at me with an irresistible combination of desire and power.

“This,” he says, unwrapping my arms from his waist. He turns me so that my back is to him and gently propels me forward toward my kitchen table until the tops of my thighs meet the table's edge. “Grab the sides of the table,” he orders.

I do as he says, my heart pounding as my fingers grip the edges of the table, my nipples tightening with desire. With his hand on my back, he presses me forward until my aching breasts touch the tabletop and my cheek rests against its smooth surface. His left hand is splayed firmly over the middle of my back, holding me immobile. He leans over me, his lips so close to my ear that I can feel his breath, warm and sensuous.

“Don't let go,” he warns, his voice quiet but unyielding. His knee nudges my legs slightly apart and I can feel myself grow wetter.

I close my eyes, bracing for the contact of his hand against my bottom. Instead, his hand caresses the curve of my ass, and I can feel the warmth of his touch through my jeans.