Reborn (10 page)

“And then I’d like to do what I promised earlier, to reward you for being so compliant tonight.”

And just like that, he was both pissed and painfully hard. The woman was a damn witch. She was talking about sucking his cock even as she thanked him for obeying her like a damn lackey—though he was sure that most men in his position would jump at the chance to get worked over by such a woman.

“How do ye know I’m not going to grab ye and have ye do as I say?”

She gave him an amused half smile. “Because you’re enjoying yourself too much.”

Damn. I am,
he thought.

She pulled into his driveway a little too quickly, stopping just inches from his garage door.

She turned to him, waiting for him to comment, but all he could think about was having her suck his dick.

“Get out of the truck,” he ordered, digging his house key out of the pocket of his jeans.

She laughed, brushing his hand aside. “Here, let me do that.”

She proceeded to remove his keys with the slowness and care of a surgeon removing an organ, making sure to touch said organ as much as possible in the process.

He leaned back and enjoyed it, running his hand over her back in slow circles.

When she finally pulled his keys from the increasingly tight confines of his pocket, his eyes were hot with lust. She dangled the keys in front of his eyes, then moved them aside to plant a kiss on his mouth, a soft, lush kiss that lingered.

“Let’s go fuck, handsome.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice. He’d already rounded the front of the cab by the time she’d gathered up her bag and stepped down onto his driveway.

He scooped her up and over his shoulder, carrying her up the short concrete path to the front door. She let him get away with it, partly because she was pleased with him, partly because she liked that he was so strong. He set her down and took the keys from her, turning away from her to the door while she stroked his ass through his jeans. He dropped them twice, cursing, and she laughed, delighted. He’d made her forget her worry about the strange man with the Las Vegas card, about the mistake she’d made pretending with Paul, about everything except this big, sexy man who wasn’t about to fall head over heels for her pretty face. He was as gorgeous as she was, if not more so, which was a novel experience for her to say the least.

He finally got the door open, gripped her elbow, and hauled her inside. She let him, enjoying the caveman routine, confident that he was still willing to follow her lead . . . for now, anyway.

He shut the door behind them, still holding her elbow. She stepped away in the cool dark of his entryway. The house seemed new, as opposed to Mary’s smaller 1950s version, with curved entryways leading to an open-floor plan and high ceilings. When she turned to face him, the only light came from behind him, the porch light shining through two long, narrow windows alongside the door. The light looked blue and cast his face into deep shadow.

He looked . . . conflicted. His body was tensed, waiting and watching like a man about to cross a clearing who knew there were hunters in the woods. He wanted her, he wanted her badly, but he didn’t like it, and he didn’t usually let a woman call the shots—
so why was he letting her?

Lille pulled the cuffs and the cock ring out of her purse and then set the purse down in the entryway. His eyes lit on the toys she’d brought out, but he didn’t say anything.

“Why’re you doing this?” Lille hesitated to ask such a question. She knew why she was doing it—because it made her forget, because it was fun, because she felt in control and powerful. A line from a Smashing Pumpkins song rolled through her head,
I’m so easy tonight.

“Are we talking again?” he growled, and stripped off his shirt, dropping it on the ground next to a pair of flip-flops and a plastic-covered newspaper.

“No.” She shook her head. “Fuck it.”

“That’s right,” he agreed. “You’re going to fuck it.” He slid one hand into her hair and gripped, just gripped, a world of frustration raising the tendons of those beautiful wrists. She turned her head; she had to work at it, pulling her own hair, but she finally managed to kiss his tattooed wrist, right on the open pages of the book.

She watched him the whole time, saw his eyes darken like a shark’s, and when she knew . . . knew that his control had broken, she bit him on the wrist, hard enough to hurt, hard enough that he cursed, but he didn’t let her go.

“Take me to your bedroom.” She whispered it, soft and low, the slow purr of a dangerous creature, a deadly one, but irresistible nonetheless.

He pulled away, catching one of her hands and tugging her into the main living area, which was lit only by the light of the moon, and down a short hallway to the right that had two doors on either side and one door at the end. It was open, but too dark to see anything.

Lille didn’t like the way it felt to hold his hand as they walked in the dark; it wasn’t unpleasant—far from it. His hand was warm and calloused; it swallowed hers completely. It made her feel safe and kind of soft inside . . . vulnerable. She was having none of that.

She pulled her hand away.

He glanced behind him, but she angled her chin, directing him to proceed.

She admired his muscled back as he walked. It was strange; she had thought of him as older, but as he walked, she realized that he had the shoulders of a younger man, or at least younger than she’d believed him to be. A giant mermaid covered his back; she had the same face as the statue of the one in the store. She was lying back, her head resting near his left hip, the long tendrils curling toward his right hip bone, over the top of his buttocks and down his right hip and part of his thigh. Her tail curved downward near his right shoulder blade, fanning out in sea green. Eyes partly closed, she seemed to be floating, dreaming of a lover, perhaps. Lille thought that maybe Max was a bit of a romantic underneath. She wondered what had made him such a cynical, shallow asshole.

They stepped into the room, which wasn’t very large and was dominated by a huge king-size bed with a tall redwood headboard carved in an art nouveau pattern. There was a large rail in the center that curved upward into two arches. Lille didn’t want to ruin the bed; she had intentions for that rail.

Two end tables sat on either side of the bed, both with plain lamps that looked as if they’d been purchased with an eye toward practicality rather than beauty. He turned on the one on the left side of the bed, which was clearly his side; a deep blue coverlet was on the floor where he’d apparently kicked it off. He also opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a handful of condoms.
A practical man,
Lille mused.
I’m actually a little shocked
.

He turned to look at her, the muscles in his chest bunching and rippling as he unconsciously clenched his fists.

She wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t going to hurt her unless she asked him to, but he wanted to . . . just a little, just enough. She might even let him before the night was over.

“Take off your jeans,” she ordered him, setting the cock ring on the bed, and shifting the handcuffs from hand to hand, listening to the tinkling of the small chains in between.

He did, undoing his fly slowly, provocatively, mockingly. She ignored his expression, watching as an enormous erection was revealed. He wasn’t wearing underwear, nor should he—ever.

His cock was already hard, the circumcised head deep purple and pointed toward his belly. She remembered how it felt when he’d shoved it inside, how good it had felt, how he’d stretched her and filled her completely.

She looked up at his face, at those bright blue eyes, and wondered what he was thinking.
Is he like me
, she wondered,
or does he consider the person he’s fucking? Does he ever wonder if they like cartoons, or skinny-dipping, or chocolate anything?
She tried to never wonder anything. If there was anything her relationship with Paul had taught her, it was that she wasn’t suited for a committed relationship. She’d been faithful, but fucking Paul, while familiar, had never felt personal to her, either. He had almost been too appreciative, almost like he worshipped her. Sometimes he would just stare at her, and when she asked what was wrong, he would simply say, “You’re so beautiful.”

He did whatever she asked, all the time, willing to let her have total control. She’d never understood that insane surrender described in novels, that eager overwhelming ecstasy that overcomes a person’s soul. She wasn’t even sure it really existed. One thing she was certain of, she would never find it with a man like Max, who seemed humorless and a bit grim, a bit too like herself, she realized.

The ghosts that haunted them both filled the room and made them wary and angry and unwilling to share more than pleasure.
So I’ll enjoy his body,
she determined,
and stop wishing for something I will never have.
It was certainly a fine body, one she wanted to touch and lick and rub, with the kind of definition that reminded her of wind-carved rocks and riverbeds.

“Lie down on your back.” She gestured with the handcuffs.

He turned away from her so she had a view of his high, tight butt and muscled thighs; she wanted to sink her teeth into them.

He glanced over his shoulder at her and there was suddenly a flash of humor in his expression; it threw her off guard, just for a second, that a man had moods as mercurial as the Florida weather.

“What?” She tilted her head.

He shrugged, throwing himself on the bed, even bouncing a little before he settled with his legs spread.

“I was just thinkin’ that I should take a photo of ye like that, in the pub’s shirt, with your hair all tangled and handcuffs in hand. The lads would thank me for it, for sure.”

Lille smiled thinking of Charlie and the boys and what they would say about such a photo.

“I’m sure they would,” she agreed, but as she gazed at the length of him sprawled across the bed, she murmured, “I’d like to take a photo of you like this.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, lass, I don’t trust any woman that much.”

Lille raised an eyebrow. “But paintings are okay?” she asked, referring to the painting that Mary had shown her, one she’d apparently done right before fucking him.

He grimaced. “It’s different, but I didna care much for that, either.”

“Hmm, I think you cared for part of it.” She slapped the cuffs against her palm. “All right, gorgeous, hands up.”

He put his hands up, just where she wanted them, on either side of the rail. She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and snapping first one cuff and then the other into place on the other side of the wooden rail, tightening them just enough, before sitting back and up.

He didn’t say anything, just flexed his wrists as if they already hurt, his eyes narrowed a little.

When she pulled her shirt over her head and threw it by the door, his erection, which had softened a little, was once again full and throbbing. She gripped it in one hand, giving him a few quick pumps. He arched into her hand, cursing, and she laughed, delighted with his response.

Letting him go, she removed her bra and sent it in the general direction of her shirt. She scooted down, enjoying the feel of his hairy legs on the soft skin of her inner thighs—
hell, yeah
—she rocked a little, just because it felt good, before squeezing her breasts together around his dick, sliding him through her cleavage before rubbing her nipples against the head of his dick. He was enjoying himself, if the noises he was making were any indication, though he occasionally let out an “Oh, fuck” of appreciation.

She sat up again, then leaned back in a bridge pose, arching her body as she reached for the cock ring that she’d thrown at the end of the bed.

She held it in front of him. “I’m going to suck your dick till you come. Then I’m going to put this on you. I promise to be really careful, but if I hurt you or you want me to stop, you need a safe word.”

“Pandora.”

She paused. “Like the mermaid at the Box?”

“Exactly like.”

“Okay.” She shrugged and tossed the ring on the bed next to him.

She put her hands on his hips and contemplated him for a moment, feeling the taut skin drawn tight over his hip bones, then gently tracing the tattoo inked there with her nails. His chest was covered with medieval dragons and knights on horseback as well as creatures like those described in Greek mythology. He was the most literary canvas she’d ever seen and she’d seen many painted men during her time in San Francisco.

He watched her, his eyes on her chest. She looked down; her nipples were hard. She wished she’d brought some clamps with her, but maybe next time. She pinched one . . . hard . . . and saw his cheekbones flush.

“I’m going to bend over and put my nipples in your mouth. I want you to lick them slowly, trace them with your tongue. They’re not very sensitive at first, so it’ll be like I can’t feel it at all. Then I want you to pull away and blow on them.”

He nodded, almost as if she’d put a gag in his mouth.
What a good idea,
she thought idly, but didn’t think it was necessary this time.

She shifted and bent down so that the nipple she’d just pinched was brushing his lips. He did as she asked, licking gently around the areola with his tongue. Because she was anticipating it, because she watched him do it, she felt every slow motion of his rough tongue.

She moved so that the other breast could get the same treatment, and he obliged, licking her gently. When he was finished, instead of stopping as she’d ordered, he caught her nipple between his teeth and rolled it gently, biting down just a little. She wasn’t expecting it, had actually begun to pull away, so her nipple was drawn through his teeth, causing a sharp pain that made her gasp and tighten in pleasure.

She sat back, glancing down at her abused nipple, which was dark red and distended.

“That was naughty, darling,” she crooned. “Now you’ll be punished.”

“Give it yer best shot, love.”

She curled her lip at him. “Oh, I will.”