Unleashed: Volume 1 (Unleashed #1) (16 page)

But I couldn’t help
it. I had to look again.

It was worse. Declan
had Alyssa pressed up against a pole, tongue so deep down her throat
it made me gag. She had her hand clutched up in his hair, grasping at
him like she’d die if she didn’t get even more. He pulled away
and she looked up at him with a low, sexy smile. So that was how you
did it. It made my attempts in the bathroom mirror look like child’s
play.

Then they sauntered
past again, real slow, like they had all the time in the world to
find a dark alleyway where they could get it on all night long.

Declan’s eyes flicked
over to mine, just once. Enough. He made sure I’d seen him. In a
flash, I knew. He wanted me to see him with Alyssa, wanted me to know
he was off limits. I wasn’t his type. He wasn’t interested.

My face flushed with
embarrassment. Here I’d been trying to do that to him, show him how
hot I was and how completely taken. He’d gone and turned the
tables. I had to stop this, get the message, get him off my mind. He
had a type and it clearly wasn’t me. It was the opposite of me.

So what that it felt
like he popped in bright, full color while the rest of everything
else had dulled out in the wash. No matter that he looked exactly
like the bad boy of my fantasies, so dark and sexy you wanted a big
poster of him up on your wall. It made no difference that he was
living in a cabin a few hundred yards from my house. I had to keep
away from him for my own sanity.

But what went on in the
privacy of my own bedroom was another story. Late that night when I
was finally alone, when it was just me in the darkness, I let myself
go. I had one of Declan’s shirts. Crazy, I knew it. He’d left it
draped over a fence the other day. It didn’t need a button, didn’t
need mending, but I couldn’t help myself, I’d balled it up and
brought it back with me like a maniac.

Now, with the lights
out, I snuck it out from behind my pillow and breathed it in.
Declan’s scent, masculine and scorching hot, in bed with me. Slowly
slipping my finger down under my panties, I found my sex slick and
throbbing with need. Just thinking about him got me so worked up, so
inflamed. His huge shoulders, the heat in his gaze, even the
possessive way I’d seen him kiss another woman, pressing her up
against that pole. I began to slide my finger along my slippery
folds, stroking myself, starting slowly, circling my clit as my heart
began to beat faster.

I imagined Declan’s
mouth on me, his hands. My fingers roamed my body, finding their way
to my breasts, stroking, caressing. What if it were Declan’s lips,
his tongue? I pulsed with need, dripping wet, breathing in Declan’s
scent from his shirt. What if it was his hand on me, his fingers
pushed past my panties working my wet, slick, aching pussy?

So close to the edge, I
imagined him pressing me up against the wall in the barn. I wanted
him to pin me there as he fingered me, rough and demanding. I plunged
two fingers up deep inside of me.

“Uh!” Arching back,
waves of pleasure burst through my body. “Declan!” I called out
as it washed over me, rippling and subsiding into the un-answering
darkness.

Now

The hot water pounded
on my back, massaging and kneading my tense muscles. One rainforest
showerhead from up above plus two jets from the sides plus a whole
bunch of steam within the glass-enclosed shower equaled paradise. I
stood in it for what had to be a half an hour, letting the heat and
steam do their work.

Mostly my brain
surrendered to the sensations, in sync with my body. But every now
and then a question would pop up. Had Declan just spread me up
against shelving in a stockroom and eaten me out? Surely not.

Afterwards, wrapped in
a fluffy towel the size of Texas, I poured myself a glass of water.
The mini fridge had its own compartment of ice. I guessed when the
hotel got swanky enough they didn’t make you wander around
searching for an ice machine. This hotel was nice, really nice. And
Declan owned it all.

It was hard to wrap my
mind around his wealth. And the insanely intense orgasm he’d given
me. And there was something else I was forgetting…what was it? Oh,
yes, the proposition, seven days of no-holds-barred submission to his
sexual dominance. That.

Ice clinking against
the glass, I flumped down on a plush crimson and cream sofa. He’d
put me in a suite, one room devoted to lounging with a couch, bar and
TV, the other a bedroom with a king-size bed piled so high with
pillows and a down comforter it looked like something out of a fairy
tale.
The Girl Who Never Got out
of Bed
. I guessed that story hadn’t made it into the
Hans Christian Anderson anthology. Not enough conflict.

That wasn’t my
problem. I had some big, fat, juicy conflict in my life. And a
decision I needed to make. Declan awaited my answer.

A loud knock sounded on
the door. I started and nearly jumped to my feet, sloshing some water
on my towel. My heart raced, both fearing and hoping. Could it be
Declan, there to burst down the hotel room door, splintering it under
the crush of his desire and taking me like a swashbuckling pirate
captain against the wall, in the shower, handcuffed to the bed,
ravishing every thought out of my head under a breathtaking onslaught
of orgasms? I straightened my towel as best I could and opened the
door a crack.

A woman in a hotel
uniform stood holding my faded, lumpy old tote bag in one hand and a
large, shiny shopping bag in the other. “A delivery for you,
ma’am.”

“Me?” I took both
bags, bewildered, and by the time I wondered whether I should give
her a tip she’d already bid me good-night and headed off down the
hallway.

I set them both up on
the grey and white marble of the bar. On one side sat my crumpled
tote, like a beat-down fighter in desperate need of retirement. On
the other, a fountain of crisp pink and white tissue paper erupted
out of brand-spanking-new, white-on-white gloss. I eyed it
suspiciously.

Declan. He’d said
everything I needed would be sent to my room. But what, exactly,
would be his definition of that?

I plunged my hand into
the shopping bag. Something soft. Cashmere, a luxurious,
cream-colored lounging robe, pale pink pajamas with lace trim, plus a
fluffy pair of slippers. A large striped case held an array of creams
and lotions, shampoos and conditioners, perfumes and hair care
products, each with exotic ingredients like passionfruit, black honey
and Tahitian Monoi Oil.

Oh my goodness. I tried
hard to quell the enjoyment bubbling up inside of me. It wasn’t
like Declan had picked out any of it. He must have had one of his
minions take care of everything. For all I knew he kept a bag like
this on hand for his conquests every weekend. I should be rolling my
eyes, unimpressed by his attempt to lure me in. The heroine of a
Victorian era romance would surely eschew all gifts from a man hell
bent on sullying her reputation.

But, still. That
cashmere was so soft. And what was Monoi oil? I read the label.
Apparently it was made from soaking the petals of gardenias in
coconut oil. Well, then. That sounded like a lot of work. Shame to
let all that toil go to waste.

A while later, I draped
my limbs back onto the couch. Buffed, smoothed and polished, swathed
in a cashmere cloud I smelled like a flower garden and sighed with
pleasure. What was it again that I needed to do? Right, make a
decision.

I knew what I should
do. I should get serious, sit down with a pen and paper and make
myself a detailed pro/con list. I should map out all of the
logistics, considering all the tasks required to free myself from
obligations for an entire week. Then I should do some scenario
planning, look at the decision from all angles and objectively play
out different likely outcomes.

Of course, if I really
sat down to make a list with my rational, thinking cap on I wouldn’t
get past the first bullet point in the con column. “Whore for
money.” Drop the mic, I’m out. If I thought about it like that,
I’d be out the door and driving back to the ranch within the hour,
on the phone to the toad man selling the place as soon as the sun
rose. I wouldn’t even be in this hotel.

Problem was, I couldn’t
find my thinking cap. I’d lost it, maybe in the changing room in
the salon before my full Brazilian wax. Or maybe I’d let it drop to
the floor at the fig & fennel when I’d first seen Declan.
Locking eyes across a crowded room with a man that devastatingly sexy
could make you do all sorts of stupid things. It could even lead to
ending up in a stockroom with your dress bunched up and your panties
flung off dangling from some shelf and you not minding one bit.

Whew. I took a sip of
water. The man made me burn so hot. I should run not walk away from
this. It was not the kind of thing good girls did, and I was a good
girl. I baked. I tended the sick. I was a freaking virgin for
goodness sake. This bargain, it was all kinds of wrong.

He didn’t just want a
week with me. He wanted a week of complete surrender. A week to do
everything and anything he wanted, apparently had long wanted to do
to me.

A shiver traveled down
my spine. What did he want to do? How long had he been thinking about
me, wanting me? All these years, was there a chance he’d felt
anything like I had? That fierce yearning and all those long,
sleepless nights?

In the stockroom, he’d
attacked me like a ravenous beast. Panting, he’d turned on the
light because he needed to see me. He’d wanted to devour every inch
of me. He’d fed off of my pleasure, craving it, driven to take me
to the highest pitch.

I’d never felt so
delicious, so reckless and fiercely alive. I could still hear his
voice, low and demanding, “You’ll surrender to me, Kara. Agree to
do anything I say. Everything I want.”

A deep throb pulsed
between my legs. You’d never know I’d had a mind-shattering
orgasm not long ago. I felt so unsatisfied, even more famished after
the appetizing teaser. I remembered his promise, whispered wicked in
my ear, “I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget your name.”

On the couch, eyes
closed, I trailed my hand down my bare throat. I wanted that.

Enough with the nun.
Enough living like a grim widow. Enough troubles and worries and
deprivation and things getting worse every day instead of better.

It was time to forget
everything and live full and free and crazy. Relish this wild moment
and give myself up to every second of it for a week. Then I’d never
look back.

I grabbed my phone. Before I could
think twice, I typed in a text message. Before I could back out, I
pressed send.

I’m
in. One Week. Anything you want.

§

I woke the next morning up to a text
message from Declan:

Meet
me in the hotel bar tonight. 7 p.m.

Oh God. What had I
done? I rubbed my eyes and read it again. It still said the same
thing, still clearly communicated that Declan would meet me tonight.
To begin our agreement, one week of unrestrained, wild and kinky
do-everything-he-asked-of-me sex.

I lay back in the soft,
comfortable bed in my soft, comfortable cashmere PJs and whimpered. I
couldn’t do this. Why had I sent him that text last night? What,
had I thought I was in a movie? Auditioning for the part of sub in
Fifty Shades
? This
wasn’t a game and I wasn’t that kind of woman.

I threw the covers off,
cold panic gripping my gut. This was a mistake, a horrible mistake.
What had I been thinking? The man had no heart, he’d showed that
quite clearly six years ago. And now I’d agreed to give him free
reign? A week to do whatever he wanted to me? It had to be the
stupidest thing I’d ever even considered.

I looked at my phone. I
could text him and tell him I’d changed my mind. Sure I’d said
yes last night, but I’d been drunk on pheromones or endorphins or
whatever he’d done to my brain chemistry with that orgasm. Now in
the cold light of morning, I knew I had to say no.

How had I even fallen
asleep last night? And yet, I had, right after I’d sent The Text of
Sin. I’d enjoyed a sound and surprisingly deep sleep.

But I was awake now. I
needed to talk with him, explain this wasn’t going to work, not the
way he’d described it. But I should do it, face-to-face, in person.
Turning tail and running now was tempting, but childish. I’d see
him, have an adult conversation—and not Adult adult—rational,
practical, realistic. I’d explain that my answer was no. Then I’d
make the long drive home, empty-handed but with a clear conscience
and the knowledge that I’d dodged one hell of a crazy bullet.

OK, decision made, now
I just had to wait an entire day to see him. It was barely nine in
the morning. Ten hours before seven o’clock. Ten hours in a hotel
room to go out of my freaking mind.

9:20 a.m. I got up and
showered since it was something to do.

9:35 a.m. I pulled on
the jeans, t-shirt and boots from yesterday, rumpled and crumpled
from my old bag where they’d been stuffed in a ball. In the mirror,
I looked like I’d slept in a trash bin.

9:40 a.m. I pulled off
my clothes and ironed them. Then I put them on again.

I was going to go nuts
in that hotel room. Pacing around like a tiger in a cage, I knew no
TV show would hold my attention. I was going to have to go out, head
to a museum or something, whatever people did with this crazy thing
called leisure time.

§

I made it until 2:30. I
was really proud of myself.

“What can I get you?”
The bartender wore a clingy black short-sleeve button down, tattoos
snaking up and down his arms. He wiped down the bar as he spoke.

“Diet coke, thanks.”

He nodded and filled me
a fountain soda. Not exactly a money-making order, but he didn’t
have a bunch of patrons at this time of day, anyway. In the bar in
the hotel Declan owned. Where I’d be meeting him in 4 ½ hours.