Xtreme (2 page)

“And provisions?”

“Ample.”

“That's decided, then.”

“Yes. Good luck.”

“And to you.”

Smith hung up.

Ricardo stood staring out at the city for a moment. Everything was in order; their careful planning would pay off. Smith had outfitted several hidey-holes in different parts of the city; each was cycled out of use after several months, whether it had been used or not. Ricardo had not needed to use any of them for quite some time, but rising tensions between the gangs—and more important, the threat to Chelsea's safety—had forced him to change course. Which was too bad. He was especially fond of the small bungalow high in the Hollywood hills where he'd twice taken Chelsea—sometimes he even allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to live as an ordinary man there, doing ordinary things like gardening and cooking meals for his beloved.

But he might as well have wished for wings so he could fly high above the city. The gang had Chelsea in its sights, and Ricardo would do everything it took to keep her safe.

CHAPTER THREE

Chelsea stood under the stinging, hot spray with her eyes closed, replaying the last few nights in her mind with equal parts mortification and arousal. There was not an inch of her body that had not been kissed, caressed, stroked…but also abraded, whipped, pinched, bitten…

The sex between her and her sometimes lover could not be described as tender. No greeting card or love song would ever capture the exquisite blend of lust, passion, pain, and surrender between them. Chelsea would never be able to confess to a living soul besides Ricardo the things she had done…the things she longed to do. And as he had already proven time and time again, the things she could imagine were only a pale, small subset of the vast trove of experiences he meant to share with her.

Of course, there was still time to back away. Or was there? Three days ago, Chelsea had watched in horror as an old man was taken from his home, lying on a stretcher under a sheet, his widow screaming as she tried to reach his lifeless body. Chelsea knew she was in danger of meeting the same fate. While she still didn't know exactly how Ricardo spent his time while he was away from her, it was obviously far more deadly than she'd allowed herself to imagine.

If she left now—

If she moved far away to a new city—

If she assumed a new name, got a new job, cut her hair, burned every trace of the life she'd led—

But she couldn't. Because the struggling art gallery she owned, a few miles away in the arts district, was more than just a job. It was her life, her identity, her promise to her dead father.

She turned off the water and reached for the thick, soft towel. As she finished drying off and wrapped the towel around her body, the shower curtain was pulled open. Chelsea clutched the towel tightly, her heart pounding.

Ricardo stood in front of her, fully dressed. He held a single paper cup of coffee.

“Where's yours?” she demanded, accepting the coffee, but she already knew the answer. She had known this was coming, but it didn't keep a sense of betrayal and abandonment from overtaking her.

“Regrettably, I don't have time to enjoy coffee with you today,” Ricardo said formally. His eyes, so expressive and full of dangerous energy last night, were as veiled as if they'd been shuttered by curtains.

It was unfair that she should always feel so exposed around him while he often retreated behind his perfect manners and cultured conversation. But it was also, she'd been forced to admit, part of their dynamic. A truly dominant man reveals himself only measure by measure and only when it suits him. He is always in control.

And the reverse, Chelsea was beginning to realize, was also true. A submissive—which she'd only come to understand she was when Ricardo came into her life—reveals herself when ordered to. She has no secrets from her Dom. She gladly gives what he demands. And one of Ricardo's first demands, the night they had met at a crowded
gallery opening, was to know her intimately. Before he'd ever touched her, he had recognized her for what she was. And now it was too late to hide.

She gave up and reached for the coffee. The first sip was heaven: hot, dark, earthy. It definitely hadn't come from the coffee maker in the suite's kitchenette, but she had learned not to underestimate the resources at Ricardo's command.

Wherever the caffeine fix had come from, she was grateful. But she was not at all happy about what she knew was coming next. “You're leaving,” she accused.

“It is unavoidable. I must work, Chelsea. You understand that.”

“I do, but—” she felt like hurling the cup across the room, letting it splash against the silk curtains, the floor-to-ceiling views of the city. “It would be one thing if you went to work like an ordinary man and I knew you'd be home in time for the evening news.”

“We both know you would not love an ordinary man.” His tone was patient, but the words were laced with the faintest hint of danger. Chelsea knew it wasn't her place to question what he did, but the idea of him leaving her there, alone, felt like a force that would scour her empty.

“Maybe,” she said, petulance lacing her words, “I'd love you a little more if you were a little more ordinary.”

Then she looked directly into his eyes—just in time to see the fire blaze to life. He went still, the corner of his mouth tightening.

If this was a staring contest, Chelsea already knew she was doomed. But she glared back defiantly nonetheless. Of course she hadn't meant what she said—she didn't want Ricardo to be anything like the bland, predictable men who went to work every day in the gleaming high-rises of the city. And he wouldn't be who he was if he allowed her, or anyone, to dictate his comings and goings.

But she hadn't chosen to have her life disrupted, hadn't chosen to be spirited away like a refugee, even if her cage was gilded, even if she was surrounded by luxury beyond anything she'd ever experienced before.

She lifted her chin a little higher.

“Dangerous words,
querida
,” Ricardo said, his voice as rough as gravel over steel. “I'll give you a moment to think, before you beg my forgiveness.”

Everything was still and silent, other than the drip of water from the faucet and the faint hum of the air conditioner. The air was steamy and fragrant with the soaps and lotions Chelsea had found in the bathroom, and a rivulet of water slid slowly down her face.

Deep inside her, the ferocious, unquenchable need awoke. It had never really been asleep, not since the first time Ricardo glanced at her with that smoldering, provocative gaze. But she usually managed to keep it contained in the hours and days when they were apart, at least long enough to work, to run, to eat and sleep, to take care of the everyday tasks of her life.

But here, in the protected aerie dominated by her lover, Chelsea was like a vibrating guitar string. He could set her off with a look, with a whiff of his scent, with an idle caress. The best thing for Chelsea would be for him to walk away, at least long enough for her to catch her breath, to get her bearings.

All she had to do was say she was sorry, and he would leave.

The need grew. Between her legs, her pussy swelled. Her nipples tingled, anticipating his touch. Blood rushed to her face, warming her cheeks with a blush; it
rushed elsewhere in her body, readying her flesh for the dance that had been practiced since the dawn of time. It was too late for her to retreat now. Her mind wavered, but her body knew what it wanted. Without consciously meaning to, her hips jutted forward, her lips parted, her tongue darted out to moisten them. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch him.

“No,” she whispered.

The word no, to any other man she'd been with, was an end, a door closed. She'd said no as often as she said yes—and she'd said yes a lot, inviting a steady stream of men into her bed. When she was bored, she kicked them out. When their touch left her feeling lonelier than being alone. When her own company was less painful than their efforts to get close to her.

For Ricardo,
no
had an entirely different meaning. It wasn't that he disregarded her feelings and needs—he'd been careful to make provisions for her care. She had a safe word, she could tell him she needed time to herself and he would respect that. She could tell him they needed to discuss their situation like adults, and he would engage her as an equal.

But this conversation was not about that.

He raised one eyebrow very fractionally. “I shall give you one more chance, my defiant little pet.” He rested his hand on the buckle of his belt. “But I should warn you—I can delay my departure slightly, if necessary. I will not allow your insubordination to go unchecked. Now. Are you sorry for your ill-considered remark?”

The ache in her pussy sharpened; a groan nearly escaped her lips. She caught it just in time. “No,” she said between gritted teeth. “I'm not sorry.”

His hand moved so fast she saw only the flash of his cuff links. He seized a hank of hair and pulled her head back savagely, exposing her throat to him, forcing her gaze to the ceiling. Her body went liquid with pain and desire, and the towel fell to the floor.

Ricardo used his free hand to seize one of her wrists and pin it against the cold tile. He stepped into the small enclosure with her, pushing her into the corner of the stall. He bent his head and kissed her gently from one ear to the other, without letting up the pressure with his hands. The pain searing her scalp and the bone-crushing force pinning her hand were a counterpoint to the soft caress of his tongue and lips and barely grazing teeth, and Chelsea moaned and writhed as her body struggled to sort out the sensations and, failing, demanded more.

Ricardo continued to kiss her, but when he reached the nape of her neck near her hairline, the kiss turned to a sharp, vicious bite. He kept it up as she moaned and struggled, suckling and biting as voraciously as any mythical vampire, until he finally let go of her and stepped out of the shower in one smooth move.

Chelsea resisted the urge to slide down into a puddle on the floor, her body vibrating with desire. When Ricardo offered her his hand, she took it and allowed him to help her from the shower. Then he took her by the shoulders and turned her gently toward the mirror.

“Look at yourself,” he murmured. “Look at my marks on you.”

He lifted her hair out of the way and she saw the purpling bruise behind her ear, the faint impressions of his teeth. She shuddered with excitement, tracing the outline with her fingertip.

“No one will know it is there, unless you want them to. But
you
will know. You will always know.”

He pushed her shoulders, gently at first, then more firmly, shoving her down until she was bent over the sink, her hips up against its cold edge. Her cheek rested on the smooth marble, a sensual contrast to the heat building inside her. Her arms extended on either side of her face, her hands touching the burnished brass fittings.

“Be still, my little
putita
,” Ricardo said, resting one hand on her ass lightly, cupping it as though he was testing a melon at the market. Chelsea squirmed against him, longing for his touch between the cleft of her ass, wishing he'd slide his fingers down to her dripping cunt.

Abruptly he lifted his hand, then brought it down firmly on her ass cheek. It stung more than it hurt, but the blow ignited nerve endings all over her body. With tremendous effort, she went still.

“Wait here.”

He left the room.

For the first few moments, Chelsea was motionless, her eyes closed, her breathing slightly elevated by her mounting desire. She focused on the lingering sensation of his hand on her ass, the sharp, gorgeous ache of it, and wondered if Ricardo would know if she quietly slipped her fingers down and pleasured herself. Just to bring a little relief. Just to feel the hot dampness with her fingertips.

She could hear him moving around in the other room, opening a dresser drawer. When he came back into the room, she was glad she hadn't dared to disobey…in his hands was camera, which held even more promise than further corrective spanking.

“Good little one,” he said approvingly. “Staying still for me, with your gorgeous
culo
upturned in the air. Are you wet for me yet, I wonder?”

“Yes…Sir,” Chelsea said, watching him from under her lowered lashes, out of the corner of her eye. She could see his cock bulging against his pants, its gorgeous, huge outline only inches away. Close enough to touch, if she was given permission.

If she was given an order.

She shivered at the thought, but Ricardo had other ideas. He pressed buttons on the camera, then set it down on the sink in front of Chelsea so that she could stare at the screen, which was dark.

“You remember the night I first spilled my seed inside you,” he said gravely.

Chelsea caught her breath. “Yes.”

“And you remember what we did before.”

This time it was more of a moan. “Yes…”

“Tell me.”

“You—you tied my hands to the bed. Then you tied my legs so that I couldn't move. You bent my knees and wrapped the ropes around them.” Her cunt spasmed at the memory, a shudder of anticipation. He had tied her legs to keep them immobile, but not together. Then he had spread them, giving him access between them. Later, he had done other things…and she had been helpless to move, to do anything except arch her back and cry out.

“What else?”

“You—you had a wand. A cane.”

“I did.” He nodded approvingly.

“You used it on me. Oh, God.” The thin polycarbonate wand had telescoped out to the length of his forearm. The tip was narrow and flexible, and as he demonstrated, striking his palm, it had made a small whistling sound. “You turned me over and you used it on my, my bottom…”

“You were very provocative, I recall,” he said. “Were you not?”