Make Me Risk It (6 page)
“No,” she replied emphatically, hating the doubt that tinged his tone. “You never hurt me, you only make me feel . . . so
much
. I don’t want to be ashamed of it. I don’t want men like Clint Jefferies or . . .
anyone
who’s cruel and heartless and evil to make me ashamed of it. You’re not those things. You take what you want in bed, but you’re
not
selfish. I don’t know how you do that. You’re just . . .
you
.”
He rolled her back against the pillow and came over her, his face hovering above hers. He pressed close, and she could feel that he wore a pair of thin cotton pajama bottoms. His heat emanated into her skin. His groin pressed against her outer thigh. He was growing hard. His features looked shadowed. She was very confused at that moment, and yet she wondered if she’d ever seen him so clearly.
“And you’re
you
. Harper McFadden,” he mouthed the two words, barely making a sound but saying the two words emphatically, nevertheless. She held her breath at something she sensed in him, some unfurling power. “Do you know why I like to bind you and have you at my mercy?”
“Because you’re a sexual dominant?”
“Maybe. Partly.” He leaned down until their lips were less than an inch apart. “But mostly because of Harper McFadden.”
“What?” she asked, confused.
“Mostly because that’s my fantasy,” he continued, his voice low but brimming with fierce emotion. He shifted his hips and pressed his cock tighter against her. “To have you. To keep you. To know that at least for a short period of time, no one and nothing will take you from me. To know for a
fact
that you’re one hundred percent mine . . . no matter what.
Are
you mine right now, Harper?”
Her lips parted in aroused disbelief at his stark adamancy. She’d thought that his revelation about Regina and Clint Jefferies, and Jacob’s and her subsequent admissions of their conflict about their sexual preferences, would dampen their ardor. If anything, it seemed to have amplified their need. She was confused by his intensity, but what he’d just confessed had struck her like a whiplash of honesty, cutting straight through everything else.
“Yes
. Completely yours, Jacob.”
He swept down on her, taking her mouth in unapologetic hunger. The heat that swept through her was familiar, but stronger now, more dangerous than ever before. He abruptly ended their kiss and shifted his weight, straddling her. He straightened his back. Her pulse leapt at her throat when she saw his grim, determined expression. Holding her gaze, he reached for the hem of her nightgown. He drew it up over her belly and above her breasts. He examined what he’d revealed. Her skin prickled beneath his heavy stare. Lifting his pelvis off her slightly, he cradled her hip in his large hand. His thumb reached down to the top of her mons. He rubbed her skin, but he stroked something deep inside her, making her vibrate subtly with mounting emotion. “Mine,” he declared thickly, and she felt the storm building in him. He was about to rattle her world. He already was.
“All mine,” he repeated as if to himself before he grabbed her wrists and drew her arms above her head. He pressed her hands into the pillows.
She panted softly, looking up at his large, shadowed form. Whatever she experienced at that moment, it was complex, sharp . . . overwhelming. He brushed his fingertips softly against her sides, making her breath hitch and her nipples draw tight.
“I want to tie you up right now. We’re the only two who have to decide. Ours is the only opinion that counts, and it only counts for us.
Is
it sick, Harper?”
“I don’t think so,” she whispered shakily.
“But you’re not sure? You’re willing to take the risk of being wrong?”
She hesitated. “For you, yes. As long as you’re here. With me.”
“I promise.”
Her face pinched tight as emotion shuddered through her. She felt that sense of déjà vu again, the one that made no sense to her, given what was happening in the present. She’d never experienced anything remotely like what she was feeling with Jacob, there in that moment, so why did she have a feeling of familiarity? As if he sensed her anguish, he cupped her jaw, his thumb feathering the corner of her mouth—her scar. This time, she didn’t flinch away.
He stood after a lung-burning moment. “I’ll be right back.”
He walked toward his private office, and she knew what he was going to get: ropes. It stunned her. She would never have guessed in a million years she would willingly allow this, of all things. And yet . . . she longed for it. Ropes would declare she was his for the taking . . .
Undeniable, flagrant evidence of their bond.
* * *
His hand closed around several bundles of rope.
Why did he feel so compelled to do this after he’d exposed part of his past, and they’d acknowledged their mutual uncertainty about their sexual preferences? Maybe it was because he despised anything that kept him from Harper: even doubt.
Nevertheless, that’s what he saw on her face when he closed his office door and walked back toward where she lay on the bed, bundles of black rope in one hand, a towel and a pair of blunt-ended, EMT shears ideal for rope cutting in close quarters in the other. He sat on the edge of the bed, seeing the whites of her eyes as she looked at the shears.
“I need to cut the rope at times, and I want to do it safely,” he explained. “Besides, I’ll always have the shears on hand. If you start to have any pain or numbness from being in the restraint, or if you start to feel uncomfortable and want to stop, just say so. I’ll immediately get you out, if not from the planned releases I’ll put in the rope, then by using these. I’m pretty good at knowing where and how hard to bind to maintain good blood flow, but everybody is different. I refuse to have you marked or hurting in any way, but I need your input to make that happen. You have to speak up. Say you understand.”
“I understand.”
He nodded and set the shears on the bedside table. He saw her look down anxiously at the neat bundles of rope resting on his thigh.
“The rope ties me to you as much as it does you to me. Do you understand, Harper?”
She glanced up, her mouth falling open. She nodded. His reassurance had worked, and that gratified him. He, of all people, knew what a challenge this would be for her.
He reached and turned on a bedside lamp.
“I want to see you better. I’ve fantasized about this. If you knew how much, you’d probably be shocked. Forget the
probably
,” he added harshly under his breath.
With the soft glow of the lamp, he could more easily read her expression, but it revealed other things to him, as well. The soft glow of her flawless skin, the telltale pink flush of her cheeks and lips, the hardness of her nipples. His cock tugged at him. He ran his hand over her chest, glorying in the firm swells and tight, rigid nipples. The ache in him swelled.
He slipped the silk nightgown over her head and tossed it aside.
“I’m going to turn up the air-conditioning,” he said, standing and setting the coils of rope on the table.
“Why?”
“I know it may feel chilly now. But I’m going to put quite a bit of rope on you. Things will get hot. Fast.”
He saw her throat convulse as he turned away. He thought he saw arousal in her large eyes, and prayed he was right in that assumption. When he returned he saw that her head was turned, and she was gazing at the rope. He sat down at the edge of the bed and picked up a bundle.
“Touch it,” he said.
Her gaze rose to his face skittishly before she reached. Her fingertips slid over the tightly twisted silk. Arousal stabbed through him. He lowered the bunch of rope, sliding it across her abdomen. She watched. He had the distinct impression she was holding her breath. The vision of the black rope against her pale, taut belly sent another jab of arousal through him. It was every bit as erotic as he’d imagined.
“I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do before we start, and you can tell me if you have any problem with any of it, either now, while I’m binding you, or at any time after,” he said gruffly, watching himself stroke her with the rope, knowing her gaze was on the same thing. “I’m going to have you bend your knees toward your chest and spread your thighs. I’m going to bind your shins to your thighs. I’ll be careful of your joints. The ropes won’t mark you, but there might be some compression spots left on your skin: nothing permanent, just the kind of thing from a pillow after sleeping hard on it. It’ll fade quickly once you’re free. I’ve seen how flexible you are. It should work well, but I want you to tell me at any time if you feel uncomfortable. Understood?”
“Yes,” she whispered. He slid the rope over her rib cage, and her abdomen muscles leapt. She stared at the black coils as if mesmerized.
“Harper?”
She blinked and looked at his face.
“After I’ve bound your shins to your thighs, I’m going to bind your wrists just above your knees. Your hands will be free, though. You’ll be able to exert some force on your legs. If I tell you to roll your hips back further, I’ll expect you to do it unless you’re uncomfortable. You’ll be completely open to me. I want you to know that.” He saw that she was panting softly. Was she aroused, listening to him explain what was about to happen? “I want you to hear this next part. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“As soon as you’re bound, I’m going to fuck you. Hard. And I’m going to do it for my pleasure, not for yours.”
She exhaled softly in a burst of surprise.
“I know you’ll think that’s selfish. But it’s just a fact. I’ve fantasized about this. It’s going to be very arousing for me. What are you thinking?”
“I wasn’t expecting you to say that. But . . . all right.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
“After that, I’m going to make sure that you like the ropes, Harper. I’m going to make you come while you’re restrained, several times. But I just wanted to be fair, and tell you what will definitely happen first.”
Her lips parted. A pink flush had risen in her cheeks.
“I understand,” she said softly.
“Okay,” he said, standing. He quickly unfastened the twist on one bundle, and a short black length of the silk rope slithered free. “I’m going to bind your wrists temporarily while I do your legs. From this point on, you’re going to be mine.”
She licked her full lower lip in an anxious gesture.
“Put your hands like this.” He showed her what he wanted, demonstrating by putting his wrists together, palms inward and facing each other. She took the position quickly, informing him that while she might be nervous, she was excited, too. He quickly did a triple column tie, binding her wrists together. To increase her arousal—not to mention his own—while he restrained her, he placed her so that her upper arms plumped her pretty breasts, her lower arms lay on her belly, and her fingers were just inches away from her spread sex. After he’d finished with the temporary hand restraint, the anticipation in him had drawn tight, making even breathing difficult for a second. He touched one of her calves.
“Bend your knees. Spread your thighs.”
He pushed her knees toward her chest when she followed his instructions.
He began his task soberly, his cock growing heavier and achier with each pass of the rope. By the time he’d finished binding her legs, a sheen of sweat had broken out on his upper lip and abdomen. He always loved the process of roping a woman firmly and artistically, finding it an explicit slow build.
But there was
nothing
slow about tying Harper up, though. It was hot, spiking torture from the get-go.
Keep reading for an excerpt from WHEN I’M WITH YOU, Beth Kery’s blistering novel of a man and a woman bound by the scandalous secrets of the past—and by the sexual hunger that still fuels their uncontrollable desires . . . Available now from Berkley.
It was past midnight when Lucien opened the rear entrance to his restaurant and immediately went on high alert, hushing his movements. An intruder had breached his restaurant’s security. In the distance, he heard the sound of a low male voice. Although Fusion was frequently bustling with the chic, late-night dinner and nightclub crowd, it was closed on Sunday and Monday. There definitely shouldn’t be anyone inside. Quietly, he closed the rear door, fist tightening around the polo mallet he carried. He’d been planning on replacing this cracked mallet with an intact one from his storage closet at Fusion. He had different plans for it now.
For the most part, Lucien maintained the vaguely amused, cynical stance of an experienced, world-weary libertine, a man who claimed no family, no country, no creed, and few of the worldly possessions to which he was entitled by law, which were many. But what he
did
claim, he fought for. Always. He just hadn’t realized that the restaurant he’d recently bought had gotten so deeply into his bones until that very moment, when he was ready to do battle for it.
He eased down the dim hallway, following the glow of a light shining around a partially closed door that led to the large bar area of the restaurant. He turned his head, his hearing pitched. A tingle went down his spine at the sound of female laughter. A man’s low chuckle twined with it—rough and intimate. He heard the unmistakable sound of glassware clinking, as if in a toast.
Lucien approached the door and leaned his head into the crack.
“Why do you play games with me?” he heard a man ask.
“Who says I’m playing games?”
Lucien’s escalated heartbeat seemed to hesitate for a moment at the woman’s voice. Strange. She was from the country of his birth. The female’s tone was teasing and light, her French accent laced with a British tinge. Perhaps he recognized it because it was very similar to his own.
“You
are
taunting me,” the man said roughly. “You have been all night. Not just me. There wasn’t a man in that restaurant tonight who wasn’t bewitched by you.”
“I’m actually being very cautious,” the woman said lightly. “We are going to work together, after all.”
“I want more than just to work with you. I want to help you. I want you in my house . . . my bed.”
Lucien went from high alert to irritated in a second flat when he recognized the man speaking. He hadn’t interrupted a burglary on his premises.
He’d walked in on a seduction.
Disgusted, he pushed open the door and strode into the dimly lit, luxurious restaurant. The couple stood next to the shining mahogany bar facing one another, their hands curled around brandy snifters. As he approached, the woman backed away slightly from the hovering man. Distantly, he registered that she wore a midnight blue evening gown that clung to full, firm breasts and taut curves. The dress plunged in the back, revealing a profile glimpse of white, flawless skin that shone luminous in the soft lighting. The vision of Mario Vincente’s hand splayed across that expanse of bare skin inexplicably ratcheted up Lucien’s irritation to anger. The extremely talented chef Lucien had hired from a top-rated restaurant in Las Vegas was a bit of a diva. Mario didn’t notice Lucien until he was just a feet away. When he did, his brown eyes went wide.
“Lucien!” The crystal, brandy-filled glass sagged in Mario’s hand. Lucien’s gaze flicked rapidly to the singular bottle sitting on the counter—Cognac Dudognon Héritage, an item from the private stock in his office. Lucien tossed the polo mallet he’d been carrying on the mahogany bar, the sound of it ringing in the air like a remonstrance.
“I hadn’t realized I’d provided you with Fusion’s security code. Or permission to access my office and private bar. Explain yourself, Mario,” Lucien said, his tone crisp, but neutral now that he understood the nature of the intrusion on his property. True, he was irritated at Mario’s infraction, and he would make sure his employee knew it. He just hadn’t yet decided if he’d terminate the idiot. He’d never had a fond spot for Mario, but chefs as talented as him were hard to come by, after all.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Mario said, fumbling.
Lucien noticed the woman’s bare, lithesome arm dip, the liquor in her glass sloshing into the curved bowl. For the first time, he gave the other occupant of the room a cursory glance. He did a doubletake.
“Merde,”
he uttered before he grabbed the glass out of the woman’s hand.
“Lucien.”
“What are you doing here, Elise?”
Surely he was seeing things—a face from his past . . . a beautiful face he’d most definitely rather not appear at this juncture of his life. What the hell was Elise Martin doing in his restaurant in Chicago, thousands of miles from their country of origin, leagues from the gilded cage of their common past?
“I might ask the same of you,” Elise replied rapidly, dark blue eyes flashing. Understanding made her features flatten. “Lucien . . .
you’re
Lucien
Lenault
. You
own
this place?”
Lucien ignored her question, addressing Mario. “What do you think you’re doing, serving her liquor?”
“
What
? You two know one another?” Mario asked, clearly so stunned he was stuck on that earlier part of the conversation.
Lucien threw Elise a repressive glance. Her lush lips snapped closed, and she gave him a defiant glare. She’d caught his warning for silence in regard to their association, all right, but that didn’t guarantee anything. Knowing Elise, she hadn’t decided yet whether she’d keep quiet or not. She was most likely waiting to see what she could do with the unexpected bit of information that had landed in her lap. A flicker of anxiety went through him. He had to get her out of Fusion at all costs . . . out of his life here in Chicago. Elise Martin was like a jagged piece of glass on the beach. She’d cause havoc anywhere she set an elegant, perfectly pedicured toe. She’d compromise the foothold he’d gained by buying a restaurant within Noble Enterprises.
She’d ruin everything he’d already accomplished on his mission in regard to billionaire entrepreneur Ian Noble.
She’d ruin him. Period.
“I . . . I’m sorry. Surely one glass wouldn’t hurt,” Mario was sputtering. Lucien dragged his gaze off Elise’s compelling face. “I know it’s your personal stock, but . . .”
“You’re fired,” Lucien interrupted succinctly.
Mario blinked. Lucien started to walk away.
“Lucien, you can’t do that!”
He whipped around at the sound of Elise’s voice. For a second he just stared at her.
Elise Martin
in Chicago. Jesus.
Just
what he needed.
“How long has it been?” he asked her, his quiet question for her, and her alone.
Her gaze dropped to the brandy snifter he held in his hand. A shadow of guilt darkened her luminous features. She knew he was referring to the liquor. She knew that their families were close enough for him to have heard that news that she’d gone into alcohol and drug rehab two years ago. .
“That’s none of your business,” she said.
“No? Well you were about to drink my personal stash and you’re illegally on my private property, so I say it
is
my business. How long has it been since you’ve been drinking again? Or did it ever really stop?”
Her elegant neck convulsed at his whip-like question. She’d cut her long, glorious mane of blonde hair since he’d last seen her two years ago. She wore it short, the gleaming waves combed behind her ears. He’d have thought the sheering of those curls and tresses might have symbolized the taming of Elise’s infamous wild spirit, but he’d have thought wrong. Elise’s rebellion came from her eyes.
“I told you it’s none of your business. And you can’t fire Mario, just because you don’t like me.”
“I can do whatever I please. This is my place.” He saw the familiar defiant expression tighten her features, the same one she’d worn as a fourteen-year-old girl when he’d told her that a stallion in his father’s stables was too strong and dangerous for her to control.
“But—”
“There’s no but about it,” Lucien said, forcing his tone into its usual calm cadence and volume. He would
not
let the presence of Elise set him off balance. She had a habit of doing just that—of whipping the usually staid upper crust of European society into a scandalized whirlwind with her outrageous stunts . . . of sending a man spinning with her unparalleled beauty and the temptation of taming her. He remembered all too well their last meeting three years ago at Renygat, his Parisian restaurant. He recalled Elise looking up at him as she unfastened his pants, her fingertips brushing against a cock that teamed with hot, raw lust, her lips red and puffy from his earlier angry possession of her mouth, her eyes shining like fire-infused sapphires, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, addictive and sweet—yes, even with the flavor of too much premium scotch blending with it.
You want to forget your past, Lucien? I’m going to make you feel so good, you’re going to forget your
name.
You know, the name I mean? Your father’s?
His body tightened at the memory. It had cost him to send Elise away that night, but he’d done it. The memory of what had occurred after she’d stormed out of his office pained him to this day . . . infuriated him in fact.
Elise had a long history of emotional manipulation. She knew precisely how to slip the most formidable foe in her hip pocket and make him beg like a hungry dog. Lucien had far too much at stake to allow a gorgeous, rich bad girl to sidetrack him.
Even if that gorgeous, rich bad girl was Elise Martin.
“I want both of you to get out of here. You’re lucky I don’t call the police,” Lucien stated, starting to turn again. He paused when he noticed Mario move jerkily toward him from the corner of his eye. Apparently, the chef had regained some of his typical hauteur in the intervening seconds.
“Don’t be a fool. You have to open Fusion tomorrow. You need me. What will you do for a chef?”
“I’ll manage. I’ve been in this business long enough to know how to deal with stealing employees.”
“Are you calling me a thief? An
employee
?” Clearly, Mario couldn’t decide which label was more insulting: criminal or paid worker. His color faded beneath his olive-toned skin.
Lucien paused, gauging, taking in the glassiness of Mario’s eyes. Apparently, Mario had imbibed his fair share before he’d brought Elise here to ply her with Lucien’s brandy. Did he plan to make love to her on the leather couch in his private office, as well? The thought sent his anger to a low boil. He supposed Mario might be attractive enough to some women, but he was in his forties, and far too old to be seducing Elise. No matter that Elise had probably taken four times as many lovers as him, Mario was still a rutting cradle robber, as far as Lucien was concerned.
“I hadn’t yet called you a thief, but that’s precisely what you are. Among other things.”
“You can’t fire him!” Elise blurted out. Lucien glanced sideways at her, startled by the panic in her voice, but unwilling to look away from Mario when the other man’s hands were fisted into balls.
“Stay out of this. It’s none of your business,” Lucien muttered, setting the glass on the bar.
“It
is
my business. If you fire Mario, what am I supposed to do?” Elise exclaimed.
“What are you talking about?” Lucien bit out, but Mario wasn’t interested in their tense, private exchange.
“You’ve always been a smug French bastard, thinking you could lord it over me,” Mario bellowed. He grabbed Elise’s upper arm roughly. “Well you can’t fire me because I quit! Come, Elise. Let’s get out of this devil’s hole.”
Elise kept her feet planted and jerked when Mario yanked on her. “Nobody tells me what to do,” she exclaimed. Lucien clamped his fist around the other man’s forearm and squeezed. Tight. Mario yelped in pain.
“Let go of her,” Lucien warned. He saw the flash of aggression in Mario’s expression and resisted rolling his eyes in exasperation. He really wasn’t up for this tonight. “Are you
sure
you want to start something?” he asked mildly. “Do you think it’s wise?”
“
Don’t
Mario,” Elise warned.
For a brief second, Mario hesitated, but then the alcohol he’d consumed must have roared in his veins, giving him courage. He released Elise and lunged, fist cocked. Lucien blocked Mario’s punch and sunk his fist beneath his ribs.
One, two, done. Almost too easy, Lucien thought grimly as air whooshed out of Mario’s lungs followed by a guttural groan of pain.
Lucien shot a ‘this is all your fault’ glare at Elise and then put his hands on the shoulders of the now hunched over Mario. He grabbed his jacket off the bar stool and urged the gasping, moaning man toward the front door of the restaurant with a hold on his shirt collar.
When he returned a few minutes later alone, Elise still stood next to the bar, her chin up, her carriage held every bit as proud and erect as her aristocratic ancestors, her gaze on him wary. He walked toward her, unsure if he wanted to shove her into the back of a cab like he just had Mario, shake her for her foolishness, or turn her over his knee and punish her ass for the infraction of peering into his private world.