Play Me Hard (2 page)

We’re stopped at a red light, and suddenly he’s looking back at me, his eyes a penetrating, laser pointer green. “You always have a choice with me, Aria.”

He sounds so intense when he says it, like he wants me to understand something bigger, deeper, than what we’re talking about. For a moment I get lost in his gaze, in the deep growl of his voice. It feels almost like I’m floating, and he’s the only thing tying me down. The only thing keeping me grounded.

The thought only makes me more confused. Especially when he starts to stroke the inside of my knee with his strong, calloused fingers. Heat coils deep in my belly, spirals through me. It’s a strange kind of heat, muffled by the fact that I feel so removed from my own body. My own thoughts.

Nothing makes sense, not even the knowledge that I don’t want him to stop touching me. Especially that.

The rest of the ride to my apartment is silent, at least until we pull into the dingy parking lot. I direct him to park in my space, expecting a disparaging comment or two on where I live. This is the bad part of Vegas—the way bad part—and my building is one of the worst. Broken down, ill-repaired, in desperate need of a couple coats of paint—or an arsonist to burn it to the ground—it’s not a good place to live. Just walking from my car to my apartment can be treacherous some nights, especially when the local gangs are out.

But it was all I could afford when I fled my old life and got a job as a cocktail waitress. Now that I’m working the high roller tables and my tips have gotten about a million times better, I should be able to afford a better place soon. If I can hold on to the job a little longer, that is, and convince myself that the money really isn’t going to disappear out from under me, maybe I’ll start looking for a nicer place. Nothing grand, nothing like what Sebastian is used to—or where I used to live, even—but better than this. Safer.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything disparaging, however. Just parks his top-of-the-line Mercedes between my neighbor’s beaten up 1990 Ford Escort and an even more decrepit Chevy that I don’t recognize.

“You don’t need to walk me in,” I tell him hastily, reaching for the door handle. “I can make it from here.”

He just looks at me, face completely blank as he shuts off the car and climbs out.

Fine. That’s what I get for worrying about his car being here—and in one piece—after he walks me to my apartment. He might not be concerned, but that’s only because he doesn’t know this area. I wonder if I should say something, but judging from the set of his shoulders, it wouldn’t matter if I did. He’s determined to get me safely to my apartment.

I start to climb out of the car on my own, but he’s there before I even get both my feet on the ground. Then he’s holding the door for me with one hand, helping me out with the other. I don’t need his help, am perfectly capable of climbing out of a car and walking to my apartment by myself. But when his hand—warm and rough and perfect—se
ttles against my lower back, I decide not to make a big deal of it.

Besides, my legs feel a little unsteady, like my muscles can’t quite remember how to move without his touch. The feeling should worry me, but I’m too out of it at this point to care. All I want is my bed and a blanket and for Sebastian to curl up next to me.

The fact that that isn’t going to happen—that I can’t let it happen and he probably wouldn’t want it to anyway—sends a wave of despair flowing through me. Which doesn’t make sense considering I’ve never needed a man to coddle me in my life. I try to stiffen my spine, to pull away, but his hand is wrapped around my waist now, pulling my body flush against his side. And even as I know I should fight against it, it feels too good. He feels too good.

“Which one is yours?” he asks, propelling me across the parking lot toward the building. Around us, the street is fairly quiet—if you don’t count the girls working the stroll on the corner and the guy dealing out of the parking lot across the street.

“I’m the third one on the second floor.”

Sebastian just nods, but when we get to the staircase, he pauses for a second. Peers at a couple of the apartment doors to the right of us like he expects them to bite him or something.

I try to think of a joke, something to make this place seem not quite as bad as it really is. But before I can come up with anything, he sweeps me into his arms and starts to carry me up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” It’s half-screech, half-whisper since the walls are thin here and I don’t want to wake my neighbors up. The last thing I need right now is an audience. “Put me down.”

“I will. When we get to your apartment.”

“But, why—”

“You look tired.”

“It’s the middle of the night! Of course I’m tired—”

“Then shut up and enjoy the ride.” He looks at me so pointedly that I do shut up. Not because he told me to, but because, suddenly, I can’t think of anything else to say.

When we get to my door, he slides me slowly down his body, until we’re standing chest to chest, hips to hips. For the first time, I realize that he’s hard, his cock pressing against my stomach. An answering excitement starts within me, building on the heat from earlier, when he was touching me in the car. Still, I pull away. I’m not trying to play hard to get, but I don’t know how I feel about any of this.

About Sebastian.

About the intensity of the sex we had in his office earlier.

About the way I’ve felt so odd, so off, since it happened.

Everything feels strange and I don’t know what to do. About any of it.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him as I step back and start fumbling for my keys.

He smiles at me, and it’s a little dark, a little amused. “I’m coming in, Aria.”

“I don’t know if that’s really a good idea—”

He takes my keys from me, opens the locks before pushing my door open. “Good idea or not, I’m coming in.”

Sebastian takes my elbow, then moves me gently through the front door before following me and closing it behind us.

“I’m not going to fuck you.” I blurt the words out while we’re still standing in the dark.

“I’m not asking you to.” He fumbles at the wall next to the door for a second, then snap. The lamp by the couch turns on.

Now, I’m really confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Is your bathroom through here?” he asks, pointing at the bedroom as if we’re in a decent-size place instead of my tiny, one bedroom apartment.

“Yes.”

“Good. Come on.” He’s still got a grip on my elbow and as he propels me toward the bedroom, I suddenly get an inkling of how Alice must have felt when she fell down that rabbit hole. I’m lost, confused, intrigued. Going forward because going back isn’t an option. And neither, it seems, is standing still.

“Take your clothes off,” Sebastian tells me as we skirt my bed on our way to the bathroom.

“I just told you I’m not going to sleep with you again.”

“And I told you I wasn’t planning on that anyway.” He flips the light on in the bathroom, then goes immediately to my tub and turns the water on. “You need a bath.”

“Is that your way of saying I stink?” I can’t help being insulted, no matter how bizarre the situation is turning out to be.

“No. It’s my way of saying you need some aftercare.” Without so much as a glance at me, he grabs some of the bubble bath I keep on the ledge of the tub and pours a capful under the water.

“Aftercare?” The word feels strange and unfamiliar in my mouth.

He does look at me then. “You’re still dressed.”

“And you’re still taking a hell of a lot of liberties I’m not sure I want to give you.” My voice sounds strong, in control. And like I’m not actually melting at just the thought of immersing myself in the hot water.

“It’s a bath not a blow job.” He recaps the bubble bath, then straightens up. Crosses his arms over his chest. And just looks at me. “And I’ve already seen you naked.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again.”

He smirks at me, literally
smirks
, the jerk. “Oh, it’s going to happen again, Aria. Many, many times—starting with right now. Take your clothes off or I’ll do it for you.”

“I’ve about had it with your threats.” I wrap my arms around myself, squeeze tight. As if resolve alone will keep me from bending to his determination. As if it will keep me from breaking.

“I already told you. I don’t make threats.”

“Yeah, well, you can say something a million different times and a million different ways. It doesn’t make it true.” I learned that the hard way. “Besides, what if I don’t like baths?”

“Would you prefer a shower?” He bends, starts to turn the bathwater off.

It’s a simple response but the implications of it are anything but. Not for the first time, I think of how Carlo would have handled this situation. The posturing, the exerting of his authority, the determination to control the situation—and me, no matter what I said.

The more I learn about Sebastian, the more I realize he isn’t like that.

And the more I want to give him.

“No.” I finally answer, clearing my throat and looking anywhere but into his too-knowing eyes. “A bath sounds…good.”

Carlo would have gloated, but Sebastian doesn’t. He just nods, says, “Okay.”

And then we’re just standing there, staring at each other as the seconds tick by. The bathroom is small and the heat from the bathwater is already steaming up the air, making it thick and sultry and just a little hard to breathe. It lends itself to the surreal quality of the moment.

Or maybe that’s just the look in Sebastian’s eyes when he watches me. I don’t know and right now, I’m not sure it matters. Not when the result is the same—me lost and aching, drowning in lust and confusion and a fear I don’t want to acknowledge.

Because with Sebastian, for the first time in a very long time, it’s not my safety I’m afraid for.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks abruptly, breaking the silence and the tension. “While you get undressed?”

I nod. “Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Call me if you need me.”

“I’m not sick, you know. I’m just—” What? I don’t know what to say, what words to use to describe the way I’m feeling. Tired, weak, muddled. But those words don’t feel right, either. Don’t feel like they’re enough.

“You’re dropping,” he tells me.

I look down at my hands. I’m not even carrying anything. “I don’t—What do you mean?”

“It’s called subdrop. And it’s my fault. I didn’t take care of you after we made love earlier.”

There is so much in those few sentences that my head is spinning. I don’t even know where to start taking them apart. I begin with the most obvious—at least to me. “I’m not a submissive.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You said this was subdrop. It implies, then, that I’m submissive. I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ve had sex before. I don’t need to be taken care of like some kind of virgin, you know.”

“All women deserve to be taken care of after sex, no matter how many or how few partners they’ve had.”

It’s not just that he says these things that makes my head spin. It’s that he so obviously means what he says.

“Are you for real?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You already did.”

He inclines his head. “Touché,” he says teasingly. “Have you had that kind of sex before? The kind of sex we had?”

Suddenly, the way the bubbles whirl and spin in the bathwater becomes intensely interesting. And infinitely easier to look at than his eyes. “Sex is sex,” I tell him with a shrug I’m far from feeling.

“No, it isn’t.” He steps forward then, pulls me into his arms. “Not even close.”

“I don’t understand.” I start to push against him, to pull away, but he soothes me with a soft hand brushing against my neck. The other one strokes gently down my spine and I relax despite myself.

“I know you don’t. That’s why you need to trust me for a little while. We’ll talk more when you’re better.”

“I’m not sick!”

“No, but you went pretty high earlier. Now the endorphins are gone and you’re crashing hard.” He pulls back, tips my chin up so that I can’t not look in his eyes. “That’s the physiology of what’s happening to you. Emotionally, there’s a lot more going on. And yes,” he continues before I can get out the words that are tripping over themselves on my tongue. “I know you’re not a submissive. And yes, we’ll talk more about all of this later and I’ll answer whatever questions you have. For now, just let me make you feel good. Please.”

It’s the please that does it. He’s standing there in the middle of my bathroom, looking half GQ, half bad-ass and all gorgeous, and he’s asking to take care of me. When I walked out of my father’s house, away from my fiancé and the life that had been mapped out for me practically since birth, I swore I wouldn’t be any man’s plaything ever again. That I wouldn’t let any man take care of me.

But, though I’ve only known him thirty-six hours, I can tell already that Sebastian isn’t any man. And all he wants is to make me feel better, more grounded. And maybe it’s the subdrop or whatever he called it talking, but right now, I just can’t see what’s so wrong about that.

So I do what I’ve wanted to do all along. Since he showed up in the casino. Since he insisted on driving me home. Since, if I’m being honest, I walked out of his office all those hours ago.