Pleasure Point-nook (11 page)

Not yet.

She let herself sink into his arms, into his touch, so rough and so tender at the
same time as he brought her arms around and twined them behind his neck so he could
grab a condom from the built-in shelves.

“Hang on, beauty. Hang on and ride me.”

He lifted her onto his gorgeously hard cock, and pleasure stabbed into her even as
his flesh did. She wrapped her lags around his waist and kept her gaze on his as he
began to move, tilting his hips, surging into her.

“You are so damn hot inside. Never felt anything like it. Never felt anything like
you
, Miranda.”

“Ah, Roan…”

“I want you to come onto me.”

Her body clenched at his command. “Yes, Roan.”

He reached under her and pressed a finger into her pussy along with his swollen cock,
and the sensation was indescribable—sharp and filling her. She came, shivering all
over, pleasure like fire in her veins, a thousand stars exploding in her head.

She was still shivering with the aftershocks when he said, “You come like no one I’ve
ever seen.
You
are like no one I’ve ever seen.”

“Roan, please come. Into me. For me.”

His gaze held hers, hard and glinting. “Yes, beauty. For you.”

She felt him start to shake, and his growls turned into gasping cries, his face beautiful,
pleasure an exquisite agony on his features, his big hands flexing on her thighs.
She felt as if she were falling for him all over again, her body and her heart responding
as one.

“Roan…yes!”

“God, Miranda. Ah, God…love you, Miranda,” he murmured, his jaw still clenching.

She felt as if she were spinning. Dizzy. Overwhelmed. She shook her head, held onto
him tighter. And then she watched as his face seemed to fall apart. As his features
just went loose all at once—and the quick recovery as he shut down. Went cold. He
pulled out of her, set her on her feet and tore the condom off, rinsed himself under
the water jets.

It had all happened so fast she didn’t have time to comprehend it. Then he had his
hands rough on her shoulders, pressing her down.

“On your knees now,” he told her. “You’re going to suck me until I’m hard again.”

She went down. It was Roan and she couldn’t do anything else. She didn’t understand
what had just happened. All she knew were the desperate words running through her
brain at a hundred miles an hour.

Must get him to come back to me. Somehow. Somehow.

She took his still half-hard cock into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of his flesh.
She was still deep enough in subspace that the urge to please him was strong. But
she couldn’t forget what he’d said to her.

He loved her.

He was also freaked out about it. But she could do this for him. She would serve him
until he remembered only the love.

She curled her tongue around the head of his cock, using her hand to hold the shaft,
to pump it as she licked and sucked.

“Use your teeth,” he ordered, and she did, grazing his cock, nibbling. “Ah, that’s
it.”

He grew hard again, and his hips angled, pushing his flesh into her mouth, then harder,
choking her a little. There was a hard knot in her stomach at the change in him. But
when he began to moan she relaxed, taking him deeper into her throat, teasing the
urethral opening with the tip of her tongue, working the shaft with her hand.

Finally he panted. “Enough!”

She pulled back, feeling stung by his tone. He’d never been so stern with her.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, shut the water off and marched her
out of the shower. Without offering her a towel or drying her himself, as he usually
did, he bent her over the long marble counter, a condom already in his hand. She watched
in the big mirror as he drew it over his cock, pressed her thighs apart with his and
pushed into her from behind.

He was watching her in the mirror but his eyes were distant. Vacant. And the knot
in her stomach was back, tears burning at the back of her eyes. He started to thrust,
hard and hurting. Devoid of pleasure for the first time because the connection was
gone as if it had never been there to begin with.

She pushed back against him, hard enough to make him lose his footing, and he slid
from her body. She whirled on him, shoved hard on his chest with both hands.

“What the hell, Roan? What is this?”

He looked remorseful, but he only shook his head.

“Really? That’s it?” She pushed her wet hair from her face, waiting for him to speak,
but he remained silent, unable to look at her. She grabbed a thick, white towel from
the rack and began to dry herself in rough strokes. She was fuming inside. “What did
I do to deserve this? What’s happened here?”

Finally he spoke. “Miranda—”

But she cut him off, too furious to hear him out. “No. This is done.  I’m done. And
don’t even try to tell me you don’t know what’s wrong.”

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to… Fuck, I don’t know what I was going to say.”

She stared him down, rage and loss burning her like acid. “Fuck you, Roan.”

She wrapped the towel around her body and ran through the apartment, through the marble
foyer and into the open doors of the waiting elevator, punched the button for the
lobby.

By the time she’d reached her apartment she couldn’t even remember how she’d crossed
the lobby in nothing but a damp towel and reached her own bank of elevators.

It’s like a death all over again.

“God damn you, Roan Abrams,” she muttered, flinging the towel on the floor and moving
into her own bathroom, slipping into her soft, pink robe. “Why did you have to make
me fall in love with you? Why did I allow this to happen? Again?”

Love had been given, then taken away even more quickly than it had before, which was
almost worse than losing Daryn in some weird way.  All she understood was that she’d
lost again.

She picked up her hairbrush from the counter and began to brush through her damp,
matted hair a little too hard, needing the pain to center herself.

“Don’t fucking do it,” she ground out from between clenched teeth. But the tears came
anyway. She had to turn away from the mirror, unable to watch herself cry.

She climbed into bed, burrowing under the covers and wrapping her arms around her
body, trying to hold herself together. But it was as if all the years of pain had
been unleashed, and the crying turned to uncontrollable moans. Then absolute sobs
and howls of grief that were wrenched from the very center of her being. She couldn’t
think. All she could do was feel everything she’d tried so damn hard to lock down
over the years. And it shattered her into so many pieces she had no idea how she would
ever pull herself together again.

Finally, completely worn, she slept.

Roan’s head hadn’t stopped aching since Miranda had rightfully told him to fuck off
and he’d realized what he’d done. Fucking inexcusable. So utterly inexcusable he hadn’t
been able to bring himself to face her. He had to do battle with himself first.

The sun was beginning to set and he was still naked, sitting on the end of the bed.
He could still smell her in the room, that delicate scent of citrus and jasmine.

She tried to show him her strength even as she submitted to him, but he knew there
was a certain fragility to her beneath. And he’d fucking hurt her. There was no way
he couldn’t beat himself up about it.

He’d let her down. But first he’d purposefully taken her up, to the soaring heights
of D/s play, of pain play. Taken her to the space where she was no longer able to
care for herself, where she was
his
responsibility. And he’d let her fall, rather than preventing it.

“It’s like Kerri all over again,” he muttered, scraping a hand over his jaw.

Where the hell had that come from? It was nothing like Kerri. Kerri had cancer. That
hadn’t been his fault.

But he’d felt somehow that it had been. He thought he’d let that go. Apparently not.

“Jesus.”

He was one messed up bloke.

But this really was nothing like Kerri. Or, it hadn’t been until he’d been an asshole
and made Miranda leave and he was left…without her. Maybe he’d created a self-fulfilling
prophecy of loss. Maybe he was fucking scared, even now, after all this time. He’d
always thought he was simply done with love—that Kerri had been it for him. But maybe
what he’d been doing was hiding from it, keeping most of his heart shut down, locked
away. It had taken Miranda to open it up again, and it was apparently rusty as hell
from lack of use. What had the grief counselor told him? That grief happened in stages?
He just hadn’t expected to have yet another stage ten years down the road. It had
popped up and bitten him in the ass. So damn hard he’d freaked out. Was still freaking
out, if truth be told. But at least he was getting some perspective as to
why
.

When his cell phone rang he answered without looking, thinking—hoping—that it would
be Miranda.

“Hallo.”

“Daddy?”

“Jenna? I thought you were away at summer camp.”

“Oh, that was over days ago,” she said, in the dismissive manner only a teenager could
manage. “Well, I was supposed to stay for another two weeks, but Tricia went home
early and then I was bored and Mum let me come home.”

“Didn’t you have any fun, darling girl?”

“We went riding every day, and there was a painting instructor who was really quite
good. And his assistant was so cute. But I suppose you don’t want to hear that part.”

“I’m your old man—I don’t want to hear about any ‘cute’ males unless I’m there to
hold a shotgun to their heads should they consider hurting my girl.”

“You’re so dramatic, Dad,” she said with a long sigh.

“I learned from the best, my darling.”

Jenna huffed. “So Tricia and her aunt are going to Paris in a week and they’ve invited
me but Mum said I was getting spoiled and wanted me to talk to you before deciding.”

“And what are you to do in Paris?”

“See the Louvre, of course! If I’m going to be a famous painter someday, I have to
see the Louvre. And the d’Orsay. And maybe wander around Montmartre a bit.”

“Just watch out for those French artists. They’re a lustful bunch.”

“All creative types are.”

“And how do you know that at your age?”

Another long, dramatic sigh. “Dad. I’m sixteen, not six.”

“Thanks for the reminder. But yes, you may go, if my opinion counts. You should see
as many of the museums as you can. It’s a good way to spend some of your summer. Tell
your mother I approve. And I’ll transfer some cash to your account, since I’m fairly
certain no woman can visit Paris without doing a bit of shopping.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. You’ll still be coming
to London next month?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Must run, Dad. I have to call Tricia and tell her it’s alright.”

“Love you, my darling.”

“Love you, Dad. Bye.”

He was smiling as he hung up the phone. Jenna was the one thing he’d done right in
this life. The thought, and their conversation, had improved his mood considerably.

His cell rang again and he figured it was Jenna calling him back to ask him something
else about Paris, but it was Joely, the island’s pilot, whom he’d known since he had
first come to Eden to design the dungeon spaces. They’d had many flights to and from
the island in which to talk in the small puddle-jumper she flew. Never anything too
in depth, but enough that he felt he knew her. Still, he was surprised to see her
number light up the screen.

“Hallo.”

“Roan, I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in.”

“What?”

“I’ll be polite and wait in the foyer.”

He shook his head as he grabbed his robe—the same one Miranda had worn that morning—and
wrapped it around himself as he moved into the living room.

“Joely? What are you doing here? And how did you get up here?”

Joely stepped into the room, bravado radiating from her small frame, her hands braced
on her hips. She was dressed in her uniform of khaki shorts and black polo shirt with
the island logo. Her green eyes were blazing.

“The guys at the security desk know I’m the island’s pilot—I told them I was picking
you up. They didn’t even bat an eye. You might want to talk to them about that. But
right now, you and I need to have a talk.”

“About?” But he had some idea. He remembered that Miranda had said Joely was her close
friend. “Look, if you came here to discuss Miranda with me, I think—”

“Apparently you don’t, or you’d be with her right now instead of treating her like
some piece of trash you can throw away when you’re done with her. She’s an amazing
person, Roan, and… Well, until recently, I kind of thought you were, too, when you’re
not behaving like a jerk, or I wouldn’t have bothered to come here.”

“Uh…thank you?”

Joely snorted. “I don’t know what your problem is, but if you were smart you’d get
over it damn quick and go over to her place to apologize. If you’re lucky—very lucky—she’ll
find some way to forgive you.”

He met her fiery gaze and said quietly, “I don’t think I shall be so lucky.”

“Really, Roan? You’re just going to give up and run away with your tail between your
legs? I would never have expected that from you. Not that I know you that well, but
at the very least I’d think those British good manners would have kicked in.” She
huffed. “I’m usually right about these things.”

He shook his head—her words were hitting below the belt, but they were true. “You
are right.”

“What?”

“I said you’re right. I have to apologize to her, at the very least. And maybe… I
don’t know. There are other circumstances. Things I’ve never discussed with you. With
anyone.”

“That’s fine. I’m not the one who needs to hear your darkest and deepest. She is.
You’d do well to discuss whatever it is with Miranda, or you’re going to lose her
for good. Moment of truth, buddy. Do you really want that to happen?”