Pleasure's Edge (3 page)

Yes, she could handle Alec Walker, whether he thought so or not.

“Alec.”

“Yes?”

“I have a proposition of my own.”

“Oh?” One dark brow raised.

“If it turns out you can’t break me, as you seem to think you can

—”

“Oh, I wil . Although I prefer to think of it as taming.”

“So you keep saying. But if it doesn’t work, you’l let me play you.

Top you.”

He surprised her by grinning. “Fair enough.” An image flashed in her mind, of Alec naked, on his knees. But even in that brief fantasy, he didn’t appear to be submitting. No, he was strong, defiant, as confident as ever. She didn’t think he could appear to her any other way. There was nothing soft or easy about this man.

Except for that mouth . . .

“We have a deal, then?”

He nodded once. “Absolutely. We have a deal.” He took her hand once more, his large fingers curling over hers.

And before she knew what was happening, he was pul ing her into him, leaning across the smal café table, whispering against her mouth, “The best deals are sealed with a kiss.” His mouth was so close to hers, that lush, delectable mouth. Her body went weak, and she found herself leaning into him, pul ing in his sweet, tea-scented breath. Waiting for his kiss.

He backed away, sank into his chair.

“But we’l have to wait until you’re ready for me, Dylan. Until you’re begging for it.”

Jesus. She was nearly ready to beg for it now!

She shook her head. She wanted to press her cool hands to her heated skin. To push the dark red ringlet of hair that had fal en into her face from her cheek. But she refused to let him see how unsettled she was. How ful of need. Need that made her ache. For him.

She needed to get out of there, needed to get outside, into the cool, damp air. Needed to breathe.

“I have to go,” she lied. “I have another appointment.”

“Of course. I’l walk you out.” He stood.

“There’s no need.”

He bowed his head to her, al old-world manners once more. “If you insist.”

She stood, gathered her coat, her purse. “I . . . we didn’t real y begin the interview.”

“I think we did.”

“Oh. Wel , yes. I suppose we’l talk more when . . . after . . . ”

“Yes, we wil . Although I believe if you experience these things, you won’t find a formal interview necessary. I’l e-mail you about when we’l meet next.”

It wasn’t a question. But she didn’t know how to phrase any sort of protest.

Damn it.

“Yes, we’l talk.” She went to pul her coat on, and he was right there, slipping it over her shoulders. She could smel him again, that ocean and deep woods scent. “Thank you for meeting with me today.”

“It was my pleasure.”

He was looking down at her, smiling. She drew in one last surreptitious breath, breathing him in.

God, she real y had to get a handle on things. Get back to her usual self. But everything felt different with him. He was a dangerous man. But she’d never backed down from a chal enge before, and she wasn’t about to now. Even if this particular chal enge already had her doubting herself, had her wondering which one of them would real y end up on top.

It had to be her.

Had to be.

two

Alec locked the side door to the garage behind him and stomped up the front stairs of his gray Craftsman-style house on Beacon Hil . He shoved his key into the lock on the heavy wooden door, pushing it open with his booted foot and slamming it a little too hard behind him. Yanking his leather jacket off, he slung it over the coat tree, knocking it over and catching it with a muttered curse.

Why the hel was he so on edge?

It wasn’t as if there was any chance he’d lose in this deal with Dylan Ivory. He could spot submissive tendencies in a woman from fifty paces, and he’d been sitting right next to her. Close enough to smel the vanil a scent coming off al that wild red hair, mixed with something else. Something spicy and pure sex.

His boots scuffed across the wood floors until he reached the thick Persian rug, where his footsteps were muffled until he hit the wood again on the other side of the room. He grabbed a glass from the heavy Spanish sideboard and poured himself two fingers of scotch, straight up.

Dylan would be a chal enge; he’d realized that right away. But he enjoyed a chal enge. That wasn’t what had him so off balance. No, it was the fact that he
had
to have her. Had to have this woman in a way that made his skin itch to touch more than her hand. No question about it.

Had to have his hands on her bare skin. Had to bind her, feel her muscles go loose as she gave herself over to him . . .
Had
to . .

.

He didn’t like that. Didn’t like that he felt so commanded by his desire for her.

When was the last time that had happened to him? Had it ever?

He was not the kind of man who
needed
anyone. Anything. He’d learned from his father wel . Independence was the key.

Knowledge, experiences: These were the important things. And one reason why he’d spent most of his adult life looking for answers: reading, traveling the world. Not that he’d come up with anything conclusive yet.

But he didn’t need to think of his father now. That was an ache that never seemed to go away. Dul now, after al these years, but stil present. Like a scar that wouldn’t heal.

He threw back most of the scotch, reveled in the burn as it slid down his throat. But it did nothing to soothe him. He topped off the glass and took it to stand by the bay window overlooking the sprawling city.

Seattle was its usual gray, but there were clear patches in the darkening afternoon sky, and he could see the distant silhouette of Bainbridge Island off Puget Sound. He sipped at his scotch, brooding over the view.

Brooding over Dylan, damn it.

Something about the way she held herself, so tightly control ed.

He knew what happened when a woman like that let go. Was forced to let go.

Oh, he’d never real y force a woman. He lived by the safe, sane and consensual credo, as did most of the people who traveled in his circle of BDSM clubs and groups. Stil , that wouldn’t change the fact that if he was able to bring Dylan down into subspace, if he could get her to open up, to let go, she would go down hard. She would unravel like a beautiful y made sweater.

Not if. When.

Where the hel was his confidence today?

Maybe because he wanted her so badly. Too badly.

He was half hard just thinking about her, remembering the pale freckles scattered across her cheeks, her skin like the finest porcelain. Those gray eyes, like two pieces of smoky quartz. Al bril iant, sharp edges, intense, her intel igence shining through.

And that plush red mouth, like sex itself.

Her body was lean, athletic, not overly curved. He liked that.

Appreciated the delicacy of her col arbones, her wrists, her hands.

Smal breasts, but firm and tight beneath the soft sweater. He didn’t need large breasts on a woman. That never real y mattered to him. But her tight, fine ass was something to look at.

Something to touch . . . to spank . . .

He gulped down the rest of the scotch, left his glass on a side table by the wide windows and slumped onto the overstuffed brown leather sofa.

She was too damned smart for her own good. And maybe for his. Not that they’d talked for long. But long enough for him to know he was in very big trouble if he didn’t keep it together with this woman.

His phone rang and he picked it up without thinking about it, his mind stil on Dylan.

“Hel o?”

“Hey, it’s Dante.”

“Hey.”

He and Dante De Matteo had met at a lecture on the psychology of BDSM and fetish cultures at the Pleasure Dome, the local fetish club, three years ago. After discovering their mutual love of motorcycles, they’d become close friends, often taking long rides through Washington’s national forests.

They’d gone back to the club many times, each of them exploring their dominant tendencies with any number of wil ing submissive females there. They’d even traveled together, taking their bikes through Arizona and New Mexico the previous spring.

Even though Dante was an attorney and Alec an author, they had plenty in common. They understood each other.

“So, are we on for that ride on Saturday?” Dante asked.

“What? Yeah, Saturday.” Alec ran his fingers around the rim of his empty glass. Maybe he needed another drink.

“What’s up with you, Alec?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound distracted.”

“Yeah, I’m distracted, al right,” he muttered, more to himself than to Dante.

“So?” Dante pushed.

“So ... I met this woman ...”

Dante laughed. “It’s always a woman. Or a motorcycle.”

“I’m ful up on motorcycles at the moment.”

“But not on women?”

“Not that that’s ever a problem, but this woman . . . ”

“Alec, you aren’t finishing your sentences. In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Shit.”

“That bad, huh? Or that good?”

“I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it’s good.” He got up, went to pour himself another drink, knowing Dante would wait patiently for him to pul his thoughts together. “This woman, Dylan Ivory. I mentioned I was going to meet with her today. She wasn’t what I expected.

There’s no photograph of her on her website, and I guess I thought

. . . wel , I never expected her to be gorgeous. Real y beautiful.”

“And?”

“I made a deal with her.”

“A deal?”

“She’s never explored BDSM before; not at our level certainly.

And she’s never bottomed before. But I can see it in her. I can
smell
it. And I am never wrong about this.”

“So, what’s this deal?”

“She thinks she’s a top.”

“I’m sure you’l show her the error of her ways soon enough.” He could hear the amusement in Dante’s voice.

“If I don’t, I agreed to bottom for her.”

Dante chuckled. “That’s not likely to happen.”

“No. No, it’s not.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Alec found himself sighing, and stopped. “I’m not sure yet.

Maybe I’l know more once I get my hands on her, play her.” He paused, sipped at his drink. “Yeah. I don’t know what the hel the problem is. She’s just . . . under my skin.”

“So, the great Alec Walker fal s,” Dante said softly.

“I never said anyone was fal ing, Dante.” He gripped the glass in his hand, the cut-glass edges biting into his palm.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I’m fine. Fine.”

“Okay.” He could hear Dante mental y shrugging. “So, we’re on for Saturday?”

“Yeah.”

“And are you taking her to the club Saturday night?”

“Jesus, Dante.” He rubbed at his goatee. Sighed. “I thought I’d wait a week or two.”

How had he ever thought he could wait that long to see her again?

Oh yes, he was in big trouble.

“Alec, not that I’d presume to tel you what to do, especial y with a woman you’re introducing into the lifestyle, but it sounds to me like you’d better see her sooner than that.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you’re going to have a stroke if you don’t.”

“Come on, Dante. It’s not that bad.”

“Isn’t it?”

He rubbed his beard some more. Wanted to sigh again, but didn’t. “I’l see you on Saturday.”

“Okay, okay. See you then.”

Christ, was it that obvious? Was he in such bad shape over a woman?

Keep it together, buddy.

He would. He always did, didn’t he?

Wel , didn’t he?

Dylan downshifted as she came off the 5 and headed west, toward the Sound. The sky grew heavier with fog as she neared the water and her neighborhood. She didn’t mind. She loved the fog, the ethereal moodiness of it. Moisture gathered on her windshield and she hit the wipers, glad for the seat warmers in her Audi. Even if she loved the fog, she stil hated being cold.

She pul ed onto Western Avenue and into the garage she rented next to her building. Bel town was an older area of Seattle. The architecture was beautiful, but the old converted warehouse she lived in had no parking of its own.

The area was a little rough around the edges, although that was beginning to change. Stil , since the sun was setting she was watchful of her surroundings as she walked to the front of her building. It was an enormous brick structure with soaring windows, opening up to the view of Puget Sound, only a few blocks away.

She’d been lucky to get the place, and hadn’t paid nearly as much for it as these flats went for even a few months later, as a younger crowd moved into the neighborhood and renovated.