Temptation’s Edge (10 page)

She saw a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. She didn’t understand why that calmed her. Maybe because it made him more human?

She pushed her hair from her face. “Connor…I’m sorry I’m being such a bitch.”

“You’re not, darlin’. You’re in a scary place. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Let me help you out of it. Yes?”

He’d bent closer, his head lowered to meet her gaze more easily.

She swallowed again. Nodded. “Yes. Okay.”

He pulled her into his arms without another word, holding
her against his wide chest. She laid her head on his shoulder and he rocked her. She felt a bit foolish, but she let him do it. Let him pull a soft throw blanket from the arm of the sofa and drape it around her shoulders. Let her fingers rub over the ink on his biceps, feeling the slightly raised skin there.

They stayed that way for a long time, until her body grew stiff. She couldn’t believe his patience with her. That he could sit with her this way, without demanding anything in return.

He was an unusual man, unlike any other she’d ever met. Which frightened her as much as it attracted her. But she was too tired to figure it out now. She wanted to simply stay where they were. Wanted him to hold her. Something she’d never really wanted—had never allowed herself to want—in her life.

He wouldn’t stick around. She wasn’t fooling herself into thinking he would. That wasn’t what men did, other than a rare few. And she wasn’t looking for that. Not long term. If only he’d stay with her tonight…

“Shall we go to bed?” he asked, finally.

“You’re not leaving?”

“Why would I?”

She didn’t have an answer for him. All the reasons were in her head. Her father. Raine’s father. The many men she’d been with who had left because those were always the kind of men she chose. How she
had
to do it that way. But she didn’t want to say any of that out loud, as if talking about why men always left would make it manifest, somehow. She didn’t think she could take it right now.

“I think I am…bottoming out,” she admitted finally.

“Yes.”

“You’ll stay with me?” she asked, hating how pitiful she sounded. But she couldn’t help it.

“I’ll stay with you. I’m right here.”

For now. But
now
was all she needed.

That’s what she told herself, anyway.

Connor blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the strange-colored glow of neon signs from the street below the apartment, which was diffused by the quiet rain coming down outside. He wasn’t used to it, these vaulted windows, the light showing through the sheer curtains. He wasn’t used to spending the night away from home.

He usually played a woman at the Pleasure Dome. And if it was followed by sex, it was most often in one of the small curtained rooms set aside for that very purpose at the club. It was rare he’d take a woman back to his place, and even then, once he was sure she was stable, he’d drive her home or put her in a cab. There was too much chance for false hopes to be built up if he let a woman stay the night at his place. Even more, in his mind, if he stayed the night at hers. And yet he’d done both with Mischa. There had been no question Friday night. No question tonight. Or had it been last night?

He glanced at a small clock glowing on the table next to the bed. Almost five in the morning. He
had
stayed the night. And once more he’d awakened in the half-dark with Mischa beside him. And he liked it.

He turned to see the soft curve of her body beneath the covers. As utterly feminine as any woman he’d seen in his life. Curved all over—hips, breasts. The slight roundness of her stomach and thighs and bottom that was so much more attractive to him than those starving model types. Everything round and soft on her. She was completely covered, just her head above the snowy white quilt. Her pale hair spilled like reams of silk all over the pillows. It was cast in the pink and amber light showing through the high
windows. Yet he knew the color of it, how it was almost white with just the merest hint of gold. Like something precious…

He rubbed at his chin, the stubble biting into his fingertips.

Something precious about
her
…Something he didn’t understand, didn’t really want to. She was doing some number on his head, this woman. And it was more than the sex, which was nothing short of amazing, from her raw, wanton abandon to her gorgeous face when she came. How
hard
she came. The contrast of her competence and strength in her daily life—he had a feeling Mischa was the kind of woman who didn’t let anyone fuck with her—to the raw vulnerability she’d shown him last night. Christ, it was something, to see that.

It was something to see her at any given moment.

Which might explain why he was sitting there, watching her sleep, for the second time in a row.

That
might
explain it.

He didn’t know what the hell was going on with him. Something, that was certain. He couldn’t remember behaving this way with anyone. Not any of the girls he played at the club, had sex with. Not even in the early days with his ex-wife, Ginny.

That had been one of his biggest mistakes. They’d been totally unsuited for each other. Hell, he wasn’t suited for any woman long term. He knew that—had always known it. He was his father’s son, after all, wasn’t he? Had his father’s temper, even if he’d managed to keep it under control for years. Genes were genes. He knew he’d keep it together within the strict bounds of BDSM play, understood how it was almost therapeutic for him. But in a real relationship?

He’d often been surly with Ginny. A real punk. She hadn’t deserved it. Youth was no damn excuse. He’d been a man already, at twenty. Or he should have been. He should never have married
the girl—he didn’t know what he’d been thinking. He’d had no right.

He scrubbed harder at his stubble. Why was he thinking of this now? He wasn’t considering marrying this girl. He was just…looking at her. Appreciating her. What man wouldn’t? Even though all he could see was her hair, her pale cheek, her luscious red mouth that was nearly as red now as when she had her lipstick on. Her hand curled beside her face.

He reached out, touched her fingertips with his own, felt the faint heat of her skin. There was nothing sexual there. No, that wasn’t true. The chemistry was there, burning, but banked for the moment. It was something else…

He shook his head.

A man could think some strange things in the rainy hour before dawn. That was all.

A part of him wanted to get up and leave. Run out of there. But he couldn’t do it. Not after the way she’d bottomed out last night.

He was so full of shit.

That wasn’t why he was staying. He was there because he
wanted
to be.

Indulgent of him. He wasn’t going to lead her on. And he damn well wasn’t going to stay forever. He didn’t even know what that meant, did he? If Ginny hadn’t left him, he would have left sooner or later. Hell, the marriage hadn’t lasted two years. Totally his fault. Him and his temper.

At least he’d gotten a handle on that. Getting into the BDSM scene had cured him of those juvenile outbursts, but he could never forget what he was capable of. Control had become the key. And it would be no less key now in dealing with Mischa. In these foolish mental meanderings he was having.

Have to get her to the club.

Yes, he was in his element at the Pleasure Dome. It would be a useful reminder of what he was about—and what he wasn’t. The control, the responsibility. He was a hell of a lot more responsible as a dominant than he’d been without that dynamic in his life. Those leanings had always been there, but now he knew how to channel that energy.

The Pleasure Dome.

She’d asked to go. And the timing was right. There was a Tuesday evening play party for VIP members, which he was. He was sure Alec and Dylan wouldn’t be there, with all the wedding preparations. That might prove too awkward for Mischa and he needed her to be relaxed for what he planned to do to her.

He felt a wicked grin steal over his face. This was safer ground—thinking about what he wanted to do with this girl. Put her on the St. Andrew’s cross and flog her right. Chain her down to one of the padded tables and pour hot wax over her. Make her come. Make her scream. Make her
his
in the only way that would work.

He laid his head back down on the pillow and watched the rain on the windows, the run of watercolors on the glass.

Yes, just get her to the club, where he was in charge, in command of himself, as well as her. All he had to do was get her there and everything would be all right. Everything would make sense again.

“Mischa?”

“Hmm…what?”

She looked up to find Dylan’s gray eyes peering at her from behind the small bunch of white roses she was holding. “You going to tell me what went on last night?”

Mischa shrugged. “Connor came over…”

“And?”

“And it was…amazing.”

Dylan put the roses back into the tall metal pot on the concrete floor of Rose and Thorn, the florist’s shop where they had their appointment to discuss the flowers for the wedding. She placed her hands firmly on her hips. “Why so vague with me, suddenly? You’ve always shared your adventures before.”

Mischa paused. “Yes, but they’ve never been with a friend of yours before.”

Dylan dropped her arms to her sides. “I guess that makes
sense. Are you sure it’s not something else? You seem a little dazed.”

“Well…”

How much did she want to share with Dylan? She was her best friend, but whatever was happening in her head about Connor—and there were definitely some weird thoughts going on in there—it felt private. She hadn’t had a chance to figure it out herself yet. It had almost been a relief that they’d woken up late, giving her just enough time to hop in the shower to get ready to meet Dylan. No time for sex or long good-byes. Just a brief talk with him letting him know she really was okay.

But was she?

“Misch?”

“My apologies for the interruption, ladies. Now, what about calla lilies?” Andre Rose, the small, wiry florist with a shaved head and dark-rimmed glasses asked them as he came back from the phone call that had disturbed their consultation with a single blossom in his hand. “I think the small variety would suit you. Simple and elegant.”

“Mischa?” Dylan asked. “Tell me what you think. You’re my floral expert.”

“I like them.” She reached out, stroked a finger over the smooth, creamy flower the florist held out for them. “Elegant, I agree. I love the smaller Green Goddess variety. Maybe mixed with the white, and with some of the tiny white dendrobium orchids?”

Andre clapped his hands together. “Perfect with the bride’s red hair. We can add some delicate greens, nothing too full and fluffy. I’m thinking we should keep all the arrangements very streamlined and on the smaller side. We don’t want to detract from the setting at the Asian Art Museum. Now, what about the bouquets?”

“I don’t want to carry one. That feels too traditional for me. What do you think, Misch?”

The truth was, she could barely think at all today. But at least flowers she knew. “I think…maybe just three or four of the white orchids in your hair.” She bundled Dylan’s red curls into her hands, held it up off her neck. “Just in the back. Subtle.”

Dylan’s smile was radiant. “I love it.”

“And for your attendants?” Andre asked.

“That’s just you and Kara,” Dylan said.

“What if we each just had one orchid tucked behind our ear?”

“Beautiful!” Andre clapped again. “Dylan?”

“That’s perfect. Let’s go ahead and place the order.”

Andre led them to a pair of white padded iron stools at the counter and moved behind it, pulling out his order book. They spent a little time giving him the number of tables, confirming the flower types and picking out the narrow glass vases for the arrangements. When they were done they bundled themselves back into their coats and stepped out onto the rainy street, opening their umbrellas.

“Are you ready for lunch?” Dylan asked. “I’m starving.”

Mischa wasn’t hungry—she hadn’t had more than a tall coffee she’d picked up on her way to meet the florist. Her stomach was strangely upset. But she nodded her agreement. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“There’s a nice cafe just up the street, if you don’t mind walking in the rain.”

“Let’s go.”

They walked the two blocks in comfortable silence. Fairly comfortable, anyway. She was sure Dylan would want to hash out what was going on with her and Connor as soon as they sat down. She was right.

They found the cafe, hung their coats on hooks by the door,
folded their umbrellas and left them in a wide trough made for the purpose. The scent of coffee and food was in the air and Mischa’s stomach rumbled as they perused the menu. They ordered and the waitress quickly brought their drinks back—hot tea for them both.

“So?” Dylan had one eyebrow quirked.

Mischa sighed. “So…” She gave a small shake of her head. “I don’t know what to say. Which is why I haven’t said more. I’m sorry. I know I’m not making a lot of sense. But this doesn’t make much sense to
me
.”