Venice Nights (6 page)

His fingers traced the seam of my spine with his finger, stopping at the bundle at my wrists.

“Spread your legs,” he said, his deep voice hypnotic.

My pulse beat wildly as I took two steps out, making a V with my legs.

“Wider.”

I obeyed. The crotch of my damp panties flush against my hot skin. I barely caught my moan before it spilled from my lips. I knew this was meant to punish me, and if he realized I loved every minute of it, he could stop. And I did not want him to stop—not until I melted around him.

He caught the muted notes of my moan, chuckling softly.

“Don’t hold back. I don’t intend to.”

I gasped as he swung an arm around my waist and pulled my body back against his. I groaned with want as I felt the hardened length of him. He answered by pulling up the front of my dress, cupping my sex through my panties. His lips were on my ear, brushing them as I writhed against him.

“Tell me what’s going through your head, Leila,” he breathed seductively. “Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me,” I whined. “Please touch me.”

I felt his lips curl with pleasure, the smile hot against the nape of my neck. He loved taking me to the edge. Making me beg.

“I am touching you.”

“Inside,” I whispered hotly. “I want your hand inside my panties.”

His fingers pulsed at my slit. “Is that right?”

“Please Jacob.” He did not have to listen. He was in charge, and I was completely at his mercy. But I held my breath, savoring the feel of his arousal pressed against me. It was proof that he was just as starved. Just as close to the edge—and ready to free us both.

His fingers slid inside my panties, finally rewarding me with the skin to skin contact I craved. I was dizzy with pleasure; spread eagled, putty in his hands.

He lingered like he was savoring the feel of my gushing need, coating his thick, sure digits. When I let out a jagged sigh, he plunged into me.

My body wrapped around him, letting out a sigh of pleasure of its own that built into moan after moan as he drove in and out of my warmth. Conscious thought was impossible. I was all feelings; wet and insatiable, needing more of this place where nothing existed in the whole world except for us.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed in my ear, rhythm quickening. “Spreading yourself for me. Submitting to me.”

His other hand crept upward from my waist, stopping when it found my breast. He gripped it, adding gasoline to the fire that threatened to devour me.

“You remember the rule,” he said huskily, not slowing. giving me no reprieve from the maddening pleasure. “No coming until I say so.”

I let out a mewl, wanting him to take me before I exploded. It was a low, pleading thing that made his already hardened cock nearly rip his pants and claim me all on its own. But his fingers weren’t done. They moved inside me, exploring my wet, juicy core. My body made sounds that went well with my moans that poured from my open mouth.

My knees twitched, keeping my legs apart and spread at the unnatural angle too much. Just as  they buckled, he swept me into his arms, taking me away from the mantle.

I pouted inwardly, almost wishing I was back in front of the fireplace; legs spread wide, moments away from crumbling to the floor. Anything for more of his fingers.

One look at him and I knew I was right where I was supposed to be—and that he had other parts of himself that he wanted to plunge inside me.

He stopped at the couch, releasing me. My hands were still bound, and I peered at him, confused. He forced me to turn back around, pushing me down...and over the arm of the chair.

I knew what was coming—and I just could not help myself.

Right there—dress hanging haphazardly on my body, breathing ragged, ass in the air—I let go.

I convulsed as wave after wave of bliss hit me. I gasped as I came down from the high of my climax, a smile on my lips...until I realized I’d broken the rule.

“Did you enjoy that?” he spat, no smile in his voice. I had a feeling if I were not still draped over the arm of the couch I would see no smile on his face either.

“I’m sorry,” I squeaked.
Liar. You meant to push him. You want to be punished.

“Do you enjoy disobeying me?”

I sucked in a breath as he ran his hand up my skirt, cupping my ass.

I knew the correct answer was no, even though I was walking, talking evidence to the contrary. I got a perverse pleasure out of pushing his buttons. I was on the edge of my seat, simultaneously thrilled and terrified at my impending punishment.

My insides clenched hungrily, and I uttered a word that would seal my fate.

“Yes.”

Stunned silence filled the room after my confession. I curved my back, glancing over my shoulder to make sure he had not transported himself from the room. His eyes burned like coals. My gaze dropped to the cock he was gripping tightly, swollen with so much unreleased desire that I saw every bulging vein in beautiful clarity.

“Turn back around,” he growled.

I whipped back around, gripping the chair excitedly. He came up behind me, spreading my ass cheeks savagely. Every fold of me was on display, ripe for the taking...but he hovered at the entrance.

One of his hands held me steady. He knew me well; knew that I would be tempted to thrust my body backward and pull him inside. But his hold was ironclad. He was reminding me who was in charge.

I felt the curved end of the head of his cock drawing up and down my slit; so close but so far away. From the way his grip had trembled every few seconds before he regained control of himself, I knew the wait was as difficult for him as it was for me.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” he said hoarsely.

The word ‘fuck’ made my body clench, so wet that I was soaked down to my bones.

“Yes,” I groaned. I wanted him to drive into me; flesh slapping, so much pleasure shooting all over us that everything else faded to black. I wanted to forget about anything that lied outside of this room. I wanted him to pound me into the cushion; make me forget that the world outside was a different one for me—and I did not know if I belonged.

The hand around my waist, holding me still, relaxed its binding position and joined the other at my hips. One hand on each side.
The perfect position for thrusting inside me with reckless abandon
.

I held my breath, ready for him to rob me of all the air in my lungs; give me physical pain to dull the emotional pain in my heart. But there was no punch of motion as he claimed me. No slice of discomfort melting into pleasure as he beat a furious rhythm inside of me.

He entered me slowly, forcing me to feel every second that ticked by, every inch of him that filled me wholly and completely. He turned sex into poetry. The words were our moans. The slap of our skin.

I lost myself in his strokes, and I saw how crazy I had been. His body said the words I needed to hear; that he loved me, even when I pushed him away. The fingers that dug into my hips illustrated trust. I had to trust that even when I thought I knew what I needed, he knew me better than I knew myself.

“Come with me Leila,” he whispered. Soft as a kiss. Eternal.

It started at the center of me and roared over my body. It was as if I had been waiting for those words all my life. Every pore in me was in sync with his, so wild and free, that tears came to my eyes.

I was still panting, hanging over the edge of the chair when he released my hands. When I turned around to face my lover, a smile rippled across his lips.

“How,” I huffed, chest rising and falling. “How did you know—”

“That you needed me to make love to you?” he finished. He roped an arm around my waist, bringing my body back to his. “It’s my job to know, Leila. As your Dominant—and as the man that loves you. I know you, Leila. And I’ll take care of you.”

Chapter Seven

I stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed soundlessly behind me. I planted my feet firmly on the hardwood floor. I had felt like a ballerina for the past thirty minutes; skating across the floor on my tiptoes. Moving with long, lean strides as I gathered my things, making as little noise as possible so I would not wake Jacob.

Today was the day when I would make good on a promise I made to myself. He took such good care of me; both in and out of the bedroom. I did not have a villa to whisk him away to nor any advice on how to ignore the paparazzi and live his life. Not that he needed any pointers, since he did a fine job of carpe diem-ing, whether the cameras were flashing or not.

But breakfast in bed? That I could do. I intended to whip up some edible eggs and hopefully, unburnt toast. If all else failed and I ended up burning said eggs
and
the toast, I could give him all the love that burst from my heart.

I exited the bedroom, rolling the tight muscles in my neck.
And maybe some bacon? And there's the oranges from the—

I froze on the top stair, the faint murmur of cabinets opening and closing gluing my bare feet to the floor. Apprehension tightened my chest.

Isabella.

I had not seen her since our last run-in. All the house staff came back last week, and I had expected we would have another showdown. She minced no words, and it was no secret that she could not stand me. But since I had been wrapped up in the press and Jacob, I had pushed the threat of confrontation to the back of my mind. More things moving around in the kitchen made the threat claw its way to the forefront. My stomach knotted, making me rethink this whole breakfast in bed thing.

No
, I thought indignantly.
If you're going to be a part of Jacob's life, you can't slink away. You're not a guest. You're his girlfriend.

I raised my chin and brought my hands to the elastic on top of my head, tightening my ponytail. I scrubbed a hand over my face and continued the descent. The silence of every other room magnified the sounds billowing from the kitchen. The water running in the sink was like Niagara Falls, the jingle of silverware and plates like cymbals banging together. The humming was like—

I frowned.

The humming?

The cold-as-ice woman I met did not seem like the humming type. In fact, I would be willing to bet she was one of those weirdos that claim that did not like music. Or happiness.

Count it as a blessing. If she's humming, maybe she's in a good mood.

A blur of movement passed in front of the doorway, the humming growing in volume. The song seemed very familiar. My forehead scrunched as I tried to figure out why. A smile spread across my face when the fresh faced country-pop singer's name flashed in my head. The lyrics told a story about princes and princesses, Romeo and Juliet. Young love.

She was humming a Taylor Swift song.

I breezed into the kitchen, ready to bury the hatchet, because anyone that hummed “Love Story” could not be all bad.

My smile faltered when I did not find the statuesque Italian woman towering over the sink, but a petite, young woman with a dirty blonde fishtail braid trailing to her waist. A scarlet colored apron, black tunic, and black leggings hung on her thin frame. Leather combat boots dashed up her legs, stopping at the knee.

She stopped humming, picking up on the fact that she was not alone. She slowly faced me. She had sharp, hawk-like features, but her sky colored eyes softened as she sized me up. A nervous smile pulled her lips into a friendly hello.

When I did not say anything, she blushed red, eyes dropping to the floor. “Was I too loud? I'm sorry if I woke you—”

“No,” I said quickly, returning the smile as I held out my hand. “You must be Blanka.”

Her smile returned instantly as she shook my hand. “That is me. And you’re Leila Montgomery.”

I frowned, dropping my hand back to my side gingerly. I guess it was better than being known as a guest, but it still surprised me that she knew my full name.

“Jacob told you about me?”

She let out a giggle, scooping her side swept bang behind her ear. “No. You’re a celebrity.”

“A celebrity?” I repeated, shaking my head. “Jacob’s the celebrity. If I’m a celebrity, it’s purely by association...” I trailed off when she moved past me. Her eyes scanned the room, stopping when she turned to the cart beside the fridge.

She picked up her cell and swiped a finger across the screen, illuminating it, then holding it up for me to see.

I felt sick all over again. Front and center was a picture of me standing in the living room of Jacob’s villa, moments before I snapped the blinds shut. Beneath the picture in big, block letters was, “Who is Leila Montgomery?”

“I recognized the shutters,” Blanka said brightly, her face beaming with pride. “Well, that and Mr. Whitmore’s name.”

She looked back and forth between her screen and my face, probably comparing and contrasting the nearly identical deer-in-headlights expression. After she had completed the analysis, she reached out, touching one of my stray chocolate brown tendrils.

“Your hair is curlier in person.” She pondered that fact for a moment, her smile unwavering. “I like it!”

I let out a weak chuckle and a half-hearted thank you, looking past her to the spread on the island. I needed to change the subject before I started hyperventilating. The countertop was lined with glass mixing bowls filled with assortments of food: flour, eggs, and a kaleidoscope of berries. “This is quite impressive.”

“Mr. Whitmore requested breakfast in bed,” she explained.

I sighed, deflated. “I guess great minds think alike.”

She cocked her head to the side, her blonde braid spilling over her shoulder. “You were going to make breakfast?”

I nodded ruefully. “I really wanted to do something special and surprise him.”

Her whole demeanor changed as she backed up, hands out in a gesture of submission. “I’m sorry, I just do what he says..”

“Oh, I’m not upset,” I said, trying to calm her fears. My efforts were obviously ineffective because she looked ready to drop to her knees and beg for my forgiveness. My heart went out to her when I saw the genuine fear that drained all color from her face. “Blanka, really, it’s fine.”