Xquisite (16 page)

His hand stilled her, fingers splayed on her tender hip. “Be still,” he said. “Relax.”

And then he reached gently between her cleft and slowly pulled the plug from her. The sharp discomfort was followed by a crushing sense of disappointment. She searched for the words to beg him to put it back. Couldn’t he see how desperate she was, how she needed to end this torment? Would she actually lose her mind if he continued teasing her this way, unmindful of the desperation inside her?

She heard the leather snap of his belt being unbuckled, the sound of his zipper and went limp with relief and anticipation. Now he would turn her over and take her; maybe he would slide his cock into her mouth the way he did the other night, pounding against her while she still wore the silk over her eyes, plunging his fingers inside her. Maybe he would remove the blindfold and let her see him, standing above her, over her, overpowering her. Maybe he would touch himself, taking his time, working his huge cock ever harder and faster toward his own release, splashing his hot seed on her stomach, her breasts, her face…

As her mind whirled through one hungry fantasy after another, she felt him lower himself to the floor, pushing her legs apart with his knees. He gathered her into his arms, holding her against him, so that she felt his heat, his muscular chest against her back…his rock hard length pushing against her thigh.

He kissed her gently along the side of her neck, tiny kisses that trailed up to the hollow under her ear.

“Whose property are you, putita? Who do you belong to now?”

You
, the answer came quick and indisputable. But how could that be? She’d spent a few hours with him, a few nervous conversations. He’d been there when she was at her most vulnerable; he’d seen her fall apart. Was this some false intimacy born of fear and relief? Had she imprinted on him like a baby duckling cleaves to its mother, the first safe place her blinking eyes had come to rest?

“Who owns you?” he continued, and his kisses became more insistent, sharp little nips that made her jump. He settled into the crook of her neck and suckled, gently at first, and then hard, harder. She felt his teeth abrade her skin, the powerful shape of his mouth against her, and her entire body responded, arching against him.

“You do,” she gasped.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Chelsea’s breath came hard and shallow. “You own me. I’m yours.”

He released her, and she fell against the bed, the place on her neck throbbing and aching.

“That’s right. And now I’m going to have you. I’ll take you any way I want, anywhere, anytime. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-yes.”

His hand, rough and insistent, slid up and down between her legs, coating itself with her juices. He slipped his finger up between her ass cheeks and drove it deep, joining it a second later with a second finger. Chelsea felt herself being stretched and used, and she moved against him, needing him deeper. Needing more.

“You know it, don’t you, you little whore,” he growled, and then his fingers were replaced by the head of his cock, rubbing and shoving and demanding entrance. Chelsea saw nothing, only the endless black of the blindfold; her hearing seemed to telescope down to a dull roar of her own desire. All her senses shut down except for touch as she concentrated on the sensation of him demanding entrance inside her.

Giving herself to him.

He pushed past her opening, his cock coated with the slick oil, and then slowly, slowly eased to a stop. Chelsea couldn’t bear it; she needed him deeper. She arched her back and gritted her teeth and silently begged him to fuck her harder, and when he pushed a little farther, she cried out in incomprehensible pleasure.
More
, she tried to communicate, and Ricardo understood her urgency if not her garbled words and drove himself all the way to the hilt, taking her utterly, more deeply than anyone ever had. He reached around her and slid two fingers down to her clit, and touched her engorged flesh so lightly that she thought she would scream. No, wait, she
was
screaming, the dueling sensations of his cock ramming her hard up the ass alternating with the feather-light touch against her clit, teasing and tormenting.

“Come for me, my little alley cat,” Ricardo murmured in her ear, his breath hot against the tender place on her neck. “Come hard and dirty like the needy slut you are.”

His words, the things he called her, unleashed the wave, broke the locks, let the tempest out. She was vaguely aware of him plunging a finger into her pussy as he drove himself ever harder inside her, filling her everywhere, taking every part of her for his own. She went rigid with pleasure, juices splashing over his hand, fucking him for dear life, needing it harder and deeper as her climax built wave by wave to a thunderous peak. She heard him behind her: his sharp, hard sounds as he came powerful and deep inside her. It went on and on, every pulse of his cock met with her own gasp of pleasure, until finally, finally, it was over, and he very gently, very slowly released her, her body puddling on the bed, his spent cock sliding out of her.
He covered her with his body, holding her while her pleasure subsided to the occasional tremor, her skin slick and cool as the blood receded from her core and her pulse slowed. She felt ripped open and exposed, lacerated and used and defiled.

And deeply, deeply comforted.

She was barely aware of him untying her and removing her blindfold, then lifting her into his arms, pulling the bedcovers down and tucking her into cool sheets. He adjusted a pillow under her head and gently smoothed her hair away from her face before lying down next to her. He didn’t get under the sheets, however, and Chelsea somehow knew that they would not spend the night sleeping together, that she would not wake in the morning in his arms.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered. “You are perfect. My little one.”

“Yours,” she murmured. She wouldn’t waste a second regretting what she couldn’t have—she would only be grateful for what Ricardo had given her.

“I am very sorry to say that I cannot stay the night. I have pressing business that cannot wait.” He traced a fingertip along her back, making small circles and loops. He sounded genuinely regretful, and Chelsea wondered if tonight could have meant to him what it meant to her.

But that was impossible. Whoever Ricardo really was—and she was no closer to knowing the truth now than she had been when they met—he wasn’t scarred the way she was. He had understood her; he had known how to pleasure her. He was in command.

In return, what had she given him? Chelsea was unaccustomed to giving up control, but Ricardo was no stranger to leading. Taking. Commanding. She’d gladly done his bidding and she knew she’d gladly do it again—and again. But what could she give him, other than to be a canvas for his erotic whims? She felt lost in a way that she hadn’t since she first lived on her own, unsure of what was expected and where her path would take her.

“You are magnificent,” Ricardo said as if sensing her uncertainty. “You are a perfect submissive, Chelsea, do you know that?”

His voice held awe as well as adoration, and Chelsea longed for it to be real, desperate for his approval in a way that she’d never felt for a man. “I’m not—all I did was…lie there.”

Ricardo laughed, a throaty chuckle that was not at all unkind. “Oh,
querida
. So you have some learning to do. That is all right. We will take our time. But your first lesson is this: you are beautiful. At all times when we are apart, I want you to think of me telling you this, and know that it is true. You are beautiful…and you are mine.”

Yes
, Chelsea thought, even if she couldn’t say it out loud. Something had shifted, not just between them, but inside her. Some fundamental part of her being was different though she was too spent, sated and groggy with the aftereffects of ecstasy.

Ricardo kissed her, once, very gently. Then he got up from the bed.

“Mr. Smith will be outside all night. You will be perfectly safe. In the morning, he will bring you clothes and take you home. I’m not sure how long I will be called away, but in my absence, please know that you are safe, always. I will return as soon as I can.”

“Will you…call me?” Chelsea asked sleepily, rolling up on her elbows to watch him get dressed. It probably sounded needy and girlish, but she had to know. The way he was talking, it sounded like he was definitely leaving her for murky ventures on the other side of the law, but all she cared about was getting him back again.

“Regrettably, I cannot. It simply isn’t possible.”

After a final kiss and a string of words in Spanish that she could not follow, Ricardo was gone. Chelsea lay in the soft light of the lamp and the guttering candle, sleep tugging insistently at her, her body utterly spent and satisfied.

She had a lover. A man she might well…come to love. Was that even possible? Chelsea had long ago resigned herself to being alone forever. She had never spent an entire night with a man, never let a man sleep in her bed. Now, she was going to sleep in a man’s bed, but he was not there. It was a puzzle, a series of contradictions too complex for her mind to absorb in the moment.

Instead, she rolled onto her side, gathering the linens into her arms, inhaling the lingering scent of him. For the first time in her adult life, Chelsea did not end her day reminding herself that she was safe, that nothing could harm her now. She simply knew it to be true.

Tomorrow, she could go over what had happened, dissect it, decide what to do about it all. Tonight, her lover was headed to places unknown, to business she was better off not knowing. But in this moment, she would not squander the gift she had been given.

Chelsea fell into untroubled, dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The man called Mr. Smith was standing motionless under a tree near the edge of the property, watching the house. Most people wouldn’t have seen him, even if they’d been looking.

Most people hadn’t been trained in surveillance. But Ricardo had.

Mr. Smith nodded at his approach.

“Nothing to worry about?” Ricardo asked quietly.

“Not sure. I went back—no sign of her purse.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “I suppose someone might have picked it up…”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Smith didn’t sound optimistic.

The two stood in silence for a moment, as Ricardo thought.

“Well,” he finally said, “she’ll need help getting into her place. The locks will need to be changed at the gallery.”

“Of course. I’ll see that it’s done.”

“And she’ll need a new bag…never mind, I’ll take care of that myself.” As skilled as Mr. Smith was in many ways, fashion was not his strong suit.

“As you wish.”

Ricardo knew he could count on the man, so there was no point in lingering. Even now, a private jet was waiting for him at the airport. Every minute counted. The crisis in London had reached a critical point, and a lot depended on what he was able to accomplish in the next twenty-four hours.

“You’ll keep her safe,” he finally said, unable to help himself. Smith only nodded.

There was nothing else to say. Nothing else he could do.

Ricardo de Santos walked to the little garage tucked behind the house. Inside was a six-year-old gray Ford Taurus that was indistinguishable from thousands of other cars on the road, which was the point. Ricardo would get in the car and drive to the airport. He would catch some sleep on the plane tonight. In the morning, when he woke in another time zone, he would not be able to spare any time or focus thinking of a woman, no matter how much he might like to. It wasn’t safe. It could get him killed.

With any luck, he’d resolve the issue quickly and quietly and be back before it could spin out of control. Then, he could take up where he left off with Chelsea.

Except…was that really wise? Was it fair to her? She couldn’t know what kind of danger she might be walking into. He couldn’t control what threats she would be exposed to. Even if he walked away tomorrow, he’d never be able to escape the long shadow of who he had become.

The right thing to do was to end it now. But Ricardo knew that he couldn’t do that. Already he longed to be with Chelsea again, to take her further, to own her
more completely. The fire between them might be deadly, but it was irresistible. Ricardo could no sooner turn away from it than he could stop breathing.

At the bottom of the drive, waiting for the light to change, he allowed himself one glance up the hill where Chelsea was asleep in the closest thing Ricardo had to a real home.

The light turned green and Ricardo drove on.

“I’ll return for you,
mi corazon
,” he whispered.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Vlad Aksyonov pulled into the parking lot in a section of Los Angeles better known for its sky-high crime rate than its food, but he was still looking forward to the
borscht
served in the small, nondescript restaurant where he and the rest of the
bratva
frequently conducted their business.

Before Vlad could think of eating, however, he had to take care of an unpleasant task.

He walked into the restaurant, keeping his expression neutral, Chelsea Ryder’s wallet in his hand. The purse and the rest of her belongings had been discarded in dumpsters all over the city and, he was confident, would never be discovered.

“Ah, Vlad,” Sergey Tochiev’s voice boomed, stirring a familiar combination of pleasure and fear in Vlad’s blood. Pleasure at having moved up in the
bratva
until he was second in command, and fear of Sergey’s legendary temper. “Back from your little fishing trip. Come, sit, and tell us what you caught.”

Vlad nodded to the three men gathered at the table as they made room for him. Viktor, the youngest and lowest-ranking, poured him a shot, slopping the vodka over the edge of the glass. Vlad nodded at him and picked up the glass, downing the cold liquid in one gulp.

Thus fortified, he delivered the bad news as succinctly as he could:

“I lost them after they left the hotel. De Santos’s driver—he is good.”

Sergey gave him a hard look, then raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should see if he would like a job, yes?”