Xquisite (7 page)

Besides, sex was one area where she had plenty of confidence. Men didn’t exactly tend to complain when she was finished with them. Quite the opposite, in fact.

And yet Ricardo was acting like she was some blushing neophyte.

“You don’t even know me,” Chelsea protested.

Ricardo, who had been reaching inside a lacquered cabinet that served as a buffet, paused to regard her thoughtfully. “Is that really what you think?” he mused.

A moment later he was at her side, his hands full of yards and yards of scarlet satin.

“Is that—” she swallowed hard as one of the swaths of fabric brushed against her wrist, riffling sensation along the length of her arm.

“These were custom made for me,” he said, as though he were discussing a dinner jacket. “As I mentioned, my father was a tailor. All of my personal furnishings are bespoke. I will accept nothing less.”

He had sorted the tangles from what appeared to be half a dozen hemmed lengths of fabric, each at least six inches wide and perhaps four feet long. He laid them on the table and regarded her thoughtfully.

“Do you know anything about sewing?”

“I—I have a client who uses elements of fiber art in her installations,” Chelsea said nervously. She didn’t add that she had taught herself to do rudimentary mending when she was eleven or twelve. Her mother had stopped caring enough by then to repair their worn clothes, the ragged hems and split seams that other children teased her about at school. So Chelsea had gotten her mother’s old sewing kit down and taught herself.

But she wasn’t going to share a detail like that.

“You might appreciate the handwork. Here…please take a seat. I’ll be another moment.”

He placed the end of one of the scarves in her hand, and she sat in the dining chair he’d pulled out for her. The cushion was soft, and the back supported her well. If Ricardo made her sit here for a long time, at least she would be comfortable. As he took bottles and a silver shaker from open shelves, she turned her attention to the
tiny, precise stitches along the angled end, the topstitching in neat rows. The work was clearly done by hand, but Chelsea couldn’t imagine how the seamstress had managed to make each miniscule stitch so perfect.

If this was an example of what it took to meet Ricardo’s high standards…

For the first time, a wave of uncertainty passed through her. In general, Chelsea had little insecurity about her body or her sexual performance. She’d learned to bring a man to orgasm half a dozen reliable ways. She’d also learned to occupy her wandering mind while she did it, simultaneously making the sounds that convinced her partner that the act gave her pleasure. In reality, once she got off—and it could take a while, even with the most dedicated and skilled lover—she often lost patience for the whole exercise and started thinking about other things and planning her escape.

But she had a feeling that Ricardo might not be fooled by her usual performance. He was…exacting. He watched her so carefully when he touched her, as though he were gauging the most minute responses, the most subtle reactions, attuning himself to the rhythms of her body.

She had watched him, too—eagerly, as the evening wore on and her desire surged—but she had yet to get a fix on him. To anticipate what he would do next, to guess at how he wanted to be touched. It frustrated her…and it also scared her.

Her heart was pumping rapidly by the time he finished setting out candles and lighting them, mostly small tea lights in crystal cups set on every available surface, except for one tall white taper in a simple iron holder that he set on the table nearby, its heft and rough finish incongruous with the rest of his sophisticated furnishings. Moments later he came back, a drink in his hand. She looked at the deep salmon color of the cocktail, wondering what he had made for her, whether she should worry about what he might have laced it with.

But he didn’t offer her the drink. Instead, he sat down in a large leather club chair facing her. He made himself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other and letting the martini glass dangle from his hand as he rested his forearms on the chair.

“If you become thirsty,” he said, “I will get you a glass of water. Of course, you will have to ask.”

“I’m—I’m thirsty now.”

For a moment, he said nothing, sipping at his drink. “That,” he finally said, “was not asking.”

Seriously? Chelsea tossed her hair, the irritation returning. “Okay, fine. Please, may I have a glass of water?”

He worked his jaw, making her wait, making her feel increasingly ridiculous and resentful. “I’ll tell you what. When you can speak to me respectfully, I will be more than happy to get you a glass of water. Now, however, I would like you to remove your boots. Also, please, your pants and shirt. You may lay them on that chair. Take your time. Clothes—even yours, I suppose—should be treated with care.”

It was on her lips to protest. How many insults was she going to endure from him tonight? But she reminded herself of the prize, the thing she would gain once she made it through the night with this imperious man. He had said little about the Marcus Ryder painting that he had access to, only that it was small. Not an
important piece, but maybe one that she could afford if she cashed in her savings, sent her rent payment late this month…thinking about the possibilities gave her fresh resolve, and she set to tugging off her boots.

“I assume you’re not going to yell at me if I get up from this chair to do what you asked, right?”

“I don’t yell.”

She rolled her eyes—but doing so, she felt a flare of that same uncertainty. Not fear, not repulsion…some other dark emotion.

“But,” he continued, “as you and I continue to get to know each other, you will not need to ask silly questions like that. You’ll know what to do. You’ll get to know my expectations. And just to make it perfectly clear: please rest assured that as long as you are following my commands, you are doing the right thing. You only need to ask my permission if you wish to explore your own, unbidden desires.”

She bit back a retort—if this wasn’t a dominance fantasy, what was? She pulled off her socks and stuffed them into the boots. Then she stood and skimmed off her jeans, pretending a bravado she didn’t feel and tossed them on the couch. She wasn’t going to let him see her fear or discomfort or whatever it was. Fuck him with his instructions and his ridiculous safe word; she would bet she was tougher than any woman he’d been with.

She pulled her blouse over her head and let it fall on top of the jeans, flipping her hair out of the way. Fuck his celebrity girlfriends, too. She might not be the most beautiful woman in Los Angeles, and it was pretty damn obvious she couldn’t compete on wealth or fame or power, but she had proved to herself long ago that she was strong. If not indestructible, then pretty damn close. And he wasn’t going to make her feel anything less.

She put her fingers to the front clasp of her simple beige bra, ready to take that off too. Chelsea had long ago gotten over the fear of being exposed, of being bared and visible. And the way she’d done it was by reclaiming her body. When she undressed for a man now, she was not giving in to abuse, the way she had once been forced to—it was a choice, and a statement. By exhibiting her body, she was also showing that now she was completely in charge of it—its use, its pleasure.

The only thing she would never again allow was to be photographed. But there were no cameras here, no phones, no technology at all except for the invisible speakers. The music had segued into something melancholy, Satie perhaps. Rufus had dragged her to classical music performances enough times over the years that she could take an educated guess.

As she was about to unhook the clasp, he stopped her. “No. Not yet.”

Her fingers stilled and she looked up at him expectantly.

“Take care of your things. Place your boots with the toes against the wall. Fold your clothes.”

She did as he asked, knowing as she bent down to pick up her boots that she was giving him a full-on view of her ass. When she was done folding her shirt and jeans, he gave a small nod in the direction of the chair, so she sat down again.

He stood, picking up two of the long ruby-colored scarves. “Just relax. You may keep your undergarments on, for now.”

Ah, okay
. Chelsea had been tied with neckties and ropes and even handcuffs before, and she had tied up a few men, too, which had been mildly amusing. If that’s what Ricardo was into, fine with her. She held her wrists up to him, flashing him a “touché” smile.

“Put your hands in your lap.”

He knelt before her, and as she complied, he ran one hand up the inside of her right leg. It wasn’t the butterfly touch he’d employed earlier; he closed his palm over her flesh, going slow, gauging every swell and hollow of her calf, her knee, her thigh.

All the while, taking his time, until he reached the top of her inner thigh, only a fraction of an inch away from her soaked panties.
Yes. Now is fine
, she mentally telegraphed. Fingers, tongue, cock, she’d take whatever he felt like giving her.

His hand moved back to her knee. Then he placed his other hand on the opposite knee. Very gently, he pushed her thighs apart, looking not between her legs but up into her eyes. And even though he was the one kneeling before her, somehow she knew that it was she who was the supplicant.

“Oh,” she breathed, a wave of sensation uncoiling deep inside her, the precursor to an orgasm, a moment that usually came only after a lot of work and concentration.

“Mmm hmm,” he murmured, as though she’d uttered a statement that needed agreement. He took the first of the scarves and looped it around her ankle, then bound it to the bottom of the chair leg. He kept the tension snug, but not tight; there was no pain, only the cool silk and the hard chair leg, his warm hands and the breeze that floated in from the open French doors. The evening had cooled considerably, her favorite part of a southern California summer; before long the temperature in the apartment would be cool enough that she might regret being naked in the chair.

For the moment, however…Ricardo wound the silky fabric around her calf once, twice, before tying a second knot just below her knee. Now her leg was firmly fixed to the chair. It was not uncomfortable, but as he turned his attention to the other leg, she realized that she would not be able to close her legs even a little: the hot, pulsing cleft of her would be fully exposed, other than the tiny scrap of cotton.

Ricardo stood, and looked down at his handiwork, nodding in satisfaction. Then he took his seat in his chair again.

“Now what?” Chelsea asked, injecting a note of petulance to disguise her nervousness.

“You’re wet,” he said huskily. “Unfortunately, that unattractive excuse for underwear doesn’t adequately show it off. I want to be able to see it—every drop.”

“Well, I’m afraid Neiman Marcus is probably closed for the night.”

He didn’t acknowledge her attempt at humor with so much as a ghost of a smile. “No matter, I shall buy you something more appropriate.”

“You know, all I would have to do is reach down and untie those things if I wanted to get free. Unless you used some sort of secret bondage knots or something.”

He cocked his head slightly. “You are correct that you could easily free yourself. I used nothing more complicated than a chain hitch and lariat loops. But that is not the point. In the first place, while I couldn’t claim to be an expert, I know
enough knots that I believe I could serve any purpose I might desire. And second, you won’t untie yourself because you’ll be doing other things with your hands.”

Those hands, she realized, were currently folded as primly as if they belonged to a Sunday school teacher…and they were clammy with nervous perspiration. Still, a hand job was easy…a hand job would be no problem.

“Tug your panties to the side. I want to see you, all of you.”

Oh
. Chelsea reached for the crotch of her panties, for the double layer of cotton that still wasn’t enough to absorb her juices. She dragged the fabric to the side, where it cut into her skin. Her pussy lips were swollen and throbbing. As the panties brushed against her clitoris, an almost painful throb went through her.

“Good. Now, using only your fingertips, spread yourself for me. I want to see every millimeter of you. Take your time.”

He sipped at his drink, watching her, inscrutable. Chelsea did as he asked, spreading her lips, unfolding the petals of her labia, feeling her own slickness and heat. She longed to touch her clit, to stroke it the way she did to bring herself off, faster and more skillfully than any man could. Instead, she held herself exposed, chancing a peek at his face.

After a few moments, he nodded. “Now, I want you to slide one finger inside. Don’t touch yourself anywhere else.”

She did so, her index finger gliding easily into her hot, tumescent pussy. She resisted the urge to add a second, to grind against her palm. It was easy enough to guess that wasn’t allowed—not until he said she could.

“In and out,” he said softly. “Very slowly. Fuck yourself, my hungry little
niña
.”

At his shocking order, she faltered, her body convulsing in…
God
. She was responding to him, to his vulgar, debasing words. Surely it was just because she was so horny. She did as he commanded, her hand trembling.

“Look,” she said after a few minutes, when it began to seem like he was going to let her go on that way until she came. “If you don’t let me take a break, I’m going to come. And if I come, I’m pretty much done. Just letting you know. You might want to pace yourself if you want this party to keep going, okay?”

One thick black eyebrow went up. “You’re telling me that you only expect to reach orgasm one time this evening?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the way I’m built,” Chelsea said. “Look, don’t get your man pride all in a twist, but I’m not exactly inexperienced and I know my body pretty well. Besides, multiple female orgasm is a myth perpetuated by mostly-male pornographers who—”

“Come for me.” His voice was sharp.

She stared at him in shock. Was he really—