Part 24 (1/2)

We go into the mirrored elevator, and Dean swipes a key card into the reader. The elevator whisks us to the top floor, the doors gliding open right at the foyer of a fancy suite. Dean steps aside and ushers me to precede him.

I go into the foyer, inhaling a breath of delight and awe at the sight of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the midnight expanse of the lake and the glittering view of downtown. The furnis.h.i.+ngs are gorgeously elegant-damask wallpaper, sheer taupe curtains, intricately patterned carpet and plush sofas. A carved open door reveals a huge bed piled with silk, ta.s.seled pillows and a bedspread that looks thick and soft as a cloud.

”Oh, Dean.” I stop behind the sofa and turn to face him. ”This is incredible.”

He smiles, his eyes creasing at the corners as he reaches out to tug a lock of my hair. I expect a tender, loving remark or kiss, but he points to a wing-backed chair facing the high windows.

”Take off your coat, Miss Winter,” he says. ”And sit in that chair.”

My heart thumps. Despite his warm gesture, Mr. West's iron-clad sense of command is fully intact. And I'm suddenly a little nervous because... well, he's ”very demanding.”

I step away from him, my breath shortening as I walk to the chair. The windows glow with both exterior and interior light, and I can see our hazy reflections in the gla.s.s. I stop by the chair and turn to face Dean, who is standing with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

I tug at the knot of the raincoat and push it off my shoulders to reveal the skimpy little baby doll that barely covers my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the sc.r.a.p of lace panties. Dean's gaze rakes over me, slow and heavy.

”s.l.u.tty indeed,” he remarks.

I curl my hand around the back of the chair, s.h.i.+fting my legs a little because the throb of arousal is becoming more acute with every pa.s.sing second.

”The outfit maybe,” I say, blinking at him. ”But really, I'm quite innocent.”

A smile quirks his mouth. ”Yes, I can tell, Miss Winter. Sit down, please.”

I turn and sit in the chair, resisting the urge to squirm again. I dart my tongue out to lick my lips. I can see my reflection in the window, surrounded by the elegant furnis.h.i.+ngs-my hair long and loose around my shoulders, my body newly s.e.xy in the lacy lingerie and thigh-highs, my feet still clad in the black f.u.c.k-me heels. The intimidating, dark shadow of Mr. West behind me.

I s.h.i.+ver, my anxiety ratcheting up a notch. Gooseb.u.mps p.r.i.c.kle my skin.

Dean approaches, his steps silent on the plush carpet, his tall figure moving ever closer. I watch him in the reflection of the window before he moves to stand in front of me.

My mouth goes dry as I find myself staring at the intimidatingly large erection pressing against the front of his trousers. A fire burns low in my belly, spreading heat outward into my blood. I reach up to touch him.

Before I can, Dean grabs my wrist.

”No,” he says, his voice deep and soft. ”You don't get to touch me unless I say you can.”

Though I'm not at all certain I can obey that order-after all, touching this man's incredible, muscular body is one of my most favorite pastimes-I nod in agreement. He releases my wrist and reaches into his pocket, producing a length of red silk. Before I can ask what he intends to do with it, he wraps one end around my right wrist.

”Dean, what...”

He shakes his head and loops the silk around the chair arm, then the back, before bringing it around to my left wrist. Next thing I know, I'm lashed to the chair, the silk gentle but secure around my wrists. I move my arms experimentally. There's very little give in the fabric.

”Where did you learn to tie knots like this?” I ask.

Dean catches my eye for half a second and winks. ”Boy Scouts.”

Of course.

He reaches into his left pocket and removes another length of purple silk. This time I don't have to ask what he intends to do with it, but my heart stutters when he places the cloth against my eyes and ties it at the back of my head. The world becomes darkness, and a faint fear rises along with the hammering of my heart.

Dean spreads his hands over the top of my head, the strong weight of his palms like a beatification.

”Okay?” he asks.

I take a breath and nod. He waits for a minute more, as if ensuring I'm not on the verge of real fear, before slipping his hands away. His lips touch my forehead in a warm, rea.s.suring kiss. Then cooler air fills the s.p.a.ce in front of me, and I know he's gone.

A shudder rocks me. My nipples are still so hard, chafing against my bodice, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s full and exquisitely sensitive. I wait. And listen, straining my ears for a hint of what Dean might be up to. But all I can hear is the sound of my own breath, quick and heavy in rhythm with the beat of my heart.

He returns, the heat of his presence tangible in the s.p.a.ce between us. I arch forward a bit, tensing with antic.i.p.ation over what he will do next. Then something sticky and sweet-smelling brushes across my lips.

”Open,” Dean commands.

I open my mouth. He slips something inside, and my tongue floods with the taste of sugar and gooey fruit. Cherry pie.

”Mmm.” I bite down on the soft cherry, which is almost overwhelmingly sweet and tart, as if my sense of taste is heightened to acute levels since I can neither see nor move. I'm suddenly ravenous for more.

Dean's finger brushes against my lower lip, as if he's wiping away a sticky trace. ”Want another?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Open.”

I open my mouth. He feeds me another cherry. The sweet, sugary flavor goes straight to my blood. Another bite has a bit of crust attached, the flaky pastry a delicious contrast to the gooey filling.

”More?” Dean asks.

”Yes, please.” I think I could eat the whole pie. I want to eat the whole pie.

I scoot forward as far as I can to the edge of the chair and open my mouth. This time when Dean slides a cherry past my lips, I close my mouth quickly so I can suck the juices from his finger.

He breathes out a mild curse and pulls his finger from my mouth with a pop.

”Behave, Miss Winter,” he warns.

I smile innocently, wis.h.i.+ng I could see the expression on his face. He holds another cherry to my mouth. I eat a few more offerings before something different nudges at my lips.

And I'm so awash in the taste and deliciousness of cherry pie that it takes me a second to realize it's the smooth, tight head of Dean's c.o.c.k.

I gasp. ”Mr. West!”

”It's bigger than a cherry,” he remarks.

I stifle a laugh, my heart hammering at the thought of sucking his c.o.c.k without being able to touch or see him. For a second, I'm not sure I can do it, but overwhelming that uncertainty is the deep, abiding wish to do whatever he commands, to obey.

I inhale a deep breath, curl my hands around the arms of the chair, and open my mouth. Dean's hands settle on the sides of my head, his fingers tightening against my scalp as he pushes slowly forward.

Oh, G.o.d...

I have no frame of reference, nothing else to focus on except the aching throb between my legs, the silk tied around my wrists, and the glide of my husband's c.o.c.k into my mouth. I moan, wanting desperately to reach up and touch him, to grip his hips and fist the base of his shaft like I always do, but all I can do is sit here and take him in.

Dean pauses, his breath rasping above me. I swallow and move my head forward to indicate it's okay for him to go deeper.