Three Little Mistakes (Blindfold Club 3)

Everything deflated. This wasn’t as fun as I had hoped it would be, and now the silence was tense and uncomfortable, her posture stiff. I’d fucked it all up. “Hey, forget it, I’m sorry—”

“I like when he’s behind me.”

Her soft, almost guilty voice was a caress of leather cat o’nines across trembling skin. It got me hot. “Oh, yeah? Why?”

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue. “I like . . . when he’s in charge.”

My grip tightened on the wheel. “Do you? You like it when he’s got his hands on your waist, fucking you?” She squirmed, so of course I had to go all the way to find her limit. “Or maybe,” I continued, “you like one hand wrapped around your throat and the other touching your pussy, as he’s slamming his cock inside you.”

“Oh my God.” Her face locked up in shock.

“That’s how I like it.”

I’d stuck the visual in her brain, and wondered if she was imagining me as the man with his hand wrapped around her delicate neck, the other stirring circles between her legs and making her moan while I slid my cock deep inside. She swallowed so hard I could hear it.

But my plan turned out to be a mistake, because now I was getting hard. I hadn’t touched her. She hadn’t taken off any clothes—in fact, she’d put her large coat on which criminally hid her figure. And yet my dick was swelling annoyingly against the fly of my pants.

I watched men worship the naked bodies of beautiful women every Friday and Saturday night at my blindfold club, using their mouths, their hands, their cocks . . . but I’d become desensitized. The scenes on the security footage did little to arouse anymore. But this girl with the shocked expression? She started a burn inside me and brought me to life. Dangerous and thrilling.

“Who talks like that to a stranger?” she asked breathlessly, although it seemed rhetorical. “Do you want me to jump from your moving car?”

“We both know you’re not going to do that.”

“Oh, yeah?” she snapped. “What makes you so sure?”

I laughed. “Because I saw your reaction, how your knees squeezed together, and your cheeks flashed red. It turned you on, little girl.”

“Don’t call me that.”

It wasn’t a denial. “Give me something else to call you,” I said. “Like your name.”

“It’s Martha,” she grumbled.

“Are you some sort of celebrity? Is that why you won’t tell me?”

She sighed. “At this point I’m not telling you my name just because it bothers you.”

The snow was getting heavier as I crawled onto Lake Shore Drive, but traffic was beginning to ease. “You like bothering me?” I asked.

“Perhaps.”

I caught her glance for a fraction of a moment, and the gleam in her eye only made the situation in my pants fucking worse.

“Are you originally from Chicago?” she asked.

“Yes and no. I was born here, but I lived in Tennessee for a while, before coming back. And you?”

Her expression went serious. “Uh-uh. Pass.”

Jesus Christ, she wasn’t going to answer that? I yo-yoed between interest and irritation. Her withholding information was cute only for so long. “Fine. Why are you going for your MBA?”

“Because my family . . . wait, no. Pass.”

“Pass?” I wanted to tell her to stop being a brat or I’d pull the car over, yank her out of her seat and into my lap so I could discipline her appropriately. I might have turned her on with some filthy talk, but aggressive actions were a whole different story. “Maybe we should just listen to some music.”

My finger clicked over the radio controls on the steering wheel, but then her small hand closed around mine. Hers was icy cold, and yet burned against my skin.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I swear I’m not trying to be pain. What else do you want to know? My favorite color is blue. I fell off a dock when I was six years old and almost drowned, and now I have an abnormal fear of seaweed. Favorite ice cream? Mint chocolate chip.”