Three Hard Lessons (Blindfold Club 2)

“I’d like to talk, and this is the only way we can do that.” The jacket was around my shoulders now, and he urged my other arm into the empty sleeve, pulling the front of the jacket closed. “You are way too distracting when you’re naked.”

The sleeves of his jacket were well past my fingertips, so he was probably tall. The warm, slippery fabric felt wonderful on my skin, and the manly scent of cologne clung to his jacket. Shit, he smelled good. Focus, my brain ordered. He wanted to talk, and that idea was scary. I could do all sorts of things he’d like, but conversation? That wasn’t one of them.

We lapsed into silence. For wanting to talk, he was doing a shitty job of it.

“Are you nervous?” I prompted. Maybe he was having a hard time getting it up. “Do you want me to go down on you?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I . . .” Breath left him in what sounded like a frustrated burst. “I live in Tokyo.”

Um . . . kay? He said it like that could explain what his issue was. Was he Japanese? Was this a culture thing?

“Have you ever been?” he continued.

“To Japan? No, but I’d love to. I lived in the Netherlands for a semester, but I stayed in Europe. That’s the farthest east I made it.”

“What was that like, living overseas? Did you like it?”

I did. That night in the red light district had shown me not just what I was interested in, but what I was so very good at. “It was fucking awesome.”

“Did you ever get lonely?” His voice was low, which intensified the gravel in it. “Did you feel like an outsider?”

I shook my head. “In Amsterdam? Nope. I was staying at an international dorm, though. We were a stoned and drunk version of the UN.”

His silence drained the memories of my wildest times away. I turned on the table to face his voice, letting my legs dangle over the side.

“Japan is . . . not welcoming to foreigners.” So, he wasn’t Japanese after all. My hand not holding his suit jacket closed was flat on the leather beside me, and his fingers brushed up against mine.

What the fuck? What was that? How had this innocent gesture made my heart beat faster? The cushion top shifted as he sat beside me, his fingers now trailing a pattern on the back of my hand.

“You know, Japan has these hostess bars where men pay to have an hour’s worth of conversation with a woman who’s not their wife or girlfriend.”

Tingling warmth was left in the wake of his strokes. Everything was upside-down. What was happening? “Why?” I asked in my disoriented state.

“Everyone’s desperate to connect. There are people packed in all around, and yet it’s the most isolating place you can imagine.” Dom eased his fingers under my palm, turning it so he could lace his fingers with mine. “I can’t go into a lot of these bars because I’m an American. Not that it fucking matters. It’s unlikely the women speak English. And the ones I can go in are usually Yakuza owned. Not exactly safe.”

His once cold hand now scorched on mine. Jesus, when was the last time I held hands with someone? Eighth grade? This was weird, and yet, oddly nice. I tightened my hold on him, and my breathing became uneven.

“You like the sexy hand holding, don’t you?” he said.

I choked back the startled, nervous giggle. I wanted to take the blindfold off. I wanted him to order me to lie back down so he could shove himself inside me and the power I was accustomed to would be mine again. Nothing shocked me anymore when I was on this table; I’d seen and done just about everything. But this unfamiliar experience and my reaction to it . . .

“We can do so much more than just this,” I whispered. It might have been a plea.

“I know. There’s a menu of all the stuff we can do over there on an easel.” The knuckles of his free hand brushed over my cheek, turning my head toward him. “Maybe I want to do the stuff that’s not on there.”

I didn’t have time to respond. The hand cradled my face and held me into his kiss. Soft, damp lips grazed mine as if testing the waters, and when I didn’t move, he kissed me for real. His mouth moved on mine, gentle yet in control. A hint of possession that was kind of hot.

No. Against the rules, my brain yelled.

I tried to turn away, but his hand holding mine abandoned it so he could grip my face between his palms, denying my halfhearted escape, and shifting me to the best angle. So he could slip his wet, soft tongue into my betraying and welcoming mouth.

Electricity arced through my body. Fuck, it turned me on, which had never happened before. Kissing with men usually did nothing for me. It had always been a weird tangle of probing tongues and noses smashed together, but this kiss wasn’t anything like that. It was hot. I wanted more, and I sighed audibly when he was polite enough to give it to me.

He must have figured out I was cool with him breaking the rule, because one hand relaxed and worked its way up onto the back of my head, tugging the elastic bands up. The tension on the blindfold eased away just as he did. He was giving me back my sight as a reward for accepting his kiss. When the blindfold was off, my eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the light.

“Holy shit,” I said, echoing back his reaction to me.

Dom was a shade too handsome to call cute. He was more elegant and serious looking than a catalog-model pretty boy. The man beside me, a blindfold in one hand, was out of this world hot. Long lashes framed strikingly aqua-blue eyes. His hair was longer on the top than it was on the sides and fawn colored. Two days’ worth of stubble etched his strong, defined jaw. Distinctly male, and sexy as fuck.