Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

He smiled, only with his eyes, saying he agreed. His voice dipped low. “Is it strange if I say I think about you with them . . . a lot?”

I sat up and swiveled on the couch cushion to face him. “In a good way, or a bad way?”

His eyes were charged with desire. “Good.”

It wasn’t surprising. It was the classic male fantasy—two girls and one guy. But it was still nice to hear, that he was fantasizing about me.

“I think about watching while you go down on her.” His breath hitched. “I think about watching while he’s fucking you.”

I gasped. In his fantasy, I had assumed he was the guy participating in the threesome, swapping himself for Silas. But, no. He was there watching.

Grant imagined himself as a voyeur.

Before I could say anything, his hands were in my hair, holding me still as his mouth claimed mine. “I think about you coming on his cock,” he spoke in between rough, dominating kisses, “and what that would look like.”

Jesus, his words lit me on fire. I’d never heard anything so erotic. This was another concept I’d let society trick me into thinking was a rule. Men didn’t share their women. Yet, here Grant was, telling me the idea aroused him.

It turned me into liquid.

His lips burned a line down my throat, and I couldn’t slow my heart down. It was beating so hard in my chest, as if it wanted to break out and get closer to him.

“I follow their rules, and you follow mine,” he said. “You like that, right?”

Oh, how I did. I thought it was fan-fucking-tastic.

When I nodded, dark satisfaction streaked across his face. “Take everything off. Once that’s done, go open the bag.”

To illustrate his command, he sat back, stretching one of his powerful-looking arms across the back of the couch, settling in so he could watch.

I sucked in a breath and tried not to stumble to my feet. I was clumsy with anticipation. Excited to be naked and eager to solve the mystery of what was in the bag. The desire was to follow his order as quickly as possible, but also to please him, and his heavy gaze said he didn’t want me to rush.

Off came my shoes and socks, dropping to the floor in a hurried thud, but as I reached for my top, I slowed my movements, peeling the fabric up one inch at a time. I exposed the raspberry colored bra I’d changed into before Grant’s arrival. The demi-cups were cut so low my tits almost spilled over the top. They jiggled a little as I undid my jeans and pushed them down.

The air in my apartment felt weighted. It was heavy to drag in and out of my lungs as he watched me strip, and although I wasn’t exerting myself, I was quickly out of breath. The room was hot and cold, and charged with electricity.

I kept my eyes focused on his while I undid the clasp at the back of my bra. He watched the straps as they slipped down my arms and fell to my bare feet. He also seemed to be short of breath, because his chest rose and fell rapidly, mirroring mine.

It was strange how the more naked and vulnerable I became, the more powerful I felt.

His expression was lethal as his gaze tracked the descent of my matching raspberry lace panties. I flushed with heat, yet shivered under his intense stare. He admired me as fine art, a statue of sex and desire and hedonism, and I lingered for a long moment to let him look his fill.

But I also wanted my reward, and when he nodded, I turned on my heel and scurried to the table. The paper crinkled as I unfolded the top and peered inside. A laugh escaped me, and I pulled the package out to look at it closer.

It was a flesh-colored, eight-inch dildo, complete with balls and a suction cup at the bottom, encased in plastic. “Oh my God, did you go buy this after dinner?”

It seemed amusing to me until I glanced over at him. His eyes were dark, his expression sinful, and I sobered in an instant.

My voice fell to a hush. “I would have gone with you.”

“I know you would have,” he said. “Open it, wash it, and bring it to me.”

Every muscle in me clenched. Grant had said he’d never been in a Dom/sub relationship before me, but he had the authoritarian voice down cold. The edges of the plastic clamshell case bit into my fingers as I carried it into the kitchen. Scissors were grabbed from a drawer and used to cut along the edges. God, why did they make these packages so difficult and precarious to get into? I avoided the sharp edges of the cut plastic as I peeled the sides open and popped the dildo free.

I tried to be an adult about it as I ran the water in the sink and rinsed off the rather realistic-looking dick that included tiny veins along the shaft. It was soft, but firm, and according to the packaging . . . dishwasher-safe—top shel

f only.

Once I was finished, the laughter in my head drained away.