She stared at him, trying to compose an answer to his question, but she’d forgotten what he’d asked. He gazed back, like a predator not quite certain of his prey. Did he know? She should confess everything to him. That, yes, she’d come here to see him, and that no, she didn’t know anything about BDSM. She should confess about her dreams and her fantasies, tell him how much she wanted him even if she couldn’t allow herself to have him.
He swung his leg over the horse again, this time so he was behind her, his chest pressed to her back. “Give me your hands,” he said. In that fleeting moment, with his sultry, demanding voice at her ear, she could have sobbed with frustration. She let him take her hands, beyond obedience now. There was only him and the crazed feelings he created in her. She was not like this.
Then why are you letting him hold your hands behind your back? Why do you love the way it feels?
He could circle both her wrists with a thumb and finger. With the other hand, he stroked the crop along her thighs, a light, teasing glide. He ran it over both legs, over shimmery stockings and the bare skin above. She heard him take a breath, his chest rising and falling against her back.
Then, again, tap, tap tap, but this time it was very sharp and very controlled, on the tender inner skin of her left thigh. The longer he did it, the harder it was to be still. She arched back against him and he tightened his grip on her wrists. He started on the other thigh. Oh God, it hurt. Tap, tap, tap, flick, flick, flick.
She made an agonized sound, or perhaps a pleading sound. She wanted to plead on her knees for him to flick it on her center. To rub the crop over her aching sex until she exploded into orgasm.
“What’s the matter?” he whispered.
She shook her head violently. No, no, no, no.
“It feels good or bad?” he asked in the same soft tone. “You want me to stop?”
She couldn’t answer. She bit her lip and turned to him, seeking solace in the arms of her tormentor. He brought his hand up and guided her face until their lips met in a brief kiss. She could feel the crop in his fingers, right against her leg. A moment later, flick. A bite of fire landed at the juncture of her pelvis. The other side then, back and forth, on her bare skin. The stockings, her panties, nothing covered that delicate, pale area, nothing except the flicks of his crop.
She squirmed against him, desperate for him to touch her clit. If he touched her now, she would orgasm like a maniac and then she’d die. If he touched her, he’d know everything, and she’d lose everything, because she’d do anything to live like this, with Rubio’s hot breath against her ear and his hands cinching her wrists behind her back. She would want this three, four, five times a week. Every night.
He slid a hand down her hip, pinched and squeezed the same sensitive flesh he’d tortured with his crop. One touch on her aching clit, and she’d go off like a rocket...
“No,” she cried, cowering away from him. “No, that’s enough. That’s—”
She jerked her hands hard, and he released them. She vaulted off the horse and backed away. He stood, his face tight with concern.
“What? What’s the matter? You okay?”
No, I’m not okay. What are you doing to me? She didn’t feel like herself. She felt scared and conflicted, and she was wearing a damn black wig that kept falling in her eyes. He reached out to her but she eluded his touch.
“I just—” She put her fingers to her lips, where he’d kissed her. “I just—I have to—to leave.”
He laughed uncertainly. “You didn’t like it?”
She grabbed her dress and motioned him back when he tried to approach. “No, it was good. I liked it, but I have to go. Um...” She cast around for appropriate parting words as she yanked down the skirt of her dress. “You probably want to have sex and...and take your pants off again. So, I’m going to go and then you can play with someone else. I mean, someone more willing to have sex.”
“I liked playing with you,” he said. “I told you, we don’t have to have sex.”
You idiot. Is that what you think? When he reached out for her, she let him hug her but she was too alarmed to hug him back. She broke away and said goodbye, then headed for the stairs, hoping he wouldn’t follow. Halfway up the stairs she started to run, dodging naked, happy guests. She was halfway across the living room when someone stepped in front of her.
“Hey, are you okay? What’s the matter?”
She looked up into the concerned amber eyes of the party host, Liam Wilder. Before she could come up with words in her state of distress, his eyes narrowed.
“Petra? Is that you? What are you doing here? Why are you wearing that wig?”
They were the same questions Rubio had asked her earlier, but this time, she didn’t bother to lie to him. “Oh God. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know.”
*** *** ***
Rubio regretted letting her go. He prowled around Liam’s house three times, upstairs, downstairs, in case she’d decided to linger, but she was nowhere to be found.
He shouldn’t have let her go, but he’d been so freaked out himself. He’d tried to be responsible and maintain a safe detachment. He’d tried to stay in control, because she was so delicate. She would have been so easy to hurt.
Once he realized she’d never played before, it made her sensual reactions so much more powerful. He’d almost lost control at the end. He’d been one second from sliding his hand down the front of her panties, one second from shoving his fingers inside her hot pussy and making her ride them until she came. He wanted to conquer her and own her, and torment her until she screamed for mercy—the good kind of screaming. He wanted these things so badly, but somehow, she didn’t want him.
No, she’d jumped down from the horse and taken off for the stairs like the room was on fire, and he’d watched her go, helpless, his heart in his throat.
Damn her. He should have left her in the cuffs. He knew her arms weren’t really hurting. He was pretty good at reading women and he’d thought she was enjoying everything he did to her. He’d thought she was turned on, right up until the point where she’d fled. He pictured her running down the street, dodging cars and swearing at strangers, her itchy black wig blowing out behind her. Crazy, erratic Petra. Why had she come to Liam’s in the first place, in that awful disguise?
“Ruby.”
He turned at the strident tone of Liam’s voice. “Hey. You seen Petra?”
“I just took her home. She seemed pretty upset.”
Rubio stepped back, holding out his hands. “I didn’t do nothing to her.”
“I know. Relax. I think she was just...confused.”
Rubio was confused too. He looked around at the chattering crowds of kinky friends. This was his crowd. She’d been the interloper, the one who didn’t belong here. “I don’t know why she showed up. I didn’t invite her. I didn’t tell her anything about your parties.”
“They’re not exactly a secret in ballet circles, thanks to you.”
“I never told anybody,” Ruby protested.
“I told you to relax,” said Liam, drawing him to a more private corner. “I don’t care who knows, as long as they’re a friend. And I have a pretty good idea why she showed up here. I expect it’s the same reason she ran out the way she did.”
Rubio stared at him. “What? What reason?”
“Obviously she’s as tangled up over you as you are over her.”
Liam’s words didn’t make any sense. “Tangled up? Is that an expression?”
“You, her. Tangled up.” Liam intertwined his fingers in a knot. “And before you deny that you feel anything for her, I saw you playing with her earlier. So save it.”
Rubio glared at him. He hated when Liam got this way, prying into his business and giving him judgey looks. Liam was always the cool, collected one, the smart one, while Ruby was the fuck-up who swanned around in tights. He waved a hand at his friend. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”
“You could go to her place instead, you kno
w. Tell her how you really feel about her, instead of standing here pretending nothing happened downstairs.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” his friend answered. “I think both of you could use a good aftercare session. At the very least, you should check on her and be sure she’s okay.”
He hated Liam. He hated him because he was rich and suave, and judgey, and almost always right.
Chapter Eight: Please
Rubio knew where she lived. He’d walked her to her door a couple times, when rehearsals finished early and they didn’t want to wait for the car. He’d even picked her up here once, for lunch, in some fruitless attempt to thaw the frost between them. She’d certainly thawed tonight, and then frozen up again like a glacier. Why? Liam said Petra was tangled up with him. What did that mean? Why could he never understand anything where women were concerned? All he knew was how to turn them on, and how to hurt them so he didn’t really hurt them. Neither of those talents was proving very useful where Petra was concerned.
He knocked on her door with a feeling of dread. “Petra,” he said softly. “It’s me.”
“What do you want?”
He stepped back. She was right on the other side. “Let me in.”
“I’m in my pajamas.”