Not Until You Read online

  And I’d felt wrong, so very wrong, for not just looking but also liking what I saw, feeling my body stir and heat at the scenes portrayed. It’d been the first time I’d felt separate from that nice, obedient girl I’d been raised to be—different and other. Bad.

  I tried to roll from beneath Foster, but he slapped my thigh with a sharp pop. I gasped, the pain snapping me out of my memory and freezing me in place. But still, I couldn’t face him.

  “Look at me, Cela,” Foster commanded.

  I shook my head, my hands staying over my face.

  He grabbed my wrists and pried my hands away, pinning them alongside my head. His face was inches from mine when I forced my eyes open. “Don’t you dare be embarrassed.”

  “Foster, please, I can’t.” I focused over his right shoulder, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  He released one of my wrists and cupped my jaw—none too gently—guiding my gaze back to his. The firm grip both shocked and focused me all at once. “Listen to me. You will not lie here and feel ashamed. That’s unacceptable, angel.”

  I blinked, stunned—both at the ferocity of his tone and the instant oh yes melting reaction of my body under his. God, what the hell was wrong with me? He was pissed and pinning me down, and I was getting hotter?

  “Of course I never thought you were pathetic. I thought—think—you’re the sexiest damn woman I’ve ever seen. I’m a voyeur, an exhibitionist, and a laundry list of other things that would probably make most people want to lock me up in a padded room. I should be the one worrying that I’m going to freak you out with the things that get me going. So don’t you dare apologize for what turns you on. Ever.” His thumb grazed my parted lips, a glimmer of gentleness despite his firm hold. “You understand?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to find my breath and my voice. “Yes.”

  He let out a breath and released my jaw. “Open your eyes, Cela.”

  I complied, finding his dark blue stare warm and determined in the lamplight.

  He took the wrist he’d pinned down and brought my arm down in between us. He pressed my palm along the heat of his erection through the soft material of his pants. Instinctively, I closed my fingers around its hard length, need firing in me anew. “This is what you do to me. Feel how much I want you. You’re not pathetic, you’re maddening.”

  The words wrapped around me, soothing the vulnerable places that had cracked open and stoking the embers of my desire for him. Somehow Foster knew exactly what to say and do to bring me back from the brink of panicking and reminding me that the only one judging me was me. I stroked along his erection, the heat of his skin searing me even through the fabric of his pants, and felt the shudder go through him—the quiet rumble of his own desire radiating outward and making the muscles of his arms and chest flex and ripple above me.

  “What gets you going, Foster?” I asked softly, desperate to know what he was holding back, what he thought would freak me out. “What’s on your list?”

  His smile was rueful as he lifted up, shucked his pants, and pulled a condom out of the pocket before tossing them to the side. “Right now, number one is to fuck you until you make those noises I love to hear so much.”

  “Good plan,” I said, a little breathless as I watched him tear open the condom packet and roll the latex over his length with deft fingers. I didn’t know if I’d ever get over seeing him naked. No man should be allowed to be that gorgeous. It was unfair, really, an embarrassment of riches that he was smart and successful on top of that. But despite the mouthwatering view, I didn’t miss his deflection of my question. “But you’re not going to tell me the rest of your list, are you?”

  He braced on his elbows over me, his gaze gentle. “I’m just your one-night stand, angel. There’s no reason to go there.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  But instead of answering, he was kissing me again—a deep and passionate takeover of my sensory system, blotting out my thoughts and questions and replacing them with only awareness of skin on skin and my need for him. In every stroke of his tongue, every caress, I could feel that this was it, the last time we’d touch this way. I wrapped my arms around his back, holding on with everything I had, and opened my body to him.

  With sure movements, he grasped the underside of my knee, lifting it and positioning himself at my entrance. Before I could take in a breath or prepare for the pain, he was pushing inside me. But instead of the sharp agonizing seconds of our first time, the stretch of my body around him, that sense of fullness, sent intense pleasure snaking up my spine. I groaned, my nails digging into his back.

  “I second that,” he said, releasing my earlobe from between his teeth. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, arching up to take more of him inside me. “I’m so very, very okay.”

  He laughed softly against the curve of my neck and rocked his hips back to thrust with a little more strength this time. I gasped in pleasure. “Things only get better after that whole virginity thing is out of the way.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said on panted breaths.

  But as he moved inside me, murmuring both sweet and dirty things against my skin and touching me in ways that made every part of me light on fire, I knew one thing for sure. I’d better enjoy the moment because the words were a lie.

  Nothing was going to be better than this.

  Or him.

  And hours later, when I stirred from the exhausted sleep I’d fallen into after Foster had dragged out every last ounce of pleasure I was capable of, I could barely make myself roll over to see the inevitable. The other side of my bed—empty.

  In the center of the wrinkled sheets where he’d lain was a small square of torn-edged paper. I reached out to flip it over. Familiar handwriting stared back at me.

  Never Have I Ever.

  It was my list with all the items scratched off.

  Foster had given me my fantasies. Now we were done.

  FIFTEEN

  I balanced on my tiptoes on the ladder, trying to cut in the paint near the ceiling. Why I had ever thought I needed to have this room maroon in the first place was a wonder. When I’d moved into the apartment, the white walls had seemed as stark as the labs I spent my days in at school. I couldn’t handle all that bright white and had tackled my first DIY project to make my bedroom cozier. But the apartment manager had told me that whatever painting I did, I’d have to undo when I moved out or be charged an extra two months’ rent to fix it. And of course, the guy at the paint store hadn’t told me that when it came time to cover up red, it would take an act of God and a truckload of primer and paint.

  So the tail end of the week had been spent busting my ass at the clinic during the day and then coming home to work in a fume-filled room, watching my walls go from maroon to red to Pepto-Bismol pink. Now it was Saturday, and I hoped after one more coat, it’d start to resemble white again. My shoulders and arms ached, but I almost welcomed the physical distraction. Since the last night with Foster, I’d been able to think of little else than the way he’d looked at me when he’d kissed me good night—the good-bye eyes.

  He’d called me once since then to apologize for leaving before I’d woken up that morning. He’d explained that he had to be at the office early that day and didn’t want to wake me since we’d stayed up so late. The phone call had been light and casual on the surface. But awkward as shit in the undercurrent. There’d been no mention of the note he’d left and no offer to get together for any reason in the future. The message had been clear. We weren’t anything more than two people who’d had a good time together.

  And I refused to let myself turn it into anything more. The reason why he’d probably freaked over the virginity thing in the first place was because he feared I’d get all clingy and needy afterward. No way was I even showing a hint of that. No sirree. I was a strong, sexually liberated woman who could ha
ve a good time and walk away unscathed.

  Right.

  A door slammed on the other side of my bedroom wall, startling me. My hand flinched and a blotch of paint hit the ceiling. “Dammit.”

  I grabbed a rag that I’d hung on the ladder and stretched to blot the paint. The ceiling had been white at one time, but the aged gray it’d become was definitely not a match with the new paint. Sonofabitch. Now I was going to have to paint that, too.

  Music cranked up on the other side of the wall as Foster moved around the room. I tossed the rag down to the drop cloth below in frustration. Great, just what I needed—the torture of picturing Foster coming home from work and stripping off one of those tailored suits of his. Tie unknotting, buttons flicking open, zipper lowering . . . that beautiful naked body striding across the room.

  My insides clenched, and I had to grab on to the top of the ladder to keep myself steady. Another door sounded and heavy footsteps. Usually I couldn’t hear all of this so well, but I sensed Foster stomping around a bit, maybe mad. Did he have a bad day at work?

  I shook my head. Not my concern. Focus. I dipped my brush in the paint can and rose up on my toes again, doing my best to reach the last corner and block out thoughts of the guy on the other side of the wall. But as I stretched one last inch, the ladder teetered beneath me.

  “Shit!” I grasped for the wall, something, but it was a lost cause. My weight had pitched too far to the left, and I was going down. My shoulder crashed against the sticky wall, followed by the clanging ladder and the half-full can of paint. I landed half on my bed, then slid to the floor, pulling the drop cloth with me. All of my air left me with an oof, and paint spread along the floor like a creeping white oil spill.

  I closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath and not cry. I’d gotten lucky on the fall, but the mess all around me was like ripping the last shred of fabric in my I’m-totally-together sham. The move. Graduation. New job. New guy. Losing my virginity. All of it piled on me, threatening to smother me with the weight of it all.

  But I wasn’t allowed to wallow long. A loud rapping sound came from the other side of the apartment, yanking me from my spiral of doom.

  “Cela!”

  The booming voice was all-too familiar, and I almost couldn’t bring myself to go face it. But girl-who’s-okay-with-it-all wouldn’t be afraid to answer the door. That girl would be all cool and “Hey, what’s up?”

  So with only a thread of dignity intact, I wiped off my hands and pushed up from the floor. I stepped around the mess and made my way to the front door, where Foster was banging again, calling for me.

  I pulled the door open, realizing too late how I must look, and found a frantic-eyed Foster. He stepped inside and put his hands on my shoulders, his gaze scanning me as if searching for blood. “Good God, what the hell was that? Are you okay?”

  I shoved my hair out of my face, trying to stay nonchalant even though the simple act of him touching me had my heart flipping over. “I’m okay. Just klutzy. I uh . . . fell off a ladder.”

  He touched the side of my hair. “Christ, did you hit your head? Hurt anything? From my side of the wall, it sounded like the whole room collapsed.”

  I should say yes, that I did hit my head. Then I could explain away the ridiculous urge to kiss him, to tuck myself into his embrace. “No, luckily my ass took most of the impact,” I said, attempting a joke. “Good thing for the extra cushion.”

  A little flicker of something lit the center of those blue irises of his, and I couldn’t hold the eye contact any longer. He let his touch drop away, and for the first time since I’d opened the door, I noticed he was wearing leather pants. Leather? In June?

  But as my gaze drifted down, and I took in the way the pants hugged him just right, outlining what I knew lay beneath them, thoughts of weather evaporated from my mind. I wet my lips, tasted paint. Terrific.

  He chuckled and wiped a smudge of white from my cheek. “You do realize that you’re supposed to get paint on the walls, right?”

  I looked up at him again, arms crossed. “Are you seriously going to kick a girl when she’s down?”

  The corner of that sensuous mouth curled. “No, I’m not quite that mean.”

  That statement had a layer to it I didn’t want to peel back, but my mind couldn’t help but wander there. I shook off the illicit images that flickered through my mind like a movie reel. Foster being a little rough with me that last night together, Foster demanding things of me the night in the hotel.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m fine. My floor not so much. But thanks for checking on me. Didn’t mean to interrupt . . .” I gave him an up and down look. “Whatever it is that calls for leather pants in ninety-degree heat.”

  He shifted, dark brows falling to brooding level. “Cela.”

  “What does one wear leather pants for anyway?” I asked, knowing I didn’t want to hear the answer, but unable to stop myself. “You don’t own a motorcycle, do you?”

  “No,” he answered, the simple word holding warning.

  “So what then?” I knew what I sounded like, could hear that hint of challenge and jealousy trickle into my voice. It was completely uncalled for and totally out of my control. Irrational girl, aisle one.

  “I think it’s best we don’t have this conversation,” he said, all still waters and calm authority.

  “Right,” I said, the word sharp as a jab. “Of course. You jumped on my case for keeping secrets that first night, but you get to hold on to your own. That’s fair.”

  He pressed a finger to the space between his brows, closing his eyes and rubbing. “Cela, I’m not trying to be an asshole. But you don’t want to hear this, don’t need to.”

  “No, I think I do,” I said, hurt already grinding my insides. Pulp. That’s what I became around him.

  He sighed and clicked the door shut behind him. “Fine. Let’s just get it out there, then. I’m dressed in leathers because I’m going to The Ranch, a BDSM resort I belong to.”

  I blinked. The words and letters filtered through my brain but didn’t line up to make any sense.

  “BDSM?” I said, more to myself, only having a vague recollection of hearing the term before.

  “Yes. Some still call it S&M.”

  “Oh.” Oh. Pictures flashed through my mind. Scary ones. “So like . . .”

  “I’m a sexual dominant,” he said, watching me, gauging my reaction. When I apparently still looked unsure, he added, “I like to restrain women, cause pain for pleasure, be in total control.”

  A cold fist seemed to lock around my throat. Total control. Another “oh” was all I could manage. I’d known he was kinky but had never really let myself think through what that could entail beyond the threesomes.

  He took a step toward me, his presence seeming to swallow up the entryway. “Which is why I haven’t called and asked you out again, why I’ve forced myself not to knock on your door the last few days, and why I’ve been playing music nonstop so that I don’t hear you in your room.”

  I swallowed, trying to get my vocal cords to loosen. “I don’t understand.”

  The edge of the kitchen counter hit my tailbone, and I realized I’d been backing up as he inched toward me, an instinctive response to his predatory movements.

  His smile was grim, almost wistful. He stopped in front of me, the sliver of space between us sparking with something I couldn’t even identify. The scent of leather and soap hit my senses, making me want to close my eyes and hold on to the air.

  “I know you don’t, angel. And that’s why nothing else can happen between us.”

  I straightened at the finality of his tone, my hands clenching at my sides. “What? Because you think I’m some innocent young twit playing big-girl games?”

  His eyes flashed with displeasure, and the strong urge to grab back my words we
nt through me—anything to get that look off his face.

  “Cela, I suggest you don’t try to pick a fight with me. You know I don’t think you’re a twit or a little girl. But you are inexperienced and young. And what you saw of my dominance that first night was barely a peek, and I fought hard to keep it at that level.” His hands slid onto the counter, caging me in, his nearness stealing my functioning brain cells. “I don’t trust myself with you. Even when I was trying to be gentle with you the other night, I pinned you down, corrected you, was rougher than I intended. I can’t help myself. The dark part of me sees that innocence in you, that sweet yielding, and foams at the mouth—makes me wants to capture it for myself, to own it.”

  With each word, each breath against my skin, my heartbeat climbed higher up my throat until it seemed like my whole head was pulsing. My lips moved, but nothing came out. I closed my eyes.

  “Am I scaring you yet, Cela?”

  Yes. My body seemed to be vibrating with it—like being caught in a panther’s line of sight and not being able to move. But something entirely different was bleeding into the fear, mixing with it and making my thoughts blur and my skin warm, making me want to stay right there.

  I raised my gaze to him and homed in on his face, my eyes tracing over every contour, every angle, the fierce beauty there. Then I saw it—in a brief second where the hard shield slipped—a mirror reflecting the desperate ache pinging inside my own chest.

  I was affecting him as much as he was me.

  “You never asked me why I didn’t sleep with Pike,” I blurted.

  He blinked as if someone had snapped a camera in his face. “What?”

  “I know you assumed it was because I was still recovering from the night before, but that had nothing to do with it . . .” I paused, the right words proving elusive. “I didn’t have sex with him because I felt like the privilege should only belong to you.”