Not Until You Part III Page 5

  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 went 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.”

  He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring with a deep breath. “You’re not making this easy, angel. Not when you say things like that.”

  On a surge of bravery, I reached up and slid my hands along his neck, pulling his forehead down to mine. His skin was fever hot against me. My voice was a soft rasp, nerves still constricting my throat. “Can you show me, Foster? Show me what you like?”

  “Cela,” he groaned, his voice laced with gravel, taut. “Don’t.”

  But I was rolling down a hill too fast to stop now. “Did you know I’ve been bitten by a mastiff or that I’ve groomed the meanest Shih Tzu the vet’s school ever seen and ended up with stitches? Or that I grew up with a brother who made me spar with him so that I could defend my
self? I could totally kidney punch you right now.”

  He lifted his head, the blue of his eyes like a January storm.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m not that fragile. And I’m tired of other people sheltering me from things. I liked what happened the nights we were together. I know I don’t really know anything about your . . . lifestyle. But I do know that you taking control in bed made me feel comfortable, took away any worries of doing something wrong. Chased off the shame.”

  “Did it now?” he asked, a shade of surprise coloring his voice.

  “Honestly, I haven’t thought about much else since.” I looked down at my paint-splattered feet. “In fact, I think it’s all your fault I fell off the ladder—you having the nerve to walk around all naked in your room.”

  He laughed then, a bark of a thing that seemed to surprise him. “How dare I change clothes in my own room.”

  “Sadistic bastard.”

  He sniffed and cupped my shoulders. “You have no idea.”

  “So show me,” I said, my voice calmer than I felt inside. “Teach me how this works. I’m a no-risk investment, Mr. Businessman. I’m leaving soon, so you don’t even have to worry about me getting all where-is-this-all-going, relationship obsessed on you.”

  His hands coasted up and down my arms, a war raging in his eyes, then he leaned down and put his mouth to mine. I gasped at the contact, the simple softness reaching down inside me and bending everything out of alignment. His lips moved over mine, his tongue easing inside, caressing and invading my senses like a drug. He tasted of cinnamon gum and want—the need pouring out of him and making me desperate to press my body against his.

  But his hands stilled on my shoulders and kept me in place, fastening me to the edge of the counter at my back. I wanted to touch him, to deepen the kiss, to strip down and have him take me right there in my little kitchen. But before I knew it, he was lifting his mouth away from me, sadness etched into his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, breathless.

  He cupped my chin and laid one last brief touch to my lips. “I don’t want you to be my fling, angel.”

  The words slashed right through me, opening up a gaping hurt. I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting off the stupid burn of tears that climbed up my throat. “You don’t think I can handle it.”

  He took a step back and shook his head. “Whether you can or can’t is not the point. I can’t, Cela. I’m tired of one-night stands and living my life like I’m some frat boy. Being with you the other night, feeling that connection, that pure moment, it made me realize what I want and need. And what I need is something real. Not a week or two getting a taste of what could be, then letting it go. I don’t want a woman to play submissive to me every now and then. I want to find the woman meant to be mine, want to own her submission . . .”

  My jaw went slack, my mind snagging on part of that last sentence. “You want to own a woman?”

  He gave a ghost of a smile as he reached out and swiped a thumb over my lips. “The kind of relationship I desire is intense and unpalatable to most. I’m not an easy man to be with. And even if there could be something between us, you’re not ready to make that kind of decision—not without some experience behind you. Go be young and live your life. Figure out what you like and don’t. I’m not on a path you need to follow right now.”

  “Foster,” I whispered, so many emotions whirling through me, I couldn’t pin one down.

  “Thank you for letting me be your first, angel. I didn’t deserve that privilege. But I’ll never be sorry for it.”

  I closed my eyes, wanting to protest, to say a hundred things back to him, but words were sticking like hot marshmallows in my throat, expanding and blocking my air.

  This wasn’t supposed to feel this way. A fun night with the neighbor wasn’t supposed to tear at me like this when it was done, was it?

  “Goodbye, Cela,” he said softly. Then his touch was gone, and his footsteps were hitting the tile. The door closed before I had the energy to open my eyes.

  Read more of Cela and Foster’s red-hot romance in

  Part IV of NOT UNTIL YOU

  NOT UNTIL YOU TRUST

  Available from InterMix on July 2, 2013

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from

  an e-novella in Roni Loren’s Loving on the Edge series

  STILL INTO YOU

  Available now from Berkley Heat

  They’d chosen Letterman.

  Seth shook his head, staring at their unmade bed. For the last few years of their marriage, he and Leila had a standing habit of making love on Wednesday nights. Not that it was a stated appointment or anything. But it was the only night he didn’t work late at the restaurant, so it had become their habit. A nice, enjoyable romp between two people who knew each other’s pleasure points as well as their own. Simple and to the point.

  But last night, even though the kids were already asleep and Leila had been well-rested from a day off, she hadn’t reached for him.

  And worse than that . . . he hadn’t reached for her either.

  They’d chosen to watch David Letterman instead of having sex. Top Ten lists and dancing animals had been more interesting to them than each other.

  With a heavy sigh, he stepped out of his cargo shorts and pulled on his work slacks. He’d wanted to bring it up with her this afternoon when he’d found her doing the dishes and staring out the window like she’d rather be anywhere but there. They needed to deal with whatever was going on—or not going on between them. But then Myra, their seven-year-old, had bounced into the kitchen asking him to check her spelling homework, and the moment had been lost.

  But now the unspoken words sat heavy on his chest. Through the ups and downs of their eight years of marriage, he and Leila had been through rough times. Being unexpected parents while they were still in college had almost killed their marriage before it got started. But never before had he felt this yawning space between them. He’d thought it was because he’d been so busy with the restaurant lately. But even when they had time, like last night, they’d only sat in companionable silence, occasionally chatting about something one of the kids did that day. Comfortable but just . . . there.

  He searched though his drawer looking for his general manager name tag, then remembered he’d taken it off in the bathroom. He headed to the closed bathroom door and eased it open, a cloud of steam hitting him as he entered. He started to call out to Leila to warn her he was in there. But the low moan that came from the other side of the shower curtain halted the words in his throat. He froze.

  The distinct sound of soap slicking over skin mixed in with the patter of the shower water. Then a throaty “yes” whispered through the humid air. His body snapped to attention even though Leila getting herself off right now had implications that were anything but sexy.

  He’d told her he was just running out for a few minutes to drop the kids off at his parents’ house. She knew he was going to be right back. Available. At least for a few minutes before both of them left for work.

  But she’d chosen her hand instead of her husband.

  She groaned again, and he tried to recall the last time he’d heard her sound that into it when she was with him. Who was she imagining on the other side of those touches? Clearly it wasn’t him because she could’ve had the real thing had she been willing to wait a few minutes. Maybe he was no longer as interesting as a fantasy.

  She cried out softly, and he could picture her head tilted back against the tile wall, fingers buried inside herself, her orgasm pulsing through her as the water streamed over the heavy swells of her breasts. No doubt a beautiful sight. One he could stroke off to just imagining, but one that didn’t include him.

  His cock pushed against the fly of his pants even as hurt coursed through him. On one hand, he was happy to know Leila’s sex drive was still there, because there had been times when
he’d wondered if their lovemaking was simply an obligation she thought she needed to fulfill. But knowing that she’d chosen to get herself off instead of reaching for him stung deep.

  He wasn’t satisfying his wife.

  And if he was truly honest with himself, he hadn’t been satisfied for a long time either. Sex had turned into another item on their to-do list. He loved her with a depth he couldn’t describe, but the fire that used to sizzle between them was now a pile of dim embers.

  The water cut off, and he took a vaulting step backward, shutting the door behind him as quickly and as quietly as he could. He hurried over to the side of the bed and busied himself making it. Leila stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later in a swirl of coconut-soap-scented air.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, her voice holding a hint of stiffness but the glow of her skin betraying the remnants of her orgasm. “I didn’t realize you’d made it back already.”

  He wanted to go to her, drag her against him, and show her how much more he could offer than some quick work in the shower, but the distracted look in her eye kept him at bay. He didn’t think he could handle her pushing him away. “I just got back.”

  She nodded and fastened the last button on the top of her blouse. “The kids were okay staying at your mom’s tonight?”

  “Yeah, they were already negotiating for ice cream after dinner.” He tossed the throw pillows onto the bed in a haphazard way he knew probably drove his interior designer wife mad. “Is that a new outfit?”

  She glanced down and smoothed the skirt. “No, I wear this one all the time. I got it on clearance last year, but it’s a size too small. If I breathe too hard, the zipper will bust.”

  He frowned. She wore that all the time? How had he not noticed something that hugged her curves that well? Had it been that long since he’d really checked her out?

  “Nah, you look great. I’m sure Kade Van Whatever-his-name-is will hire you on the spot.”

  “Right, my ass squeezed into Spanx and a too-small skirt is a surefire plan.” She rolled her eyes as she pinned her dark auburn hair into a knot.