Читать книгу The Dare Collection January 2019 - J.C. Harroway - Страница 25

HE MEANT IT. I could see it in his eyes. He would be on my side.

But it wasn’t that that made me want to cry even harder. It was the fact that he thought ‘this’ had a finite date.

When this was over, that was what he’d said.

It shouldn’t have hurt. It shouldn’t have meant anything at all because, God knows, I hadn’t thought about wanting him or this affair that we were having to go on for ever.

But the way he’d said it in conjunction with telling me he’d be on my side felt...odd. Like he was giving me something precious with one hand while taking something even more precious away with the other.

I didn’t know why it stuck in my head, but it did.

And I didn’t want him to see it, not when he’d already seen so much, so I bit his thumb, trying to divert his train of thought onto something else.

Something simpler.

His dark eyes widened, heat flickering in them as I let my teeth rest gently against the skin of his thumb.

It didn’t matter that what we had wouldn’t last. I didn’t need it to. I didn’t want it to.

Sure, he made me feel good when he touched me and knowing he thought I had talent, knowing he thought I was bright and passionate and brave, were all good things—wonderful things.

But... I didn’t need them.

I didn’t need a man to make me feel good about myself.

So why were you crying?

Yeah, that had been ridiculous. Maybe I was getting my period or something.

No. It’s because you know you’re not any of those things. And it’s easier to take his punishment than his compliments.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ He wasn’t looking at my mouth around his thumb, but into my eyes.

Damn man.

Trying to ignore that snide whispering voice, I swirled my tongue around the tip of his thumb, flicking it like I flicked the head of his cock, yet still he didn’t look away.

‘What would it take?’ The question was soft, dark. ‘What would it take for you to believe me?’

Nothing. Nothing would make me believe him, because I couldn’t afford to believe him.

He was right about one thing. I’d been protecting myself a long time. So long that I didn’t know how to stop, nor did I want to.

If I stopped fighting, people took advantage. Selfish people who didn’t care what I wanted, only what they did. My mother, all the various employers who thought they could put a hand on me.

My father, who put his own pain before the life of his child.

I did have to protect myself because who else would?

He would.

No, I couldn’t trust that. I’d trust him with my body and my pleasure, but nothing else. After all, like he’d said, this would be over soon enough and I’d have to go back to relying on myself anyway.

The fire in his eyes became darker, more intense, which should have been a warning. He’d always responded to every challenge I threw at him and what was my lack of belief if not a challenge?

He pulled his thumb from my mouth. ‘What’s your word, Poppy?’

Everything in me gathered tight. ‘S-Seven.’

He gave a curt nod then reached down to pick something up from the floor beside the sofa. It was the shirt I’d been wearing at work.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, unable to help myself.

The look he gave me was full of a kind of quiet ferocity that had my breath catching. ‘You told me you trusted me, but you don’t. Do you?’

How could I lie to him? ‘With my body, of course I do.’

‘But not with anything else.’

He valued honesty, so that was what I gave him. ‘How can I? This will be over at some point and then I’ll have to go back to looking after myself. I can’t afford to rely on anyone, Xander. Surely you can understand that?’

‘I’m not anyone.’

‘I know, but the people I expected to look after me never did.’

‘So it’s easier to expect nothing? Is that what you’re trying to say?’

I lifted my chin. ‘I’m not leaving myself open to being kicked while I’m down. Been there, done that.’

He said nothing for a long moment. Then he held up the black fabric of my shirt. ‘See this? Do you know what it is?’

Was he kidding? ‘It’s my shirt.’

‘No. It’s a blindfold.’

My mouth went bone-dry. ‘It’s a...what?’

‘A blindfold,’ he repeated patiently. ‘You don’t trust me. But I want to prove to you that you can.’

Something was thudding very loudly in my ears.

‘You want me to put that on, presumably?’ I tried to sound like it wasn’t a big deal because, considering the rest of what we’d done, a blindfold wasn’t that kinky.

‘Yes. I want you to put that on.’

I stared at the black fabric, trepidation growing slowly in my gut. Being spanked was one thing—I could handle that, no problem. I liked it—no, I loved it. But having my sight taken away? That felt...different.

So? Say your word.

Saying ‘seven’ because I didn’t want to put on a blindfold? That was ridiculous. What could he do to me? I’d taken the pain that he gave me, taken the discipline and I’d revelled in it. A blindfold was nothing. Nothing. It wouldn’t change my opinion. Wouldn’t make me trust him any more, no matter what he thought.

I shrugged. ‘Fine. Put it on then.’

He didn’t hesitate, lifting the fabric and laying it across my face, reaching around to the back of my head and deftly pulling the ends tight.

The material was soft against my skin and little bits of light filtered through the gaps, but he soon adjusted it so there was nothing but blackness in front of me.

My heartbeat sped up, pounding uncomfortably loud.

‘Are you okay?’ His voice was right in front of me, centring me. ‘I’m not going to ask that again, by the way. I’m going to trust you to use your word if you need to. So if you’re not okay you need to tell me now.’

‘I’m okay.’ I was pleased that my voice sounded so steady.

‘Good. I’m going to move you now.’ His hands fell to my hips and he gripped me tight as I felt him shift underneath me.

Then I was being eased face-down onto the sofa, his hands gentle on my body as he manoeuvred me in place, laying me out so that I was lying full length on the cushions.

I turned my head so I could breathe, the blackness pressing against my eyes complete and total.

My palms felt damp and I could barely hear him over the sound of my raging heartbeat.

This was strange. Why was I feeling so exposed? I’d lain like this plenty of times without this fear and nervousness; he’d put his hand on my butt and spanked me and it had been so good.

So why was I afraid now? I didn’t understand.

I still had the blanket over me and I stiffened as I felt him pull it off, leaving me naked.

I shivered, air moving over my skin, raising goosebumps.

Nothing happened.

Everything was quiet except for the noise in my head and I strained to hear him, to figure out where he was, to get some idea of what was going to happen next. But he didn’t make a sound.

My mouth went even drier, my fingers curling into fists.

Say your word then, coward.

No. Fuck that. I wasn’t going to say it, not now. Not when all he’d done was put a blindfold on me. God. Maybe when he brought out the whips and chains and nipple clamps, then I might have something to say about it, but not now.

The sofa dipped and I nearly gasped at the unexpectedness of it.

Xander, kneeling over me. I could feel the wool of his suit trousers against the outside of my knees, the fabric scratchy.

The world shifted, my focus narrowing helplessly on where he was, struggling to get a sense of what he was doing.

He must be looking down at me because I recognised the pressure I sensed against my spine, the pressure of his black gaze.

Every millimetre of skin became exquisitely sensitive, as if I’d had the top layer removed, exposing all my nerve-endings. I felt the shift and eddy of the air over me, the intense heat of his knees bracketing mine. I was sure that if I concentrated hard enough, I could even feel the difference between the air of the apartment and his breath...

Gently his fingers brushed the length of my spine, a blowtorch on my skin.

I gasped, a shaken, frightened sound.

He reached the small of my back, rested there for a moment. Then he ran his fingers all the way back up again, a long, light stroke. Gentle. So achingly gentle.

I was shaking, I couldn’t help myself, his touch doing something to me, reaching into my chest, past my breastbone, wrapping those long, wicked, beautiful fingers around my heart and squeezing.

I hadn’t been touched with gentleness before. Not like this.

‘I think I told you the moment I realised I wanted you,’ he said, adding his voice to the touch of his fingers, darkness and smoke, black velvet and fire. ‘It was early one afternoon. Everyone had gone out and I thought you’d gone with them too. I came outside because I heard someone in the pool so I thought I’d better investigate.’ He stroked me gently, long and slow, up and down, his touch flames on my skin. ‘And there you were, in the water. I was going to go back inside and then I watched you pull yourself out and I realised you were naked. Completely and utterly naked.’ His touch changed, tracing the curve of my butt. ‘I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything but look at you. Because you were so fucking beautiful. Your skin was glistening and the sun made you look like you were covered in jewels. You lifted your arms and pushed your hair back and I literally caught my breath.’ His fingers moved to the backs of my thighs, stroking me there before moving back up to my spine again, then further, to my shoulders, tracing every line of muscle, every curve. As if he was committing every part of me to memory. ‘It wasn’t your beauty that mesmerised me, Poppy, though you were amazingly beautiful. It was the look on your face. I’d only ever seen you angry and sulky and hating me, never anything else. But that day you were looking out over the sea and you had the most mysterious smile on your face. The slight hint of one. And I wanted to know what you were thinking. I was desperate to know.’

I should have been relaxed, he was touching me so gently, and yet I felt nothing but exposed. As if his touch was stripping me bare, taking away layer after layer, leaving me with nowhere to hide.

He shifted again and I felt the heat of his body come closer. The cushions dipped on either side of my head and I realised he must have put his hands there, because then I felt his breath feather lightly over the back of my neck.

I shivered, my heart squeezing in my chest yet again.

He kissed me, the softness of his mouth brushing the top of my spine before moving lower, kissing his way down the curve of my back. ‘You looked like a mermaid, so beautiful and mysterious, and I wanted you in that moment,’ he murmured against my skin, his voice my anchor. ‘I wanted you so very badly. But most of all I wanted to know what you were thinking.’

I screwed my eyes shut behind the blindfold, a weird emotional tide flooding through me as he kissed me, as he said those words, and it frightened me. I didn’t know what was happening, why I was feeling so...afraid and raw, like my innermost self was somehow lying there beneath him and he could see it.

He could see me.

I tried to concentrate on something else, the linen beneath my cheek and the press of the blindfold on my forehead, but my attention kept being drawn back to him by the light brush of his mouth on my skin. By his dark, deep voice, telling me things I didn’t want to hear.

That I was beautiful. That he’d wanted to know what I was thinking. There was something about that and the way he was touching me that made me feel as if he was ripping my heart out through my chest.

Why had he wanted to know? When I’d been so awful to him for so many years. And why was he touching me like that? As if I was precious. Because I wasn’t. Surely if I had been, my father wouldn’t have taken himself from me.

You know why he took himself from you.

‘I wasn’t thinking anything.’ I cringed at the hoarse note in my voice. ‘All I was doing was imagining that the house was mine and I was living there by myself. Nothing earth-shattering.’

He was silent for a moment but his hands didn’t stop stroking me, caressing me. ‘You didn’t want anyone around, did you? You wanted to be alone.’

‘Yes.’ I shuddered as he shifted again, trailing his mouth over the small of my back.

‘It’s lonely, though, isn’t it? That’s what you told me about my childhood, and it sounded like experience.’

Oh, shit. That was right. I had. In the shower, when he’d told me his father used to keep him isolated. And how he’d always wanted a little sister...

And you threw it back in his face all those years ago.

My eyes burned and I was glad I was blindfolded because I had a horrible feeling that I was going to start crying at any moment. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t doing anything to me that hurt. He was only being gentle.

You don’t deserve gentleness.

‘I wasn’t lonely,’ I said both to him and to the thought. ‘I was fine.’

He only made a non-committal noise then his hands were on my hips and he was turning me over onto my back.

I didn’t want to go. At least face-down I had some protection, but there was none while I was on my back. Oh, there was the blindfold hiding my eyes, but he’d be able to read my expression anyway. He was so good at reading people, and me in particular.

I flung my arm across my face—not that that was any barrier—shivering as I felt his fingers settle at the base of my throat.

Oh, God. He was going to stroke me again, wasn’t he?

‘Of course you were fine.’ He trailed his fingers lightly down my torso. ‘That’s what you always say. But you’re not fine, Poppy. If you were, you wouldn’t mind me touching you like this.’

I shuddered as his fingertips brushed over my breasts, feeling my nipples get tight and hard. Feeling my soul curl in on itself, trying to protect itself from him and his maddeningly gentle touch.

‘I don’t mind.’ I had to force out the words. I had to force myself not to say another word too, the one that I’d never said the whole time I’d been with him.

Seven.

‘Yes, you do.’ His fingers stroked my breasts, tracing their curves, brushing lightly over my nipples and moving down, following the lines of my waist and hips, trailing over my stomach. More flames on my skin, burning.

‘Why not, bad girl? Why don’t you like being touched like this?’

I began to shake, half in helpless desire, half in fear. The blackness behind my blindfold lit up with flashes of pleasure as he stroked down my thighs and I wanted him to take me; to use me hard; to spank me and make me hurt. That was what I wanted. Not this...gentleness. Not this softness I didn’t deserve.

Because that voice in my head had always whispered the real truth and I had to accept it.

I didn’t deserve his kindness. I didn’t deserve his gentleness. I’d treated him with nothing but anger and contempt, and I’d done nothing at all to make him change his mind about me.

Nothing but have sex with him.

‘Is that what this is?’ I demanded. ‘This is all about sex, isn’t it? Just because I had sex with you—’

‘Hush.’ The word fell across the darkness with so much authority that I fell silent immediately.

My heart thumped; my breathing was fast. I was a mass of exposed nerve-endings and raw emotions and I’d never felt so vulnerable in all my life.

‘It’s not about the sex,’ he said at last. ‘This is about you. You’re hurt, Poppy. You’re wounded. And when a creature is wounded and hurt, they protect themselves. But I’m trying to tell you that you don’t have to protect yourself from me.’ His hands ran down my legs, softly, gently. ‘You’re beautiful, yes, but that’s not all you are. You’re passionate and you feel deeply. You’re protective too. Of your mother and how she’s survived.’

‘That’s not true. Not about Mum—’

‘Of course it’s true.’ His palms slid back up, long, stroking touches. ‘Why else would you get job after job to help her?’

I shook my head, denying it. I had to do that for Mum. She was my mother. She didn’t have anyone else. And I owed her after Dad...

‘It is true,’ he went on. ‘She gave you nothing and yet you wouldn’t leave her. Plenty of people would.’

I kept shaking my head and when I felt his mouth on my stomach, brushing more kisses over me, I tried to pull away.

But he didn’t stop raining kisses on my throat, my shoulders, my breasts and my stomach. As if each part of me deserved to be touched and kissed and stroked and held.

It was unbearable.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ I whispered raggedly.

‘Why not? Give me one good reason.’

I didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to give away the truth. But I had nothing left. ‘You’re right. I don’t deserve it.’

‘Poppy...’

‘My dad died because of me.’

He went still, his hands resting on me and not moving, and so I went on. ‘I wanted a pony when I was ten. I begged and begged and begged. And Dad said he didn’t have any money, but I wouldn’t listen. I told him that if he didn’t get me one I’d never, ever forgive him. I’d never love him again.’ The words were getting stuck, helpless tears clogging my throat. But I forced myself to keep speaking. ‘So he told me he was going to get me one. Then the next day he killed himself.’

‘Poppy.’

‘Mum screamed at me. She told me it was my fault for being such a brat. I know I wasn’t directly responsible. I didn’t know we were having money trouble and I didn’t tie that rope around his neck. I know it was his own financial mismanagement that did it. But there’s a part of me that thinks that maybe she was right. If I hadn’t been such a fucking brat, if I hadn’t told him I’d never forgive him, if I hadn’t kept going on at him, he might not have done it. That me begging for a stupid pony was the thing that maybe pushed him over.’ I could feel tears leaking out from underneath the fabric of my blindfold and I wanted to wipe them away, but I didn’t. ‘They didn’t want me anyway. Mum never wanted to get pregnant with me. I was a mistake. A mistake that killed my dad.’

I let more tears fall and just lay there, naked and exposed, the last horrible little secret echoing in the room around me.

Selfish and demanding, that was what I was. Wanting things I couldn’t and shouldn’t have. A pony. A mother and father who loved me. A family. A home.

I was a mistake. I shouldn’t even have been here.

I didn’t deserve a thing.