Teach Me / Getting Dirty. Rachael Stewart
over his face then, and she would have called it regret on someone else. But not Dorian.
“I am all this and a good deal more than you can comprehend,” he said.
He pushed off the wall and moved closer, and it was better and worse at the same time. Sharp, impossible, until she felt heavy with longing and whatever kind of fear this was that made her head spin and her pussy wet.
He reached down, and fit his palm to her cheek, and to her horror, she felt tears well up in her eyes.
“I know why you came here, Erika. I imagine you thought you would simply show up before me wearing as few pieces of clothing as possible, and I would fall like a stone. I imagine this is the effect you’re used to having on men.”
“I didn’t—”
“Quiet.”
And as if shushing her wasn’t enough, he slid his thumb over her lips, and kept it there. Shutting her up whether she liked it or not.
And like everything else, she couldn’t tell.
“My desires run a bit deeper than a hot body,” he said, low and dark. “My needs require very specific outlets. I can fuck like any selfish fraternity brother you might have encountered out there, and I’ll get off, but it won’t truly satisfy me. So this offering of yours, while sweet, is doomed to disappoint you. You can’t give me what I need, Erika.” He studied her. “And even if you could, I will not be used as a tool to slap at your brother.”
Erika wanted to bite him, but she couldn’t seem to muster up the will to do it. Much less slap his hand away. Or really anything at all but sit there, his hand hot and strong as it curved around her face, wondering what on earth was happening to her.
Or how he’d seen through her so easily.
“I never said I wanted to use you.”
“Time’s up, kitten,” he told her, and it wasn’t until she followed his gaze down to her hands on her lap that she saw she was digging her own nails into her fists. Ha ha, she thought, angrily. A kitten with claws. “You’re not here to play, which means you need to go.”
“But…”
She could see from the look on his face that there would not be a second chance. She would never get back in through the doors of this club, that was certain. And she doubted it would matter if she tried to find him anywhere else. His office. His home. Whether he had her turned away by others or turned her away himself, he was done. His expression reminded her a little too strongly of the one he’d used on her all her life. Dismissive. Patronizing. Not at all the heat she’d seen before.
This was her only chance. And she might have misjudged things here, but it was only a matter of degrees, surely. The reality was that she’d watched him bring a woman to climax, and had come herself already. That alone was worth experimenting with.
She could handle him. She was sure she could.
“What if I want to play?” she asked.
“Very well.”
He stepped back, taking his hand and his warmth with him, and she was afraid those tears really would spill over from behind her eyes. Would he do what he’d threatened to do? Or had that been a promise? Erika didn’t know which part of it shot off the most sparks inside her. A ponytail? Or that spanking that had been haunting her since he’d first mentioned it two years ago?
Dorian’s dark eyes blazed. “If you want to play, you must prove it.”
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
His mouth curved. “Don’t promise things you can’t deliver.”
He indicated the hallway behind him, and the club waiting for them, filled with people and music and all the kinky things Erika could imagine—plus a great many she couldn’t.
“Prove how much you want this,” Dorian ordered her. “Crawl, on your hands and knees, down this hallway and then out into the club proper. Keep going until I tell you to stop. You should be aware, of course, that the tiny little excuse for a skirt you’re wearing will almost certainly flip up on your back as you go. Does that thong cover you well, do you think? Or will everybody who looks at you be able to see exactly how wet and eager you are? With your ripe, juicy pussy right there for everyone to see and touch and comment upon—”
And it was too much. Pony play was outlandish but what he was talking about was a humiliation she could envision all too easily, all those eyes and him and the display that was all her and yet not at all in her control…
“Stop,” she managed to gasp out, while her heartbeat nearly bent her in half and that fever in her about took her head off. “Red light.”
“Yes,” Dorian said with far too much grim satisfaction. “Red light. Enough of this game, Erika. It’s time to take you home.”
DORIAN MAINTAINED A penthouse in a quietly moneyed neighborhood that seemed far too settled for a man with his predilections. He was so kinky Erika had imagined he would live somewhere desperately cutting edge within walking distance of his club, but instead his penthouse reflected the old money he came from and the fortune or two he’d made himself. His place sprawled across the top of a luxury building that seemed a lot like a five-star hotel, which, once Erika thought about it—once she was capable of thought, that was—made sense for a man like him.
Edgy, yes, but also pedigreed.
He had taken her out of the club with a swiftness that left her off balance. But then, everything he’d done since she’d seen him on that dais left her reeling. He’d reached down and taken her hand in that hallway, pulling her to her feet as if she weighed less than a euro cent coin. And as far as she could tell, he’d been utterly unaware of the way the touch of his hand against hers…stormed through her.
His dark eyes had swept over her, through her, seeing everything with that same uncompromising gaze. Seeing things Erika couldn’t have articulated if her life depended on it. But oh, could she feel it.
He’d pulled her around until she was in front of him, then kept her there with a hand on the nape of her neck as he guided her back to the club proper. It was louder than before, or she was more sensitive to the sounds. The crack of leather against flesh. Moans and screams blending in with the pumping, seductive music.
Erika felt drunk. Wildly intoxicated, spinning and strange, when she was actually far more sober than she usually was in a club. Maybe that was why she did…nothing. She simply let him guide her, shivering a little because he was either really good at it or she was remarkably attuned to every little press of his strong fingers. Both, probably.
She was vaguely aware of him saying something to someone when they left that little hallway, but she didn’t think anything of it. She didn’t think, really. There was a riot inside her and his hand heavy on her neck, and she was still lit up from what had happened—and what hadn’t happened—between them. He led her through the crowds, past the bar and into a different foyer from the cavernous one she’d entered before. This one was all dark stone and dim lights, and all the things she’d surrendered earlier were waiting for her.
“Put on your shoes,” Dorian ordered her in an undertone, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel the words.
It didn’t occur to her to disobey. Or even to discuss it with him.
Everything seemed dreamlike, or feverish. Or again, so deeply intoxicating that strands seemed to wrap around each other outside time. What she remembered was not how she bent and slipped her feet into her shoes, but instead that moment when she’d glanced up in the middle of it to find Dorian staring down at her. His face had been set in the same stern lines, but an odd gleam in his eyes made her wonder what tenderness