“Oh?”
I nod oh. Lead her to the helipad. Help her into her seat.
She shakes her head this is fucking ridiculous, but that doesn’t hide the glee in her expression. Those eyes filled with wonder.
“I have to keep you restrained.” I pull the belt over her chest. A standard harness. Not enough.
She realizes. Looks at me curiously. Unsure of my next move.
I undo the knot of my tie. Bring her hands together.
She stares up at me as I bind her wrists. “I could object.”
“You could.” I stare back, daring her.
She just barely blushes. “I will. Later. If this isn’t…”
“If I don’t keep you restrained when I make you come?”
“If you don’t make it worth my while.”
“Are you questioning my honor?”
She nods.
“I’ll have to get you back for that.”
Chapter Forty
Eve
Holy fucking shitballs, helicopters are insane.
And Ian piloting one?
With my wrists bound?
My chest stays light. My limbs stay airy. My body stays in free fall.
Off the ledge. No ground in sight.
Metaphorically speaking.
The ground is very much in sight. Close enough for details. Far enough I’m floating.
The tops of skyscrapers. The lush green of the park. The wrought iron of the Williamsburg Bridge.
Then the azure of the Long Island Sound, the soft waves of the Atlantic, the rows and rows of houses, the lines of freeways, the bright blue sky.
We move fast. Descend slowly. Land on the roof of an equally nondescript helipad.
Ian helps me out of my seatbelt. Into a car. A rental, I guess. He buckles my seatbelt. Gets into the driver’s seat.
Says nothing as he pulls out of the parking garage. Drives through the scenic streets.
It’s not crowded yet—it’s still early on a weekday—but getting there. People in linen and pastel walking along boulevards, licking ice cream cones, laughing in convertibles.
He turns off a main drag. Onto a quieter street. One with houses the size of a Duane Reade. Then another, with houses the size of a city block.
He parks in a driveway of a massive modern house—all glass and columns and white paint and picket fencing. An actual bridge to the beach. A huge backyard. A deep pool.
The sand beyond that.
The ocean.
The sunny sky.
Like a greeting card, an advertisement, a fantasy of another life.
A million times nicer than Marisol’s parents’ place. And a billion times more illicit.
He smiles as he helps me out of the car, lifts me into his arms, carries me to his bed.
He lays me down on the teal sheets, rolls my dress to my waist, hooks his thumbs around my panties. A pair he bought for me.
“Good girl,” he murmurs as he peels them off my feet.
He releases the binding on my wrists for long enough to pull my hands over my head. Re-tie them.
So I have to take whatever he gives me.
My body aches. I’m pure need. And there’s so fucking much of it.
Ian pries my legs apart. Pins my thighs to the bed.
Then his lips are on my calf. Just above my boot. Higher and higher. Until he’s kissing the inside of my knee.
“You’re going to come on my face, vixen,” he murmurs into my thigh. That deep tone. Still demanding. Dripping with desire.
Fuck.
His fingers curl into my thighs. Enough pressure I feel it. Enough pressure I know I’m his.
I want to be his. Here. And everywhere. It’s scary how much I want it.
Then he drags his lips up and to my thigh and I forget everything outside this moment. I want him here, now, between my legs.
I want to come on his face.
I want everything.
He teases me with soft slow kisses. Up my thigh. Then down the other. All the way to my calf.
Back up.
His nails scrape my skin. He pushes harder. Hard enough I sink into the soft sheets.
He looks up at me for a second. Then his eyes move down my body. Over my chest and stomach—still covered by my dress—to my pelvis.
My thighs.
My sex.
“Fucking beautiful.” His voice is low and breathy. Like he needs this as much as I do.
It’s such a strange compliment. But my body knows how to take it.
My chest heaves, my lips part, my fingers curl into the sheets.
He brings his lips to my thigh. Then his soft mouth is on me. A brush of his lips. The strange sensation of his tongue. Soft. Up and down. Exploring every part of me.
It’s different than his hand. Warmer. Wetter. Softer.
More.
So much more.
I try to reach for him. Find the tie binding me. Groan as it tugs at my wrists.
My head falls to one side. The window. The beautiful, blinding light of the beach. The barest hint of our reflection.
Then the other side. The mirrored closet door. Every detail. Every scrape of his nails. Every heave of my chest. Every shift of his shoulders.
His dark hands against my pale thighs.
His navy jacket under my calves.
My black boots against his back.