Asking for More (2 page)

Nobody notices me. Nobody watches as I approach the building where Jonah works. Nobody sees a thing.

I walk in through one of the main doors and turn down the wing where Jonah's office is located. The cool breeze of air conditioning is deeply welcome even after only a few minutes outside. A fine sheen of sweat lies upon my skin. The clock high on the wall says it's 3:58.

Will Jonah be in the stairwell already waiting for me? How far up should I walk? Is he right about nobody being around to find us? Certainly the building seems deserted, and the heavy doors would give us some warning if anybody else took the stairs.

Besides, this wouldn't be as hot if we didn't take a few risks.

Inhale. Exhale. My body tingles with anticipation: fingers, nipples, even my clit. I put my hand onto the stairwell door, pause for just a few more moments—and then I go in.

The stairwell is more of a fire exit than a main corridor of the building. No bulletin boards hold the usual flyers for foreign film screenings or study-abroad programs; no windows offer a campus view. Only a dull fluorescent light illuminates the ground floor, and a glance overhead reveals that the upper stories are dark. I hear nothing.

My trembling hand closes around the metal railing as I begin to climb. The chunky wooden soles of my sandals make every stop echo. I force myself to look down at my feet, not up or ahead. Jonah will want to surprise me.

Suspense can be the ultimate aphrodisiac. I don't know precisely when Jonah is going to confront me, or where, only that he is. Once he does, only my safe word,
silver
, can provide any escape.

But I don't want to escape.

The second floor. Shadowy rather than dark because of the light below, but ahead of me it's black as night. As I keep going upward, I can't help glancing behind me, wondering whether I ought to hit a light switch just in case—

—when a strong grip closes around my upper arm.

I whirl around, but Jonah's got me. He's movement in the darkness, the hand clamping over my mouth, the force that presses my back to the wall.

He leans in, one of his muscular thighs shoving between mine. His breath is warm against my skin as he says, low and ragged, “
Don't scream
.”

My eyes meet his. They're wide with—call it terror. That's what Jonah wants to see. Fright floods into me, by my will, by my choice. Our games are where I confront my most primal fear. That fear can only be defeated by surrendering to it.

To Jonah.

His steely gray eyes seem darker in the dim light. That's nearly all of him I can see with his face so close to mine, and his body pinning mine to the wall. “You didn't scream,” he whispers. “So you know how to follow instructions. Good. That's going to make this so much easier for you. Do you understand? Do what you're told and you won't be hurt.”

Sometimes I defy Jonah. Sometimes I fight him; he likes it as rough as I do. But today he's demanding submission, and that's what I want to give him.

I nod as best I can. Jonah smiles—only an inch or so from my face, too close for me to actually see it, but his eyes crinkle at the corners. Dark satisfaction glints within his hard gaze.

Jonah starts moving against me, rutting on my leg as he presses in harder. I can feel his erection rubbing against the soft flesh of my lower belly. If that firmness were only a little lower, toward the center, he would be grinding against my clit. But I hardly even need it. Just the feel of Jonah on me, the knowledge of what he's going to do, and the illusion of powerlessness has me impossibly turned on.

“Please—” I start to whisper. I want to beg him to let me go. Jonah often enjoys it when I beg.

Not today, though. “Shhh,” he croons as he pushes his thumb into my mouth. I can taste the salt of his skin. “Show me how you suck. Do it.”

I close my lips around Jonah's thumb and start to suck, slowly at first, as if reluctantly. He shoves it in farther, and I obey the unspoken command. I go faster. Suck harder. My tongue brushes against the pad of his thumb, and he groans, a low vibration I feel through his chest.

“You're good at that,” he whispers. “I thought you would be. You want to show me how good you are at it? You want to make me happy?”

With my mouth full, I can't speak. The way he's gripping me—his fingers curling in under my jaw, his thumb hooked all the way inside—I can't even nod. So I make a wordless, plaintive sound. He knows that means I'm his.

Jonah steps back, and in that first instant, I stumble forward. For the last few seconds I haven't even been holding myself up. He grabs my upper arms and eases me down onto my knees, then brings his hands up to circle the back of my head. “There we go,” he murmurs as he rocks forward, pressing his erection into my face. “Do what you're told.”

He's got on dark cargo pants, the kind of thing he must wear in the field. As I reach for his zipper, his grip on the back of my head loosens just enough to let me work. Jonah's already so hard that his cock juts from his fly as soon as I've unzipped him. His erection bumps against my cheek, and he laughs, low and pleased, as I open my mouth and tilt my head to take him in.

God, Jonah's so thick. We've been having sex for months, and yet each time I find myself thinking,
No way can I take that
. But I always do. Now I open wide, using one hand to brace the weight and length of him while I start working him with my tongue.

Jonah begins rocking forward and back, forward again, simulating thrusts. He's not letting go, not making me deep-throat him the way he sometimes does. He's still holding something back—making me wait for the power we both know will soon be unleashed. His cock slides between my lips, every ridge and vein firm against my tongue, and I can feel the slickness of pre-come at the corners of my mouth.

Even now, when he's restraining himself, he dominates me completely.

He pulls back, leaving me open-mouthed, panting, afraid to close my lips in case he wants more. But Jonah tugs me back to my feet, spins me around, and pushes me toward the wall. I brace myself with two hands just as he wraps one arm around my throat.

“There you go,” he growls. His free hand reaches in front of me, hiking up my dress. The arm around my throat tightens, not enough to cut off my breathing, but enough to remind me that I have no choice. “Stay like that. Just like that.”

His fingers find my panties. He circles my clit, teasing me, and then begins to rub in slow circles. Every stroke sends new pleasure pulsing through me, and I can't help whimpering.

“See? You like this. I knew you liked it. This is what you really want. This is what you really are. You keep your legs together and act like you're so damn good, but the minute a guy pries those thighs open? You're panting for it. Just like you are right now.”

Jonah strokes down farther, his touch still blunted by the cotton panties between his fingers and my cunt. But they're wet so he can feel it—God, I can even
smell
it, that's what he does to me. His hand finds the cleft, the soft folds of flesh, and the dip into my cunt. He curls his fingers up into that, as though he could hand-fuck me even through my underwear.

“So ready.” He licks the back of my neck, a stripe of heat that makes me gasp. “I'm going to make you come. So you'll always know you really wanted it.”

Then he rubs a little harder, finding my clit again, and now it's so good I can hardly stand it. I can't move, can't adjust myself either to escape him or to get off. I have to take what he gives me, because the power is his.

Jonah yanks down my panties with one sharp tug. The firm head of his cock prods at my ass cheeks before he angles himself and thrusts into my cunt.

Yes. The sheer size of him makes me burn. Although the waves of sensation rippling through me are pleasure, not pain, the feeling is so extreme that I seem to hover just between the two. I can't think, can't struggle. All I can do is feel.

Then Jonah starts pumping into me, hard and fast. The slap of his body against mine echoes in the stairwell. So does my helpless groan. Every stroke kindles even more ecstasy, until I feel myself getting light-headed. My heartbeat beats hummingbird-fast within my chest, and I can hardly breathe.

“Fuck, yeah.” Jonah scrapes his teeth along my exposed shoulder, then speeds up yet again. “That's it. Take it.
Take it
.”

I get closer. Even closer. I both want to come so badly my cunt aches for it, and want to hold back, because I love this so much and I want it to keep going on forever.

But Jonah forces me over the edge. One more thrust, and I come, the sensation pouring over me in a long, dizzying wave. I cry out as if in despair, but he knows what he's done.

He laughs out loud—a hard, cruel laugh I've come to crave—and pushes himself to finish. I feel every muscle in his body against my limbs and back as he goes tense. The arm around my neck shakes, as if he's holding on as hard as he can.

When Jonah takes a deep breath and pulls out for one moment we just stand there, trying to collect ourselves again. His grip around my neck loosens, and he slides his arm down until I'm in his embrace. He kisses the nape of my neck. “Are you all right?”

“Much better than all right.” I turn my head to smile at him over my shoulder. Jonah smiles at me. His breath comes quick and shallow; I relish the way he's leaning against me. He's not the only one who does the wrecking around here. “That was amazing.”

“Figured semester break ought to be good for something.” Jonah steps back and playfully smacks my butt. “Come on. Let's pull it together. I don't think anybody's coming in, but—”

“Let's not tempt fate any more than we already have.”

“Exactly,” he agrees.

All I have to do is pull up my panties and smooth down the skirt of my sundress. But as I step to the side, my thick-soled sandal catches on the rubbery stuff that coats the edge of each stair. I wobble, pinwheeling my arms as I lose my balance. For one dizzying instant, I'm falling into the stairwell, unable to catch myself, and it's so far to fall—

Jonah grabs my arm just in time. My body, halted mid-plunge, swings to the side, whacking my face into the metal stair railing. I groan in dismay as Jonah pulls me back to my feet. “Vivienne?” The casual cruelty of the game has left his voice completely. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—just—ow.” Wincing I put two fingers to the tender corner of my eye, which took the full force of impact. The pain stings so sharply I fear the skin might be broken, but it isn't. However, even the faint pressure of my hand increases the ache. “I might need to ice this.”

“I hurt you.”

“No. It's fine, really.”

“I
hurt
you,” Jonah repeats. I look him in the face again and see that he's gone white. His hands cup my shoulders, his grip suddenly tentative. It's as though he thinks I'll break in two, right here in his hands.

At first I want to say he's overreacting. I mean, I've whacked my head harder on my own car door.

But this was the one thing Jonah couldn't bear to imagine. The reason he broke it off with me, not once but twice. Above all, he never wanted to hurt me. In his mind, hurting me turns him into a monster . . . the shadow of the vile man who raised him, of the grotesque rapist and bully that man expected him to become.

For me this is a minor mishap. For Jonah, it's more.

“You didn't do this to me,” I protest later. I'm lying on the leather sofa in Jonah's apartment and holding a bag of ice to the side of my face. “It was an accident.”

“If you're hurt while we're playing—even accidentally—that's on me.” Jonah has left my side for the first time in nearly an hour, but only to make dinner for us both. He looks down resolutely at the countertop where he's chopping vegetables for stir-fry. “I can only do this if I can be sure I'm protecting you.”

Sometimes I find his protective mode deeply touching; I've spent too much of my life feeling that the people closest to me either couldn't or wouldn't stand up for me, or take care of me. Jonah will, every time. However, sometimes the overprotectiveness goes too far. We're approaching that limit now. “Jonah, we were done having sex. You weren't even touching me when I fell. If this is anyone's fault, it's mine, for wearing those stupid shoes.” The offending sandals lie discarded near Jonah's door. “I could've busted my ass on one of the sidewalks just as easily.”

“But you didn't.” Jonah keeps chopping, the large chef's knife moving deftly across the wooden board. “I'm the one who said we should meet up in the stairwell. I wasn't thinking about the danger there. All I was thinking about was getting off.”

“And getting me off, right? Because the idea turned me on too. I didn't realize how risky it would be either.”

“It's not your job to think about that. When we play—I take control of you. That means I take responsibility for you, and anything that happens to you.”

I scowl at him, but only for an instant, because the expression makes the swollen area around my eye throb harder. “Jonah, we both know your control is an illusion. If it weren't, I wouldn't like it, and you'd never go there.”

“What happened to you isn't an illusion.”

“Please let this go, okay? Stop tormenting yourself.” I can't stand seeing Jonah beat himself up over something that wasn't his fault. Probably I need to work with his overprotectiveness, not against it. “That's not what I need. I only need you to baby me for a little bit. All right?”

The knife's incessant motion stills. Jonah looks over at me, his gray eyes unexpectedly tender. “All right,” he says quietly.

For the rest of the evening, he devotes himself to doing anything and everything he can for me. After the delicious dinner, he serves me two scoops of butter pecan ice cream in a brown earthenware mug. He puts on music I enjoy—classic sixties soul—and gives me a back rub. Once I'm changed into one of his T-shirts to relax before bed, he even launders my sundress and underwear so they'll be like new tomorrow.

But every time Jonah looks at the darkening bruise around my eye, he goes silent. He hasn't stopped blaming himself; he's only stopped saying so out loud.

We turn in fairly early. Although my face aches, I still have a couple of stronger painkillers in the bottom of my purse, left over from my struggle with the Austin Stalker a few months ago. So I pop one before lying down by Jonah's side. He curls himself around me, spooning me from behind, holding me just a little too tightly. His body remains tense, and I know it's going to take him a long time to fall asleep.

The painkiller has already begun its work, stupefying my senses, and I know I'll drowse off before very long. My drowsy mind turns to Jonah. It seems as though his pale, stricken face after my fall is etched in my vision.

We hit this boundary before—his extreme reaction to the thought of causing me pain. Of course I want him to take care of me and think of my safety, but he always does. What frightens Jonah about this scenario goes down deep. When I first fell for him, he was an enigma, as dangerous as he was compelling. But even now that I understand him so much better and we share so much more with each other, Jonah still holds something back: this terrible, haunting fear of causing harm.

How can I talk to him about this? Would it do any good? Can Jonah ever fully make peace with our games, and the role he plays in them, as I have?

The questions are important. I need to find the answers. Yet my consciousness is drifting into heavy, drugged sleep, stealing every thought and leaving me with only the feel of Jonah's body next to mine.

***

“Whoa, what happened to you?” says Marvin, one of my fellow grad students in the fine arts program, as we walk toward the gallery door at the same time. “That's one hell of a shiner.”

“Fell down. No big deal.” I shrug as I step forward to give Marvin a quick hug. Jonah remains a couple of steps back, stiff and uncomfortable, and even when I introduce them, his discomfort doesn't fade. Once Marvin heads into the gallery, with us right behind, I murmur, “Are you okay?”

“He knows I did that to you.”

“No, he doesn't, because
you didn't
.”

“Then he thinks that. Probably assumes I'm hitting you.”

“Marvin didn't think anything of the kind. Will you please relax?” If Jonah keeps looking hangdog guilty, people
will
think he hit me.

I'm on the verge of whispering as much to Jonah as we step inside—and then I'm so blown away I stop in my tracks.

Okay, here's what the average gallery opening looks like: Lots of people in business casual, a couple women in cocktail dresses, and one guy who considers himself the sort of nonconformist who wears jeans to these things. Cheap white wine being poured out of oversized bottles into plastic cups, either by cater waiters or the guests themselves. Maybe some cheese and crackers. Flat lighting from above. The end.

The crowd looks much the same tonight, but the gallery doesn't. A string of lights outlines the floor in each room, providing soft illumination that matches the many candles in their tin holders set on low tables around the corners of the room. A couple of black-clad waiters move easily through the crowd, pouring champagne into real glasses, and the delicious scent in the air tells me there's a full catering spread in the back. A local guitarist sits off to one side, playing what sounds like Spanish classical.

Even Jonah notices. “This is—upscale.”

“This is Kip.”

The moment I say his name, Kip slips through the crowd to appear in front of me. His dark blue suit is cut hipster-tight, and he's slicked his hair back like some 1950s crooner. As he stands before me, he holds out his hands. “Challenge accepted.”

“How did you do this?” I say, laughing as he hugs me. “For free, right?”

“You wound me by believing I'd stoop to spending money for such a thing. I happened to know that a certain catering company was bidding for some of the university's off-campus events. From there it was simple enough to convince the catering company to provide a demonstration, and a couple of the deans to attend and sample the wares for themselves.” Kip squints and frowns as he sees my black eye. If anyone were to assume the worst about Jonah, it might be Kip, who suffered at the hands of a violent ex not that long ago. But the uncanny insight that has led everyone in the department to call Kip the “Sauron of UT Austin” kicks in. “Don't tell me. It was those shoes you were wearing yesterday, wasn't it?”

“How did you know?”

“I'm not saying I've worn similar shoes in a drag show, but I
am
saying that you should acquaint yourself with the kitten heel. It's a lifesaver.” Kip smiles easily as he reaches past me to shake Jonah's hand. “That goes for you too, Mr. Marks, if you're so inclined.”

“I'll stick to loafers,” Jonah says, and he manages to smile. I take his arm and give him a gentle squeeze, hoping he's reassured.

As it turns out, Jonah has nothing to worry about. The thing is, while I'm friends with some of the other fine arts grad students exhibiting here tonight, most of them know only one thing about me: I am the woman who defeated the Austin Stalker.

When the serial rapist who had been terrorizing the city came after me, years of paranoia and self-defense training helped me get the better of him. Beating the shit out of Mack Lahane may have been the single most fulfilling moment of my life. But it's not like I'm some sort of avenging superhero. He got sloppy with his attack, and in some respects I got lucky. It's not an event I brag about; an attempted rape is something I'm glad to have survived, not a fun icebreaker at parties.

Nobody else at the party seems to have gotten the memo.

“Did he do that to you?” breathes a woman with wide eyes. “Have you been recovering all this time?”

“No. It was months ago. I'm fine. This was just a mishap around the house.” I look around at the other artwork. “Is this the copper sculpture you were working on at the studio, Jasper?”

Jasper won't be put off that easily. “Will you testify at the trial?”

“When
is
the trial?” chimes in someone else. “Are they going to allow TV cameras in?”

“. . . I wouldn't know. If they need my testimony, I guess I'll find out then.” Thank God this particular news story never really registered on the national radar. If I had had to deal with these questions from home, too, I'd have lost it long ago. No matter how many times I try to change the subject, people keep coming back to it, inexplicably convinced that a smudge of a black eye could linger for months, and that I am literally a battle-scarred warrior in their midst instead of a woman in her midtwenties wearing a pale pink cocktail dress.

(And pointy-toed nude flats. No heels for a while.)

Finally Jonah puts one arm around my shoulders and steers me away from the crowd. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Wow, that was overkill.”

“You deserve all the credit,” he says, warm and steady. “But you also deserve some space. They shouldn't force you to dwell on it.”

“They haven't. I'm all right.” I point toward my own contribution to the show. “Recognize this?”

It takes Jonah a moment, but then he smiles. “I should. Or I'd never again be able to say I knew something like the back of my hand.”

There, in deep green ink on cork-colored paper, is one of the first prints I've made of my most recent etching: a portrait of Jonah's hands, fingers interlaced, resting on a table. He has magnificent hands—broad and rugged, yet long-fingered enough not to look brutish. I take pride in the way this etching captures the essential dichotomy within Jonah: strength and vulnerability, intertwined and inseparable.

“I don't remember posing for this one,” Jonah says. The low, tantalizing note in his voice tells me he remembers the first time he posed for me, which evolved into his posing in the nude, which led to some of the best sex we've ever had. “Where are the ones we . . . collaborated on?”

“Those drawings are private. For now.” I give him a sly sidelong glance. “I'm not ready to show off just how lucky I am.”

Jonah raises an eyebrow. “But you will someday?”

“Oh, I was just teasing. I'd never turn those into etchings.” Jonah is so fiercely private.

But then he surprises me. “If you ever want to, you have my permission.” His thumb rubs along my bare shoulder. “Just don't show my face.”

“They'd know who it is,” I point out as I surreptitiously stroke his side. “There aren't many guys with bodies like this.”

Jonah's physique is almost aggressively masculine, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. Even the loose white shirt and black pants he wears don't disguise the shape of his bicep and thigh muscles. Yet he would never be mistaken for some Renaissance ideal in marble—he seems almost stretched thin along his lengthy limbs and his tapered waist. He is powerful, even dominant, but not invulnerable. It is this mixture of strength and gentleness that intoxicates me every time.

He doesn't respond directly to my compliment. That's not his way. He says only, “I don't even care if they know it's me, as long as I have plausible deniability.”

I laugh and lean closer to him, which is when I hear a woman say, “What's this? Jonah Marks, out socializing of his own free will? Or is blackmail involved?”

We turn to see Rosalind Campbell, a local doctor and perhaps Jonah's closest friend outside his own family. The silky cream-colored top she has on contrasts beautifully with her dark, burnished skin and her wide smile as Jonah hugs her. As he does, I greet the woman at Rosalind's side, her partner, Candace. We've only met a few times—mostly at Candace's restaurant, which dominates Rosalind's free time—but I've liked both of them since we met.

Well. Almost since we met. When I first saw Rosalind, I thought she and Jonah were more than just friends. Looking at Candace—who's short and perky, with cropped blonde hair and a sequined red dress—I think,
Wow, was I wrong about Rosalind's type.

Jonah says, “You're two to talk. Normally if you both get off work at the same time, you collapse.”

“Normally, yes,” Candace agrees. “But a friend of mine runs the catering company that's here tonight. Turns out they're getting a chance to show off for the administration—it's an incredible break for him. So I thought we'd show up and provide moral support.”

“And get free wine and snacks,” Rosalind chimes in.

So the caterer thinks he's receiving a favor instead of doing one? Damn, Kip is good.

“Besides,” Rosalind adds, taking Candace's hand, “we wanted to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” I hardly get the word out before I see the diamonds glittering on Rosalind's left finger, and on Candace's.

“It's legal now, so—we finally got engaged.” Candace practically glows with happiness.

Jonah wraps Rosalind in another hug. “Roz. That's wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Don't get too sentimental yet,” Candace cautions him. “Because you realize where this is going, don't you?”

When Jonah gives Rosalind a puzzled look, she puts her hands on his shoulders. “Jonah Marks, as a bride to be, I hereby ask you to be my man of honor.”