Caught Up In You 3: Designer Love and Empty Things (Edgeplay) (7 page)

 He shifts uncomfortably but he doesn’t glance away. “Go ahead.”

 I nod as though I’ve been waiting for permission and remove my bra and underwear. A month ago, I wouldn’t have been able to strip down to nothingness at dusk, knowing a man like Connor Edge is looking at me. But he appreciated my body before and I’m betting he still does.

 If not, I’ll walk out of here humiliated for the final time. A girl can only take so much rejection.

 With that thought in mind, I execute a clean dive into the pool, arc upward until I clear the surface and start a leisurely backstroke. I stare up at the darkening sky. The water cocoons me in warmth and my wet nipples tighten in the cool air.

 “Now what?” Connor’s voice is hoarse.  

 “You came in after me, fully clothed, and grabbed me from behind,” I say.

 The words are barely out when there’s a huge splash. Those strong arms wrap around me and press me back against his solid chest. I want to sigh and sag against his heat, but this is for him, so he can regain his memory of what happened during one of his blackouts.

 “What happened next?” Connor’s rough voice is soft in my ear.

 “You asked me who I am and how I got in here. I told you I was the groundskeeper and you called me a liar. Said that Thomas Sinclair was the groundskeeper.”

 I’m not sure, but I think I feel him flinch. I touch my fingertips to his forearm. “You want to stop?”

 “Keep going.”

 “I tried to explain I was his granddaughter and you said it was convenient that I roamed the grounds at night. You said, and this is a direct quote, ’More likely you’re here to seduce Mr. Edge.’”

 His arms tighten. “Why would I refer to myself in the third person like that?”

 I’ve spent hours wondering about that as well. “I don’t know. Saying you came across as paranoid is an understatement. Then you started touching me.”

 “Where?” He stirs restlessly behind me, shifting his hips so I can feel his erection through the thin material of his mesh shorts.

 “My breast. The left one.”

 “Like this?” His fingers are soft and possessive.

 I close my eyes because he can’t see my face, and relish the contact I’ve missed so much. “Exactly like that.”

 He nuzzles the side of my neck. This isn’t part of our script, but it’s impossible for me to point it out. I’m melting against him, overwhelmed by all the sensations his tenderness evokes.

 “Now what?”

 I’m breathing harder, turned on to the point of mindless need. Is it the few simple touches after so long without, or the reenactment of the most recklessly carnal moments of my life that affects me so?

 “Baily?”

 This is important. I have to focus if I want Connor to remember those blank spots, because I doubt he’ll feel whole until he does. Sucking in a shaky breath, I say, “You asked if we should wake Mr. Sinclair to verify my story.”

 The thumb stroking over my nipple pauses. “I did?”

 “Yeah. I told you he was otherwise occupied. You said, ‘How convenient.’”

 “And then?”

 “You pinned me against the side of the pool.” My sex clenches as I remember his rough treatment.

 But he doesn’t move.

“Connor?” I try to shift in his arms, to see his face, something to give me a clue as to what’s going on. Suddenly his grip tightens around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

 “Tricky little witch.” Connor spins me in his hold until I’m staring into his eyes.

 The change in him is so startling that I yelp in surprise. The knowledge is there, the frustration and rage tightly leashed once more. The reproduction just backfired, because the civilized aloof man is gone and the beast in him is awake.

 And he looks hungry.

 “Connor?” I ask warily. “You okay?”

 I haven’t seen this version of him—his blackout self—since our trip to the Hamptons. And though he’s a domineering tyrant, I’ve missed him. “How much do you remember?”

 “Everything.” His eyes narrow. “I know you’ve been a bad girl.”

 “You’re aware of everything that’s happened to him? To you, I mean?” I bite my lip, unsure of how to differentiate between them.

 The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Very much so. I’m here to do what he won’t.”

 “What’s that?” I whisper. I am in awe of this dominant, commanding side of him.

 “Take you to task for your misdeeds.”

 “My misdeeds?” He makes it sound as if I have a rap sheet the length of my arm.

 He doesn’t answer, just shifts his ironclad grip to my wrists and tugs me out of the water.

 “My clothes,” I protest when he drags me back toward the house.

 “You won’t need them.” Sensual promise fills his voice.

 I’m shivering from more than the cold and am relieved when we reach the kitchen.

 “Wait here,” he commands.

  I pause, dripping onto the floor as he disappears. My heart rate kicks up. His commanding presence excites me beyond reason. If I had any sense, I’d bolt for my cottage and lock myself in. The man is going to punish me, intentionally cause me pain. So why am I still standing here, shivering in anticipation?

  I’m always wary with the other Connor Edge that I’ll somehow make a misstep that will drive us apart. This version of him makes the rules perfectly clear and isn’t afraid to exert his authority over my body.

 He returns carrying a fluffy white towel. Instead of handing it over, he proceeds to dry me off, starting with my hair. The look on his face is focused concentration. Time seems to slow around us as he works his way down my body, each swipe of the towel drying moisture and marking me with an invisible brand of ownership.

 “Connor,” I whisper.

 He looks up, those celestial blue irises piercing me with lust.

 I reach forward and cup his cheek in my hand. The growth of whiskers prickles my fingertips. “Are we going to be okay?”

 I admire that he doesn’t rush to reassure me. His answer holds more weight because I believe he is being honest.

 Rising to his feet, he tosses the towel aside. “Only if you trust me. I can give you the world, I want to, but I need you to have some faith in me.”

 He’s said this to me before. At the time I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to do as he asked. But I also didn’t understand how much I wanted to be with him. “I do.”

 He nods once. “We’ll see. You remember your safeword?”

 I nod.

 He turns to the pantry and retrieves what looks like a hand made out of roots. Holding it up for my inspection he asks, “Do you know what this is?”

 “No.”

 “Raw ginger. I bought it from an oriental supermarket this morning.”

 “I’m not really hungry.” I say.

 His smile is malevolent. “It’s not for eating, it’s part of your punishment.”

 How exactly does that work? I imagine it would hurt if he hit me with it but it seems like an odd choice for punishment.

 Pointing at a chair he says. “Sit and watch me prepare it.”

 When my bare backside comes into contact with the chair I remember I’m still naked. How odd that I forgot.

 Connor removes a wicked looking knife from the chef’s block and tests the blade. I swallow hard. If he tries to cut me I’ll safeword so fast his head will spin. My heart may bleed for him, but that’s as far as I’m willing to take it.

 My worry is in vain because he places a cutting board on the counter and positions the root carefully. Instead of loping off one of the protruding fingers horizontally, he makes the slice into the thicker, hand-like portion of the root, until the chopped off piece is about five inches long. Setting the larger portion aside, he begins to whittle away the outer layer.

 The object taking shape under his deft handling looks almost obscene. It’s wider, thicker at one end, and the way he’s smoothing the surface with each stroke makes me squirm. He’s patient and meticulous as though he has all the time in the world. When it’s finally devoid of any rough edges, he carves out a concavity near the thicker end, working steadily until a hollowed out ring is visible around the circumference.

 He takes a bowl down and fills it with cold tap water. “Raw ginger burns when it comes into contact with the skin, so we have to be wary of getting any near our eyes.” He drops his little project into the bowl, then turns back to the disfigured hand. Snipping off a smaller end digit, he peels away half of the outer layer before adding it to the bowl.

 “Okay,” I say slowly. Just what the hell is he planning to do with that thing?

 Connor slips the leftover root into a ziplock bag and stores it in the fridge. He turns to face me, an evil grin in place that makes my heart pound. “Have you ever heard of figging?”
 “No.”

 Picking up the bowl, he says, “You’re about to become intimately acquainted with it. Follow me.”

 He leads me out into the main hallway, then up the stairs. I’ve never been in this portion of the house before. All the doors are shut and Connor leads me past several before leading me inside a bedroom with an antique four-poster bed and an adjoining bath. Black and royal purple is the main color scheme, giving the room an almost Victorian feel.

 “Shut the door and climb up on the bed.” Connor sets the bowl down on the nightstand.

 “This isn’t your room, is it?” Again the lack of personal items, the vibe of the space at war with the mysterious man before me.

 “This isn’t where I sleep, no.”

 Disappointment fills my chest. Whatever he’s about to do to me, he doesn’t want it to happen in his own living space.

 The bed is almost obscenely high and wide and I clamber up and crawl to the center.

 “Stay just like that.” Connor says.

 “Um…?” I pause and look over my shoulder to where he’s standing at the foot of the bed. I’m poised like a cat on all fours on top of the rich purple comforter. “Like this?”

 He nods, studying my exposed backside. “Exactly like that.” He’s blocking the huge antique mirror over the dresser, thank goodness, otherwise I’d have an unobstructed view of my ass. Bad enough he has one.

 Connor moves closer. “Tell me what you are being punished for.”

 “Not trusting you?”
 “What else?”

 I blink at him, unsure how to answer.

 He leans closer to me, runs a hand down the bumps of my spine. “You deliberately risked your life not even twenty four hours after someone took a shot at you. You didn’t trust me enough to keep you safe, to take care of you.”

 “Can I at least explain why?” I thought he already knew why I’d run off.

 He speaks softly and I hear the slightest trace of his Southern heritage. Usually he speaks crisply without an accent, and I can always tell when he’s genuine when I hear that soft drawl. “The why doesn’t matter. You didn’t come to me, didn’t trust me to help you. I will always drop whatever I’m doing to help you regardless of the consequences. What you want is of utmost importance to me, yet you left without a word.”

 I hang my head as shame washes over me. He’s right, I didn’t trust him to help me. I’ve become so used to having no one willing or able to help. “I’m sorry.”