Fearless (25 page)

Just thinking about Beckett makes me smile. I love how dark and sensual and intense he is, and how intoxicating it feels to have that intensity focused on me, how he can see through to my soul and the fears that lay there, and then bring them to light and set them free. He has found and freed a part of me I didn't know existed—a part that feels stronger for surrendering, a part of me that can love and be loved more completely than I had ever dreamed possible.

I sigh. Even though I went out with Beckett that first night looking for danger, I realize I have fallen in love with the man behind that dominating exterior. The way he owns me, the way he refuses to let me hide anything from him and loves me anyway, would have been enough to make me fall for him. The way he is with Nikki has made me see a future with him. A future that would be filled with love and laughter and feeling protected, of feeling like I belonged to someone, and he belonged to me. But, I think sadly, he either doesn't feel the same or he doesn't know how to bare himself the way he bares me. The secrets between us are growing and his lack of trust is shattering me.

As the limo pulls up in front of the Mandarin Oriental, I try to push my reservations to the back of my mind. I remind myself that from the beginning, he has promised me nothing other than pushing me past my limits and showing me the most exquisite pleasure I have ever known. I have known the score since the beginning. I knew what I was signing up for and I have gotten it in spades. He never promised me love and I never wanted it. It's not his fault I fell in love with him anyway. With a deep breath, I let go of my expectations. I am in Las Vegas, the city of sin, and there is no better man to sin with than Beckett Black.

I check in at the front desk and the bell boy shows me to Beckett's suite. As I step inside, I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. It's beyond decadent, with a wall of windows overlooking the city and a view of Las Vegas' version of the Eiffel Tower. The atmosphere is upscale Asian, and I can't seem to tear my gaze from the king-sized bed dressed in soft white linens, imagining what we might do there. I tip the bell boy, who has brought up my bag, and stand at the window just taking in the city for a good five minutes before I unpack my bag. I have just helped myself to a bottled water from the mini fridge when I notice a creamy envelope with my name scrawled across it in Beckett's handwriting, sitting on a side table next to a vase of fresh flowers. Opening it, I read:

 

Sorry I wasn't there when you arrived.

I don't want you to be bored while you wait for me, so I booked a massage for you at 4:00. I can't wait to see you. Beckett

 

I glance at the clock. It's already three forty-five. I find a binder on the night table that tells me where to find the spa, and then spend a few minutes Googling what to wear for a massage before I make my way down to the hotel's spa. After my week working non-stop, a massage sounds like heaven. Trust Beckett to know exactly what I need even before I do.

The spa is just as beautiful as the rest of the hotel, with elegant dark walls featuring wood carvings and gold accents. I check in, fill out the medical form, and am quickly escorted into a private suite that overlooks the strip and holds a single bed and a chocolate colored leather armchair.

The woman who has shown me to the room says, “My name is Genevieve. I will be your massage therapist. The gentleman who booked your appointment scheduled you for one of our signature aromatherapy Swedish massages. Is that correct?”

I'm not sure exactly what a Swedish massage entails, but I can practically hear Beckett's voice in my head saying “trust me.”

“That sounds great,” I say, relieved that the massage therapist is a woman. Of course, I think with an inward smile, there is no way Beckett would have ever allowed another man to touch my body, even for a professional massage. At least I don't think he would, but I never know what diabolical pleasure he will think up next.

“Very good,” the woman says. “You can remove all of your clothing, or whatever you are comfortable with, and then drape yourself with the sheet. I will be back in just a few moments.”

Although I'm self-conscious about removing everything, I push past my reservations and remove all of my clothes, including my bra and panties, and lay down on the soft bed, covering myself with the sheet. A few moments later Genevieve returns. She closes the blinds, shutting out the city, and lights several candles that are scattered throughout the small room.

“Would you care for an eye mask?” she asks, offering me a black silk eye mask. When I hesitate she says, “Your companion said that you would prefer one.”

He did, did he?
Always insisting on being in control, he is in charge of this massage as surely as if he's in the room with me. Knowing it's what he would want, I take the mask and place it over my eyes.

Soft music plays in the background and then the therapist's hands are on my scalp, and then my temples, cheeks, and jaw, gently massaging away the stress of the week. With oil slicked hands, she moves to my neck and shoulders and I become lost under the soothing strokes of her hands. I am completely hooked. I have never experienced anything so relaxing before. I give myself over to the sensation, relaxing into the deep strokes that work and smooth my knotted muscles. I lose track of time, caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness as the therapist strokes her way down my body, focusing on my arms and then my legs and feet before asking me to turn over and applying deep kneading strokes along my back and hips. It is sublime.

I'm not sure how long I've laid there, my body relaxing more and more with each stroke, when she quietly instructs me to turn onto my back again. I comply and her soothing hands are on me again, but this time there are two sets of hands on my supple flesh as a man's larger and more powerful fingers join the therapist's small but efficient ones. It feels vaguely erotic, even though I'm sure it probably shouldn't. The woman strokes down my legs and massages the soles of my feet, while the man massages oil into the delicate underside of my arm. He kneads my shoulders and upper chest before running down the sides of my torso with firm, fluid strokes that feel tantalizingly familiar. He finds a rhythm—moving over my shoulders, down my sides and then firmly over my abdomen before pushing upwards between my breasts to begin the cycle all over again.

I realize that the cloth is no longer draped over me, covering me, about the same time that I realize the woman's hands are no longer touching me and haven't been for a while. I register the thought as if I'm merely an observer. My body and mind are too relaxed for me to care.

The man runs his oil slicked hands down my sides again, skimming the sides of my breasts, before concentrating on the soft plane of my stomach. He moves up again, this time running his hands smoothly over my breasts as I arch up slightly. His skillful hands run down my sides again and then over my breasts, and my nipples harden beneath his flattened palms. He kneads and rubs and I feel myself growing wet. I have a growing sense that this is wrong, but caught somewhere beyond rational consciousness, I am powerless to stop him. He continues to knead my breasts with firm practiced strokes and then presses my nipples gently in with his thumbs. I tense up and a deep voice with a familiar gravelly edge to it whispers in my ear, “Relax, Emma, it's just me.”

Beckett. No wonder my body had responded so intuitively to his touch. I am too languid to think any more, so I relax back onto the bed as he continues his erotic massage. Moments pass, or possibly hours, before he finally strokes downward, his slick fingers massaging the innermost part of my thighs and hips before finding and parting my wet folds. He slides one and then another finger inside of me, keeping up the steady even strokes he has so skillfully employed on the rest of my body. His other hand caresses my belly, down to my nearly bare mound, which I had waxed several days ago.

“I like this,” he murmurs, tugging on the trim hairs that form a strip framing my slit.

I groan as he pushes against my pubic bone, forcing me to take his fingers deeper inside of me. He massages my mound with a firm circular motion, his fingers still inside me rhythmically stroking in and out, until the world narrows to the sensation of his fingers working me. When he presses his thumb to my clitoris I explode, my world going white-hot as the sensations engulf my already relaxed mind and body.

I lay there, boneless, until the tremors subside and I become conscious of Beckett's oh so gifted hands still gently massaging my stomach. I pull off the eye mask, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dimly lit room as I seek out Beckett. Our eyes meet and he smiles at me—a slow and sexy smile that makes me glad I'm already lying down because I'm sure my knees would be too weak to support me.

“I've missed you,” he says softly, his lips slanting over mine.

Although the orgasm has taken the edge off my need, his warm hands still stroking my body, coupled with the sight of him looking intense and dangerous, quickly kindles the embers that still burn in my belly. I sit up so I can wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek to the smooth flesh of his bare chest. Mine! I think deliciously. I realize he's wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and the sight of his smooth bare chest and chiseled abs has my mouth watering. I reach to unbutton his jeans.

“I've missed you!” he says huskily, stepping out of his jeans and gathering me to him, his mouth seeking mine again. His tongue tangles with mine in a frenzy of desire, both of us unable to get enough of each other.

“Can we do this in here?” I ask in between kisses.

“I have paid enough for this suite that we can do whatever we want in here,” Beckett growls.

Satisfied, I kiss him hungrily, my hands roaming down his back, over his chest, and down to his manhood. I wrap my hand around him firmly and massage the length of him, making him groan.

“I shouldn't be the only one to get a massage,” I murmur teasingly, my other hand cupping his balls and massaging them firmly. He bites my lower lip and then sucks it, his fingers fisting in my hair. Although I hold his cock and balls in my hands, he somehow still manages to control the situation, his will and domination too powerful to be denied. He lets me work his cock for several minutes before pushing me back onto the massage table, forcing my legs apart as he positions himself between them. Hungry for him, I dig my nails into his buttocks, urging him to give me what I need.

“A little impatient aren't you, Angel?” he asks, his full lips curving up slightly as he positions the thick head of his cock at my wet entrance.

In answer, I thrust my hips up and he obliges me, burying himself inside me in one punishing thrust.

“How do you want it, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice raspy with desire. He strokes in and out of me gently. “Slow and easy like this?”

I shake my head, my hips bucking as I try to increase the pace. Now that I have had a taste of the wild side, slow and easy isn't enough. Maddeningly, he thrusts into me at the same slow pace, as if he has all night. “Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me how you like it,” he goads.

“Hard and rough,” I say. “Use me. Fuck me.”

With a brutal growl he stabs into me, piercing my flesh deliciously with his hard shaft. I groan with satisfaction as he pumps into me forcefully, his hands finding mine and pinning them over my head as I writhe under him, consumed by the burning need to be possessed by him. He gives me what I want, relentlessly pounding into me until I buck violently under him, riding the wave of the orgasm that only he can give me, as he takes what only I can give him—my submission.

“Where do you want to go tonight?” Beckett is sitting in one of the room's upholstered chairs, watching me put on my makeup. Although several hours ago I would have happily curled up in Beckett's arms and gone to sleep, a shower and room service have revived me enough to consider his question.

“I've never been to Las Vegas,” I say. “What are my choices?”

Beckett unfolded his long limbs and comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around me as the towel I have wrapped around me falls to the ground.

“How did you do that?” I say as he nuzzles my neck.

“I'm a doctor,” he said, lifting my hair to trail kisses down the nape of my neck. “I have magic hands.”

I sag against him, as always completely vulnerable to his touch. “You can say that again!” I say.

“We could catch a show.” He presses a kiss behind my ear.

“We could do some gambling.” He nips my earlobe.

“We could explore the strip.” He fists his hand in my hair and pulls my head back, pressing a kiss to my exposed throat.

“Is staying in an option?” I ask, breathless.

“No,” he says, pulling away slightly. “Tonight I want to show you some of Las Vegas.”

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “Let's explore the strip. That way we can come back to the room sooner.”