Fearless (34 page)

“Yes,” I say breathlessly.

Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a blindfold, which he places over my eyes.

“Don't you think this is a little unnecessary?” I complain, pouting.

“Kidnapping is kidnapping,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “And girls who pout get spankings.”

“Oh,” I squeak. “Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise,” he says. “No more questions or I swear I will gag you too.”

“But then you will miss my scintillating conversation,” I say sweetly, earning me a swat on the bottom followed by a searing, hungry kiss.

He carefully leads me out to the car and I fervently hope none of my neighbors are watching. He helps me into the car, intentionally brushing his fingers across my breasts as he buckles the seatbelt across me. Deprived of my sight, I lose track of time as we drive with the erotically haunting voice of Lana Del Ray filling the car. It could have been minutes or hours when the car stops.

“Where are we?” I ask excitedly. Too late, I remember his threat. “I'm sorry,” I say penitently. “I forgot.”

He sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I don't know. What are you going to do with me?” I ask curiously.

I hear his deep chuckle as his hand finds mine. Content, I realize how much I love this man.

Beckett removes the blindfold, and I'm surprised to see we're at a small airstrip. I look at Beckett questioningly. He shakes his head with a small smile, leaning over to kiss me. He helps me out of the car, holding my hand firmly in his as we walk across the tarmac to a small jet.

“Are we flying somewhere?” I ask incredulously.

He nods his assent, helping me onto the plane.

“Want to ride in the cockpit with me?” he asks, his eyes dancing.

“You're a pilot?” I ask, stunned.

“I got my pilot's license about twenty years ago,” he says as he buckles me into the seat next to him and begins checking the controls. “Griffin picked up this plane for next to nothing a few years ago, so I get a fly a lot more now.”

I watch with delight as the ground disappears beneath us, ultimately replaced by the sparkling blue ocean. A couple of hours later we're landing on a small airstrip in a grassy field on what appears to be an island, surrounded by lush vegetation with the clear blue waters of the Caribbean in the distance.

Beckett helps me out of the plane and we walk along a cleared path that winds through the lush jungle, finally emerging in a clearing on the beach in front of the most beautiful beach house I have ever seen. Facing the ocean, it rises three stories over the stilts it's built on, reaching toward the sky. There are covered porches on each level, and the walls that face the ocean are all glass.

“It's beautiful,” I breathe. “Is it ours for the weekend?”

“It's mine,” he says.

I look at him incredulously. “Yours, yours? As in, you own it?”

“I saw how happy you were at the beach in San Diego. I want you to have the ocean and sand at your disposal whenever you want it.”

“That's ridiculous. And the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” I say as tears inexplicably well up in my eyes.

He brushes them away and kisses me softly. “It will be our retreat from the world,” he says seriously. “My brothers and I bought this island a few years ago, and I recently had the house built for you. I wanted to surprise you. Do you want to go in or are you planning to just admire it from the beach all night?”

Laughing I say, “I definitely want to go in!”

Lacing his fingers with mine, we walk inside. The inside is just as beautiful as the outside, with a full gourmet kitchen, a bathroom, and an open living room decorated in shades of blue on the first floor and two smaller bedrooms and a cozy TV room on the second floor.

“This is amazing,” I say, stunned that this is his and that he built a whole house just for me simply because I love the beach.

He leads me up to the third floor which is completely taken up by a master bedroom decorated like an exotic harem and a positively sinful bathroom with a jetted tub and a walk-in marble shower with multiple shower heads at different levels. I can't wait to try it out with him. A French door leads out to a small deck where two chaises face the ocean, and I can picture the two of us sitting out there together while the waves crash against the shore, mysterious and timeless.

He shows me the walk-in closet which contains an assortment of summer dresses, skirts, shirts, and shoes, all in my size, plus slacks, shorts, and shirts for him.

“I took the liberty of buying you a few things,” he says casually. “I particularly enjoyed buying the lingerie.”

I glance at him sideways and say, “When you told me not to pack anything I thought you were making good on your threat to keep me naked all weekend.”

“Just because I bought you clothes doesn't mean you're going to wear them a lot,” he says seductively, and my pulse races a little faster.

Wandering over to the dresser, I pull open a drawer filled with lace and satin panties, bras and teddies. Another holds several very tiny looking bikinis, and another an assortment of toys I recognize from the adult store plus a few that I don't.

“Oh,” I say, shutting the drawer quickly and turning bright red.

His eyes glint with sensuous promise as he says, “I fully intend to make good use of everything in that drawer.”

My stomach drops to my toes, but I say teasingly, “Promises, promises….”

The next thing I know I am flat against the wall, his hard body pressed against mine, his hands in my hair as his mouth ruthlessly demands what's his. My lips feel gloriously bruised from his sweet assault when he pulls away.

“I like you like this,” I whisper.

“How's that?” he asks, staring at me intently.

“Possessive and demanding and so attuned to me that you know what I need and aren't afraid to give it to me.” I look down, unable to meet his gaze. “You've been treating me like I'm breakable.”

“Look at me!” he says harshly, and I raise my eyes to meet his. “I almost lost you. I just want to take care of you.”

I roll my eyes. “I love that you want to take care of me,” I say. “But sometimes taking care of me means being rough instead of gentle.” His eyes blaze at my words. “Besides, I'm taking Krav Maga so you don't have to worry. No one's ever going to be able to take advantage of me again.”

“Is that right?” he says. His eyes are dancing with amusement now.

“What?” I say indignantly. “I took my first class this morning. Come on, try to grab me.”

“Alright,” he says. Moving swiftly, he grabs me from behind, locking his arms around me in a bear hug. Remembering what I learned in class, I drop my weight and stomp down on his feet while throwing my elbow up, catching him in the jaw. He lets go with a grunt.

Spinning around, I look at him horrified. “Oh my gosh! Are you okay? I didn't expect that to work so well.”

Although he's rubbing his jaw, his eyes are glowing with an intensity that is so carnal it makes everything below my waist tighten reflexively. He's turned on by me fighting him! I plant my feet and give him my best “bring it on” look.

“Then again, maybe you're just losing your edge,” I say tauntingly.

He lunges and I dodge him, just like I practiced earlier with Desiree. I'm surprised I learned so much in one class. He stalks me in an erotic game of cat and mouse. Unfortunately, I seem to be the mouse. I ready myself, crouching as he comes at me and I block him.

“Not bad,” he says. He waits a beat and then adds, “For a girl.”

Incensed, I launch myself at him, and with lightning swiftness he has me pressed up against the wall, my wrists pinned behind me with one of his hands and the other on my throat. We are both breathing hard and I can feel the moisture pool between my legs. He tsks at me. “You've got to keep your head in the game,” he admonishes.

“Maybe you haven't lost your edge after all,” I concede.

His fingers tighten slightly around my throat and I know he can feel me swallow hard beneath his hand. “I can assure you, Emmaline, that while I think you're many things, including frustrating, opinionated, independent, intelligent, beautiful, and sexy as hell, breakable is not one of them. And I guarantee that by the end of this weekend you will know I will never lose my edge with you.”

I'm going to die of happiness.

“I want you naked,” he says raspingly, his fingers finding the button on my shorts. Slowly he peels my clothes away the same way he has peeled away the layers of my control, inhibitions, and fear, until I am bared before him.

“I will never get tired of the sight of you naked,” he says reverently. “Stand still,” he commands.

I stand motionless, eyes lowered, as his eyes slide over me, followed by his hand. He strokes over the curve of my hip, stopping to trace the small Mayan glyph tattoo just above my hip bone.

“My fearless girl,” he murmurs. I close my eyes, remembering how he'd handed me the small hand drawn version of the symbol he'd once drawn on my stomach the second week we were in San Diego.

“What's this?” I'd asked.

“It's a tattoo design. If you want it.”

I had looked at him questioningly. “I thought you were opposed to tattoos.”

“I am,” he'd said. “When I first drew this on your stomach, I knew you had an amazing strength and passion, even though you didn't see it in yourself. Yet every day, in everything you did, you proved your bravery—in the way you handled Camille at the gala, the way you transformed my father's story into something beautiful and real and tangible, the way you fought Gavin, the way you gave yourself wholeheartedly to me, even when you were afraid. You have endured the storm. You deserve the badge of your hard won freedom.”

He'd gone with me to get it, and I love the outward brand that defines me and what I stand for. I am, finally, fearless.

Now I watch as he drops to his knees and presses his lips to the sensitive skin which has finally healed. The stubble from his cheek scrapes against my stomach erotically, and I rest my hands on his head, never tiring of the feel of his soft hair between my fingers.

Looking up at me he says, “Remember the collar you wore the night you came to the club?”

We have talked about everything that happened that night except that, and I'm kind of okay with that. “Beckett, don't,” I say.

“I told you that a sub wears a collar as symbol of belonging, heart and soul, to the man she gives herself to. It was a hard limit for you, yet you wore one for me that night. Why?”

I try to move away but he stops me, his grip on my hips unyielding.

“Tell me,” he demands softly. “Please.”

“Because I do belong to you heart and soul,” I say with a sigh.

“Will you give yourself to me now and forever?” he asks softly, pulling out the most beautiful diamond ring I have ever seen. Set in platinum, the diamond is an emerald cut and at least two carats surrounded by a band of smaller diamonds. “It's not your typical collar, but I think it will do.” I stare at it, speechless, as I try to process what he's asking me.

“Dammit, Emma,” Beckett growls. “If you don't say yes soon I'm going to make you come so many times you'll say yes just to make me stop.”

That shocks me out of my surprised stupor. “Yes!” I say, throwing my arms around him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

He slips the ring on my finger and then stands, scooping me into his arms. Smiling wickedly, his eyes hot with desire, he says, “On second thought, I may do that anyway.”

Three orgasms later, all of which I shamelessly begged for, I'm sore and swollen but my body still craves the pleasure that only he can give. My desire for him burns like a meteor on a trajectory through a limitless sky.

“One more time, Angel,” he whispers, and I am powerless to stop him. Like my heart, my body is his.

He moves inside me, turning my blood to liquid fire as the orgasm rolls through me. It is sacred and profane, beautiful in a way I could never have imagined. His eyes focus on mine, tender and filled with love.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

“You,” I whisper. “Always you.”

 

 

 

 

 

I'm just about to shut my computer off and leave the office when the phone rings. I glance at caller ID and sigh. It's my mom. Not that I don't want to talk to her; we actually have a pretty good relationship now that I live two thousand miles away. But it's Friday, my thirtieth birthday, and I have plans tonight. If I can ever get out of here, that is. Taking a deep breath, I pick up the phone.

“Hi, mom,” I say brightly.

“Milena! I'm so glad I caught you still at the office.” I can hear the faint hint of my mother's Russian accent, despite the fact that she's lived in the States for thirty years.

“Of course you caught me,” I say with a sigh. “I'm a lawyer. I live here.”

“I know,” my mom says cheerfully. “That's why I sent the flowers there. Did they arrive?”

I look at the gorgeous arrangement of orchids that arrived earlier this afternoon. My mother hadn't even hinted at the fact that she and my dad were sending me flowers when she called early this morning to wish me a happy birthday.

“They're beautiful!” I say sincerely. “I'm sorry I didn't call to thank you when they arrived. I was caught in a meeting until a few minutes ago. But,” I tease, “if you learned to text, I could have texted you during the meeting.” My sister and I are constantly trying to get her to join the twenty-first century, but so far she has resisted our attempts to teach her to text, tweet, or get a Facebook account.