Living in Sin (Living In…) (15 page)

“Is this another game, sweetheart?” he demanded. “Another tactic to get me to do what you want?”

A hot, green spark glinted in her eyes. “Why do you think I’m playing games with you every time I try and get close? All I want is some honesty, Kahu. That’s all I want.”

“I was honest with you. I told you all about—”

“That’s shit. You gave me a collection of facts about your life. That’s not honesty.”

He could feel his pulse getting out of control. Fuck, this whole situation was getting out of control. He should be letting her go, letting her walk. But he couldn’t seem to do it. Couldn’t seem to stand back and let her go.

She was warm and smelled of flowers and musk and he wanted her arms around him. He wanted her to touch him like he wasn’t dirty or broken. He wanted her so badly.

“I didn’t promise you honesty.” He couldn’t keep the edge of desperation from his voice. “We’re not in love, darling. We’re fucking. For one night and one night only. That’s all it is. And you don’t need honesty for that.”

But the look on her face was unyielding. “Yeah, well, you may not need it. But I think I do. You told me you’d be my friend, Kahu. And friends are honest with each other.”

“How would you know? You told me you don’t have any friends.” The harsh words spilled out helplessly. Even now he couldn’t seem to give her what she wanted. Even now when all he wanted to do was pull her close, something else seemed determined to keep her away.

Hurt filled her eyes, her chin jutting. “I thought I had you, at least. Guess not.” She gave him a little shove. “Let me go. I need to get out of here.”

Prick. You fucking prick.

Yeah, he was a prick. He was dirty and broken and all of that shit. And he knew he should move, let her leave. But he didn’t.

“You’re right,” he said hoarsely. “I am angry with Anita. I wanted her to love me but she never did. She sent me away instead, giving me this fucking club as some sort of consolation prize. Payment for services rendered.”

Lily said nothing but she didn’t take her gaze from his.

“And when I came back to Auckland, I went every Thursday to read to her. So she would know that I came back for her. That I didn’t leave her. That I was still here no matter what she said.” The anger rose up inside him, bitter and frustrated, burning like acid. “I thought I was worth something to her. I thought that when she took me into her home, into her life, when she gave me all these things, that it was because I was worth it. But you know what? I wasn’t worth shit to her. I was still just a fucking rent boy.” He was shaking again. How bloody ridiculous.

Lily didn’t move and she didn’t touch him, and he wanted her to so much. She only looked at him, with that sharp, perceptive stare. And the words kept coming.

“She gave me all this stuff I didn’t even want. Art tours and opera and literature. Jesus, to a street kid from South Auckland it was almost inconceivable. And she never asked me if I wanted it or not, she just did it. I was her project, that’s all I was. I was being remade into who she thought I should be, not what I was.”

“And who is that?” she asked quietly.

He went still, staring down into her finely carved, delicate face. Who he was? Well, fuck, that was easy, wasn’t it? He was a poor, uneducated Maori boy, trying to help his family. A kid with no job and no prospects. Who’d whored himself out for money.

“Nobody,” he said, his voice fraying and coarse as old linen. “I was nobody.”

Something fierce crossed her face. “No. You’re not nobody, Kahu.” And at last she reached up her hand and touched his face. Her cool fingers so light, as if she was touching his soul and didn’t want to break it. “You’re somebody. You’re somebody amazing.”

It hurt, that touch. And all he was able to manage was a couple of moments, even though he wanted it with all of his being. But he couldn’t afford it. She
would
break him and he couldn’t break. Couldn’t hand over that final piece of himself. He didn’t have a lot of it left after Anita.

Crap. You kept that piece from Anita too.

He ignored the snide thought, taking Lily’s wrist in his fingers and gently pulling it away. Then, still gentle, he lifted her wrist beside her head and pinned it to the door behind her. She did nothing, motionless as he did the same with her other hand, his finger imprisoning her, holding her there.

He bent his head, brushed her mouth with his, inhaling her scent, feeling the slender, tensile strength of her body against him. “I don’t want to talk anymore, ballerina. All I want is one more time with you. Please. Give that to me.”

Her wrists flexed against his imprisoning fingers and he heard the breath catch in her throat. “Only on one condition.”

He let his mouth trail down her throat, tasting the salt on her skin. If he closed his eyes, he could lose himself in her and right at this particular point in time, he couldn’t think of anything better. “What?”

“You let me touch you the way I want to.”

Slowly, he lifted his head. Her skin had flushed, her eyes glittering with the same passion that was burning in him. But her determination was just as strong. She’d leave if he didn’t give her what she wanted, no doubt about that.

So what? Let her go. You can find someone else.

Yeah, he could. Downstairs, in the club right now he would find many women he could bury himself inside of. A brief meaningless encounter that would relieve this nagging ache.

An encounter that wouldn’t touch either of them.

But he was beginning to think that perhaps he wanted to be touched. Needed a connection that was real, that was genuine. Where there were no walls. Only themselves.

And he didn’t want that with just anyone. He wanted that with Lily. Lily, who now held more of him than anyone ever had. Even more than Anita.

Brave, stubborn, surprising, vulnerable Lily.

Kahu let her wrists go and stepped back. Her eyes widened and he felt a brief surge of satisfaction that he hadn’t lost the power to surprise her in return. “Touch me then,” he said.

A flush tinged her cheeks. Unhooking the satchel from around her narrow shoulders, she dropped it on the floor. Then she took a couple of steps, closing the distance he’d put between them.

He made himself stand motionless, waiting for her. His skin was still damp but he wasn’t cold. No, he was hot. Ready to burn.

She stepped right up to him and put her hands on his chest and even that small touch was like a match to paper, setting him alight. Her gaze was on his chest, following the movements of her hands as she stroked him. Collarbones, chest, abs. Light, tantalizing touches. Her searching fingers found the ink on his skin, tracing it. “Where did this come from? It’s beautiful.”

He had to take a breath and close his hands into fists to stop them from reaching for her, stripping her of her clothes and thrusting into her, anything so this ache would stop.

“I got it after I left Anita. To remind myself of where I came from. Not the gangs and shit, deeper than that. My mother’s people.” Another piece of himself he didn’t have to give away to anyone. A piece of himself that remained permanently inked into his skin.

Her fingers followed the swirling lines. “See?” she murmured. “You are someone.”

His throat closed up, and more than anything he wanted to pull her hands away from him. But he didn’t. He closed his fists tighter instead.

“What about this?” She lifted the piece of greenstone on his chest, examining it.

“Anita gave it to me when I left.”
When she kicked you out.
“Greenstone can only be given, not bought.”

“Yeah, so I heard. What does the fishhook mean?”

“It’s…supposed to be a symbol of being a provider. A hunter.”

She let it fall back onto his chest, the weight of it suddenly heavy. “You kept it.”

“You can’t give those kinds of gifts away or sell them.” No matter how angry you were. No matter how heartbroken.

Sure you were heartbroken. Or maybe you were only angry?

“No, I guess you can’t.” Her fingers moved lower, over his abs again, down even farther, and when her fingers brushed the head of his cock, the breath hissed in his throat. An impossible touch.

She looked up at him, a crease between her brows. And for some reason that slightly quizzical look combined with the tantalizing circling of her fingers around the head of his dick made him feel suddenly, utterly desperate.

“Lily.” Her name sounded almost strangled and he couldn’t stop it. “Please.”

“I want to give you something.” Her fingers circled again. “Something that’s for you.”

“Just keep doing that and I’ll be extremely fucking happy.”

The crease deepened. “No, that’s not it.” Her hands dropped and she stepped back from him abruptly. He almost groaned, almost reached to drag her back.

“Wait here,” she said and walked past him toward the bedroom.

Wait here? What the fuck?

He turned around and a couple of seconds later she was coming back, this time carrying something in her hands.

The flogger.

His heart went still. Everything in the entire world went still.

“You said you wanted to use this on me,” she said and held it out to him. “But you haven’t yet, not really.”

He didn’t take it, not immediately, looking at her face instead. Her expression was full of that fierce determination and resolution that was part of her nature. “Lily…I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“I know. Well, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I wanted to give you something. So I’m going to give you this.”

“Lily—”

“Well? Do you want it or not?” She shook her hand at him, the leather ends of the flogger swinging. “You understand, right? I’m trusting you. You told me it would be good and you’ve already shown me that pain doesn’t have to be bad. So I’m trusting you to keep your word. To make it good for me.”

He didn’t know what to say. No one had ever given him this. He’d always been on the receiving end when it came to some of the sexual games clients played, and as for his other lovers, none of them had ever put themselves in his hands so completely.

Certainly Anita had never done so. For all her liberalism, she’d been quite a conservative lover and he’d always had the feeling that was his fault. She’d never let go with him, not once.

You can’t take this. You can’t have her.

But she was looking at him with so much of that fierce determination in her eyes. And naked need. And hope. A combination even more arousing and intense than the softness of her touch.

He knew what it was like to have that kind of gift thrown back in your face. He couldn’t refuse this.

Slowly, he reached out and took the flogger from her, the handle cool against his palm. “Are you sure you want this, ballerina? It will hurt.”

She just looked at him, measuring and far too sharp. “Are you sure you want to give this to me?”

He couldn’t give her back anything but the truth. “No, not really.”

“Then that makes two of us.” Her chin lifted. “So where do you want me?”

You’re really going to do this?

Yeah, it seemed he was. And the prospect of showing her how good this could be, of how intensely he could make her feel, was already making the anticipation gather tight inside him.

His grip firmed on the handle of the flogger. “Over the arm of the couch, I think.”

She did as she was told, walking over to the couch and positioning herself over one arm, her body curving gracefully. Slowly, he followed her, waiting until she was ready, her hands braced on the couch cushions. She wore her black lace dress and there was something appropriate about it, about how she was dressed while he was the one naked.

He certainly felt naked, though it had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything and more to do with the raw sensation building in his gut. A combination of desire, need and fear. And especially the last, he couldn’t work out. Because he was the one in control, the one with the power.

Yet looking at her bent over the couch, waiting for the lash to fall, trusting him to make it good for her, made him feel afraid. Stripped him completely bare.

It was the most exposing thing he’d ever had to do, and yet he wasn’t able to walk away.

Instead he put down the flogger so he could ease up her dress, reveal the pale length of her legs, the curve of her ass. Then he tugged down her panties, pushing them down her thighs and as he did so, he could feel her tremble.

His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. Gently, he ran his hands over her buttocks, stroking her, calming her. “It’s okay,” he murmured, the feel of her skin beneath his palms like warm silk. “You have your word, remember? You can say it whenever you want.”

“I know.” Her voice was muffled.

He let his fingers trail down the backs of her thighs, sliding his fingertips between them, brushing the soft folds of her pussy, her breath catching audibly as he did so. He began to play with her, circling around the entrance to her body before sliding a finger into her heat, testing her. She was damp, but not quite wet enough for him yet. He wanted her aroused and panting on the edge before he brought pain into the mix.

She gave a soft sigh as he caressed her, but her body was tense. Not what he wanted. He sank to his knees behind her, stroking up and down her thighs. “Legs apart for me, ballerina.”

She widened her stance obediently and he slid his hands up her legs so he could grip her hips, tugging her back a little so she was bent forward even more. Then he reached up and parted the folds of her pussy, opening her up like a flower and tasting her.

Lily gasped and he could feel the nervous tension start to bleed out of her, to be replaced by a different kind. He pushed his tongue inside of her at the same time as he slid a hand forward, finding and stroking the hard bud of her clit. Timing the push of his tongue with the touch of his finger. She made another, choked sound.

He closed his eyes, every sense he had focused on the salty, tart taste of her, the delicate musky scent of sex, the feel of her body, all wet flesh and tight, grasping heat. Her thighs had begun to tremble, her moans ragged. She began pushing back against him, demanding more.