Pleasure Point-nook (10 page)

“Yes. I feel as if I can’t…do this until I get it all laid out on the table. Before
I lose the courage to do it.”

He squeezed her hand as he led her to the big living room, where the scattered lights
of the island’s grounds lay like a scant sea of amber jewels against the twilit sky.

They sat down on one of the thick fur rugs in front of the window, the light outside
the only illumination. But it was enough to see the soft gleam of her blue eyes, the
fall of her hair that looked like golden silk, making him want to touch it. He leaned
against the sofa, and she curled her legs under her, doing the same.

“Talk to me, Miranda. Talk to me about those strange, quiet moments you had after
you lost him.”

She shook her head and at first he thought he’d asked too much. Then her shoulders
dropped and she raised her gaze to his.

“Trying to recover from being widowed is sort of like having one stunted, malformed
epiphany after another. Like…you think you’ve discovered something important as you
recognize each level of grief, only to find out it was total crap. That all it comes
down to—in those first months, anyway—is that gaping wound where your heart used to
be and nothing makes sense. Nothing is going to for a very long time. And
that’s
the epiphany. That you’ve been abandoned and your whole existence sort of sucks,
end of story.”

He nodded, his heart aching for her. For what he himself had lost. “There’s this entire
language—no, that’s not right. Maybe it’s more like a vocabulary—for those of us who
have experienced loss. Other people can’t understand. They don’t have any idea of
how to talk about it. How to think about it. Oh, they can be sympathetic…”

He remembered his sister’s face, his mother’s, at Kerri’s funeral. They’d tried, he
supposed. But there was all that British stiff upper lip crap in his family, which
he’d come to find out really
was
crap when someone died and nothing ever truly was dealt with.

“Right,” Miranda said. “But they won’t really understand the strange things I just
said to you. Yet I see that you do.”

“Loss changes us. Forever.” He took her hand, stroked his fingertips over the pad
of her thumb, the soft, fleshy part of her palm. “But Miranda, it doesn’t have to
change us as a whole, which I’ve only just realized. It changes pieces—that’s unavoidable.
But the rest we have some choice over.”

There was a sheen of tears in her eyes when she asked, “Do we? How?”

“You made the decision to come to work on the island. How is this—how we handle our
lives outside of the loss—any different?”

“I don’t know. It’s always felt like the same thing. Like one enormous ball of…sadness.
But I guess I can’t…I’m choosing not to live inside that ball, as of now. Not to make
it the totality of my existence. Is that what we’re both trying to figure out?”

He smiled at her. “Exactly.”

“Roan? Your wife died when? It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

“It’s been ten years.”

“And you think you’re just now figuring things out?”

He ran a hand over his jaw, realized he’d forgotten to shave. “I think I’ve been very
good at keeping it all under control. But control does not mean I’ve really moved
forward.”

“God, that’s the story of my life.”

They were both quiet for several long moments, absorbing the context of the conversation.
He’d started this discussion because of some wild, driving need. But now he saw how
badly it had needed to happen in practical terms.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it, how control is so key in any kink dynamic, whether from
the top or the bottom? The difference is that for me, I must maintain control, and
you must let it all go.”

Miranda bit her lip. “Roan, isn’t there a time when you get to let it all go, too?
Because kinky or not, we’re both still human. And control is the device we hide behind.”
She stopped for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m making presumptions.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re absolutely right. And we’re not in role now. We’re
simply talking.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you. For being willing to do this with me.”

“Thank
you
. For making me see that I still have a few things to work out.”

She didn’t say anything, just watched him as he lost himself in her big, blue eyes.
As he leaned in to kiss her. He pressed his lips to hers, feeling the texture, reveling
in it, before her tongue traced his lower lip. With a groan he grabbed her face in
his hands, holding her as he took the kiss deeper, as he lowered his hands and put
his arms around her body, holding her tight. She went right with it, her body forming
to his. She fit perfectly.

He pressed her down onto the soft fur and loosened the belt of the robe she wore,
untucked his towel and laid his body over hers. Pure fucking heaven, just the feel
of her naked skin, her soft, panting breath. He watched her lovely face, and even
as he held her down, his hands firm on her hip, her shoulder, it was less about anything
kinky and more about who they were together at that moment.

Fuck.

Had he ever had this? Had it simply been so long he’d forgotten how?

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he murmured.

She blinked up at him, smiled a little, making him smile. Then he kissed her—he had
to—and her whole body rose to press against his, her full breasts crushed against
his chest. And for the first time in too many years, all felt right with the world.

Miranda loved the feel of his big body against hers—she couldn’t get enough. There
was something slowly unfolding in her chest, the sensation building all through their
conversation. But it was the physicality of him—his touch, his closeness, his scent—that
brought it all home, that made her
feel
it in a way she couldn’t have escaped if she’d tried.

She didn’t want to try.

His mouth on hers was so warm. He kissed her over and over, long, lingering kisses
that were a hard press of his lips against hers, a small release, then pressing again.
And each kiss seemed to come harder and harder, to have more behind it. More desire.
More emotion.

When he pulled back his eyes were blazing, a simmering green fire. He watched her
as he used his fingertips to press into the pressure points beneath her collarbones,
waited for her to gasp in pain, then moved to a new spot on the top of her breast.

“Oh!”

The pain was sharp, dizzying. The pleasure was just as keen. Her sex went hot. Wet.
Needy.

He moved his hand down and pressed briefly—painfully—into the outside of her thigh,
then slipped to her inner thigh, and she took in a deep breath, knowing how much it
would hurt.

“Good girl,”

Pain and pleasure trembled through her body, like an electric current all over her
skin, deep inside her. Her thighs opened wider without her even thinking about it.
His hand moved lower, in between her thighs, stroking her wet slit.

“Ah, God, Roan.”

“Fuck. Need a condom,” he muttered.

Before she had time to think about it he’d slipped her out of the robe, lifted her
and carried her to his bedroom. She had a quick glance at the space—it was open, airy,
everything in shades of cool gray and white with the moon and the clouds casting light
and shadow everywhere. He laid her down on the big bed and leaned over her to pull
a condom from somewhere next to the bed. She didn’t care. All she knew was she needed
him inside her as quickly as possible.

She licked her lips as she he knelt over her on the bed and smoothed the latex over
his gorgeous, swollen cock. Her mind was emptying out, desire filling her up—her body,
her brain. All she could think was a single word.

Yes
.

As he slid into her they both gasped, their arms wrapping around each other. And as
he began to surge into her, each stroke a devastating tidal wave of pure pleasure,
she began to come almost instantly. So sharply all she could do was shiver and dig
her nails into his strong shoulders, the only solid ground she could find.

Roan.

Even his name in her mind was like some glorious, searing heat.

“Ah, Christ, Miranda. You feel like…everything. Ah, God…”

Soon he was coming with her, his climax melding with hers, sweat pouring, bodies clenching,
pleasure a dizzying height she never wanted to come down from.

When it was over he stayed inside her for some indeterminable time. She only knew
it felt too soon when he slipped from her to remove the condom. He pulled her into
his arms, silently stroking her skin. She ran her hands over his body, savoring every
muscular plane, stopping to stroke his nipples with her fingertips. Loving that he
was allowing her to explore him. She leaned up and took one hard, flat nipple into
her mouth, tasting the salt of his skin. Of their pleasure. When he groaned she sucked
harder. And in moments, it seemed, his cock was hardening once more, nudging her belly,
and she reached down to stroke it. So big in her hand.

“Roan…” she whispered, need choking her.

“Yes. Again, beauty.”

Once more he sheathed himself. Then he sat up on his knees, pulling her body to his
so she was straddling his lap. He lifted her. Impaled her.

“Roan!”

They began to move together, her hips meeting his while he helped to lift her, moving
her up and down on his cock. In the half dark she could see his face, torn with pleasure.
When he reached between them to tease her hard clit her climax rolled through her
again. She cried out, buried her head in his neck, bit into the flesh there while
he groaned her name.

“Miranda… Miranda…”

His hips moved harder, faster, his free hand digging into her hip. So strong, hurting
her. She craved the pain. Craved the pleasure. Didn’t matter as long as it was him.

Impossible.

He came in a torrent of heat inside her, a guttural groan deep in his throat as he
threw his head back and cried into the night. And she loved that she had brought him
this keen pleasure. It was all she wanted to do at that moment.

To make him happy. To love him.

Love him.

Impossible.

Three days.

Her heart raced. But he drew her tighter into his arms and kissed her and she couldn’t
think of a good reason to be afraid.

She was safe with him.

She loved him.

Impossible.

He kissed her harder and she stopped thinking.

They stayed in bed for two days. The sex was amazing—she’d never been so turned on
by a man in her entire life. And he played her, a master at his craft of torturing
her body with pleasure, with pain. He used the pressure points, which he seemed to
be expert at, and which she loved. He spanked her, pinched her, bit into her flesh,
leaving teeth marks and tiny bruises all over her. When she was alone in the bathroom
she admired her marks—they gave her surges of joy and a sense of
belonging
. Had she really forgotten what that was like?

In between the play and the sex they talked—about their travels, food they loved,
about the psychology of kink, and found they shared common views on nearly everything.
They watched movies together, old black-and-white film noir pieces, another taste
they had in common. They had meals brought in and left in the kitchen so they never
had to see another person the entire time. She felt as if they were in some sort of
lush, sensual cocoon, just the two of them and the wonderful food and the even better
sex and breathtaking kink play. And when they slept they curled around each other,
their bodies fitting like pieces of a puzzle.

She lay in bed on their fifth day together, watching the sun rise through the sheer,
floating curtains on the big windows in his bedroom, a room she had come to know intimately.
She waited for him to wake up, happy to simply be in his presence, curled up against
his warm body. She’d come to know that intimately, too—every beautifully formed muscle,
every inch of his tanned skin, the way his dark beard grew in overnight. She loved
the scratchiness of it as much as she loved the softness of his lips. The hardness
of his clever, punishing hands.

She loved him.

That hadn’t gone away. It had grown, if anything, day by day, hour by hour. She didn’t
allow herself to wonder at it too much, afraid she would jinx things. And there was
the fact that she had no idea how strong his feelings for her ran, or if they would
continue once their week was up. The idea of asking him what would happen at the end
of their allotted time together was too impossible to approach.

“Hey.” His voice was rough with sleep. His jaw was rough with the lovely morning scruff.

“Hey.”

“Have you been up long?”

“A little while.”

He wrapped his fingers up in her hair and gripped it hard. “And what have you been
doing?”

She smiled. “Being content.”

He pulled her on top of him and she felt the solid ridge of his cock against her belly.
“I’ll show you content my beauty,” he growled.

“Yes, please.”

“Dirty girl,” he said, obviously pleased with her answer.

“Yes I am. But you like it.”

“I do. But I’m a little too dirty. Into the shower, wench.”

“But I like the bed. I’m comfortable.”

“Too damn bad.”

He sat up, twisting her arms behind her back as he put her on her feet, marching her
into the bathroom, making her laugh. He swatted her bottom good-naturedly and her
head went down into subspace immediately. Floating already, she smiled to herself
as he turned the water on, moving her into the enormous marble shower. The water came
from every direction, from jets on every wall as well as the rainfall showerhead above.
This shower was one of the great decadent pleasures in life. She would miss it.

Her heart hammered.