Uncollared (11 page)

Mia moved experimentally but soon took charge, sliding up his length and grinding her clit against him on the downstroke. Chess watched in fascination as she sought her own enjoyment. A flush rose on her chest, moving up her neck to her face as her features plumped with arousal. Her rosy-brown nipples were swollen and hard, too tempting to ignore.

“That’s right,” he said as he reached for her breasts. “Take your time. Make it good.”

And it was good. Chess could tell from her little moans and sighs as he palmed her breasts and tweaked her nipples. He levered her closer to suck one of those pointy nipples into his mouth. She smelled of powder, and her skin tasted sweet. Sugar tit, he thought.

Her face was rosy and misty with perspiration, her mouth twisted with the need to come. Chess released her nipple and ground his teeth, trying to hold back. His cock ached to explode, his climax so close his vision blurred, but he needed her to come first. He needed to give her this.

“Yes. Come on, baby. Come for me, please.” It was a request, not a command. Mia’s gaze captured his as she bumped her pelvis against his one last time. She stiffened in his arms. Her mouth went slack while her pussy rippled around him and her fingers dug into his flesh. That was all he needed. A few more hard pumps and he was gone with her.

Gone. Too far gone to ever get back.

* * * *

Mia lay in the dark, her eyes wide open. It was early morning—she’d slept all night. Chess lay beside her, the rhythm of his breathing telling her that he was sound asleep. But she couldn’t sleep. Thoughts were twirling like a tornado in her brain.

She’d arrived the night before wanting to be punished, to be mastered by him. And she had been mastered, in a way she never expected. She’d been overpowered not by Chess’s dominance, but by his passion. Last night the two of them had not “played.” They had made love. They were not Top and bottom, or Dom and sub, or Master and slave. They were lovers.

Lovers
was serious. Mia never meant for things get to this point. Yet when she needed someone, she’d called Chess. And he’d been there for her.

But what was she to Chess? Just another play partner? Or a challenge, perhaps, a chance to wipe the stars from the eyes of a BDSM newbie.

She was in trouble. After last night, her feelings for Chess were far more complicated than they should be. She liked him. She cared about him. She cared
for
him.

And she’d called him Master.

She edged out of bed and found her shirt draped over the seat of a chair. As she picked it up and fumbled for the rest of her clothing, Chess spoke. “What are you doing?”

“I need to go home. I’ve got work in a few hours.”

“Take the day off. You’ve been through too much.”

She’d
been through too much? It was Serina who’d been through too much, Serina and her little boy. “I can’t.” The office would be in mourning, overwhelmed with sorrow and disbelief. They’d all need one another’s support. “I should be there.”

He turned on the bedside lamp, and Mia squinched her eyelids in the brightness. Chess sat up in bed, the comforter bunched around his waist. Mia couldn’t look at his naked chest, his broad shoulders, without wanting to climb back into his bed and burrow against his warmth to feel safe.

Now that the room was lit, she spotted her bra and panties and scooped them up. Plain old cotton—she hadn’t dressed to impress last night, hadn’t even thought of it. She’d come to him because she needed his help.

And he
had
helped her.

“Mia.” His voice stopped her in the midst of scrambling haphazardly into her clothes. “Come here.”

Damn
. The authoritative timbre of his voice made her want to melt. She was on the verge of making a complete fool of herself because all she wanted to do was fling herself at him and beg him to never let go.

Didn’t you learn anything from the fiasco with Philip? You were too needy, Mia, too clingy. A pesky burr he only wanted to shake off.

Slowly she walked to the edge of the bed where he sat completely unembarrassed by his nudity. Even mussed from sleep, heavy lidded and whisker stubbled, he could steal a woman’s breath. Mia set her jaw. Her mouth watered to lick every inch of his exposed skin.

“Right here,” he told her, widening his legs and indicating that Mia should stand between them. As she did, he then gestured for her to go down on her knees. She obeyed, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

Chess looked down at her face, caressed her cheek with his hand. Then he bent down and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers. Making a point.

When he pulled back, he said, “You know everything’s changed now. For both of us.”

She gazed at him, trembling with excitement and fear.

“I’m your Master now. You’re mine.”

She nodded, unable to break his stare.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I’m yours.”

He kissed her again, this time hungrily. Then he broke away and frowned. “Finish dressing. I’ll take you to your car.”

He was as good as his word. They dressed and took the elevator down to the street. “My car’s right there at the end of the block.”

When they reached it, Chess opened the door for her. She slid onto the driver’s seat, and he reached across her to fasten her seat belt. When he’d adjusted it to his satisfaction, he spoke.

“Call me when you get home from work tonight.”

CHESS LINGERED AT the curb, watching Mia’s car disappear from view and hating himself. He was the world’s biggest bastard. If he was any kind of a man, he’d let Mia go before things went any further. But he wouldn’t do that, because he was a selfish prick. He wanted her, even though he knew their relationship couldn’t last. How could it? He had nothing to offer her.

His business was on the verge of collapse, his properties under water, and the way things were going, he’d soon be homeless. Living in his car, if he was lucky enough to keep the car.

But he’d hold on for as long as he could, because he needed more of Mia. Needed her to kneel for him, to gaze up at him with her beautiful brown eyes. Needed to touch her soft, sweet-smelling skin.

And in the end he’d break her heart. Let her go without ever telling her the truth. He was a drowning man. He couldn’t drag Mia down with him.

She called him after work, as he’d commanded. She told him of the oppressive gloom that Serina’s murder had on everyone in the office. How they all carried on as they were supposed to, though numbed with grief. How everyone seemed to move in slow motion. How her coworkers suddenly stopped whispering when she walked into the break room, how their eyes filled with sympathy. No-nonsense Ronni, who knew Mia best, had even taken her aside for a talking-to. No one blamed Mia for what happened. But deep down, she still held herself partly responsible.

Chess listened silently as she unburdened herself. When she ran out of steam, he said, “Mia, listen to me. Your friend’s right. Serina never told you she was afraid of her boyfriend. Never said he threatened her. You had no way of knowing what might happen. Ronni told you that, and now I’ve told you. So I want you to put it out of your mind now. And I want you here in thirty minutes. Understand?”

Though her body responded with a crackle of desire, her brain protested. “I’m pretty tired. I thought I’d just—”

“No. You’re not staying home to brood. You have thirty minutes. And don’t make me repeat myself.”

A sigh left her. She was glad, just for tonight, to let him make the decision for her. “Yes, Sir.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.”

Her voice lowered, thrumming with the need that suddenly spiked through her. “Yes, Master.”

“That’s better.” His own voice was the rumble of a lazy, contented lion.

When Mia arrived at his place, she was greeted by Bailey and the delicious aromas of tomatoes and garlic. After giving the dog a hello noogie, she followed her nose into the kitchen. Chess was standing at the stove. He grinned at her and checked his watch. “Three minutes to spare. Very good.”

She blushed. “Something smells good. What are you making, Sir?”

He turned toward her in a chef’s apron spattered with tomato sauce. “Let’s not be formal now. And I’m fixing pasta à la Francesco.” He tossed a pinch of salt into the bubbling sauce with a flourish.

“Are you cooking it or wearing it?” she joked.

He gave her a mock frown. “Disrespectful wench. Give you an inch, and you take a mile.”

Mia peeked around his shoulder at the pot. “Pasta Francesco, hmm? Is it a family recipe?”

“No, just a fancy name for spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Can I help? Meatballs are my specialty.”

At his assent, she washed her hands at the sink, then plunged them up to the wrists in the bowl of ground meat and spices. “Ahhh…” She squooshed it all together with her fingers. “This is great therapy. A great way to work out all your tension.”

Bailey, who’d been trailing Mia, nosed her leg. His expression said
don’t you want to feed a hungry puppy?
“Nope. Sorry, guy. This is not for dogs.”

Chess took him by the collar. “Let me put him in the bedroom, or he’ll be pestering us all through dinner.”

She pummeled the meat mixture until he returned. “I’ll start making the meatballs. Have you got a platter I can put them on?”

“Put them on that baking sheet there, and I’ll slide them right into the oven.”

Mia looked at him in horror. “You want to bake them? Are you out of your mind? That’s not how you do meatballs!” She shook her head pityingly. “But how would you know? You’re not Italian.”

His eyebrows lowered. “Excuse me, I
am
Italian. On my mother’s side! How the hell do you think I got stuck with
Francesco
?”

She looked at him coolly. “So you’re half Italian?”

“That’s right,” he said, puffing out his chest.

“Well, it’s the wrong half, because you don’t know how to make meatballs.”

He looked torn between amusement and irritation. “Really? Well, how
do
you make them?”

“You fry them,” Mia informed him in a superior tone. “In olive oil, so they get nice and browned on the outside. Then you put them in with the tomatoes and let them simmer.”

“You cook them in the sauce?”

“Yes, but it’s not sauce.” She smirked. “It’s
gravy
.”

He scowled but found a large pan for Mia. He watched her fry the meatballs in batches and carefully drop them into the hot sauce. Gravy.

Mia wiped up the grease and tomato spatters from the stove and tried not to look too smug as Chess regarded her, his arms folded across his chest. “You’re very adept at that.”

Mia lifted a shoulder. “Well, my grandma Carlino wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Your grandma?”

“I learned to cook watching her. And when I was old enough, helping her.” Mia smiled as she remembered. “She lived with us until I turned twelve.”

“What happened then?”

Her smile fell away. “She died. She looked after us while my mom worked. My mother’s an ER nurse. She pulled double shifts, extra shifts, whenever she could to take care of four kids.”

“And your father?”

“He was out of the picture long ago.” Mia rinsed the dishcloth in the sink so Chess couldn’t see her face. She barely knew her father. After one too many arguments, her mother announced one day that Daddy wouldn’t be living with them anymore. Mia saw him only a handful of times after that. He might as well have been abducted by aliens for all the contact he’d had with his children.

Chess continued to probe, gently but insistently. “Who picked up the slack after your grandmother died?”

“I did. I’m the oldest. It was my responsibility.” Mia wrung out the dishcloth and turned to him.

“It’s a pretty big responsibility for a twelve-year-old.” He looked at her not with pity, but admiration.

“Well, a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do,” she answered in a terrible John Wayne impression.

Chess shook his head. “Not a woman. A girl.”

Mia shrugged.

“So you cooked and took care of your brothers and sisters—”

“One brother, two sisters.”

“
Brother
and sisters. And you’re still taking care of people, aren’t you? In your job.”

Mia hadn’t thought of it that way before. “Maybe.”

“Let’s sit,” he said, gesturing to the tall seats at the breakfast bar. He brought a bottle of wine and two glasses, and poured some for both of them.

“Well,” she said after taking a sip. “You got my life story. What’s yours?”

“Nothing very exciting. Only child. Groomed by my dad to join the family business.”

He spoke as if by rote. Was he dissatisfied with the path laid out for him by his family? “Your father founded the business?”

“My grandfather. My father built it up, and then I came along…”

He took a swallow of wine as an awkward silence fell. “Well, you’ve done very well for yourself,” Mia said, gesturing around the impressive kitchen with its stainless-steel appliances and massive granite countertops.

“Oh, sure.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

“Were you named for your father?” He’d questioned her, so turnabout was only fair.

He smiled. “Well, in a way. He was Francis X.”

“Francis Xavier Ryan? My God, that’s Irish!”

“You bet. I told you my mother was Italian, didn’t I? So Francis became Francesco.”

“Well, your parents must be very proud of you.”

“They’re both gone now. But I hope they would be.” His expression was troubled. He suddenly stood, and his tone turned jaunty. “Let’s get that pasta cooked! The water must be boiling now.”

Mia hopped up. “What can I do?”

He grinned at her, an eyebrow lifted. “Did Grandma Carlino ever teach you how to toss a salad?”

“Oh, please.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Child’s play.”

“All the stuff’s in the fridge. The dressing’s right inside the door.”

“
Bottled
dressing?” Mia’s tone resembled that of a snooty dowager. “I think not.”