CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BOX ARRIVED ON Saturday morning. Ivy was reading the news on the GBRTV iPad app, listening to Adele, and was on about her fifth cup of tea when the knock came.
Her heart leaped.
Rafe?
Ridiculous.
He’d been very quiet since their lunch the day before. He hadn’t asked her to his apartment, and she hadn’t offered. She might crave him bodily, but she was in control of her cravings and whatever they were.
She padded to the door, cinching her robe more tightly around her waist as she pulled it inwards.
“Miss Hennessey? Sign here, please.” The delivery man held a white box towards her, and Ivy took it, juggling it on her hip as she ran the stylus across the electronic pad.
“Thanks,” she murmured, kicking the door shut with the heel of her foot and moving back down the hallway. She pulled at the ribbon as she went, because she was impatient. She recognised Rafe’s scrawl across the front of the box and curiosity was chewing through her. She placed it on the table to finish, pushing the lid off and separating the tissue paper with mounting fascination.
A card was on top of black gauze.
Wear this tonight. Only this. And bring the rest. 8pm. And Ivy, you will be staying over because you’ll be too exhausted to move.
So far as romance went, it was non-existent. Good.
She frowned, pulling the black fabric out and gasping as a seriously skimpy and sexy negligee emerged. It was all transparent black lace, and she could tell just by looking at it that it would only just cover her bottom.
Mmm, she thought. Perhaps.
She bit down on her lip as she reached back into the box and her fingers gripped something cold and hard.
She lifted it and froze.
Handcuffs.
And not flimsy novelty ones, either. These were hardcore, impossible to break free of, police-grade cuffs. She pulled at them with a sense of growing awareness, and then stuffed them back in the box. They made a sound as they chinked against something else.
Something metallic.
Her frown deepened as she reached in and now two little clothes pegs came out, with gem-stones dangling from either end. Strange. What could they be for?
Wishing Lisette was there to ask, and also incredibly relieved she wasn’t, Ivy stuffed it all back into the box and carried it hastily up to her room. The Thames glistened beyond her little dormer window – the window Steve had used to love to look out of. She barely saw it. Her heart was thrilling.
Did he expect her to balk at whatever kinky night he had planned?
Ivy grinned.
Far from it. She couldn’t wait…
*
She stood at his door, so excited she could burst. The negligee was on, and she’d worn nothing else, just a beige trench coat she’d borrowed from Lisette and a pair of stilettos. The handcuffs and pegs were in a beaded black clutch she’d brought.
Adrenalin pumped in her veins as the ocean at high tide.
He wrenched the door inwards, his eyes dropped instantly to her coat.
She stepped into the apartment and, before he could untether it, she did so, pushing it apart and letting it drop to the ground. She stood before him in a dress that made her more visible than if she were naked. The intricate swirls of the fabric drew attention to her breasts in a way that was impossible not to stare at.
“Even better on.” The words were hoarse. He circled his finger in the air and she spun, sexy, womanly confidence making her emboldened to strut through his apartment a little way, then spin and move back to him.
“Stop,” he commanded. “Did you bring the other things?”
“Yeah. What are these pegs?” She murmured, reaching into her clutch and pulling them out.
“Oh, they’re not pegs.” He took them from her and, before she could fathom what was about to happen, he clipped them over her nipples. They worked a little like the old-fashioned clip-on earrings Nanny Anderson had worn, that Ivy had occasionally tried on. For a few minutes they were fine, but the longer she’d kept them in place, the more the pain had become an actual thing. She was guessing these worked on the same principal.
“Seriously?” She asked, her eyes meeting his.
For a second something in his expression shifted, softened, and then he was back. The tycoon she’d first met. That she occasionally forgot he was, because he became, simply Rafe to her.
“How can you run a major online news app and not know what nipples clamps are?”
“I guess our x-rated news buy is down,” she retorted, spurred to defensiveness by the implied condescension in his question.
“This looks fantastic on you,” he said, his voice gravelled and deep as he swerved the conversation away.
She swallowed. “It feels kind of amazing.”
His eyes narrowed and then he grabbed her hand and pulled her, with urgency, through his apartment, to a room she’d never been in before. A bedroom, with a door that led to the outdoor area.
“Why don’t you use this as your room?” She asked. It was larger than his, and beautifully decorated.
“I prefer the other.”
She turned around to ask him why, but he was undressing, slowly, deliberately, his eyes on hers. And words and thought flew from her mind.
She stared at him and her nipples, already pinched and throbbing, strained, erect and squashed by the metal.
“This feels strange,” she said, lifting her fingers to the jewels.
“Leave them,” he growled, then, softened. “Unless they are painful.”
“I think it’s good pain,” she whispered, her eyes huge.
“You’ll know if it’s not.”
She blinked her lashes. “And then I’ve got permission to remove them?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Of course.” He was naked, and so beautiful she stared at his body hungrily. “You’ll tell me if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”
She nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. “I don’t think that’s likely.”
He nodded, a muscle jerking in his jaw. She felt a sense of hesitation in him, and she wanted to overcome it. “I want you,” she muttered. God, it was so much more than that. She needed him. Badly. Desperately. As he walked towards her, she dropped her hand to her feminine heart, her fingers lifting the negligee so that she could touch her throbbing tangle of nerves.
He stopped walking and stared, his body immovable, his expression taut as she threw her head back, her eyes focussing on the ceiling.
“Cristo,” he swore, and he closed the distance, lifting her hand, and kissing her fingers, then slipping one into his mouth. Her knees buckled and he caught her around the waist, holding her tight to him. The feeling of his mouth around her finger, knowing he was tasting her essence, was almost too erotic to bear.
He drew her with him, towards the bed, but once they reached it, he turned her around to face the bedhead and gripped her wrists. He clipped a handcuff around her wrist, and then tethered it past a bedpost, then clipped her other wrist to it. She was imprisoned.
“I hope you have the keys,” she joked, but her voice was strained, her brow dotted with perspiration.
He didn’t answer. He moved to stand behind her and bent her forward from the hips, so that her head was level with the mattress, but several feet away.
His fingers on her hips were firm. She gasped as he pushed the negligee up, and she bit down on her lip, impatience making her groan. She stepped her feet apart, wider, and rolled her back, wanting him to take her, the waiting almost killing her.
Her breasts were tingling with pleasure and an intense discomfort that only built the sensations of need. “Please,” she whispered, a husk of sound.
He ran his hands over her back, along the lace of the negligee, and at her shoulders, he dug his fingers into her muscles, massaging her in a way that made her hips tremble and her thighs ache. “God,” she groaned, arching her neck backwards. His fingers caught her hair and he pulled on it. Not hard, but enough to make her body throb.
He kept one hand in her hair while the other ran down to her clitoris and he padded his thumb over the sensitive, exposed nerve cluster.
She swore, tilting her head forward and he laughed, a husky sound of acknowledgement, but still he didn’t speak. His fingers dropped from her hair suddenly and came to her breasts. He flicked one of the nipple clamps, and she cried out. But it was a beautiful sensation. Hot and dark; exactly like him. Combined with the heat he was stirring at her heart, she was a puddle of need.
He dragged his hand outwards, running along her upper thigh, then her hip, and coming to the sensitive flesh between the swell of her buttocks.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, and she nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” His hand curved around her buttocks, and she moaned, every part of her alive and jerking and almost insane with need.
“I just do,” she groaned, low and slow, the words a tremor in her throat.
“Good.” And he thrust into her, without warning, yet her slick, moist core immediately answered, tightening around him, squeezing him, welcoming him back.
She needed him in a way she doubted she’d ever forget.
Every movement was a mark of his possession. His supremacy over her; his domination. She couldn’t admit it to him, and she could barely admit it to herself. Except in moments like this, when his body filled hers and she knew she would do anything, say anything, give him anything to keep feeling this way.
His hands crept to the clamps and he jerked them off. The relief was almost a pain. Then, his fingers began to move over her nipples and she groaned as the sensations overwhelmed her.
Her orgasm was more intense than she knew possible. Fireworks exploded in her breasts; her entire body vibrated with the strength of it. She grabbed the bed post and held on for dear life as the feelings soared her into the heavens. And he didn’t stop moving, even as her world was cracking apart. She sobbed – a cry thick with pleasure.
He stilled.
“You are in pain?”
“No,” she screamed into the darkness of the bedroom. “Don’t stop.”
His expression was grim but he took her and he made her his in a way he’d been wanting to do since first they met. He owned her body, and they both knew it.
His own release was close, but he wasn’t finished yet. He fumbled for the keys and unclipped one of her wrists.
“On the bed.” He hadn’t meant to sound so gruff. The word was a dark command and yet she sent him a look of complete sex-struck adoration as she scrambled onto the bed in the negligee that had seemed like such a great damned idea at the time.
She was panting, hard, her cheeks pink and eyes glazed, but he didn’t give her a moment to recover. His wrists took hers and lifted them above her head, so that he could fasten her hands once more, this time behind the slatted bed head.
“How are you feeling?” He asked, his eyes dragging over her body.
“I’m floating,” she said softly.
“And we’ve just begun.”
A tremor of excitement ran rampant in her gut. “Really?”
He thrust into her in answer and she cried out, her body quivering in response. He grabbed the negligee and dragged it up her body, slowly, tantalisingly, and at her breasts, he made sure to let the fabric strain across her pink, swollen nipples.
She arched her back, moaning loudly. Still he dragged it higher, until it had brushed her nose. Then, he stopped, leaving it thick and bunched across her eyes and arms, so that she was as blind as the night was dark.
“Feel this,” he commanded, and now he moved inside of her, watching as she sucked in a deep breath, her teeth sinking down on those beautiful lips, and he brought his mouth down onto her sensitised, throbbing nipples, rolling his tongue over them and lashing her with every single fibre of his being. She was shivering beneath him, her body unused to these sensations. Hell, that went both ways.
She was an angel in his bed. A heaven-sent delight. Perfect for him in every way.
No, just sexually, he reminded himself, dragging his hands down her body.
She whimpered, and he smiled, then paused.
He was close. So close. And he wanted to savour this.
He pulled out of her, his body heaving in complaint. He ignored it. When he finally came, it would be worth the wait.
He dragged his mouth from one breast to the other, and she begged him to take her again, rolling her body from side to side and pulling her arms hard as she tried to reach for him. He pressed a hard kiss against her mouth and then dragged his lips down the centre line of her stomach, between the valley of her neat breasts, the indent of her belly button, and lower still.
She cried out, loud and sharp, when his tongue found her most sensitive cluster of nerves and his lips moved over it, sucking and licking until she was murmuring over and over. He felt her come, he tasted it, and he knew he could become addicted to doing that to her. The sense of power was ruling his head, his heart, and God knew, his cock.
He thrust a finger deep inside of her, and her muscles were still vibrating from the explosion.
“How do you feel?” He asked, though he could feel her heart rabbiting beneath him, her pulse rushing like a tornado.
“I’m dying,” she groaned. “I didn’t know it could be like this.”
Ego and pride swelled in his chest. Good. He wanted to give her what no one else had.
He reached for her wrists and undid the cuffs once more. She pulled the negligee off instantly then looped her arms around his neck, her eyes meeting his without a hint of concern.
“I like this,” she promised, as though she understood he’d pushed a barrier he wasn’t sure she’d wanted pushed. “I had no idea this was out there. These feelings. My body. It’s like I’m alive for the first time in my life.”
And she lifted up on her elbows, her mouth seeking his, kissing away any doubts that he was dominating her own sexual needs with his own.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, inviting him in. He pushed away, standing to the side of the bed, staring down at her, and then reaching for her and lifting her over his shoulder.
She squawked noisily. “I can walk.” Then, she laughed. “Or maybe not. My legs are like jelly.”
His smile was instinctive. He carried her not because he thought he needed to, but because he wasn’t willing to relinquish any connection with her. Not even for a moment. The door that led to the deck was unlocked. He strode onto the enormous balcony.
“Someone will see us,” she whispered.
“No,” he smiled. “We are higher than anyone.”
Looking around, she could see that he was right. “Still. It’s London. Someone must be watching. Somehow.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to just be reckless?” He asked, and before she could respond, he manoeuvred her onto his length. The last semi-cohesive thought Ivy had before sensations drowned out her mind was that she adored being a caveman’s quarry.
And he was the quintessential caveman. In this mindset, he was pure alpha male, Me Tarzan. You Jane.
He pushed her back against the wall. It was lightly textured and the sensation on her back was a new addition to her sensual thrall. But after several movements she shook her head.
“Wait. Stop.”
He did. Instantly. And somewhere in the back of her mind she couldn’t help but admire his restraint.
“This wall is like sandpaper on my back,” she husked, a smile on her lips.
He laughed, but it was a sound tortured by sensation and need. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you should be. I’m having a terrible time.” She rolled her eyes and then looked around the deck. “Can you sit on that chair? I want to be on top.”
He arched a brow, and something new clicked inside of him.
When was the last time he’d been with a woman who’d known what she wanted? Who’d wanted to be in control, to give pleasure as well as receive?
His hands held her planted on his length as he walked the short distance to the chair and she kissed him, her own need to be as connected as possible innately familiar to him because it was how he felt.
She was slight and fine, but her weight around his waist was determined and she pushed up and down, guiding her body and guiding him, too, taking him where she needed him, her head rolled back as sensual instincts took over.
And there, with the night sky wrapping around them, stars and cloud overhead, the lights of the city as the background to their lustful passion, he watched her climax and finally let himself go, driving himself into her, every single nerve ending of his arousal responding to her spasms and reflexes.
Her breath was a stain in the air. A fast, hoarse sound that became almost like music as it carried to his ears. He held her tight, her beautiful body so perfectly moulded to his, and he listened to her heart, even as it turned away from him. It beat so fast, in time with his, and yet she was holding it all to herself.
She had made that point very clear.
“Are you hungry?” Rafe asked the question with no sign that he’d been as affected by what they’d just shared as she had. He sounded…normal. Ivy blinked, her brain sluggish, her body exhausted.
She shook her head. She wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t thirsty, she was busy just existing. His lovemaking had layered a new level of exhaustion over her body, wrapping her up in foggy tiredness. The strength of emotion she’d experienced had been new and difficult and she hadn’t been prepared for it.
She’d wanted to prove him wrong.
To stand up and stride out of his apartment whenever it suited her. But her arms and legs were heavy. Her body completely numb.
She couldn’t see him, but Ivy knew he was smiling. And she could just imagine it – a know-it-all look of powerful charisma.
“I should get going,” she said, with no intention of doing any such thing.
“Really?” He lay back into the chair, his eyes lodging with hers. “If that’s what you want.”
Her mouth dropped and outrage was quickly usurped by self-doubt. He wanted her to go?
She blinked away, looking up towards the stars as a sickening sense of not being wanted deluged the power and glorious rightness of the moment.
“I’d prefer you to stay,” he murmured, as if simply understanding what she needed, and her gaze slid back to his. “But I’m not a man to beg and I’ve already done a hell of a lot of that with you.”
She shook her head, and stood. Her legs were like dough. She could hardly control them. Shaking, weak, heavy and aching from exertion.
He watched her beautiful, stubborn face, her chin tilted defiantly even as her eyes were so heavy she could hardly keep them open and he made a throaty noise of impatience.
“For God’s sake, Ivy. Just stay the damned night. I’m not asking you to marry me. It’s a bed. A place to sleep.”
Her eyes flexed open to their fullest diameter and he stood, the knot of frustration in his gut thickening. It was as he lifted her and held her against his chest, her body limp and her eyes finally sweeping closed, that he realised he’d never spent this much time with any one woman in his life.
His longest relationship tended to be a couple of nights. Sure, he returned to the same grounds – he had slept with the same women several times, over several years. But they were all brief, singular events.
This was the closest he’d had to an actual relationship, and it was with a woman even less suited to commitment than he was.
That had to be worth a medal – two such determined loners having found one another and realising they were kind of addicted to that need?
Of all the cruel ironies…
He lay her down on the bed, and her breathing was even and soft. He listened for a moment, even the sound of her sleeping a turn on he couldn’t explain, and then he left.
He didn’t trust himself not to touch her, and she needed a rest for now.
He had all night.
And he planned to make the most of it.
*
Ivy was swimming. No. That wasn’t right. She was in the shower?
Wrong again.
She blinked her eyes open, into the darkness of her bedroom.
No, not her bedroom. She was somewhere else. Somewhere different.
Rafe.
Memories of the night were tiny shards of glass drifting back towards her, none of them fitting tightly together, but forming an overall picture that was blinding for its clarity and bright white heat.
More water.
Not water.
She blinked and her eyes came into focus. Rafe was above her, and in his hands, he held a glass of champagne, which he was dipping his finger into and dribbling over her naked chest.
Her smile was slow and languid. Should she object? Because she didn’t.
“Aren’t you that man who drove me out of my mind just now?”
His smile was answering and her heart flipped over. “Not just now. Hours ago,” he corrected, straddling her and bringing the champagne to his mouth. He took a large gulp and then dropped his mouth to hers, pushing the drink into her so that she swallowed it and him.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “Like I’m not already a little bit drunk on sex.”
His laugh tickled her heart. “I like you drunk on sex. I want to keep you that way.”
And he was inside her again, and she was lost, cresting on a wave, high on an ocean that was somewhere, out there, nowhere she’d been before, no familiar landmarks of her life, just him, her, and this swelling of feeling.
*
She must have slept again, because she woke.
And he was there beside her. Beautiful man-beast, sleeping, peaceful, and still somehow, savage.
She propped up on an elbow.
Her body silently complained. Every single muscle had been pushed into service.
It was breaking every rule she’d made, and she was pretty sure it was the last thing he’d want, but she wriggled across the enormous bed, and pushed his arm aside, so that his body was open to her, and she lay down beside him, her head on his chest, her curves matched to his.
And she slept, with him.
The whole night through.