Play Me (13 page)

Sebastian doesn't say anything disparaging, however. Just parks his top-of-the-line Mercedes between my neighbor's beaten up 1990 Ford Escort and an even more decrepit Chevy that I don't recognize.

“You don't need to walk me in,” I tell him hastily, reaching for the door handle. “I can make it from here.”

He just looks at me, face completely blank as he shuts off the car and climbs out.

Fine. That's what I get for worrying about his car being here—and in one piece—after he walks me to my apartment. He might not be concerned, but that's only because he doesn't know this area. I wonder if I should say something, but judging from the set of his shoulders, it wouldn't matter if I did. He's determined to get me safely to my apartment.

I start to climb out of the car on my own, but he's there before I even get both my feet on the ground. Then he's holding the door for me with one hand, helping me out with the other. I don't need his help, am perfectly capable of climbing out of a car and walking to my apartment by myself. But when his hand—warm and rough and perfect—se​ttles against my lower back, I decide not to make a big deal of it.

Besides, my legs feel a little unsteady, like my muscles can't quite remember how to move without his touch. The feeling should worry me, but I'm too out of it at this point to care. All I want is my bed and a blanket and for Sebastian to curl up next to me.

The fact that that isn't going to happen—that I can't let it happen and he probably wouldn't want it to anyway—sends a wave of despair flowing through me. Which doesn't make sense considering I've never needed a man to coddle me in my life. I try to stiffen my spine, to pull away, but his hand is wrapped around my waist now, pulling my body flush against his side. And even as I know I should fight against it, it feels too good. He feels too good.

“Which one is yours?” he asks, propelling me across the parking lot toward the building. Around us, the street is fairly quiet—if you don't count the girls working the stroll on the corner and the guy dealing out of the parking lot across the street.

“I'm the third one on the second floor.”

Sebastian just nods, but when we get to the staircase, he pauses for a second. Peers at a couple of the apartment doors to the right of us like he expects them to bite him or something.

I try to think of a joke, something to make this place seem not quite as bad as it really is. But before I can come up with anything, he sweeps me into his arms and starts to carry me up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” It's half-screech, half-whisper since the walls are thin here and I don't want to wake my neighbors up. The last thing I need right now is an audience. “Put me down.”

“I will. When we get to your apartment.”

“But, why—”

“You look tired.”

“It's the middle of the night! Of course I'm tired—”

“Then shut up and enjoy the ride.” He looks at me so pointedly that I do shut up. Not because he told me to, but because, suddenly, I can't think of anything else to say.

When we get to my door, he slides me slowly down his body, until we're standing chest to chest, hips to hips. For the first time, I realize that he's hard, his cock pressing against my stomach. An answering excitement starts within me, building on the heat from earlier, when he was touching me in the car. Still, I pull away. I'm not trying to play hard to get, but I don't know how I feel about any of this.

About Sebastian.

About the intensity of the sex we had in his office earlier.

About the way I've felt so odd, so off, since it happened.

Everything feels strange and I don't know what to do. About any of it.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him as I step back and start fumbling for my keys.

He smiles at me, and it's a little dark, a little amused. “I'm coming in, Aria.”

“I don't know if that's really a good idea—”

He takes my keys from me, opens the locks before pushing my door open. “Good idea or not, I'm coming in.”

Sebastian takes my elbow, then moves me gently through the front door before following me and closing it behind us.

“I'm not going to fuck you.” I blurt the words out while we're still standing in the dark.

“I'm not asking you to.” He fumbles at the wall next to the door for a second, then snap. The lamp by the couch turns on.

Now, I'm really confused. “I don't understand.”

“Is your bathroom through here?” he asks, pointing at the bedroom as if we're in a decent-size place instead of my tiny, one bedroom apartment.

“Yes.”

“Good. Come on.” He's still got a grip on my elbow and as he propels me toward the bedroom, I suddenly get an inkling of how Alice must have felt when she fell down that rabbit hole. I'm lost, confused, intrigued. Going forward because going back isn't an option. And neither, it seems, is standing still.

“Take your clothes off,” Sebastian tells me as we skirt my bed on our way to the bathroom.

“I just told you I'm not going to sleep with you again.”

“And I told you I wasn't planning on that anyway.” He flips the light on in the bathroom, then goes immediately to my tub and turns the water on. “You need a bath.”

“Is that your way of saying I stink?” I can't help being insulted, no matter how bizarre the situation is turning out to be.

“No. It's my way of saying you need some aftercare.” Without so much as a glance at me, he grabs some of the bubble bath I keep on the ledge of the tub and pours a capful under the water.

“Aftercare?” The word feels strange and unfamiliar in my mouth.

He does look at me then. “You're still dressed.”

“And you're still taking a hell of a lot of liberties I'm not sure I want to give you.” My voice sounds strong, in control. And like I'm not actually melting at just the thought of immersing myself in the hot water.

“It's a bath not a blow job.” He recaps the bubble bath, then straightens up. Crosses his arms over his chest. And just looks at me. “And I've already seen you naked.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn't mean it's going to happen again.”

He smirks at me, literally
smirks
, the jerk. “Oh, it's going to happen again, Aria. Many, many times—starting with right now. Take your clothes off or I'll do it for you.”

“I've about had it with your threats.” I wrap my arms around myself, squeeze tight. As if resolve alone will keep me from bending to his determination. As if it will keep me from breaking.

“I already told you. I don't make threats.”

“Yeah, well, you can say something a million different times and a million different ways. It doesn't make it true.” I learned that the hard way. “Besides, what if I don't like baths?”

“Would you prefer a shower?” He bends, starts to turn the bathwater off.

It's a simple response but the implications of it are anything but. Not for the first time, I think of how Carlo would have handled this situation. The posturing, the exerting of his authority, the determination to control the situation—and me, no matter what I said.

The more I learn about Sebastian, the more I realize he isn't like that.

And the more I want to give him.

“No.” I finally answer, clearing my throat and looking anywhere but into his too-knowing eyes. “A bath sounds…good.”

Carlo would have gloated, but Sebastian doesn't. He just nods, says, “Okay.”

And then we're just standing there, staring at each other as the seconds tick by. The bathroom is small and the heat from the bathwater is already steaming up the air, making it thick and sultry and just a little hard to breathe. It lends itself to the surreal quality of the moment.

Or maybe that's just the look in Sebastian's eyes when he watches me. I don't know and right now, I'm not sure it matters. Not when the result is the same—me lost and aching, drowning in lust and confusion and a fear I don't want to acknowledge.

Because with Sebastian, for the first time in a very long time, it's not my safety I'm afraid for.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks abruptly, breaking the silence and the tension. “While you get undressed?”

I nod. “Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Call me if you need me.”

“I'm not sick, you know. I'm just—” What? I don't know what to say, what words to use to describe the way I'm feeling. Tired, weak, muddled. But those words don't feel right, either. Don't feel like they're enough.

“You're dropping,” he tells me.

I look down at my hands. I'm not even carrying anything. “I don't—What do you mean?”

“It's called subdrop. And it's my fault. I didn't take care of you after we made love earlier.”

There is so much in those few sentences that my head is spinning. I don't even know where to start taking them apart. I begin with the most obvious—at least to me. “I'm not a submissive.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“You said this was subdrop. It implies, then, that I'm submissive. I'm not.”

“Okay.”

“And I've had sex before. I don't need to be taken care of like some kind of virgin, you know.”

“All women deserve to be taken care of after sex, no matter how many or how few partners they've had.”

It's not just that he says these things that makes my head spin. It's that he so obviously means what he says.

“Are you for real?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You already did.”

He inclines his head. “Touché,” he says teasingly. “Have you had that kind of sex before? The kind of sex we had?”

Suddenly, the way the bubbles whirl and spin in the bathwater becomes intensely interesting. And infinitely easier to look at than his eyes. “Sex is sex,” I tell him with a shrug I'm far from feeling.

“No, it isn't.” He steps forward then, pulls me into his arms. “Not even close.”

“I don't understand.” I start to push against him, to pull away, but he soothes me with a soft hand brushing against my neck. The other one strokes gently down my spine and I relax despite myself.

“I know you don't. That's why you need to trust me for a little while. We'll talk more when you're better.”

“I'm not sick!”

“No, but you went pretty high earlier. Now the endorphins are gone and you're crashing hard.” He pulls back, tips my chin up so that I can't not look in his eyes. “That's the physiology of what's happening to you. Emotionally, there's a lot more going on. And yes,” he continues before I can get out the words that are tripping over themselves on my tongue. “I know you're not a submissive. And yes, we'll talk more about all of this later and I'll answer whatever questions you have. For now, just let me make you feel good. Please.”

It's the please that does it. He's standing there in the middle of my bathroom, looking half GQ, half bad-ass and all gorgeous, and he's asking to take care of me. When I walked out of my father's house, away from my fiancé and the life that had been mapped out for me practically since birth, I swore I wouldn't be any man's plaything ever again. That I wouldn't let any man take care of me.

But, though I've only known him thirty-six hours, I can tell already that Sebastian isn't any man. And all he wants is to make me feel better, more grounded. And maybe it's the subdrop or whatever he called it talking, but right now, I just can't see what's so wrong about that.

So I do what I've wanted to do all along. Since he showed up in the casino. Since he insisted on driving me home. Since, if I'm being honest, I walked out of his office all those hours ago.

I say yes.

Relief sweeps through me when Aria tells me yes. More so, when I look into her eyes and realize she actually means it. I'm not sure yet why it matters so much with her, but it does. I can tell myself that tonight, it's because I feel guilty for leaving her like this, for letting her work herself into this state. But the truth is, I want that yes to mean more than just tonight. So much more. And the fact that it matters this much when I just met her, at a time when my life is fucked up and turned around and in more turmoil than it has been in years, doesn't make any sense.

Or maybe it does. Maybe I want control over her because I feel so out of control myself. And maybe I want to show Aria what true control over herself feels like, because I recognize the same need, the same desperation, in her.

But there's time to think about that later. Time to think about all of this later. Right now, Aria—beautiful and pliant and needy, so needy—is standing in front of me. And she's all I want to concentrate on.

“Come here,” I tell her. And she does, stepping forward the few steps it takes for her to be right in front of me.

Keeping my eyes steady on her dark ones, I bring my hands to her blouse and start unbuttoning the buttons. Slowly. Deliberately.

She doesn't protest and she doesn't look away, even when I slide the soft cotton down her arms and onto the floor. Instead, she helps me, turning her back so that I can unfasten her skirt. Her bra.

I slide them off, too, then catch my fingers in the sides of her panties and tug them down her legs as well. When they reach her ankles, she steps out of them. I toss them to the floor, but not before checking to see if they're wet.

They are, and so is she.

The thought has my dick growing hard all over again, but I ignore my erection. Instead, I kneel next to her and slowly take one shoe off her foot and then the other, then remove her stockings. She's beautiful, so beautiful that it makes me ache a little. Makes me
want
in a way I haven't let myself want in so, so long.

“Sebastian.” Her voice is low, husky. “If you want—”

“Come on,” I interrupt as I push back to my feet. “Let's get you in the tub, sweetheart.”

I hold out my hand and she takes it, looking confused as she lets me help her into the bath. With her in it, the water is nearly to the rim, so I shut off the tap. Then smile at the picture she makes, covered from neck to toe in bubbles. She's got some on her cheeks, the top of her head, even her eyelashes, all of which should look absurd but somehow only makes her look sexier…and more adorable.

Maybe that's why I'm having so much trouble with Aria. Because I don't know where to put her, how to classify her. She's sexy as hell—every movement she makes, every word she speaks, shoots straight to my dick. And her attitude is a total turn-on. How can it not be when she's smart and sassy and doesn't take shit from anyone? Even me. Especially me. Which only makes the sweetness, and the uncertainty, she shows me all the more special. She's feeling her way with me and I get the feeling that that's not a side of herself she shows very many people.

I'd be a liar if I said I didn't like that. If I pretended I didn't like knowing that she's pliant with me in a way she isn't for anybody else. I like that I knock her off-kilter in much the same way she does me.

There's a washcloth on the towel rack next to the bathtub, and I grab it as I sink to my knees. Reaching into the hot water, I get it wet, then squirt body wash onto it. Like the bubble bath, it smells like her. Jasmine and moonlight and crisp, clear desert nights.

“Give me your arm,” I tell her, then wait patiently as Aria stares at me with wide eyes. Eventually, she does as I ask, sticking her bubble covered arm out of the water.

I run the washcloth down her arm, over her hand, between her fingers. I savor the softness of her skin, the rosy glow brought on by the heat. She giggles a little as the washcloth tickles the sensitive skin at the apex of her fingers, and I smile. Do it again. I love hearing her laugh.

When I'm finished with her left arm, I reach for her right one. Do the same thing to it. And then I'm washing her neck, her collarbone, her beautiful breasts.

I'm doing my best to keep her bath soothing, relaxing, but the moment the washcloth touches her breasts, her nipples harden. Unable to resist, I pause for a moment. Run a finger around and around her areola before flicking back and forth across her nipple with my thumb. She gasps, arches into my touch, and I clear the bubbles away so that I can press a few soft kisses to her breasts.

Then I pull back and murmur, “Sit forward.”

Eyes dazed and body clumsy, she does as I ask. I keep an arm wrapped around her front as I wash her shoulders, her back, her ass. Because I'm weak and can't help myself, I run a finger between the soft globes of her ass, press gently against her. And revel in the hitch in her breathing, the soft moan she doesn't try to smother.

For a moment, I think about what it will be like to fuck her there, to press my fingers deep inside her most secret place and open her up. To slide inside her again and again, until she's calling my name with broken breaths. Until she's coming on my dick, my fingers, my tongue, her body clenching rhythmically around me.

Coming and coming and coming.

For a second, the fantasy is so real that I'm shaking with the need to be inside of her. Sweating with it. If I shift her forward just a little, angle that gorgeous ass of hers just a little higher, I can slide a finger straight into her heat. The thought—and my desire to see it through—is nearly paralyzing in its intensity.

But that's not what this is about, not what I want—need—to give Aria right now. So, after a second, I ease her back down against the rear wall of the tub. Instead of fucking her like I so desperately want to do, I soap up the washcloth again. Run it over her sides, across her stomach, down one leg and up the other. Then, when she's moving restlessly and her breath is coming in broken pants, I drop the washcloth on the side of the tub and cup her sex in my hand.

“Sebastian,” she whimpers, arching her hips into my touch.

She's so beautiful like this, beautiful and desperate and so, so hot. There's a part of me that wants to draw this out, to watch her moan and tremble and beg for release. I want to hear her call my name again in that trembling voice, to know that I'm the one she's thinking about when she comes.

But that smacks of possessive​ness, of ownership, and that's not what this is about. Not this moment, not this time.

And so I shove my own tangled instincts and desire down deep inside of myself, at the same time using both hands to spread her knees apart and watching with satisfaction as they fall against the sides of the tub. And then I run my fingers along her slit, once, twice, before slipping three of them inside of her at once.

Aria gasps, whimpers. Suddenly, I'm afraid it's too much and I start to pull out, but she keens wildly, presses her hips up and into my touch. In response, I thrust deeply even as I circle her clit with my thumb.

“It's okay,” I tell her, leaning forward to press soft kisses on her jaw, her neck, her breasts. “I've got you, Aria. Let go. Come for me.”

Just that easily, she shatters, her body clenching onto my fingers in a rhythm that nearly makes me come in my pants like some kid with his first girl.

I hold on, though—barely, desperatel​y—and work her through it, using my fingers and my hand to draw her orgasm out as long as I possibly can.

When it's over, when she's lying in the bath, eyes closed and body limp and I'm one small step from insanity, I grab a small pitcher from the side of the tub and start rinsing her. I concentrate on her, ignoring my own needs, my own body. It's the only way to get through the raging hunger.

As I wash her, Aria doesn't move except when I move her, doesn't make a sound other than the small splashes of her arms and her legs as I lift and then lower them.

When she's clean from the soap, I drain the water, then fill the tub back up halfway so that I can wash her hair. The first reaction I get from her is after I've poured warm water over her head, and am rubbing shampoo into her hair. She moans, presses her head harder against my fingers. I get the message, and rub a little more firmly, giving her the scalp massage she so obviously wants.

Rinsing out the shampoo, I do the same with the conditioner, massaging her scalp and pouring water over her hair until it runs clean.

When I'm done and Aria is little more than a pile of melted goo—exactly as I'd hoped and planned—I let the bathwater out and lift her into my arms. I'm holding her against my chest and the contact is soaking my shirt, but I don't give a damn. Not when it feels this nice to just have her in my arms.

“Can you stand?” I ask after a moment.

“Of course.”

She sounds sated and sleepy and so, so sexy that I have to grit my teeth against the wave of need that swamps me. For a moment, I imagine carrying her through to the bed and just burying my face in her pussy. Eating her out until she screams my name and comes so hard that the endorphins alone will cure her of subdrop once and for all.

But it doesn't work that way—her fall will just be more brutal later if I try to take her up again so soon—so in the end, I settle for reluctantly sliding her to the ground before grabbing the towel from the rack and running it loosely over her body.

I spend the whole time trying not to notice her flushed skin and peaked nipples, her glazed eyes and slick, hot sex. I'm not nearly as successful as I want to be.

Once she's dry, I start on her hair, rubbing it gently as her body practically melts into mine. It's a little shocking how good she feels, how content I feel just because she's pressed up against me. Leaning on me. Letting me take care of her.

“Do you want me to blow it dry?” I ask, once most of the wetness is gone from the soft, short strands.

Her face is against my shoulder, her arms wrapped around my neck, when she shakes her head no.

“All right, then.” I lead her into her bedroom. “Where are your pajamas?”

She stares at me blankly for long seconds, eyes half-closed and body completely pliant against my own. It's like she's actually gone boneless. And that's before she starts to lick at the small drops of sweat rolling down my neck.

Shit! This woman is going to be the death of me. Self-restraint, heart attack, stroke, blue balls. I don't know which is going to end me, but at this point it's a safe bet that one of them will. How the fuck can she already be halfway back into subspace when all I wanted was to cuddle her, to ease the pain of the drop?

“Aria?” I call her name, speaking a little more firmly this time. “I don't want to riffle through all your drawers. Which one do you keep your pajamas in?”

After a moment, her gaze clears a little and she gestures toward the tall chest in the corner. “Second drawer.” Her voice breaks a little.

“Good. Thanks.” I settle her on the bed—she's so out of it I'm afraid she'll fall without my support—and cross quickly to the chest. Then nearly have that stroke when I see the piles of lacy nightgowns in nearly every shade of the rainbow tangled together inside. Reds and pinks and purples. Blacks and turquoises and whites.

So, my Aria is definitely not a pajama kind of girl. It surprises me, is another contradiction that piques my interest and has me dying to know more about her—even as jealousy surges through me at the knowledge. It's stupid and juvenile and demeaning to both of us, but I can't help imagining how they got here. Who gave them to her. And all the things she's done for other men while wearing them.

Furious with myself for being such a useless idiot, I pick out one of the ones lying on top—a violet silk number that's more flirty than overtly sexy. It'll cover all the vital places anyway, which is about all I can hope for at this point. Because I am not going to end up in bed with Aria tonight, no matter how tempting she is. That's not what she needs right now, despite what she might be thinking otherwise.

When I turn around, she's curled up naked on the bed, head on her arm as she watches me with sleepy, satisfied eyes. It's a good look on her, and for a moment I just stand there, watching her. Mouth dry, eyes wide. Frozen with want. Frozen with need.

“You want to sleep, baby?” I ask when my sluggish brain finally remembers how to form words. I cross the room, and after she sits up, I tug the nightgown over her head.

“No. Maybe.” She reaches for my hand then, pulls it against her stomach as she curls around it. “Not yet.”

“All right.” I stroke her cheek with my other hand, pushing her hair back so I can see the slope of her forehead, the curve of her cheek. She all but preens under the attention, turning her head so that she can press a kiss to the center of my palm.

I return the gesture.

It's warm in her apartment, the only air-conditioning a battered window unit that looks like it's on its last legs, so I don't bother trying to get her under the covers. Instead, I pull up the afghan from the end of the bed and drape it over her before sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.

She smiles sleepily at me, curves her body against mine. I don't even try to resist the urge to lean over and kiss her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips.

Aria sighs a little, kisses me back. Her hand creeps up the bed to my thigh, her fingers stroking me through the thin silk of my suit pants. I bite back the instinctive groan, and capture her hand in my own, squeeze it gently.

“Don't you want me to—”

“I'm fine,” I tell her, pressing one more kiss to her mouth before standing up.

She smirks a little, nods at the raging erection I'm making no attempt to hide. “You look a little more—or less—than fine, depending on the perspective.”

“Yeah, well, I'm as close to fine as I'm going to get right now.” Reluctantly, I let go of her hand. “Do you want a cup of tea?”