Invitation to Pleasure: Open Invitation, Book 2 (5 page)

 
    
“Why didn’t you?”

 
    
She understood exactly what he meant. Why
hadn’t she touched herself when he asked her to? “I’m a little tired, I guess.
A long day.”

 
    
She felt him smile against her cheek.

 
    
“Poor baby. Let me have the pleasure of
doing the work.”

 
    
And work he did, nudging her knees apart,
filling her with two fingers, then drawing out to worry the hard bead of her
clitoris again. Back and forth, from her clit to her pussy, then farther still
to that sensitive spot of flesh just before her anus. He pressed. She dug her
nails into his thighs.

 
    
Slick, hot, and unbearably close to orgasm,
she hung on to her last vestige of control. His gaze was dark and fathomless.
Unreadable. Almost detached. He was so obviously directing, trying to bend her
to his will rather than giving in to her feminine power.

 
    
She couldn’t let go as she had last night
by herself. Instead, she took the orgasm, closed her eyes to savor the purely
physical explosion from the bud of her clitoris out to her extremities, but she
trapped the primal scream in her throat.

 
    
Stacy had been right. There were depths to
Brett she hadn’t dreamed existed. Yet she had to figure out what it all meant
to her careful arrangements before she succumbed to temptation.

* * * * *

 
    
He’d given her all the gentle reassurance
and acceptance he could, yet she hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t even cried out.
But she’d marked his thighs with the half-moon slices of her nails.

 
    
Brett figured it was a start.

 
    
Virginia shifted in the bed beside him and
settled once more. She fell into an endearingly soft snore he could barely hear
over his own breath. They’d taken a shower, then tumbled into bed. He’d thought
about making love to her again, there against the tile wall of the shower. He’d
thought about it and decided against it. She needed time to assimilate the
changes she sensed in him.

 
    
He could have taken the direct approach and
told her he’d found those envelopes in her purse, that he’d been curious enough
to spend a rather extraordinary amount of money to secure his own invitation
just to see what she was up to.

 
    
He was neither a jealous nor a possessive
man. God forbid, he’d had enough of that from his ex-wife. He’d meant it
tonight when he’d told Virginia she had the freedom to indulge herself in any
way she wished. He didn’t own Virginia or her body. His offer, therefore,
didn’t preclude finding pleasure by another man’s hand, though he had to
acknowledge that stab of relief at the club when he realized Virginia wasn’t
meeting a lover. Her party of one was far more to his liking.

 
    
He could have told her all that. Maybe he
should have.

 
    
But somehow he knew that wouldn’t release
her passions any more than his fingers buried deep in her pussy had made her
scream. Her teeth had sunk into her lip just as her inner muscles clamped
around him. Trapping everything inside.

 
    
Three marriages had somehow made her
fearful of releasing her sexuality. Even with him. Exactly why hadn’t come out
in their discussions. He knew she’d married too quickly, allowing herself to be
blinded by lust or some such thing, but he hadn’t asked for details just as he
hadn’t offered the embarrassing minutiae of his own breakup. But he wanted that
feeling he’d discovered at The Sex Club. He’d been on the edge, full of
combustible needs. And he wanted her to feel the very same thing. Maybe the
excitement of the place had been an integral part of Virginia’s experience.

 
    
Maybe he’d tried too hard, concentrating on
making her scream instead of just going with the flow. Delving beneath her
serene facade would take something more than his simple command to indulge
herself. It would take a slow, steady onslaught of overwhelming sensual
encounters until she realized he meant exactly what he said.

 
    
“They don’t go with your furniture.”
Virginia crossed her arms and studied the china figurines she’d unwrapped.

 
    
Brett mimicked her stance. “They look
fine.”

 
    
Black-lacquered coffee and end tables
enhanced Brett’s camel-colored leather sofa and chairs. Which fit well with his
state-of-the-art entertainment center. “They’re too...frilly.”

 
    
“I like the contrast. The feminine versus
the masculine. Yin and yang, you know.”

 
    
She made a face at him. “They don’t work in
here.”

 
    
“Then we’ll buy new furniture.”

 
    
“You can’t buy all new furniture to match
my knickknacks.”

 
    
“They’re probably worth more than the
furniture.”

 
    
He was right. Her parents had collected the
figurines over years, and many of them were antiques. A few china pieces were
the only reminders she had left of them now. Within a year of each other, her
mother had succumbed to cancer and her father to a heart attack when Virginia
was in her twenties.

 
    
Brett bumped her hip with his. “Which do
you like best?”

 
    
“The ballerina.”

 
    
He fingered the delicate figure on point.
“Why this one?”

 
    
“My father gave my mom the pair on her
fiftieth birthday. You should have seen her face.” Remembering her mother’s
happy tears, Virginia smiled. “The tutu’s made of real lace dipped in
porcelain. They just don’t make things like that these days.”

 
    
Brett looked in the now-empty box she’d had
all the figurines packed in. “Where’s the other ballerina? You said it was a
pair.”

 
    
Damn. She hadn’t even realized she’d said
that. And instead of a good memory, it gave rise to a bad one that still had
the ability to start a slow-burning anger in her belly.

 
    
“It was stolen.” She started shuffling all
the wrapping paper back in the box, her movements crisp and irritated.

 
    
“That’s too bad. Did they steal anything
else?”

 
    
She sighed and kept throwing the papers in
the box. “All right, it wasn’t stolen per se. My third husband sold it.” Trying
to hide his stock market losses, he’d taken it without her knowledge. As if she
wouldn’t notice. Bastard. He would have disposed of more if she hadn’t seen the
ballerina was missing. In an already floundering marriage, that was the last
straw.

 
    
Brett stilled her hand. “I’m sorry.”

 
    
She had the feeling he understood exactly
what had happened. Though they’d discussed their breakups, they’d done so in
more general terms, not specifics. Virginia hadn’t believed in going into the
whole he-did-this-and-then-he-did-that routine.

 
    
Brett crumpled a piece of wrapping and
threw it in the box. “Was the tutu dipped in lace, too?”

 
    
She looked at him, wrinkling her brow at
the odd question. “Yes. But it was blue, and the ballerina was doing a
pirouette.”

 
    
“Well, I’m sorry it’s gone.” He tipped her
chin. “Nothing else will go missing. And they all belong in this room. Okay?”

 
    
She felt her tension ease. What’s done is
done. She’d divorced the bastard, and this time she’d married a different kind
of man. An extraordinarily considerate man. She’d taken the week off after the
wedding to move, putting things she didn’t need in storage, including most of
her furniture. She didn’t have much she couldn’t part with, most of it being
new since the divorce three years ago. She treated a divorce as a beginning,
getting rid of the old and bringing in the new, furniture included. Still,
she’d keep it in storage until she and Brett settled in. They might want to
switch a few things out later.

 
    
Brett had been good about letting her
rearrange his condo to fit what she brought with her. Mainly her home office
equipment. And her figurines.

 
    
“You’re sweet,” she said with a smile.

 
    
“Yeah. That’s what they all tell me.”

 
    
“I mean it.”

 
    
Her belongings were just part of it. Brett
had been great about everything. His usual workday was seven to seven, but this
week he’d come home early to help her. He’d taken Friday off to clean the
apartment with her, and he hadn’t once suggested they hire a service, which he
could well have afforded.

 
    
She had to clean up her own mess, as if
doing so set her new marriage on a different path than her previous ones.

 
    
Brett had indulged her.

 
    
Which made her think of their wedding
night.
Indulge yourself.
Today was
the one-week anniversary, and Brett planned something special. A surprise, he’d
told her this morning.

 
    
“Is that the last of your boxes?”

 
    
She nodded, pretending to still consider
the proper placement of the figurines.

 
    
They hadn’t made love in the week since
their wedding night, which was par for the course in their relationship. He
hadn’t mentioned indulgence again. It was as if the whole conversation and
everything they’d done out on the terrace had never happened. She’d managed to
convince herself that she’d imagined the similarities between what he’d done
and her escapade at the club. He didn’t know. He would have said something by
now, a week later, if he had. She hadn’t brought it up either, just as she
hadn’t asked exactly what he meant by
indulgence
.

 
    
Before they’d married, she hadn’t given
much thought to Brett’s extracurricular activities. She’d figured what she
didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She wasn’t in love with him, he wasn’t in love
with her. If he needed a little excitement outside the marriage, what did it
matter as long as he didn’t flaunt it in front of their acquaintances and
friends? That was the problem. The humiliation factor, everyone knowing your
personal business. Been there, done that.

 
    
“Earth to Virginia?”

 
    
She popped back to the here and now.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about moving the lady in the chair over there and
the ballerina here.”

 
    
His mouth quirked as if he knew that wasn’t
even close to her thoughts. “I said it’s time for you to get ready for our
evening out.”

 
    
She glanced at her watch. It was after
seven. “Oh. Sure. Where are we going?”

 
    
He wagged a finger in her face. “It’s a
surprise.”

 
    
“At least tell me whether it’s casual or
dressy.”

 
    
“I’ll lay out your clothes for you while
you’re showering.”

 
    
Hmm, this was interesting. She felt a flash
of heat between her legs thinking about Brett’s big hands sifting through her
underwear.

* * * * *

 
    
He’d purchased undergarments as delicate as
the lace on her china figurines. A black garter belt and thigh-high stockings.

 
    
Imagining himself peeling the stockings off
with his teeth, his cock hardened in his trousers. Brett adjusted slightly to
accommodate the new length. It was the bra that tightened his balls to an ache.
It had affected him even in the lingerie shop. As he’d held the lacy confection
in his hand, the sudden bulge tenting his slacks had been a bit embarrassing.