Just My Luck (27 page)

And then he came over to her. Lifted an eyebrow and gave her his best hard-eyed, ice-cold stare. Which was just as effective on her, she thought with a tingle of anticipation, as it was on rugby opponents. Tomorrow, she had a feeling, was going to be
really
interesting.

And then he lay down smack in the middle of the big bed and just looked at her, waiting.

She reminded herself that this was
her
turn, and took off her dressing gown. Slowly. And revealed the only true lingerie set she’d ever owned, her other big splurge on this holiday.

She’d thought about black or red, but in the end, had stuck with ivory. She’d liked the virginal look, the innocence of the color combined with the sensuality of the thigh-high stockings with their lace tops, the minuscule lace G-string and low-cut, push-up lace bra. And judging from his expression, he liked it too.

“Thought this was your night,” he murmured. “And here you are, already giving me my birthday present.”

“Take a good look,” she ordered him. “Because you aren’t going to get another chance for a while.”

She knelt beside him, then lay across his lap, presenting him with a close-up view of her backside as she reached across him for the bedside table drawer. She pulled out Kristen’s pink scarf, and another in a fairly hideous baby blue, and straightened up again. 

“Do I get to touch?” he asked, and he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“No,” she told him sternly. She reached for his arms, pulled them together, and wrapped the pink scarf around his wrists. “Scoot down to the end of the bed.”

He looked at her, his eyes intense, mouth firm, and slowly obeyed. She pulled his hands overhead, fastened them with the trailing ends of the scarf to the slat of the headboard.

“And that’s as much as you get to see,” she told him when he was tied tight. She lifted the blue scarf and put it gently across his eyes. “Lift your head up.” She slid the scarf around and fastened it at the side, so the knot wouldn’t be uncomfortable. She was so considerate.

She looked down at him, there below her. Tied up and blindfolded, all that muscle and determination under her control. And wondered why he somehow looked all the more dangerous for it.

“Know what I’m going to do to you?” she asked.

“No, what?” His voice was a little rough now.

“I’m going to lick you everywhere,” she told him. “I’m going to touch you all over. I’m going to rub myself against you. And then, when I’m ready, when I
decide it’s time, I’m going to work on you with my hands and my mouth until you’re squirming. Until you’re moaning. Until you’re not anybody’s captain anymore. Until you’re all mine.”

“And then,” she put her mouth next to his ear and whispered, “I’m going to ride you hard. And I’m going to be touching myself while I do it. You’re going to be wishing so much that you could watch me. That you could touch me, and kiss me. That you could be in charge of me. But you won’t be, will you? All you’ll be able to do is listen. And . . . feel.”

And then she did it. And he thought, he really thought, that he was going to scream. Heard his own harsh breathing, the sounds he couldn’t suppress as she continued. As she drew it out. Licked him, kissed him, ran her hands over him. Everywhere, for much too long. And then . . . focused. Gave him the best he’d ever had. Slow, and wet, and oh, so thorough. Proved that she’d been paying attention, every time he’d told her what he wanted, what he liked. And not being able to see it, not being able to touch her . . . that was torture, and it was blisteringly, scorchingly hot. 

When he’d lost control, was writhing in exactly the way she’d promised, his groans loud in his ears, he felt her sit back. He let out an inarticulate sound of protest, his hips lifting off the bed toward her.

“I’m taking off my clothes now,” she said softly. “The bra. And the G-string. But I’m leaving the stockings on. Don’t you wish you could see how I look?”

Oh, he did. He really did.

“I’m so wet,” she told him. “For you. And you wish you could touch me, don’t you?”

“Yeh,” he got out. “I want to touch you.”

“Well, you can’t,” she reminded him. “So I’m just going to have to touch myself, aren’t I? But I think,” she sighed, “that I need something else while I do that.”

He heard the nightstand drawer opening and closing again, the rip of the packet. Then felt her rolling the condom slowly onto him. And then, finally, finally, she was rubbing herself over him. And she was right, she was wet. He could feel the tops of the stockings, too, against his sides, and it was killing him.

“Ally,” he groaned, unable to stop himself from begging. “Do it. Please. Do it.”

“What?” she whispered. “This?” Then she was over him, wriggling, slowly impaling herself on him. And it was so good. She pressed her body to his, leaned down to kiss him, her breasts against his chest, her mouth sweet and soft against his. And then she started to move. And that was the best thing yet.

“Know what I’m doing now?” she asked a few minutes, or an hour, later. He couldn’t tell. He’d lost all track of time. She was starting to pant, and he could feel the difference, the way her excitement was rising, the force of it. “I’m touching myself. I’m riding you, and I’m touching myself. And oh, Nate. Oh, God. I’m going to . . . I’m going to come.”

And then she did. And the way it felt . . . She was contracting around him, and she was riding him hard, crying out her pleasure. And he’d lost control. He was shouting, unable to form words. His arms were pulled tight over his head, and he was on his heels, his hips leaving the bed, thrusting to meet her with every bit of force he had, and it was so intense, it was almost painful. And it was incredible.

She untied his hands first. Had to work on the knot for awhile, he’d pulled it so tight, straining against his bonds. But she got it loose eventually, and he pulled his arms down, reached for the scarf over his eyes. And looked at her. Kneeling over him in the warm glow of the flickering candles, naked except for those stockings.

Bloody hell. Those stockings. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed, and if he’d been in charge, he knew what he’d be doing right now. It had been so hot, not being able to see her, not being able to touch her. But when he could . . . it was going to be so good. He was going to make the most of his time. He was going to wear her out.

She sat back, stretched a leg in the air, began to roll a stocking down her thigh.

“That looks like something your sex slave should be doing for you,” he said.

She stopped what she was doing, looked at him. Then smiled slowly. “You know, I think you’re right. Why don’t you come down here and do it?”

He knelt between her legs, put his hands around her thigh. Stroked it for a bit, and then carefully, slowly, began to pull the delicate material down. She was leaning back on her elbows, her dark eyes luminous in the candlelight, her gaze intent on him.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked her, pulling the silky item off her foot and handing it to her, then moving to her other leg. Getting in a fair amount of touching in the process of taking hold of the second stocking. Doing some things that, he saw, were having their effect on her.

“What?” she asked, sounding a bit breathless.

“Just how flexible are you? I’ve always wondered.”

“Very flexible,” she assured him. “Maybe not quite ballet-dancer flexible, but I can do the splits.”

“The splits, eh,” he said speculatively. He had the second stocking off, and she’d set both of them carefully down next to the bed, rolling over to do that, showing him that backside again. Which was adding yet another item to his list for the next day.

“And you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” she asked, back on her elbows again, shaking her hair back. Looking sexy, and wicked, and nine kinds of dangerous. “You’re still on my time. I’m still in charge, or did you forget that?”

“Nah,” he said, drinking her in. “I didn’t forget that. D’you have some more orders for me, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” she smiled. “I think I do. I think you’ve got another job to do before you’re finished for the night.”

He let her wear the stockings the next day, when it was his turn. But only the stockings. Made her cook him breakfast that way as her first job, which she found pretty distracting, especially with him sitting at the table watching her do it. And when she set their plates down, she was startled to find herself pulled into his lap, her plate moved next to his. Which made it just way too difficult to eat. She kept losing her focus on her eggs, especially when his hands began to roam and she was squirming in his lap, lying back against his chest as he fondled her. But by the time he laid her down and had her for dessert . . . she wasn’t exactly hungry anymore.

By the end of the day, Kristen’s poor silk scarves were never going to be the same again, because Nate had managed to be a whole lot more inventive with them than she had.

Oh, sure, he’d got around to using one of them to tie her wrists behind her back. But after that, he’d made her stand there while he used the other one on her, the smooth silk rubbing over her faster, then slower, harder, then softer, until her legs were shaking, until she was begging him. Until she would have done anything for him if only he’d finished it. By the time he’d let her drop to her knees, put a pillow down on the floor and gently pushed her forehead down onto it, she’d been nearly incoherent. And when he’d finally been inside her, one hand bracing himself against the floor, the other stroking her, allowing her to let go at last while she shuddered and moaned out her gratitude . . . at that moment, she really had been his.

At last, though, her hands were free, her body was her own again, and she was lying in bed, her head on his shoulder, stroking his chest.

“So how was your birthday?” she asked him.

“Sweet as,” he said with a grin. “Best birthday present ever.”

“Hmm,” she agreed languidly. “I thought about giving you a sweater, but . . .”

He laughed. “Yeh. This was a much better choice. And I’d still like to pay for it. For this place, I mean. I think I may have got a bit more present than you intended.”

“Well, maybe,” she admitted. “You’re very creative, aren’t you? Especially without advance notice. I’m so impressed. But I enjoyed it too. And no, you can’t pay for it. It was
my
present, and I gave it to you.”

“You certainly did,” he agreed.

“But you can buy Kristen a couple new scarves. And you can buy me a new pair of stockings, too, since you destroyed those, making me wear them while I . . . while I did all that. And who knows? I might want to wear that outfit again sometime.”

He bent and kissed her on the top of the head. “I’ll do that,” he promised. “Because I may want to see that outfit again myself.”

Wedding Song

“Is this all right?” Kristen asked as soon as she opened the door. “I looked it up, but I wasn’t positive. Am I OK?”

Liam smiled. “You’re more than OK.” He leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

“But for the marae. Are there any rules? And you look very handsome, by the way.”

He glanced down at the black suit, custom-tailored to his broad frame. “Cheers. But for you . . . Just the same rules you’d have for any wedding. No different on the marae. Though come to think of it, you
are
breaking one rule. Reckon you’re going to outshine the bride.”

“I tried not to be too flashy.” She ran her hands nervously down the pretty blue-and-green dress she was wearing over black tights and ankle boots in deference to the rain. “Is it still too much?”

“Nah.” She’d really worried about it, he could tell, and as always, her vulnerability pierced his heart. “You can’t help being beautiful. It’s OK. And we should go.”

Despite his words, Kristen was definitely feeling some butterflies during the short drive. She’d be meeting Liam’s parents today, and some of his family as well. But just as a friend, she reminded herself. They didn’t have to love her to accept her as his friend.

Liam held the door for her, held an umbrella over her head as she emerged from his car into a rain-soaked carpark behind Wellington University. She took his arm for the walk to the shelter of an overhang where a group of thirty or forty people waited, and was comforted, as always, by his solidity and strength.

“Liam. Darling.”

This had to be his mother, a statuesque woman with Liam’s eyes, the same warm smile, coming forward to hug and kiss him. And about half the rest of the group, she found, seemed to be related to him too, in one way or another. His father, an older and broader version of him, greeted his elder son with a fierce hug that communicated his love and pride.

Kristen met one of his sisters and her husband, the other sister and a brother, she knew, working across the Ditch in Australia. Then an aunt and uncle, and innumerable cousins. How could one person have so many cousins?

She tried to remember names at first, but soon gave up. Marika and Vernon, she could manage those. But between the size of the group and the many Maori given names and surnames, she was quickly lost.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a laugh. “I hope you don’t test me on names, because I’m afraid I’m already overwhelmed.”

“That’s all right, darling.” Marika reached a broad arm around Kristen’s waist, gave her an encouraging squeeze. “We’ll take care of you, no worries. Is this your first time at a marae?”

“It is,” Kristen said with a grateful smile. She should have known that Liam’s parents would be warm and loving. He had to have got it from somewhere. “And I’m excited, but I’m not sure what to expect or what to do, so I hope you’ll tell me. Are we waiting here for something?”

“Just for the whole group to come,” Marika explained. “So they only have to karanga once. But I think we’re good now.”

Kristen moved forward with the group, grown to at least fifty by now, as they walked down the strip of pavement surrounded by green lawn toward the building, open at both front and back, its overhung, steeply pitched roof edged by two intricately carved beams painted a bright red. The wharenui, the ceremonial meeting house where the wedding would take place.