A Reckless Note (Brilliance Trilogy #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,49
seduction that trembles through me. “This.” His mouth closes down on mine and his tongue licks past my teeth, a long, deep stroke that is seduction and power, passion, and dominance. I’m panting when his lips part from mine, linger there, his finger stroking my cheek.
“You, woman,” he murmurs, a hint of torment in his voice. “You are going to be my undoing.”
I don’t know what that means, and I don’t have time to analyze it anyway. Not when he reaches up and catches the zipper at the front of my dress, and heat pools low in my belly, every inch of me alive. I am alive with this man, a ball of nerves and desire like I have never known. Slowly, so very slowly, he lowers it, but his gaze is locked with my gaze. The zipper slides past my belly and halts at the top of my thighs.
His hands settle at my waist, and he leans in and kisses me. I can taste that dark edge on his tongue again, I can taste the demand, the absolute control. In this moment, I remain acutely aware of how much that control arouses me, how much it calls to me.
His lips leave mine, the hunger in his stare ravenous, but I have this sense that this is still about control to him—he allows me to see this. His control is a need, an absolute need that I understand. It’s the kind of need that we aren’t born with. It’s created. I find myself in contradiction to what I need, in wanting to give him what he wants. I am in fact wet and trembling with the idea of giving him the control.
But that means trust, the kind of trust that has left me alone and that I give no one.
And yet I am here with him. Haven’t I already made the decision to trust him, not with my secrets, but with my body?
His hands go to my shoulders, sliding under my dress, scooting the straps halfway down my arms. He captures me with the material, holds me with one hand, but I’m not thinking about being held captive. I’m thinking about his lips lingering above mine again, his breath a warm tease that promises a taste that does not come. He doesn’t kiss me. I want him to kiss me, I want it so badly that it hurts.
But still, he doesn’t.
He pulls back, his gaze lowering to the swell of my breasts, his fingers stroking the sensitive skin just above the black lace of my bra, my nipples puckering beneath the silk. His gaze lifts to mine and he catches the front clasp of my bra. He shoves aside the cups, his attention returning to my breasts, and my lashes lower with the heat of his inspection, a wave of unexpected shyness overtaking me. He has this way of making me feel owned and it’s intense, so very intense.
My lashes lift and he’s looking at me and I’m looking at him, this throb of energy between us, that almost lives, breathes, its own life. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, his fingers gently teasing my nipples. Sensations ripple through me, and my lashes lower again. He tugs me hard against him, his cheek pressing against my cheek, his lips at my ear as he says, “So damn beautiful.”
That throb between us might be breathing, but I can’t breathe waiting for what comes next, still bound by my dress and his hands, incapable of touching him, of anything but what he so chooses. Suddenly, he shifts us and turns me, dragging my dress and bra down my shoulders, and he doesn’t stop there. My dress and panties pool at my feet, and his arm wraps my waist as he lifts me and kicks away the material. I’m now in nothing but my thigh highs and heels. And when he sets me down, I catch my weight with my hands, the shiny slick surface of the piano cool beneath my palms. He’s hot and hard behind me, the thick line of his cock pressed to my backside.
I’m back to the understanding that he is in control.
On some level, I know that’s why I’m holding onto this piano not him. It’s back to why his control arouses me and I force myself to be honest, to own my decisions. The truth is, I’ve spent my entire life clinging to my control. I need an escape that just lets me stop, just lets me enjoy