The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare ConnellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
I have no idea where we are or where we’re going. The door is opened by a driver, Edward, I think Nicholas had said his name was.
‘Thanks.’ I look around for any kind of clue. There’s nothing.
‘This way.’ Nicholas puts a hand in the small of my back and leads me to a black door in a brick wall.
‘I feel like you’re taking me to some kind of Mafia hideout.’
His laugh dances across my spine like tiny little needles. ‘More fun, less chance of death.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
The door opens as we approach; presumably there’s a security camera monitoring activity.
A woman wearing a sleek black dress greets us. ‘Mr Rothsmore?’
He nods.
‘Welcome to Uden Syn.’ She pronounces the name with an accent, but even if she hadn’t, the words would still have meant nothing to me.
‘Miss Carmichael?’ She holds a hand out for my coat. Nicholas’s hands are at my shoulders, helping me out of it. A frisson of anticipation warms my belly.
In fact, I’m warm all over, and while that might have something to do with Nicholas, it’s also this place. We’re in a small corridor, dimly lit, but very, very warm. The heating must be switched to full.
‘Do you have your phone?’
Nicholas offers his and she waves it over a device in her pocket. ‘Your phone will now open the door to your room. Take your clothes off and leave them in the locker provided, then head in.’
Alarm has me jolting my eyes to Nicholas’s. I did give him a blow job in the cockpit of the helicopter, and we did sleep together in the Intimate Rooms of the Sydney club, but that’s a far cry from engaging in some kind of public orgy.
‘Is this some kind of sex club?’ I demand in a low whisper as he guides me down the corridor.
When we reach a door with the number eleven on it, he shoots me a look before swiping his phone.
‘I’m serious, Nicholas,’ I whisper despite the fact we’re now alone in an elegant if somewhat utilitarian room. It’s big enough for a chair, a wardrobe, and, as with the corridor, it’s dimly lit and super warm.
‘Do you think I’d bring you to a sex club?’ he prompts with a lifted brow, shifting out of his shirt. The subtle lighting casts his handsome face in shadow, highlighting the planes and angles there.
‘I don’t know.’
He kicks out of his shoes. ‘Public sex isn’t really my thing.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘Well, public sex with you could be,’ he says with a slow wink. ‘But not sharing you with other people. This isn’t an orgy.’
I’m relieved, though, ultimately, not surprised. He wouldn’t bring me somewhere like that. Not without talking to me first. I don’t know what came over me.
I smile, relaxing and surrendering to this once more.
It takes us a minute to get undressed. His trunks are black briefs that perfectly cup and display his impressive cock, his tight ass. I can’t help but stare, and he clearly notices, if his grin is anything to go by.
‘Let’s go.’ He takes my hand in his and I fight an urge to tell him I’d rather stay. Right here. The chair looks sturdy enough to take us both.
When we push into the next room, it takes my eyes a second to adjust, and then to compute what they’re seeing. We’re not alone, but it’s not some weird sex club thing—put your keys in the bowl. There’s low, throbbing music surrounding us, and about twelve other people are dotted through the room, paired off, and painting each other. The only light in here is a black light, and the paint comes up as neon, glow-in-the-dark, on their bodies. And they’re painted all over.
I’m bowled over. This looks fun. And different.
‘Welcome, Mr Rothsmore. Here’s your station, this way.’ Someone appears wearing a bright outfit so they’re visible, their teeth gleaming bright blue. He guides us across the room to a table with a shining line around it to delineate it is set up with paints. Each has an iridescent dot for accessibility.
‘This is seriously cool,’ I say appreciatively, after the waiter has gone through the rules and explained how it all works. A minute later, a bright bottle of wine is brought and two glasses, etched with paint so we can see them clearly in the room.
‘Who first?’ Nicholas teases.
‘You.’ I smile, and he returns it—I can tell because his teeth almost blind me.
I reach for one of the brushes and some paint, staring slowly, putting some paint on his cheek.
‘How does it feel?’ My eyes dart to his.
‘Cold and mushy.’
I grin. ‘It was your idea.’
‘I may need to rethink it.’
‘No, don’t. I like it.’ I smile again, dotting some paint over his shoulder. In just my bikini, my breasts are tingling, straining against the insufficient material. I work my way across his back, swirling paint—different colours throw different lights in here—and then lower, to the expanse of flesh just above the waistband of his bathers. I feel his breath grow shallow, and I can’t resist curving my hand around to his front, feeling his cock, secure in the anonymity the darkness of the room affords.
He’s hard, and I’m not surprised. Being this close, touching without touching, is seriously hot. There’s even something about the paint, its wetness, the sound of it against his body, the gentle persistence of colouring his skin, that has me aching for him.
I slip my hand inside his trunks and I feel his breath snag. ‘I thought you weren’t into public sex,’ he observes, sotto voce.
‘So did I.’ But I pull my hand out of his pants, snaking it over his chest, to a just-painted nipple. I tweak it and then pull away, laughing softly at the paint on my fingertips.
‘Caught, red-handed,’ I quip.
He grabs my hand in his and holds it towards my chest, running my fingers down my abdomen, towards my own bikini briefs. At the elastic, he steps closer, and drops his head so he can whisper in my ear, ‘Later tonight, I want to watch you get yourself off.’
Pleasure vibrates through my gut.
‘I… I haven’t ever done that before.’ I’m glad he can’t see the mad flush in my cheeks. ‘In front of someone else, I mean.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there to lend you a hand if you need it,’ he promises, and I want to go, I want to have him, now.
But he’s intent on torturing me, clearly, because when he starts to paint my body, he’s so much better, slower, more devastatingly sensual than I was with him. He drags the paintbrush but with a feather-light touch, so I want to beg him to press harder. He trails a hint of colour over my shoulders, my arms, then back up to under my arms and the flesh at the side of my breast, so I make a soft whimpering sound. I see his smile, but it’s just a flash, then he’s back to concentrating.
I reach for a glass of wine while he works, needing to do something to steady my fluttering nerves.
He kneels at my feet, his mouth so close to my clit that I ache to push forward, to feel him there, his lips against me—knowing that it will come tonight. Later. Soon.
He drags the brush higher, lightly, over my calves, to my knees, the backs of my knees, my inner thighs, and as he paints with one hand, in the cover of the room’s darkness, he uses his other to push aside the Lycra of my briefs and slide a finger inside my wet, pulsing heat. I gasp, loudly, so he freezes, looking up at me.
‘Not.