Teach Me / Getting Dirty. Rachael StewartЧитать онлайн книгу.
on the nape of her neck again, and that was what she remembered most of all. The heat and the heaviness. The separation between his thumb and his fingers, and the way his middle finger rested on her pulse as if he was monitoring every last beat of her heart.
She had the strangest thought, as she simply allowed him to guide her out into the Berlin night, that she’d never felt quite so safe in all her life.
Though that thought didn’t make sense. Because whatever she was, it certainly wasn’t safe. Not with Dorian.
Surely she knew that now.
There was a car ride through the sprawling city outside her window, alive and kicking no matter the hour. The brash, almost punk-rock east gave way to the plump wealth of the west, the history of Berlin—torn apart and sewn back together—rolling out before her. It wasn’t until they arrived at his building, and he led her across a too-bright lobby into an elevator that required he release her to use his key, that she gathered her wits about her enough to remember that she had her own hotel room.
She realized that wasn’t accidental. He’d let go of her, ergo, she could suddenly think straight.
Erika stood across from him as the lift soared upward, knowing she needed to open her mouth. She needed to say something—anything—to break this spell.
But she didn’t.
She told herself it was natural. She was curious, that was all. She wanted to see how a man like Dorian lived. Was it whips and chains in a red room? Or a medieval dungeon in the lounge?
By that measure, the expansive apartment that appeared when the elevator doors lid soundlessly open was a disappointment. If a person wasn’t looking for iron spikes and spanking benches, it was exquisite.
Erika followed him into the great room, blinking as Dorian switched on lights. Then he moved farther into the apartment, seeming to pay her absolutely no mind as she looked around the loft-like space, with dark wood walls and concrete floors. She hugged herself as she stood there, taking in his aesthetic of clean, modern pieces mixed in with the odd, sumptuous rug that would not have been out of place in a sultan’s palace. There was astonishing, confronting art on an otherwise bare wall. Across the room, another wall was taken up with bookshelves that somehow managed to look clean and spare despite the tremendous number of books they held. So many books it seemed possible he actually read them, and wasn’t using them as a design element.
She didn’t know why it was so hard to imagine Dorian simply sitting down and reading in one of the deep, wide leather chairs or sofas that made up different sitting areas in the great room. He seemed too powerful to ever really be at rest. As if he had to be in constant motion, or standing over her the way he had in that hallway—or back in that ballroom in Athens, for that matter—or he would sputter out into darkness.
Erika didn’t realize she was staring intently at his books, looking for clues to mysteries she wasn’t sure she could name, until he walked back into the room.
And she didn’t hear him come back in. She knew he was there without having to hear his foot against the floor and without having to glance over her shoulder. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, like his hand had settled there again. She felt that now-familiar heat bloom in her all over again, coiling low in her belly and into her pussy. Only then did she look up.
Dorian stood in the opening where one room bled into the next, with massive windows all around so she could see the sparkle of Berlin out there in the dark.
“It’s late,” he said shortly. “I suggest you get some rest in one of the guest suites. They’re all located on this floor. I’ll call your brother in the morning.”
He might as well have slapped her back into awareness. Or doused her in ice-cold water.
Either way, Erika’s fingers curled into fists again and she suddenly felt much less fuzzy.
“Or, you know, you could also not call him.”
Dorian gave the impression of sighing and shaking his head without actually moving at all. Impressive for a man doing such a terrific impression of a stone wall. “That was a statement of fact, Erika. Not an invitation to negotiate.”
“All right, then.” She held his gaze, even though there was that part of her, quivering and soft inside, that wanted to lean further into all those things they’d only brushed against in the club. The part of her that wished she’d crawled before him the way he’d requested she do, exposed for all to see. She fought off a telling shiver. “You go right ahead and call Conrad. I’ll call your grandfather. He’s always had a soft spot for me.”
Dorian stared back at her. Erika felt the tension in the room surge toward an almost unbearable breaking point. But she refused to break. She refused.
Meanwhile, Dorian looked as arrogant as he did…astounded.
“You little shit,” he said in a kind of awe that she chose to interpret as affectionate. Or close enough. “Are you threatening to tattle on me?”
“I assumed that’s what we were doing here.” Erika was pleased she managed to sound, if not as calm as he did, far calmer than she felt. “If you’re going to tattle on me, why wouldn’t I return the favor?”
He tilted his head slightly to one side, his dark eyes focusing on her so intensely she thought she might bruise. But that wasn’t half as scary as the way he did nothing but…breathe. One breath, then another. She watched him visibly relax. Gaining his control, then slamming it back into place, she realized as she watched.
It was the hottest thing she thought she’d ever seen. No yelling. No insults. No other reactions—just Dorian handling himself.
She wondered what it would be like to be handled by him.
Her knees went rubbery. And far worse—or perhaps worse was not the right word here—it made her pussy clench, then ache.
“You are an inventive, insolent girl,” he said quietly enough after a moment.
It was not a compliment. And it took her a beat to understand what that note in his voice was, tangled up with the darkness in the disapproval.
She could swear that was disappointment.
Her heart thudded hard against her ribs at that, and there was something almost dizzying that tore her up, then settled in her stomach like regret.
Erika tried to ignore it. “So you keep telling me.”
“You are reckless. Immature and impetuous. And in so far over your head it’s a wonder you haven’t drowned yet.” He said those things calmly. As if he was making a grocery list, when she could see that particular intensity in his gaze that indicated otherwise. It was too controlled to be temper, but it lashed at her all the same. “You come into my club, you claim you’re there to play, but you can’t handle even the lightest conversation. That’s breathtakingly foolish.”
“I thought that was what exhibition nights are for.”
“What if it hadn’t been me?” he demanded. “What if it had been some other dominant who hasn’t known you all your life?”
“Then I imagine I’d be coming my brains out right now,” Erika shot back. “Instead of being lectured to death by my older brother’s irritating friend. You don’t know me at all, Dorian. You know Conrad. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m not the little girl he thinks I am.”
“Then I invite you to stop acting like one.”
His voice was rougher then. Much darker in a way that made her breasts feel full again, with that sharp pinch in each that meant her nipples were already hard.
Why did everything Dorian do get to her like this? When he clearly thought so little of her?
“I don’t know what makes you think you get to tell me what to do.” Erika eyed him, then dug into her story, because she had no intention whatsoever of telling him the truth.