Page 70 of Tied Up in Riches

The allure is there.

I want it. And him.

But it feels like giving up control in this way is like jumping out of an airplane without checking to make sure my parachute works first.

“Tell me why.” He says, but for some reason, I feel like he already knows.

“Control,” I admit.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let his eyes wander–keeps them locked on my face.

“The last time I put it in someone else’s hands they abused the power.”

He sets the tie on the comforter next to us without breaking our gaze. “There’s a difference between someone not letting you be in control so they have power over you and someone being in control so they can take care of you.”

I search for manipulation in his eyes, dark and stormy blue. I don’t find anything but sincerity.

“Let me take care of you,” he commands. It’s not aggressive, though. It’s a weighted blanket wrapped around my heart.

“Okay.” The word comes out as a whisper, but it’s enough consent for him. In the next instant, the material is in front of my face. His breath is on my ear as he ties the silk around my head, careful not to pinch my hair. “It’s just to keep you from getting distracted, anyway.”

“Distracted from what?” I whisper.

“From something in the room. From watching me and whatever worries that brings.” He pulls the knot tighter, securing it.

My hands move to the fabric covering my eyes on reflex. I know there’s still light in the room, but even though my eyes are open, everything is dark.

“Don’t think about me. Focus on feeling. On letting go.”

He’s kidding, right? My heart thumps so loud in my chest that I swear my entire body is vibrating with my pulse. Whatever he’s about to do to me, I’m not sure I can detach it from him. Actually, I’m positive I can’t.

“Lay back.” The words trail off as he pulls away from me, taking a warmth I miss immediately. I do as he says, slowly tipping back until my head rests against the pillow, my knees still bent. The anticipation of not knowing where Marcus is in relation to me and what happens next sends a wave of tingles across my skin and a rush of anxiety through my blood. I’m terrified. I’m excited. I don’t feel like myself. Like I’m in someone else’s body.

The urge to peek from under the tie almost wins out when his hands land on my ankles. I don’t flinch, as if my body anticipated his touch. I'm used to it after this week, I suppose. I flash through all the moments our skin has connected, watching them play out like a movie rolling on the back of this tie. A new set of chills immediately take over as he tugs, pulling my legs straight. Tension stiffens my muscles against my will. He either doesn’t notice or ignores it, running his palms up my legs, the pads of his fingers pressing into my skin. Holy turned on. How did we even get here? This is more intimate than anything I’ve experienced with any man, and literally nothing sexual has happened. Despite my throbbing need for someone else to pleasure me for once, I know I’m still tense. This feeling, it’s too foreign, too scary, too . . . He’s my boss. He’s my fake boyfriend. Once we leave here, none of it will be real anymore. Right? Could he really want this to go home with us?

His hands ascend, reaching my thighs and continuing on their path until they freeze at the lace hem of my sleep shorts. His thumbs brush under the fabric, feathering along the apex of my thigh before they freeze.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, and I assume it’s because I skipped underwear when I got ready for bed. The reaction temporarily helps my confidence fight through, but the thought that this isn’t real–that this is just a mission for him to prove he can make me come–cages it back up, my body locking with it.

His thumb brushes slowly over my center, and I can tell I’m wet with how it doesn’t stutter across my skin. How can I be so turned on and so tense at the same time? Then he’s not touching me. Without being able to see, it’s easier to feel everything–like his weight shifting slightly on the mattress. Panic rushes through me, a heart rate so fast it nearly steals my breath.

And then the bed dips below me on either side of my face, his hands pressing into the bed. The weight of his body hovers over me. I can tell despite there being no connection between us. Then his warm breath is against my ear, sending a new flood of heat between my legs. “You have to relax.” His voice is deep and low, his facial hair scratching my cheek ever so slightly.

“I can’t,” I claim with a shyness in my voice.

He doesn’t respond. He also doesn’t move. The stillness draws my focus to the crashing waves and the piano playing off to the side. I take a breath. Hold it for four. Release it slowly. It feels like forever, but there’s no indication from Marcus that it’s taking too long. On the next breath, I whisper, “Okay.”

“Do it again,” he demands.

I respond by breathing in again, deeper. This time my chest barely touches another body, and I realize how close Marcus is to me. I hold it as long as I can, wanting to be close to him.

Finally, I exhale, and then he’s gone. He’s moving back down my body, his fingers latching onto the elastic of my sleep shorts and tugging them down my legs. I note every move of his body as the mattress sinks and rises around me, and he crawls down the bed with my shorts. When he pulls them from my ankles I’m convinced he’s not on the bed anymore, but his hands quickly find their way back to my calves. He presses them apart, slowly, moving his hands higher . . . higher.

By the time they reach my thighs, he hits the mattress between my legs. His elbows dig into the bed as he presses me wider, his thumbs brushing over my opening as a low groan rumbles through him. I instinctively clench my legs together. Why the fuck am I so nervous? I berate myself, beg myself to get out of my head. What if this makes things awkward? We still have to be here together. What if he gets frustrated I can’t finish? What if . . .

His palm flattens against my stomach and stays there. There’s no movement from him besides his warm breath against my wetness. I can tell I’m turned on. I know I want this. What the hell is my problem? “Breathe, Brooke.”

Am I not? His hand isn’t rising or falling along with my stomach. Oh. Maybe I was holding my breath. I inhale, relaxing at the weight of his hand on me, but not restricting my movement. I take another deep breath, releasing it slowly. Again and again. His breath is steady between my thighs and his hands unmoving, one on my stomach and the other firmly gripping my thigh.

---