Page 20 of Skin Deep

“Dude, what?” Fred reached across the table with his long arm, socking his brother in the bicep. “Stop being a creeper.”

“Sorry.” To his credit, Frank shook his head, as though jerking himself out of a trance. Draining his drink, he set the empty bottle on the table and stood. “Another round?”

“No, thank you,” Amy and Fred both replied at the same time. Frank furrowed his brow again slightly, as if he couldn’t understand what he was seeing, before making his way back to the bar.

“I don’t think your brother approves of you hanging around me.” Amy turned to Fred with a slight smirk. Here, again, was familiar territory. “Maybe he thinks I’ll be a bad influence on you.”

“Doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Fred said as he placed his hand on Amy’s knee under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. “What matters is that you do what I tell you to, right now.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow, prepared to tease back, instead losing her breath when he moved his hand steadily up her thigh. Excitement surged through her, gasoline that had been lit on fire. She followed his thought process and understood what he was about to do.

“Drink your beer.” He sounded calm while she felt anything but. “Now.”

Hand shaking, she picked up the beer. It had gone warm, but she took a sip anyway, not tasting anything because all her attention was focused on Fred’s hand and the way it was moving up her thigh with excruciating slowness.

She was wearing tiny cutoffs, the denim so well-worn that it was torn in places and soft as butter in others. Those were layered with a pair of lacy boy shorts, and neither provided the slightest bit of resistance as Fred’s questing fingers found the crease where her pelvis met her thigh.

She sucked in a breath, fingers tightening on the bottle. Exhaling slowly, she fought to keep her expression neutral as he tucked one large finger beneath the hem of the shorts, toying with the elastic lace that lay beneath.

“Careful,” he whispered, picking up his own drink. “Wouldn’t want anyone to look at you and know how wet you are.”

“I’m not wet,” she retorted. She sank back against the faux leather cushion of the booth back when he delved farther, moving his questing fingers closer to her core by tucking them beneath the lace of her underpants as well. “Shit.”

“Don’t ever think you can lie to me.” His words were cocky, even as she was desperate for him to look at her. He refused, casting his stare steadfastly on the empty table in front of them. “If I slide my fingers inside you, am I going to find you wet?”

“Why don’t you try and see?” Her words were staccato, pushed from her torso as she panted for air. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”

“I think you’d like it if I did. If I slid my fingers right up inside you.” He rubbed his fingers over her outer folds to punctuate his words, and she struggled to withhold a moan. “I’m right, aren’t I, you dirty girl? You’d get off from having my fingers inside you while we’re sitting here, out in public where anyone can see.”

“Fred. Jesus.” Amy willed herself not to prove his words true, but as she did, he worked his entire hand into the lace of her boy shorts. That massive hand of his cupped her mound, his thumb stroking over the slit that divided her labia, and it was all she could do to keep from sobbing out loud.

“Shh.” This time he leaned in against her, his shoulder bumping against hers companionably. “I know my touch makes you want to scream. But just look...your sister is here. Her fiancé. Theo, and my brother Frank. Do you really want them to see you whimpering from my touch? What would they think, seeing bossy little Amy Marchande melting from the touch of a man?”

“Oh, fuck you.” Amy leaned against him, hard, but didn’t dare to lift her eyes from the table, to glare at him for withholding what her body so desperately craved. She wanted to look him in the eyes, to lose herself in those pools of pale green and to ask where this thread of dominance came from when it hadn’t made an appearance before. She didn’t, because she was afraid—afraid of hearing him voice the answer to a question she hadn’t asked.

Every single sexual encounter she’d ever had, whether with men or women or beings who identified somewhere in between...with beings who identified as straight or gay or bi... She’d been the one who was in control. She’d always been in charge, the one who had led the encounter, dictating the content and the rules, defining the limits.

When she’d first seen Fred in that bar so many years ago, she’d known only that she wanted him. What had come after had seemed a natural consequence. She’d been the aggressor and had remained in control. Being a woman, of course she had recognized and cherished the fact that he had let her be so, even though his physical body was undeniably so much powerful than hers.

She hadn’t realized that she’d internalized that power dynamic until Fred stroked that single finger through her damp folds, searching for proof that she melted at his command. She hadn’t anticipated any commands from him at all, and that made her response even hotter.

“See something you like?” She recalled the words he’d once uttered, poised above her in a fancy hotel in a city she’d considered her own, and she melted around his questing fingers.

She’d never thought of Fred as dominant per se. Not since he’d told her that he was turned on by whatever made her melt.

He understood more about her than she’d ever imagined. She didn’t consider herself submissive, per se...more that she was happy to assume the role if she happened upon a partner who was dominant.

She’d only slept with this particular man twice, in situations in which he hadn’t commanded control, but now she understood. He didn’t need to be dominant...unless his partner needed him to step into that role.

In another place, another time, she might have pretended that she was appalled at the bossiness of his words, his voice, his fingers.

Here and now, she felt stripped to the bone. No—to the marrow.

Never in her life had she ever imagined that she was submissive. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Right now, in this public situation in which he demanded her submission? In public, when his brother and her brothers-in-law and sister could return at any moment?

She’d never been so turned on. She’d never been so wet. She’d never imagined that she’d be tempted to flaunt her arousal; no—that she’d be proud of the feelings that this man had coaxed out of her body with his words and his hands. Secretly.

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