Chapter 6 Challenge Accepted #2
It's a secret fantasy of mine, one I've long harbored.
It's the fantasy I go to when I'm masturbating: I’m the plaything of a man powerful enough to dominate even me.
And to be quite clear, my entire career is predicated upon the exact opposite—I am where I am because I refuse to let any man even think he can exert any kind of authority over me.
I'm violently allergic to commands, obedience, or authority of any kind.
Despite my grades—and I was valedictorian at my elite prep school as well as Yale and MIT—I was constantly in trouble because I was so violently opposed to doing what I was told, especially if the one trying to tell me what to do was a male.
So yes, my secret fantasy of being dominated by a man is exactly that—a fantasy. An impossible fiction.
I feel Jakob stirring again, and my eyes flick to his face.
His eyes are open, heavy-lidded, sleepy, unfocused, unguarded. "Should be a law against being that beautiful in the morning," he murmurs.
I don't bother even trying to keep my gaze from wandering south and locking in on his erection. "I agree, wholeheartedly."
"Brys," he says, his voice rough and raw with sleep, with arousal. "Don't."
"No?"
His brow furrows. "I am complicated. My life is complicated. And that's putting it as mildly as possible."
"I am not asking for commitment,” I say, waspish and tart and prim. "I was merely admiring your penis."
He coughs a shocked laugh. "Oh. I see." The humor fades as fast as it appeared, and his dark eyes search mine. "I am a complicated man sexually, too, Brys. Start something with me at your own peril."
"At my own peril? Why? Are you violent?"
His gaze crackles with intensity. "No, Brys. I am not violent. But I am most definitely not your average, easily manipulated office-tryst boy-toy."
My cheeks burn—it feels as if he’s read my thoughts, somehow, which is wildly disconcerting. "If I wanted an easily manipulated office-tryst boy-toy, I'd have one. They're a dime a dozen." I shrug. "I have had plenty of them, if we're being honest with one another.”
The gleam in his eyes is dangerous. I can feel it. This man is not to be trifled with—not in the boardroom or the bedroom.
As a girl, I was a bit of a pyromaniac. I loved playing with fire.
I'm not an idiot or crazy, so I wasn't going around starting housefires.
I'd just burn things in a metal trash can in the backyard, just for the rush of watching fire consume things—leaves, pinecones, grass, paper, cardboard, whatever I could get away with burning, or trying to burn.
That rush-seeking behavior never left me—the rush I seek now, however, is success in business and the pursuit of excellent sex.
My point is, I still like to play with fire. Tell me I can't do something, and watch me try, and likely succeed; tell me something is too dangerous, and watch me jump in headfirst. I might have a touch of obstinate defiance disorder.
Case in point: Jakob is dangerous. He's telling me as much without saying so in so many words.
He's warning me. Too bad a warning only makes me try harder.
I hold his eyes, slide my hand down the hard, flat liminal space between navel and erection.
An instant before I can curl my fingers around his cock, Jakob snags my hand, his grip hard and unforgiving.
"Be careful what you wish for, Brys Bennett.
If you open that door, you cannot balk at the monster that comes through it. "
"You're saying you are a monster?"
His eyes glitter like black marbles in the early morning light. "I am who I am."
"Would you hurt me?"
"Physically?"
"Correct.”
"No. My depravity is of a different nature."
"And emotionally?"
He stares at nothing. "Not…intentionally," he says after a long pause.
Every warning bell my psyche possesses is clanging and clamoring like a klaxon, warning me that this man is dangerous; the fire and fury of his complicated, mysterious, arrogant persona is beyond anything I've ever known. I will not play with this fire without getting burned.
The hunger for physical connection, for release, for relief of the ache of need is too great to resist.
And I'm not interested in resisting it anyway.
Having given his warning, Jakob releases my hand, threading his fingers together behind his head. The invitation is clear; I have his consent, as long as I understand that I am also giving him my consent—tacitly, if not explicitly.
"What shape does your depravity take, Jakob?"
His answering smirk is the only response I get; it's barely a smirk, to be honest. A ghost of a smile. An almost-grin. Secretive, mysterious, heated, dangerous. A predator has his prey exactly where he wants it.
Joke's on him, though—I welcome the chance to be that kind of prey.
I trap my breath behind my teeth and fix my eyes on his erection, burgeoning against the cruel confines of his underwear, the pink tip sprouting above the rim of his boxer-briefs.
I slip my hand under the elastic, palm sliding over skin, scraping against the coarse scratch of his pubic hair, and then I curl my fingers around the thick, hard heat of his erection.
His sharp inhalation at my touch is a soft hiss of tongue tip against teeth, followed by a hollowing of his stomach and a tightening of his abs.
His gaze is hard and inscrutable, impossible to read, impossible to fathom the depth of thought and emotion.
His whole body is tensed now, flexed and iron-hard.
His jaw ticks. His hands are curled into fists at his sides.
This isn't for him, it's for me. I am touching him for my own enjoyment, not out of any desire to bring him pleasure. That is merely an incidental by-product.
Watching his face for reactions, I caress his length, once, slowly, in a loose, soft grip. His eyes narrow and his jaw ticks, but that's it.
Clearly, if I want a reaction out of him, I'm gonna have to bring my A-game.
The subtle, mischievous spark in his eyes is a gauntlet thrown at my feet:
Challenge accepted.