22. Brook
By the time I emerge from the closet, I forget how to walk in heels.
I’m vibrating with an unfamiliar level of arousal and with an unhealthy dose of self-consciousness, along with something akin to anxiety.
I love giving pleasure, but when it becomes too much, you might beg me to stop.
I pause, taking a fortifying breath. I’m getting myself into a situation that will either mend me or break me. And that’s before I take into account the doomed state of our relationship.
But then, if I’m to fight my demons, I want to do it with Baldo.
For the longest time, he’s been the reason for all my pain, hate and resentment. Now it feels like he might just be able to heal me.
Perhaps we could move forward without addressing the past. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
With Baldo, I can’t pretend the past didn’t happen. I can’t outrun it like I’ve been doing. It’s right here in my face.
With the man who could have been my everything.
One that never came back for me, and is now taking care of me in the most confusing way.
My heels echo loudly in the room. God, why am I so nervous?
I’m about to have probably the best sex in my life, and I feel like there will be an exam to pass or fail after. Or before? Jesus.
Over the clicking sound of the sharp stiletto tips, my mind registers sultry music softening the charged air in the room.
When I’m sure that I can indeed walk gracefully, I look up, and my steps immediately falter.
I don’t know what I was expecting. That he would undress and wait on the sofa or on his bed?
But no.
Baldo stands in the middle of the room. His hands in the pockets of his jeans, he looks somehow larger, the confidence radiating from his casual stance. He’s sexy and composed. So dangerous.
His rolled-up sleeves are the only skin he’s showing. But even that is distracting, with all the ink, muscles and veins.
He smiles lazily. “Come here.”
It’s an order, and it spreads through my body like the best whiskey. Dizzying. Warm. A bit harsh.
I’ve always thought a man taking initiative was the way to go, but him passively standing there, making me bend to his wishes, is the hottest fucking thing ever. My stomach squeezes, speeding up my breathing.
Our eyes lock. His gaze is ravenous. Like I’m a goddess in his eyes.
That look is all I need to recall how to walk in heels. To remember I’ve been practicing burlesque for months now.
My midnight blue camisole barely covers my ass, and without my panties I feel quite exposed, but I walk to him with confidence and wanton grace.
It’s a subtle sparkle in his eyes that tells me he likes what he sees. What a reward and confidence boost.
“Hey,” he rasps when I stand in front of him.
“Hey yourself.” I smile.
Just feeling the heat radiating from him, his gaze boring into mine, my earlier anxiety eases. Tentative excitement takes its place.
I reach out to touch him, but he removes my hand gently. Okay, no touching yet, I guess.
Irritation flashes through me, but I squash it. I’ve agreed to let him lead, and I trust him.
But when he doesn’t move for what feels like hours, the sweet anticipation gives way to self-doubt. What is he waiting for?
I’m fighting the urge to fidget. Or hide. Or question him.
I distract myself by picturing how I would commit a murder. Not that I want to kill him. Not yet, anyway. Just escaping into the world of my fiction.
When he finally moves, it’s the calculated step of a predator circling his prey, and God help me if that doesn’t halt my breath. How him taking one step can ignite a wildfire within me is beyond me.
He’s so close now that I can’t breathe without brushing against him. My arm against his. My thigh. His thigh. My nipples. Shivers ripple through me, and he is still just standing there, studying me.
After what feels like another lifetime, he lowers his head to the side of my face. A shaky breath whooshes out of me. He hums at that, and then inhales, smelling my hair.
His hands remain in his pockets, and I’m about to explode from sheer anticipation. What the actual fuck?
“So pretty.”
The reverence in his voice is like an aphrodisiac. A potent one at that.
“So fucking gorgeous,” he rasps, and steps to the side.
I turn to follow, but he raises his finger. “Don’t move, baby.” It’s a demand, but there is a softness to it, and in this moment I want to follow his every wish.
It’s official—I’ve lost my mind.
He still doesn’t touch me, just steps slowly behind me. He’s so close, but not seeing him makes me feel alone. I don’t know where to look. What to do. So I just tremble.
I stand here as he directed, my heart loud in my temples. He buries his nose into my hair again. “Like an angel.”
Another shudder surges through me.
I jerk, yelping, when he finally touches me. It’s just his fingers brushing my hair from my shoulder to the side.
“Shh, relax, baby.”
With his lips, he traces up my shoulder to the crook of my neck. Butterfly kisses that somehow have a direct line to my core.
I’m shivering with need so raw I want to scream and beg him. It’s been a minute and a half, and I’m literally crazy with yearning.
He continues planting kisses, his tongue swirling along my skin. Hot and wet, utterly disarming. I’m going to come just from this.
Or get violent, because this is pure torture.
Divine.
All-consuming.
Magnificent torture.
“Baldo,” I breathe.
“Yes, sweetheart, tell me what you need.”
He snakes his arms around me, and I lean into him, barely able to stand.
“You.” The word turns into a moan as he brushes over my nipples with his fingers.
Suddenly, his touch is at my throat. Only it’s not his hands, it’s something smooth and cold. A silky fabric. He glides it up my neck and face to my eyes.
A blindfold.
My heart bursts into a galloping rhythm. And then there is darkness. Jesus.
He ties it gently at the back of my head. His mouth comes to my ear, the breath hot on my skin.
“I want you to only feel, baby. Can you do that for me?”
Only feel? As if the tornado of emotions swirling inside me, or the explosion of sensations over my body, weren’t enough.
He traces my skin, taking his time, caressing my arms. From shoulders to hands, he is barely touching me, and I shiver with such primal craving it almost scares me.
How can one man have such a hold over my body when he hasn’t even done anything?
“Baldo,” I breathe again, not even sure if I’m pleading, praising, berating.
“You’re perfect. My perfect girl.”
Oh fuck, his praise quiets my brain.
He takes my hand and leads me somewhere. I don’t think it’s toward his bed, but I’ve lost all sense, let alone my sense of direction.
“Wait a moment,” he rasps, and a jolt of panic grabs me. Is he going to leave? But then I hear sounds, moving something, opening a cabinet, I think.
Baldo comes back. I feel him before he touches me, and it’s such a comforting awareness. I gasp when he lifts me effortlessly, but he puts me down immediately.
It’s not the bed.
My naked ass ends on a cold, smooth surface. My hands land by my side. It’s the glass table.
“Okay, sweetheart, I forgot one important rule.” He kisses my jaw, his voice straining with effort.
While he’s slowly unraveling me, he’s coming undone himself. The thought is unreasonably empowering.
Like knowing this isn’t just for me. To fix my problem. To help me with my frustrating issue. This is equally for him.
And yet he puts my needs first, and that’s something that terrifies me. Am I worthy of that?
Ever so gently, he lays me on my back. The coolness of the glass contrasts with the heat of my body. I wonder if he picked this surface to ensure I don’t burn, because I’m pretty certain I would.
He lifts my feet to the edge of the table, and a chair scrapes the floor before he breathes into my heat and my back arches, a loud moan escaping me.
“No kissing,” he says, and pushes my knees open as wide as possible.
It takes me a moment before his words hit my brain and comprehension sinks in. The rule he forgot? No kissing.
I scramble to my elbows and want to push further, but his vise-like grip on my hips keeps me in place, and when he lowers his lips to my clit, I file my protests for later.
He sucks on the bundle of nerves, his hands digging into my skin at my lower stomach. I collapse back to the table and try to deal with the sensation.
“Okay, baby, I’m going to make you come quickly now, so you have a point of reference, and then we’ll play a game.”
My brain is too foggy to assign meaning to his words. They are just a murmur in the background of my heart pounding in my head. Of the fire licking my belly, and coiling pleasure up my spine.
Baldo devours me like I’m his last meal on earth. No wonder he picked the dining table for this part of the night.
Or maybe the bed is too intimate for him?
I gasp and my hips buck when he pushes what must be at least two, if not three fingers into me, erasing any further thoughts.
In no time, I writhe and squirm, but Baldo doesn’t budge, holding me in place.
And then suddenly electricity zaps through me. My lungs heave and I chant his name, ready to jump out of my own skin.
My core clenches and my legs flex on their own accord, as wave after wave of bliss shudders through me.
“That’s my girl.” Baldo continues, moving his fingers inside me and rubbing my clit gently.
I may black out for a moment.
My body is weightless.
Boneless.
Fearless.
Tears pool in my eyes, and I’m grateful for the blindfold. I don’t want him to see what he’s just done to me.
My first love just gave me my first orgasm. How can I not assign any significance to that?
“How are you doing?”
He kisses my inner thighs. The right. The left. My stomach through the delicate fabric. For a no kissing rule, he definitely loves using that mouth of his.
“Brook?”
Oh, right. “What was the question?”
He chuckles. “How are you doing?”
“I want more.”
Now he laughs. It’s such a wonderful sound. I reach to remove the scarf because I want to see him.
But he grabs my wrist. “You keep that on, or there will be no more.”
I groan in frustration, but fuck it, I’ll gladly compromise if Baldo Cassinetti sweeps me into nirvana again.
“Ready for our game?”
“You mean your game?” I scramble to maintain a semblance of sovereignty.
“I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy it.” His breath is by my ear, startling me. “Wait for me, Brook.”
It’s strange to lie on the cold table, my arousal dripping down my skin, but it’s also arousing. Maybe it’s the after-bliss. Or perhaps Baldo’s undeniable talent.
And now I’m thinking about the women he honed his skills with. Before I can go down that particular path, his footsteps approach and a chair scrapes across the floor again.
He kisses my temple. “Hands above your head.”
I don’t understand how his commands shoot desire into every fiber of my body. But I obey, and he runs his hands up my arms to my hands. The chair screeches again and then I feel its backrest.
He closes my palms around it, making me grip it.
“I will make you come again and again, but you have to be a good girl and keep your hands there. Hold on to the chair if you need to, but when you move your arms, I’m going to stop.”
“That’s torture.”
“That’s surrender, baby. And the reward is worth it.”
My brain misfires as he takes my nipple into his mouth. I almost regret not being naked, but even through the fabric, the sensation is electric.
I move my hands to hold on to his hair, but I stop myself. Good thing he gave me the chair. While I was holding it before, now I grip it with white-knuckled force as Baldo’s hand joins in, paying attention to my other nipple, twisting and squeezing.
I’m a mess in no time. I moan, arch, and rub my thighs, seeking friction. Without thinking, my hand reaches for him and then he’s gone.
“Fuuuuuck,” I whine, and the bastard chuckles. “Come back,” I snap.
“Hands on the chair.” His voice startles me as it comes from a different direction than I expected.
Groaning, I grab the chair and immediately moan when something soft trails up my legs. A feather?
Oh my god. I’m going to die here. The best way to go.
The blindfold forces me to guess what’s coming, anticipating, latently fearing and welcoming his next move, his touch, his ministration.
It’s a perfect scenario for someone like me who normally stays in their own head when having sex.
Like often, I’d narrate intercourse in my head, but not with Baldo.
Here, spread for him on his dining table, I’m so absorbed by the game that I don’t get a chance to retreat from the playground.
I lose track of time and space. I lose myself to his game. To him.
But his teasing goes on for what feels like an eternity.
“Baldo, I can’t…” I whimper.
“Baby, we’ve just started. You can take it.”
The phrase hits me like an icy ocean wave, erasing everything, and I kick with all my might.