Page 59 of Reckless

“Not anymore.”

I traced the edge of the bruise with one finger. The skin was warm. His breathing had gone shallow, his stomach tightening under my touch.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, and he looked away. “Look at me.”

He did. I held his gaze and let my hand drift lower, across his stomach, tracing the line of muscle, finally stopping at the waistband of his jeans.

“I’m going to tell you what to do,” I said. “And you’re going to do it. Not because you have to, but because you want to. Because you trust me.”

His jaw tightened. “I trust you.”

“Then kneel.”

Robbie knelt, his knees finding the rug and his hands resting on his thighs with the palms up. Open and waiting.

I looked down at him. My heart was beating in my throat. “Good,” I said. “That’s very good.”

I knelt in front of him, mostly just to see the look of surprise on his face. I took his face in my hands again. This time I kissed him, softly at first, just the faintest brush of lips, and then more deeply. His mouth opened under mine. He tasted like rain and salt air.

I moved my hands to his shoulders. Traced down his arms. Found his hands where they rested on his thighs and laced my fingers through his.

“Bed,” I said. “Now.”

I stood and helped him up. I undressed him the rest of the way—his jeans, his socks, his underwear—and he let me, his arms hanging loose at his sides, his eyes never leaving my face. When he was naked, I laid him down on the bed and looked at him.

The bruise. The farmer’s tan. The lean muscle of a man who worked with his body. His cock was already hard against his stomach, and I let myself look. I made sure to let him see me looking, so that he could fight against his discomfort. Watching him do that, and then relax—a study in tense muscles and microexpressions—was thrilling.

“Roll over,” I said.

He did.

I climbed onto the bed and straddled his thighs and ran my hands up the length of his back. His skin was warm and smooth except for the ridge of an old scar near his shoulder blade. I traced it with my thumb.

“What’s this from?”

“Barbed wire. I was twelve.”

I bent and kissed it. He exhaled, a long slow breath that moved his whole body under mine. I kissed my way down his spine—one vertebra at a time, slow, deliberate, with my hands braced on either side of his ribs. His breath caught when I reached the small of his back.

I sat up and reached for a bottle of lotion from the nightstand drawer. The cap clicked open and the smell of lemongrass filled the room.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” I said.

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

I pinched the back of his thigh. It was quick and sharp. Robbie gasped and his hips bucked against the mattress, and when he looked over his shoulder at me his eyes were wide and dark.

“That,” I said, “was for arguing.”

He stared at me. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—half disbelieving, half delighted. It transformed his face.

“Do it again,” he said.

“Insolent.”