The Dare Collection June 2019. Rachael Stewart

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      ‘Just making sure you didn’t settle for an alternative while we were apart.’

      As if I would’ve wished for anything but exploring the torrid promise in his eyes after that wickedly thrilling reminder last night of what he could do with his mouth and fingers.

      I wanted him desperately. But where was the fun in letting him know that?

      ‘The night is young and I’ve learned that it’s wise to keep my options open.’

      The fire in his eyes morphed into something dangerous. A warning not to test his limits.

      ‘I’m not great at sharing, Neve. Once I step through this door, you’ll have to agree to let go of some of those options.’

      Why did I get the feeling we were talking about more than just my sex toys?

      At my lack of response, his lips flattened and he inhaled long and hard, his gaze moving slowly, feverishly in a head-to-toe scrutiny. ‘Invite me in,’ he requested thickly.

      ‘On one condition.’

      One eyebrow rose.

      ‘You come in, you abide by my rules.’

      After a charged silence, he nodded. ‘Fine.’

      I stepped back and gestured him in. An hour ago, the suite had looked incredible. Now, with strategically lit lamps highlighting the best features of the suite, it looked magnificent.

      Damian strolled inside, taking in every inch of the room before he paused in front of a green velvet chaise longue that invited the decadent relaxation I had in mind.

      Desire sizzled in my blood as I watched the suite through his eyes. Imagined him spreading me on top of the silk-covered bedspread, sweat glistening on his glorious skin as he rammed deep inside me while the moon rose high in the sky.

      The room was having an effect on him too, judging by the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he faced me again.

      We stared at each other across the space for a full minute before I reached for the remote control. It wasn’t exactly authentic but this was my fantasy, and frankly the presence of a harpist would throw a dampener on what I had in mind for Damian tonight.

      Strains of Maria Callas’s haunting tones eased through the room as Damian prowled towards me.

      ‘I’d like a glass of champagne, please.’

      He paused, that now familiar hard-edged look flitting over his face before he altered his course to where the silver bucket stood next to the chaise longue. Expertly, he worked the foil, twisted the cork until it gave a sophisticated pop.

      He poured one glass, set the bottle back into the bucket and approached me.

      I took it from him. ‘Aren’t you having one yourself?’

      ‘No.’

      Curiosity ate at me and this time it wouldn’t stay down. ‘You keep refusing my drinks. A more fragile person would have a complex by now. Care to elaborate?’

      His jaw clenched once. ‘No. I prefer to get you off in some other way than satisfying personal curiosity.’

      ‘Even if that’s my specific fantasy right now?’

      ‘Your fantasy is to dissect my life?’ The question was sharp, his face drawn into lines of displeasure.

      ‘You could’ve answered differently if you didn’t want me to probe.’

      ‘You asked a question. I gave you a truthful answer. Let’s move on to your next fantasy. Preferably one that involves discovering what’s beneath that robe.’

      I smiled despite the curious ache digging inside me. ‘It’s a secret I intend to keep a little while longer.’

      A terse smile lifted the corner of his mouth. ‘As long as it’s my hands doing the revealing, I’ll be patient. Just about.’

      Renewed heat in his eyes dissipated the little blip in our discourse. The crescendo of the music rose. I swayed towards him, swivelling my hips in a sensual dance as I savoured the champagne. When nothing but stark arousal remained in his eyes, I presented my back to him and continued to dance to the haunting tune.

      When I moved, he followed. By silent command he knew not to touch me. I liked that.

      As the music grew to a close, I headed for the chaise, hyperaware he tracked my every move.

      One hand clutching the train of my robe and the other my champagne, I reclined against the headrest and tucked my legs to one side, careful not to reveal too much skin.

      Even still, Damian made a rough sound as his eyes devoured the little skin I exposed.

      Discarding the champagne, I reached for the platter of canapés. ‘You won’t drink with me. Will you at least eat something or am I wasting my breath there too?’ I plucked a grape, popped it between my lips and held it there for teasing seconds before biting into it. The juices exploded on my tongue. I held in my moan, sure it was the fierce arousal burning through me responsible for my heightened senses.

      I resented Damian a little for inciting the unquenchable flames so it was a little gratifying when he stumbled forward, his movements uncharacteristically jerky as his gaze switched from my legs to my mouth to the platter and back again.

      ‘I see your fantasies include copious amounts of torture,’ he stated roughly.

      I feigned wide-eyed innocence. ‘I’m just offering sustenance. How is that torture?’

      ‘You know exactly what you’re doing.’

      I shrugged. ‘Are you not enjoying yourself?’

      His gaze rushed over me once more. ‘The entertainment is...stimulating.’

      I laughed and watched his eyes darken.

      ‘I like the way you laugh.’

      His compliment took me by surprise. ‘Do you?’

      He nodded. ‘The problem is so far I’ve been denied it.’

      ‘Ah.’ I smiled. ‘You don’t like things not going your way, huh?’

      His mouth firmed. ‘It’s a curiously novel experience. Which I don’t want to ruin the mood with.’

      ‘Then try these French tarts. They’re to die for.’

      I picked one and held it against his lips. He caught it with his teeth, chewed and swallowed without taking his eyes off me.

      I was a thirty-one-year-old woman in control of a multimillion-dollar business, and yet having Damian Mortimer eat from the palm of my hand was a heady experience that made me as giddy as a schoolgirl.

      In the background, Maria Callas wailed in guttural French. ‘I love Maria Callas. Don’t you?’ I asked, toying with my СКАЧАТЬ