The Dare Collection February 2020

CHAPTER SEVEN

DORIAN WOKE UP with Erika wrapped around him, tangled up in every possible way with her legs between his and her mouth against his neck, and stopped lying to himself.

She slept heavily and deep. He knew her scent now, and the heat of her skin, as if she was tattooed on him. And the memories of what they’d done the night before were now interspersed with what it was like to sleep in a sweet knot with her, turning this way and then the other as if they’d choreographed it.

As if he, a man who never slept easily or at all with another, couldn’t sleep unless he was in contact with her.

As if you will never sleep well without her again.

He could feel that weight in his chest, thick and deep.

But this morning, steeped in the reality his body had already accepted—since he had slept with this woman tucked up next to him and wound around him as if they’d done it a hundred thousand times before—Dorian stopped pretending he didn’t know what that weight was.

He had always been honest to a fault. It was part of what attracted him to BDSM and why he flourished in a subculture that prized communication, candor and authenticity above all else. He saw no reason to stop now, no matter that this kind of sudden awareness wasn’t exactly what he’d planned for this weekend. No matter how inconvenient the truth that lay there, beautifully naked beside him.

He took his time easing away from her because he wanted her to stay right where she was, her cheeks flushed with the force of her dreams and that ass of hers still red from his hand. He was hard, but then, he suspected that might simply be the Erika effect. If he claimed her, if she was his, he could look forward to mornings like this. To waking her up in whatever method he could devise to best take advantage, and his imagination when it came to the care and erotic torture of women who liked to kneel before him was boundless. And endlessly wicked.

Something thudded through him, and he had the distinct impression that it was the last of his defenses disappearing.

In what felt to him like a plume of smoke. Or maybe a bonfire.

There was no if about it, he acknowledged.

He had every intention of claiming this woman. If he hadn’t, he would never have fucked her.

Because deep down, he knew what he wanted. He always had.

His restlessness of recent months—the past year—had been because he’d stopped believing that he could get it. It seemed impossible that he could ever combine the two parts of his life. The heir to the Alexander shipping fortune needed to marry an appropriate wife. Dorian had always known that. Even his own father had done his duty in that respect, though Dorian doubted his brittle, elegant mother—now married to a sedate London financier who she could depend on to bore her in exactly the same way for the rest of their stodgy lives—would thank him for it. And Dorian had certainly met his share of kinky, delightfully debauched debutantes over the years, God bless them.

But none of them had inspired him for more than a night. Or in his case, a part of the night. The ones who played as hard as he did weren’t interested in anything but playing. And the vast majority of them were better at playing at debauchery than really giving themselves over to man who could lead them through the darkness of anything real.

He stood there, one hand on the steel post that he really was going to tie her to, one of these days. It was almost as if he could see it. As if it had already happened, when he knew it hadn’t.

Yet.

That word echoed in him like a premonition. Like a vow.

He pulled a light blanket up and over Erika’s body, little as he liked covering such mouthwatering nakedness. He would much prefer to lie back down, roll her over and lose himself in her again and again…

But he had some thinking to do. Some serious thinking to do.

And he doubted very much that he would get any of that done while he stood here, this close to slipping back into that bed, holding her hands over her head so her breasts jutted toward his mouth and waking her up the way he wanted to do.

Dorian showered, and toweled himself off, choosing not to handle his cock—because he had plans. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt on his way toward the stairs, and dressed before he jogged down them. When he reached the main floor, he found his mobile and checked his messages and email. There was the usual influx of work-related things he intended to ignore as much as possible. And there were also three messages on his personal voice mail.

All from Conrad.

And if he’d had any lingering doubts about the conviction he’d woken up with, it vanished then. Because Dorian knew he needed to have a frank conversation with his best friend today, but what he didn’t feel was any sense of guilt or shame.

Fuck that.

He padded into his modern, streamlined kitchen, and set about fixing himself his morning coffee. He answered the one or two emails that couldn’t wait, then tossed his phone onto the counter. Then he stood there, drinking his coffee and staring out his windows at his beloved Berlin. His grubby, beautiful, sprawling and unknowable city. He had lived here over a decade, had no plans to relocate and still found something new every time he walked down the street.

That was what BDSM had always been for him. Adventure and home in one. A refuge for a boy who had grown up on a steady diet of his father’s chaos, and a place where the man he’d made himself—uncompromising, brutally honest and as demanding as he was protective—was appreciated. Lauded, even.

And still, lately, he’d been thinking he was going to have to give it up. Because he needed to marry to carry on the family line in the time-honored fashion, he had no intention of treating any wife of his as shabbily as his father had treated his mother, and he didn’t believe that there was any possibility he would be lucky enough to find an heiress to please his grandfather who would also please him.

After all, it was notoriously difficult to please Master Dorian. His entire reputation was built on that essential truth.

And then here, last night, with the least likely person he could ever have imagined, he’d felt that particular stillness inside him.

Erika had pleased him. Deeply and completely.

And as she had told him already last night, his grandfather already loved her.

Dorian might have preferred a direct blow to the face rather than the sucker punch that realization felt like this morning, but he was nothing if not capable of rolling with what he found and making the best of it. It was what had made him his second fortune. It was also what made him popular at the club.

He didn’t have to glance at his mobile to see his best friend’s name again. Conrad’s name was emblazoned inside him, and the idea that a man he considered a brother would hate him for this disloyalty ate at him—but Dorian had never been one to hide from hard things. Hiding was akin to lying as far as he was concerned.

And the liar in his family was his father, not him.

He made himself a second cup of coffee and started thinking about solutions.

Conrad was an issue, but bigger by far than his best friend was the issue of Erika herself. Dorian knew she’d needed what had happened between them last night—desperately. Her submission to him had been real and raw and truly one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He wanted nothing more than to protect her. Help her.

And get them both off while he was at it. Repeatedly.

It was what he was made for.

He wanted to do his level best to use this particularly kinky spark between them to make them better people together than they could ever be alone. It was the sweetest, most dangerous game. It was the crux of the power exchange. He dominated, she submitted, and somewhere in there, her strength humbled him even as his power melted her.

It was Dorian’s favorite kind of fire, and he had never felt it burn as hot and as wild as it had last night. Because while clubs like his existed all over the world to create safe spaces for like-minded individuals to play at burning, it was still just play.

And what Dorian had discovered last night, when that fire had led him places he’d never thought he’d go, was that he wanted real. He was done with playtime.

But was Erika?

Because he could sit here and think through a thousand different scenarios to energetically explain his point of view until she surrendered the way he liked best, but if the only reason she was here was because she wanted to hurt Conrad… Well. That didn’t exactly fit in with all the futures he was building in his head.

He sat with that for a moment. And didn’t like it. Not when she’d given herself over into his hands so beautifully, so completely.

Dorian was hard just thinking about it. Hard and something more—in a kind of awe, really, at her ability to kneel. To submit. To bend to his will, and find herself brighter and more beautiful on the other side.

Fundamentally, he didn’t believe—maybe he couldn’t believe—that what had happened between them hadn’t gotten to her.

He figured it was possible she’d come after him for revenge, then found herself on her knees, significantly more compelled by their dynamic than she’d planned. Because the bedroom games she’d played before weren’t the same thing as the true, real connection that had blazed between them. No game could touch it.

And that connection was worth anything and everything, as far as Dorian was concerned. Especially when, until last night, he had truly believed that he would have to pack these needs of his away, meet a perfectly nice girl by regular means instead of in his club, where he could ask her for a list of her soft and hard limits, and sentence himself to a life devoid of all this glorious color.

He could get off by having vanilla sex, if he had to, as he’d told Erika last night. He had before, and he’d told himself that he would again. There had been times when he’d assured himself it wasn’t even a great sacrifice. Not when he had found it so difficult to find that true connection he craved out there in the clubs, and Lord knew that even vanilla sex was better than going without.

That was what he’d told himself. And he’d been more than halfway to convincing himself that he really, truly believed it. He’d even assured his grandfather that this would be the year he would start looking seriously for an appropriate wife.

And he had. He’d gone on a few perfectly nice dates with lovely women who did absolutely nothing for him. And he’d been gearing himself to simply…choose one and commit himself, if not to his own happiness, then to hers.

But today he found himself standing in a life that looked exactly the way it had yesterday, but was wrecked from the inside out. Changed entirely.

By one mouthy, spoiled, impossible brat who made his cock hard and his heart kick, even now.

Dorian set down his second cup of coffee, ran his hands over his face and accepted his fate. It was done, as far as he was concerned. And Master Dorian did not dither when he’d made up his mind.

He set about getting what he wanted.

And one thing Dorian was very, very good at was getting what he wanted.

He needed to get Erika to admit what had happened here between them, by whatever means necessary, and no matter what revenge fantasies she might have been cooking up in that fascinating little mind of hers.

He also needed to call his best friend, tell him what had happened—or at any rate, a highly sanitized version of what had happened, complete with a full accounting of Dorian’s intentions—and accept whatever reaction Conrad might have. Even if it was violent.

Dorian fully expected it to be violent.

But he was prepared to accept the consequences. If he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have done it.

He blew out a breath, picked up his mobile and dialed Conrad’s number.

Because there was no way he would be able to conduct the conversation he needed to have with Erika in the way he wanted until he talked to her brother.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Conrad said when he answered his phone. In the background, Dorian could hear the sounds of a major city. Paris, if Conrad was at home. Though in truth, the man traveled as much as Dorian did, and could be anywhere. Dorian hoped, given what he expected Conrad’s reaction to be, that it wasn’t Berlin. “Really. You’re not going to believe it. I’m getting married.”

“Funnily enough,” Dorian said, because there was no point doing any of this unless he was all in, “that was what I called to talk to you about. And I’m pretty sure you will believe it even less.”

Erika woke up when sunlight streamed in the windows, bright and warm on her face.

She knew exactly where she was.

Berlin. Dorian’s massive penthouse. Dorian.

For a moment, she let herself lie there as she was, curled up naked in his bed with the most extraordinary feeling that she…belonged there.

That she was safe at last. Cared for the way she’d always dreamed. And right where she was supposed to be.

But Erika knew better than to let herself get carried away with dreams that could never come true, no matter how at peace she felt in this bed. In this home.

She sat up gingerly, expecting there to be pain, but the ache in her butt was minimal and really almost…pleasant. Her pussy felt sensitive. Not exactly fragile, more…greedy. If anything, she wanted more of it.

More of everything. More of this. And more of him.

She shoved her hair back from her face, looked around and wasn’t surprised to find herself alone in the massive bedroom.

Images from the night before chased each other through her head, one more vivid than the last. Different emotions buffeted her, but it was as if she’d stuck her head out the window in the middle of a storm. She could feel the wind, but it didn’t sweep her away. And when she took a deep breath, then let it out again, she found herself smiling.

Because she felt like a new person.

She crawled out of the bed, running a hand down one of the dauntingly thick and sturdy posters, pretty sure she knew exactly what Dorian did with them. To her surprise, even after everything that had happened the night before, the notion sent a thrill spinning through her, pulsing its way down into her greedy pussy.

When she would have sworn up and down, her body rejected the very idea of morning sex, as a matter of policy. Apparently not Dorian’s kind of sex.

She padded into the bathroom and took her time in the oversize shower, letting all the many showerheads send hot water pounding into her as she slicked a body gel over her skin that made her smell like him.

She smoothed her wet hair back from her face when she got out, and wondered if it was because she knew Dorian that she felt so comfortable helping herself to his hairbrush. His products. And even one of his shirts. She tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up like this in the house of the random dominant man she’d pretended she wanted to find last night, but she couldn’t. She doubted very much that she would have stayed overnight. And if she had, she certainly wouldn’t have slept like that, crashed out in the deepest sleep she could remember having since she was a child.

Because when have you ever felt safe? a voice inside her asked.

Erika didn’t want to answer that. Because she knew the answer, of course, and it made her sad. She pressed a hand against her belly as she wandered downstairs, cataloging the faint pull here and whisper of something there, reminding her that she’d had a long and eventful night.

Had she ever.

She wished she was a lot more sore, she realized as she crossed the great room where she’d cried and come and had learned things about herself she’d never known were there. She wished her ass was far more sore than it was. She wished she could feel him, so long and thick and demanding as he’d pounded into her. The scrape of her breasts and her cheek against that rug as she’d come and come, his cock hammering into her to make sure she kept on going.

Erika wanted to wear him on her skin.

And she didn’t really want to ask herself if that was healthy, because it felt right.

She was too warm again when she padded into the kitchen, so bright with all the light of midday pouring in, and found Dorian there.

He was dressed in a T-shirt that made a symphony out of those arms of his that she appreciated a whole lot more this morning. And in new ways. Because of the pain he could inflict, the pleasure he could wring out of her, and the safety she’d found only and ever there.

But she kept that to herself as he fixed her with a dark, simmering look.

She could feel the tumble inside her. Something defiant that lit her up, and made her want to poke at him—though it was at odds with that shimmering thing that wound around and around, settled in her pussy and made her knees feel weak.

“How do you feel this morning?” Dorian asked, his voice polite. Cool.

Irritating, she thought and glared at him.

“I’m great,” she said. “Never better. You?”

“Erika. That wasn’t a random pleasantry. I want you to provide me with a detailed and honest inventory of your feelings. Can you handle that?”

And all that light tumbling around his sleek, pristine kitchen made her silly. Or bold. At the very least, it reminded her that it wasn’t last night. Not anymore.

“While I’m cataloging my feelings, maybe you can ask yourself why it is you have to be so incredibly patronizing.”

“I’m not patronizing you. You seem euphoric. I want to make sure you’re not peaking on your way into a serious drop.”

“I thought that’s why you brought me a snack last night.”

“What happened was intense,” he said gently, as if she might not have noticed. “Emotional responses to that kind of intensity and vulnerability often show up later.”

It was the way he said that, maybe. As if he knew things she didn’t—about herself. Erika found herself crossing her arms, even though she knew it made that shirt of his ride up her thighs.

Or maybe she wanted to linger for a moment in the way his dark gaze moved over the extra bit of skin she’d revealed. Because she felt a little bit like a junkie, desperate to see that flame blaze in his eyes again.

“If you have feelings about last night that you’d like to share with me, this is a safe space to do that,” he said in a remote sort of way, as if he was conducting a seminar on BDSM and was modeling appropriate behavior. And suddenly Erika was flooded with emotion, all right. Assuming fury counted. “No need to observe protocol. You can simply tell me how you feel, ask me questions or share any thoughts you might have that you think I should know.”

“I feel that you’re being unnecessarily condescending to a woman you had sex with when most people pretend to exchange numbers, have three seconds of awkward conversation and then leave. Will there also be a questionnaire? An exit interview?”

His dark eyes gleamed, and the power there almost made her gasp. But all he did was smile. Slightly. “Is there a way that you can share those sentiments without resorting to name-calling and insolence, do you think? Right now that’s a question. The next time I get you naked and on your knees, however, you may find there are consequences for such responses.”

Erika hugged herself a little bit harder. “All your life, you’ve been just like this. Aloof. Arrogant. Even when you were a teenager.”

“I’m delighted you were paying attention.”

He moved to an espresso machine that had its own countertop, and pulled two shots. Then he pulled out a carton of cream from his great steel refrigerator, poured a hefty dollop into the cup and slid it to her.

And Erika’s stomach twisted a little as she stared down at it.

“How do you know how I like my coffee?” Her voice was faint.

“You’re not the only one who pays attention.”

She felt shaky, suddenly. She wished she had something better to wear than one of his shirts with the sleeves rolled up. She wished her hair wasn’t still damp and clinging to her neck. She wished she could, just once, control herself before making a mess.

“I really am fine,” she made herself say. She lifted the coffee he’d made her and took a sip, then forced a smile. Because, of course, it was perfect. Exactly how she liked it. “Better than fine, now.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear that?” Dorian asked, and the lightness of his voice was at distinct odds with all that intensity in his gaze. It made her worry. It made her wet. “Most people have intense reactions to their first real BDSM experience, but not you, of course. Not Erika Vanderburg, recklessly careening through life, heedless and untouched by anyone or anything.”

And she might have described herself that way yesterday, but she didn’t like him doing it. Not today. It felt like a slap of his hand, and not because he was teaching her a lesson, but because he wanted to hurt her. A crucial distinction.

“I do not careen. I travel. I explore.”

He smiled again, but it didn’t exactly soothe her. He slid a plate in front of her, and it took her a few moments to realize it was…food. He’d put together a typical German breakfast of rolls, cheeses, meats and sausages. There were jams and honey, butter and mustard. Even boiled eggs.