One Night Only Page 5

  His hands slid around me and cupped my breasts. I let out a soft moan that turned into a cry when he rolled my nipples between his finger and thumb. The touch was rougher than I expected, but it didn't make me want to run. It made me arch my back, push my breasts against his talented hands.

  "Bend over the end of the bed, palms flat on the mattress. I'm going to make you scream."

  What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

  Nine

  Jace

  I hadn't felt this good in a long time. I went to the club last night after Erik called to ask me to keep an eye on Alix. There'd still been no word from Alix's girl, and he wasn't getting any better. He hadn't showed, and I was pissed considering I'd been wearing a fucking mask...but then I'd seen her.

  After I left Gilded Cage last night, I kept waiting for the good feeling to fade. Sure, the encounter had been the best sex I'd had since I couldn't remember when, but it was more than just sex. I couldn't deny that. I'd never understood the appeal of having a complete novice, but the moment I saw my mystery woman across the room, I hadn't cared about her experience or anything other than having her.

  I didn't use my hands. Ever. I used floggers and whips and crops and even belts, but I never used my bare hands to spank a one-session hook up. Somehow, it seemed too personal. It had never been an issue before, because I'd never wanted to do it. Until last night...

  The moment I brought my hand down on that perfect ass I knew that I wasn't going to be using anything but my hands on this woman. I had to feel every inch of her, had to know the silken whisper of her skin against my palms. She gasped as I slapped her ass hard enough to sting, but she didn't ask me to stop, just like she hadn't protested when I pinched her nipples until she groaned. That had been my test to determine if she would be open to what I wanted. I planned on testing her limits, but I'd never make a woman do something she truly didn't want to do.

  The music from the club played in the background, but I focused on the sound of my hand against the firm muscles of her ass, her harsh breaths, and little gasps of pleasure. My cock pressed painfully against my zipper, and I knew I wouldn't be able to take as much time as I wanted tonight. I excelled at self-control, but this was one battle I knew I would lose.

  I wasn't so sure I could actually consider anything that happened last night a loss, but I definitely hadn't been as much in control as I would have liked. But after her skin turned hot and pink under my hands, after I touched every inch of her, I hadn't been able to draw things out. She'd been writhing under me, making these insanely hot noises, and I hadn't been able to wait. It hadn't mattered that I wanted to taste her, to make her come with my mouth and tongue, to make her beg for it. I barely remembered to put on the condom, and then I'd been buried inside her.

  I'd come so hard that my vision had gone white.

  Afterwards, we hadn't talked, but the silence between us hadn't been awkward. She handed me my shirt, and I zipped up her dress. We smiled and walked back into the club, then had gone our separate ways. No names. No exchange of phone numbers or promises to meet again.

  Hell, I didn't even know what she looked like beyond being a brunette.

  But I knew what she felt like.

  And now I was back in the studio, itching to create, wondering if I could somehow make my mystery woman come alive. The thing was, I didn't think I could do it with paints or charcoal. I was a talented artist, though the human form wasn't usually my subject, but I didn't think I had the skill to do her justice.

  At least not on canvas.

  There was another option though. One that I hadn't used in more than twenty years. Not since...

  I shook my head and forced that memory back. I didn't want any shadows around today. Not when I was feeling so good. Not when I was walking over to the closet where I kept my supplies, hoping that the unopened package would still be there.

  I hadn't used any form of clay since I was a child, but about six months after I moved in here, my father told me that I was able to buy whatever I wanted. Any other child who'd been given such carte blanche – and the money to pull it off – might have gone nuts with electronics and games. I'd bought paints and canvases and pencils and everything I needed to draw and paint to my heart's content.

  And I'd picked up a small box of clay.

  I'd thrown in away a year or so later, but the pattern had repeated itself every couple years, as if a part of me couldn't quite bear to give it up completely. As I carried the box back to the table, I was glad I'd gotten it, because I had a feeling it was the only medium that might be able to capture the picture in my head.

  I sat down, took a deep breath, and opened the box.

  "Mr. Randall." My housekeeper stuck her head into the studio. "Sorry to bother you."

  I stared at her for nearly a full half minute before I realized I hadn't even heard her come in. I glanced toward the clock and saw that I'd been working all morning. I hadn't lost time like that in years.

  "Yes?"

  "There's a woman here to see you." She didn't look happy about delivering that particular message. "She's in the kitchen and refuses to leave until–"

  "Jace, sweetheart, I tried explaining to the help that you'd be thrilled to see me."

  Everything in me turned to ice as the owner of the unfortunately familiar voice stepped around my housekeeper and pushed her way into my studio.

  Shit.

  Bianca Evison. All curves and milk chocolate skin, both of which she loved to show off. Judging by the tight, low-cut, daffodil-yellow dress she was wearing, that hadn't changed since she dumped me four years ago.

  "What are you doing here?" The question came out a little more bluntly than I intended, but I was still too stunned to manage the mask I'd always needed with her.

  "I came to see you, of course." She gave me the same seductive smile that had drawn me to her seven years ago at the Gilded Cage. "It's been too long, Jay."

  I didn't bother correcting her. In the time we were together, I'd told her more than once that I didn't like the nickname Jay. She hadn't listened during the three years we'd been together, so why would this be any different?

  I stood but didn't move any closer to her. "It's been four years, Bianca."

  Her gaze dropped to my clay-covered hands and her nose wrinkled in disgust. Suddenly more self-conscious than I'd been in years, I rubbed my hands on my pants, then stopped as I realized what I was doing. This was my home. My studio. If she didn't like it, she could get the hell out.

  "Seriously, why are you here?"

  She came even closer, moved as if she meant to lean on the table, then thought better of it. She'd cut her raven-black hair even shorter than it was before, but those dark eyes were the same. Teasing while lust hid something sharper.

  "I just moved back to the city and thought I'd look up some old friends." She looked around, then delivered one of those back-handed comments I'd ignored for far too long. "I knew you'd still be here, by yourself, and thought you'd be as happy to see me as I am to see you."

  I turned my back on her and walked across the room to the sink. I knew the question she wanted me to ask, and if it would get her out of here faster, I'd play the game. "Where were you?"

  "You haven't heard?" She almost sounded offended. "I married a French diplomat. I've been all over this country and France."

  I had heard. In fact, I heard he claimed to be some sort of French aristocrat who'd been made a diplomat on the request of his father...but that he'd neglected to mention that said father had been arrested in some sort of scandal involving a barely legal babysitter and her mom. Bianca had dated me because I was rich, but when I hadn't proposed after three years, she'd traded up for someone who could give her the money and prestige she felt she deserved. And when that hadn't panned out, she'd filed for divorce.

  Irreconcilable differences, of course.

  "It didn't work out though," she said, a note of sadness so real in her voice that I would have believed it...if I hadn't known he
r intimately enough to know all of her tells and lies.

  "Sorry to hear that," I said flatly. "If you don't mind, I'm working."

  She shot another disgusted look around the room. "Oh, yes, I can see that."

  I turned to see her poke one finely manicured nail into the hand I'd been sculpting, and my temper snapped. "What the hell, Bianca? Why would you do that?"

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "It's just some...actually, I don't know what the fuck it is, but it shouldn't be more important than seeing your girlfriend after so long."

  "Ex," I growled. "And I don't have time for this. I have a show coming up, and an art critic who's doing a piece on me. I have work to do."

  I walked over to the door and opened it, then looked back at her. "You saw yourself in, so see yourself out."

  Ten

  Savannah

  My skin was on fire. Fuck that. My whole body was on fire. Not just my ass where my exceptionally hot mystery man had been teaching me about something else he apparently knew I wanted. Who knew that being spanked was as erotic in real life as it was in fiction?

  But that wasn't the only thing he'd been doing with those strong hands of his. After he finished spanking me, he slid his hands over my hips, thumbs brushing against the edges of my overly sensitive skin. I could feel the urgency in his touch, but he didn't give in, not yet. He traced my ribs, cupped my breasts. As one hand started to play with my nipples, rolling and tugging them in turn, he moved his free hand down between my legs.

  When he first told me that he'd make me scream, I thought he'd just been bragging the same way men always bragged about their sexual prowess.

  But then his fingers slipped between my folds, and he cursed. That was when I knew he'd make good on his promise.

  He stroked his thumb over my clit, pleasure building with an intensity and speed I hadn't known before. Then his fingers were inside me. Strong, calloused fingers that twisted and rubbed all the good places.

  I gave a cry of pleasure when I came, and then he was pulling me up onto the bed, the bedspread rubbing against my throbbing nipples. He moved between my legs, the thick head of his cock nudging against my entrance. His fingers dug into my hips as he held me firm, then drove into me in one smooth stroke.

  I felt his control shatter as he pounded into me, and I pressed my face against the thick bedspread, screaming just like he promised...

  I came awake with a start, heart racing, breath coming in pants, my body hanging on the edge of a climax. The same thing happened last night as well, and even though my ass wasn't as sore today as it had been yesterday, it was still tender enough to remind me that I hadn't imagined any of it. It had been more memory than dream, but it still hadn't done that night justice.

  All the same, I closed my eyes again and slid my hand under my sheets. I learned last night that I wouldn't get any rest if I didn't take care of things myself. Fortunately, between how tightly wound my dream had made me, and how skilled I'd become at finding my own release, it took only a few well-placed touches for me to come.

  It would take more than a couple climaxes, however, before Tuesday night got out of my head. And even longer until I forgot the masked man who'd made me realize that his world might be one I'd like to spend a little more time in.

  Or maybe a lot.

  I stared up at the house for a moment, still in awe as much as I had been the first time. At least that was what I told myself. Because it couldn't be that I was interested in seeing Jace again. Not after the way the masked man had made my body sing. I found Jace...interesting. From a professional standpoint. That was all.

  Even so, it was the late morning heat more than anything that had me walking over to the side door and knocking.

  "Is Mr. Randall expecting you?"

  I turned to see a middle-aged woman standing at the corner of the house. She possessed the stern sort of look that told me she'd know if I lied.

  "Not exactly," I admitted. "I was here earlier this week and mentioned that I'd be coming back. I tried calling ahead, but he didn't answer."

  "And you are...?"

  "Savannah Birch." I smiled, but made sure it wasn't too wide. I didn't want her to think I was trying to charm her. "I'm an art critic who's doing a piece on Mr. Randall's new show."

  She came toward me, a skeptical expression on her face. "You don't look old enough to be an art critic."

  "Thank you."

  That finally got a partial smile out of her. "You're not going to do anything to hurt Mr. Randall, are you?"

  What a strange question. I shook my head. "Not at all."

  No matter how confusing the connection between the two of us, there was nothing negative about it. Besides, I couldn't imagine anyone hurting someone as amazing as Jace.

  "All right then," she said, giving me a hard look. "I believe you."

  She reached past me, tapped in a few numbers to the keypad by the door, and then opened it. "He's been in the studio almost non-stop since yesterday morning. See if you can get him to stop for some food. He forgets to eat when he gets like this."

  I thanked her and headed inside. I'd worn soft-soled flats today, so I didn't make any noise as I moved into the studio. His back was to me, giving me the opportunity to watch him work how he did when no one else was around.

  Which apparently meant wearing only a pair of worn jeans. No shoes. No shirt.

  Damn.

  I knew he had a nice build, but even my imagination hadn't pictured just how broad his shoulders were, how defined the muscles of his back.

  I could see his arms moving, but not what he was doing. It didn't quite look like he was painting; the movements were too close for that. Curiosity overcame my desire to continue being able to watch from the shadows.

  "Jace?" I took a few steps toward him.

  As he turned, I saw that he wasn't painting. His hands were smeared with what I realized was reddish-brown clay. I couldn't see what he was making, but it wasn't a picture.

  But that faded into the background of my thoughts as I took in his six – no, that was an eight-pack. His muscled forearms. Toned chest covered with intricate tattoos that my fingers itched to trace...

  Wait.

  I knew those tattoos.

  Knew them intimately.

  My knees almost buckled as it hit me. Jace Randall was my masked lover.

  Oh shit.

  Eleven

  Jace

  For the second time in two days, I'd been so wrapped up in what I was doing that I hadn't heard someone come in until a woman spoke. Except, this time, it wasn't my housekeeper, or my ex. For a moment, as I was turning, I thought my mystery woman had found me, but then I remembered that she didn't know my identity.

  Still, I was surprisingly pleased to see that it was Savannah.

  "Hey." I smiled, then felt the expression falter as I realized something was off.

  She looked...flustered. Considering she hadn't been flustered during our first meeting/misunderstanding, something really had to have thrown her. I took a step toward her, then finally caught on. She was staring at me...because I wasn't wearing a shirt.

  Well, that was damn unprofessional of me.

  "Sorry." I grinned as I looked around for my shirt. "I didn't know you were coming."

  She licked her lips and managed a smile, but the expression looked forced as hell. "Yeah, I called, but you must not have gotten my message." The smile grew wider, but something about her expression was still a little tight. Of course, that could've been me projecting.

  I frowned and grabbed my shirt from where it had fallen off the table, possibly because I'd thrown it without really looking. My phone, however, had been carefully set on the table...and then completely forgotten.

  "I was in the zone." I picked it up and saw that she'd called twice and left a voicemail. I also saw a rambling text from Alix that he'd clearly sent when he was drunk, which meant he wasn't expecting a reply. "Did you forget to ask me something the other day?"

  "No,"
she said quickly, licking her lips again. My cock pulsed, and I stuffed my arms into my shirt as a distraction from how she affected me. "I mean, sort of. I wanted to talk to you about your process. For the article. But if you're busy..." She looked toward the door.

  "Not at all," I said before I could think better of it. "I should probably take a break for lunch anyway."

  "Is that something new?" She gestured behind me.

  I reached up to scratch the back of my head, then remembered I had clay on my hands. I went to the sink and started to wash up. "Yeah, it's something I just started the other day."

  "Is it for the show?"

  Her voice sounded strange, and as I looked over, I saw her staring down at my half-completed sculpture. I felt heat flood my cheeks. I hadn't really been thinking about the show when I started working. I'd simply been focused on getting my vision out.

  "I haven't decided," I answered honestly.

  "I've never seen you work with clay before," she said without looking at me. She seemed almost mesmerized by it as she walked around the table for different angles. "What made you decide to change things with such a short amount of time before your show?"

  I opened my mouth to give her some sort of random, vague answer. I could say that my inspiration couldn't be conveyed through painting, because that was true...but it wasn't really the truth.

  Maybe it was time to tell it.

  "How about we talk about it over coffee?"

  Twelve

  Savannah

  I knew he'd asked me to coffee as one professional to another, a way for him to get something to eat while he put up with my questions. I knew he only saw me as the reporter he'd talked to a couple days ago. And I knew the moment he said my name that he didn't have a clue that we'd had slightly kinky sex at a BDSM club the other night.