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  My heart stammers as he leans away, my mouth following suit as his finger trails down between my breasts. ‘G-girl.’

  ‘And that’s your second.’ His mouth curls fully this time, his smile like sin itself.

  I close my eyes and swallow, my competitive streak rising to the surface immediately. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘You paused,’ he replies, amused. ‘That earns a forfeit. I feel his smile as his mouth slides against mine, once more in the barest of teasing touches, and my eyes flutter closed in the anticipation of more.

  ‘G-girl, while adorable, means you forfeit.’

  He pulls back, eyes almost level with mine, and I realise they aren’t actually dark, but a shade of blue a little less intense than indigo. My breath halts as he draws his index finger down the length of my skirt from thigh to knee. His fingers toy with the edge before slipping under the hem.

  ‘My lovely loser.’ As his thumb begins trailing soft circles on the inside of my knee, it takes every ounce of my strength to stop from leaning back against the chair and opening my legs. ‘Take your skirt off.’

  I’m nobody’s loser, lovely or not, even if a part of me wants to lose to him. Against the desire swimming through my veins, I place my hand around his wrist and slide it free. Leaning back, he follows my movement as I cross one leg over the other, bending forward to unfasten the buckle of a singular, though spiked heel, red Mary Jane. I flick it from the ends of my toes to the floor, and as it lands between his feet, I lean back on my hands.

  ‘A pair constitutes one item of clothing,’ he purrs with the shadow of a smile.

  ‘No,’ I begin, preparing my argument. ‘A shoe is a shoe; one shoe, one item.’ I add a light shrug as if this were the sanest of discussions.

  ‘So let me ask you; when you’re down to your bra, will you lift out an individual tit?’

  I stifle a giggle, though I can’t halt my growing smile. The few months I’ve been in London have been confusing. While I hadn’t expected to become a sucker for every guy in a sharp suit, I’d expected to be swooning hard over Englishmen. It hadn’t happened that way—some of the accents I’ve encountered are downright undecipherable! But his accent, this nameless stranger? It’s enough to make a girl’s ovaries quiver.

  Despite this strange game, this evening is exciting, seducing, and sort of illicit. An item to check off my bucket list?

  Trade good reason for the chance of kinky sex. ✓

  But this? This is priceless. The last time I’d heard someone say tit in that accent, I’d been watching TCM. A guy in tweed plus-fours with binoculars hanging from his neck. I say, there’s a lesser-spotted tit in that tree, he’d proclaimed.

  I have a small patch of freckles across my chest; did that make me lesser-spotted or more? This time, a giggle escaped along with my ridiculous thought. Judging by his expression, there’s not much point in letting him in on the joke. Instead, I sigh softly and bend forward to loosen the other shoe.

  ‘Remind me never to play Scrabble with you,’ I complain.

  His response is one word. ‘Body.’

  Now we’re talking.

  ‘Butter,’ I reply instantly, images flitting through my head of creamy, soft skin.

  ‘Shiver.’

  ‘Delight.’ Delightful shivers in the dark, skin sliding against skin.

  ‘Quiver.’ Was it my imagination, or was his voice a little rougher that time?

  ‘Naked,’ I whisper, yearning to be the same. Naked and in his arms.

  ‘Throbbing.’ He swallows deeply, and that I don’t miss.

  ‘Pussy . . . I mean, ache.’ My cheeks burn instantly. It’s hardly a sophisticated choice of word.

  ‘Tsk, tsk, tsk.’ He draws out the admonishment with a slow shake of his head. ‘Hesitation number three. Though I could let that one slide, if you show me where you ache.’

  Without answering, I stand and pull on the zip of my skirt and, with an exaggerated shimmy, slide it over my hips, anticipation chasing the fabric across my skin. As I step from its dark pool, his look of dark triumph makes my insides churn.

  ‘I’m pleased you aren’t a sore loser.’ His voice is low in register, his words smooth, like water running over rocks.

  ‘Who says I’m losing?’ In two sensuous strides, I’m standing between his splayed legs. ‘And who says I’m—’

  ‘Sore?’ he finishes as I climb astride his lap. ‘Maybe not yet.’ He brushes the hair from my face, an act so very tender compared to what he does next. Hand wrapped around the back of my neck, he pulls me down to him. ‘Because a gentleman can always be tempted.’

  My eyes roll closed as his mouth moves to my neck where he groans the word, ‘Deep.’

  ‘Water,’ I answer as, his hands on my hips, he swallows my word with a kiss.

  ‘Chastise.’ His tone is even, but I’m not fooled. That isn’t indifference I feel between my thighs.

  ‘Thrilling.’ And I mean it. I want it all—I want him.

  ‘Im—pact.’ He punctuates the word with a slap against my ass, our bodies clashing with the blow. My arms slide around his neck, for fear I’ll be swept away.

  ‘Whimper.’ My voice sounds strangled as I peel away from his chest when his hand tightens on my numb yet smarting skin.

  ‘Bruise.’ The word is almost a question as his large hand squeezes again.

  ‘Badge.’ This one is on instinct as I close my eyes and imagine it there. A handprint, red and distinct. Fingers splayed. To be viewed the next day for private pleasure another day.

  ‘Arse.’ His hand tightens against my flesh as if he can’t get enough of it.

  ‘British.’ Another answer purely on instinct; I school my face, expecting a pithy comment, but I’m startled by his laughter instead.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  ‘I like the way you say ass,’ I reply simply.

  ‘And I like your arse.’ He grabs it again, this time with both hands. ‘What I would do to it,’ he growls, running his fingers down to where my cheek meets thigh. ‘Fingers.’ This sounds like a deliberation. I want certainty.

  ‘Get off,’ I reply somewhere between a groan and a sigh. This isn’t an instruction to stop.

  ‘That’s two words,’ he chastises, teasing the slip of lace between my legs. Teasing the edge of my control.

  ‘Don’t care.’ I offer him two more. Desperate, my lace-covered chest heaves under his nose as his fingers catch the elastic seam of my panties and slip inside.

  ‘Wet,’ he growls as his finger sweeps my seam. We both feel the evidence of it—hear the slick sound of my desire.

  ‘Wanting.’ The atmosphere around us thickens, banding us together with lust.

  ‘Wanting what, I wonder?’ He barely moves his finger, yet wetness still pools between my legs.

  ‘You,’ I moan, lowering myself onto his hand.

  ‘Fuck.’ Savage and hard, he spits the word out, his need rising along with mine.

  ‘Heaven!’ I cry out as his fingers push deep inside.

  My arms still linked around his neck, I melt into him, over him—cling to him like glue. He holds me there with one arm tight around my waist. His fingers work between my legs; my muscles tightening in testament to how much I want this. His hand slides from my waist and grabs my ponytail, pulling and tilting my head to one side.

  ‘Sadistic,’ he grates out, his jaw flexing and his eyes burning bright.

  ‘Affection.’ Another word on instinct, my mind purely absent, my body in charge of all the things.

  ‘Bedroom,’ he growls, and all I can respond with is a hissed, ‘Yes.’

  Two

  LOUISE

  I pause as we reach the bedroom door, the heat of his body almost burning me from behind. There’s no turning back—not that I want to. I just like how close he is and how he crowds my space. As his finger grazes my hip, desire rolls across my skin, and I’m brought back to the fact that I’m clad in only my underwear while he’s still fully clothed. He�
�s playing power games, I think. And for once, I’m in the mood to lose

  ‘Are you sure you won’t tell me your name?’ His hands curl around my hips, his lips finding my shoulder with a gentle kiss.

  ‘No.’ I whirl around to face him, bringing me into the room. ‘It’s my turn to choose—bed.’

  ‘You don’t want to know my name?’ he purrs, ignoring my direction. Biting the inside of my lip, I shake my head. Because that would be too easy and a little too real. I’m relieved when he doesn’t press me again.

  ‘Stead,’ he answers. He leans back against the doorframe, sliding both hands into his pockets. I think he’s playing it cool until I see where his gaze lies.

  There, above the bed, hang a set of leather cuffs—seeing them was partly the reason I’d spun around to face him in the first place, my heart jumping with a mixture of fear and delight.

  The cuffs, their leather patina seems polished to a mahogany stain. Well-used, well-worn, and obviously cared for. I try not to smile, my current aspirations being almost the same. Would he use me well? Wear me out? Meet my needs and care for me tonight? All without even knowing my name?

  As his eyes remain level on the leather, I begin to wonder what he’s seeing there. Is he remembering other women wearing them? More experienced women—those who know instinctively how to play these games? The thought lingers and expands as images of my own making play through my head. This man with a redhead—a blonde. A harem of women of which I’m just one.

  ‘Should . . . I mean. Maybe . . .’ My words are halting and flustered, spoken to drown out the images and jealous thoughts.

  As his eyes rise, I realise my mistake. He smiles, equal parts beautiful and brutal, but it’s a smile that doesn’t extend to his gaze.

  ‘I thought we were done,’ I almost whine.

  ‘Darling, you need to choose which piece you’re losing next.’

  His tone is filled with desire; my skin burns where his eyes touch, and I find my stance changes immediately as my hip cocks in attitude. Outwardly pissed but inwardly thrilled, something inside me flares instantly. Rebellion.

  ‘From forfeits to consequences.’ He sighs quietly. ‘I do believe you’re trying to force my hand.’

  I can’t restrain my smile, quite liking the sound of that. Force his hand on me. In me. Around the base of my neck. But then I realise my behaviour isn’t aiding my cause but hampering it, so trail my finger down my body between the two garments in question as though I’ve not yet decided. The natural progression would be to lose my bra. It’s what he’s probably expecting, and the opposite of what I’ll give.

  I bend forward and, with a slight wiggle that’s purely for show, slide my panties from my hips.

  ‘Stop,’ he demands suddenly; his words clipped and concise.

  I partially straighten with a questioning look. Stop the action, or does he want my response to the word?

  Stop, go? Stop, clock? Stop messing about and let’s fuck?

  Panties around my knees can’t be a sexy look, yet one glance at his heated expression tells me that can’t really be true. Something warm and liquid blooms deep in the pit of my belly, spreading out under my skin. Maybe this is like the cuffs—like a restraint? I widen my stance a little to hold the fabric in place, or at least that’s what I’ll tell myself—feeling awkward, embarrassed, and more than a little wet.

  He pushes off from the wall, stepping so close our bodies almost touch. The moment is endless, the heat in his gaze like a brand. His hand rises almost in slow motion as one fingertip brushes my sternum.

  ‘Temperance,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Overrated,’ I rasp, leaning into his touch. We both watch as his fingers travel down my body, grazing the soft skin on my stomach down to my open thighs.

  ‘Restraint,’ he cautions, pulling gently on the small strip of hair between my legs.

  ‘Trying.’ The word hits the air between a sigh and a tremble.

  ‘Would that be trying for restraint or just trying to be restrained?’ He steps around me, circling my body slowly as his hand trails my waist, and I feel the weight of his gaze. ‘Well?’

  ‘What?’ The word is strangled—garbled— somewhere between an actual word and a cry as, at the very same moment, he brings his hand to my ass. Hard. Fast.

  His arm catches my elbow as I stumble, the sound of the impact echoing in the room. My cheeks sting like shame and the impact ricochets straight to my groin, lingering there in a gratuitous throb. I think I might whimper, moan—something.

  As he steps away, I lurch toward him, the flimsy garment tying my limbs forgotten in lust. No one has ever had this effect on me as every cell in my being screams for more from him. Desire replaces anger and shame as I wrap my hands in his pristine shirt and whisper, ‘Again.’

  His response is wrong by yesterday’s standards, though everything that’s right for tonight as he grasps my forearms. Held in his hands, not in his arms. This isn’t an embrace as he kisses me slowly, kisses me tenderly, an action as soft as his next is hard.

  ‘You’re trying my patience.’ Twisting me around, he pushes me forward and down against the bed.

  My heart is in my throat, my pulse thundering everywhere as he pushes himself between my legs. Leaning into me, he forced my body to sink flat, and the pressure of his teeth on my shoulder is a sign of my position. A sign of his control. I give it to him gladly, whimpering as his lips trail and graze my neck as his hands lift mine above my head.

  The loosening of his pants. A rustle of foil.

  My panties slide the rest of the way from my legs.

  I think to myself, he’ll loosen my bra at any moment, when he slides one knee between mine, spreading me wider. A hand under my hips, he lifts me in readiness from the bed.

  ‘Fuck,’ he growls, all civility gone from his tone.

  ‘Pleasure.’ Is my response required at all?

  ‘For mine. Not yours.’

  Too late, I think, hoping this time the utterance isn’t out loud.

  Grabbing handfuls of sheet, I anchor myself, moaning loudly as he pushes inside. I’m so wet that my body offers no resistance to his power, unless you count the small smile I curl into the fist by my mouth.

  ‘Fuck.’ His tone is low and rough as though he’s fighting for control. ‘I can feel you pulsing around my cock.’

  If his words weren’t enough to make me moan aloud, his next action is. I cry out in pure ecstasy in response to the snap of his hips.

  ‘You’re. So. Fucking. Tight.’ He punctuates his growls with his movements as I begin to soar.

  I thrust my hips backwards, my arms still near my head in my desperation to please him. In my desperation for more. For harder, for deeper. For his teeth against my skin. His hand snakes around my waist, pulling me upwards and back onto him. In my desperation, my movements become frantic, his fingers curling around the fragile column of my neck, stilling me. I know I shouldn’t like it, and that I should say so right now. But at this moment, the action feels more like an embrace. Especially as his fingers tenderly touch my jaw, turning my head. Somehow, my breasts balance free above my bra; he teases the hard peaks as we kiss. A moment of slow, tender lips and wet swipes of tongue before he begins to move again. Small, precise, yet powerful thrusts. I feel him deep inside—feel his every muscle twitch and flex as he holds me close. I’m a doll in his arms—something fragile and delicate. Something to be positioned at his whim.

  His, my body screams. His for the night.

  At the thought, my breathing becomes shallow, my muscles holding him tight enough to make him groan.

  ‘That’s right,’ he rasps. ‘Let me feel your pleasure. Give it to me.’

  From china doll to animal, I buck against him, desperate to take it all. Frantic to get to that edge—the feeling is white hot, pulsing through my limbs and under my skin as he holds me there, but the friction isn’t enough as he stills his hips.

  ‘You need this, don’t you, sweetheart?’ In the absence of word
s, I moan as I writhe against him. ‘But good girls say please.’

  With one hand holding my neck, he slides the other between my legs. His fingers are light and deft and something other than what I need. I buck against him, desperate for pressure—for fast and hard fingertips. For his teeth at my neck. For his cock to sink into me. To push me into the bed.

  ‘You’re so slick.’ His words are as soft as a caress, his strong arms holding me tight, preventing me from moving, from slamming into him. From using my own fingertips. My breath is short, my chest heaving as need tightens my skin. I do need it—I need it all. But a good girl? Can I be? For him? ‘I can feel your need pulsing around my cock. Your clit pounds against my fingertips. I can make it so good for you—’

  ‘Please!’ I cry, the word expelled in a sob. I close my eyes at how desperate I feel. How desperate I sound. ‘Please. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Like that, yes,’ he hisses with one hand on my neck, one sliding between my legs.

  I see stars, the universe, as his fingers slide through my wetness, touching where we meet. I detonate—coming so hard that my cries sound anguished and desperate. I writhe against him, singing his praises and chanting my relief.

  One minute, I’m in heaven, and the next, I’m pushed down to my hands and knees. There’s no time for post-coital bliss as he tears another climax from me. His hands hard on my breasts, the man rides me, driving inside over and over again. A harsh advance. A pounding. A pummelling. And I love it.

  No kissing.

  No stroking.

  No endearments.

  No words.

  Nothing but our pleasure and surrender melting us across the bed.

  Playing His Games

  Chapter One

  DAN

  Hello, my name is Dan. And I own a kinky sex club.

  That’s not how I introduced myself to her last night. Nor did I mention I was the owner of Mede, the club we were sitting in. We’d never met before, and she wasn’t aware of my reputation, my past, or proclivities. She didn’t even seem to know about the club next door, let alone my ownership. The Lion’s Den is . . . an exclusive lifestyle club, or sex club, some would say. For most, it’s a place perhaps more myth than anything. A place where an assortment of appetites and tastes are catered for by way of a rigorous vetting system. And, of course, an extortionate membership fee.