Master of Hearts: A Domination And Submission Romance Anthology Page 2

  ***

  Chloe Bloom. I’d have been more comfortable had it taken me at least a minute to recognize her, if I’d had the slightest problem recalling her name.

  The group from the South Atlantic Sojourn had disembarked from the mainland ferry while I watched from the doorway. I was brooding on the thousand things I wanted to get out of the way today after this tour—among them another contentious meeting with my project manager, Gabriel, and checking in on Ilha de Flor’s problem child, Luiz. This was my own fault for insisting on handling certain concierge duties myself, and the price for being a controlling bastard.

  Then the gaggle of posh tourists had reached me and spread out to indulge my practiced spiel, and there she was at the center of it all. A flower of pink silk. Long brown hair a shade-for-shade match to her eyes, rimmed in blackest mascara and offset by the barest hint of rosy balm on her full lips. Natural beauty, and a touch exotic. I knew few Londoners who could resist that, no matter how far or how long removed from the isle, myself included.

  Though I’d only ever seen her in a half-dozen society page or trade journal photographs, she had moved—glided—exactly as I would have expected, though with an air of caution that had taken me aback. I supposed I’d be wary as well, moving in the circles she did, coming from her background. But that’s what gave her an air of substance. She wasn’t an heiress or fashion model or trophy girlfriend. Education and ability had introduced her into a world of wealth and power, of cold people who did cruel things in custom-made clothing for ungodly amounts of money and influence. Penn Ellison, complete reprobate that he was, had anchored her there as his unexpectedly respectable girlfriend.

  I couldn’t suppress the smile that had crept over my face at seeing Chloe. That twitch of tension started in the back of my jaw, and my body tightened and flexed, groin included. I was finally going to find out how Ellison had managed to land a woman like her, and knowing that felt exhilarating and fucking well fabulous. Adrenaline-pumping, fist-clenching, cock-hardening fabulous.

  After beating down the urge to wave the crowd unaccompanied into the resort while I pounced on Miss Bloom, I’d forced myself to continue the tour, but I kept her close. The softness of her skin as I’d held her arm wrapped around mine made the hair at the back of my neck bristle and stand on end. Her scent was a mix of apple, iris, and amber with something fresh and clean underneath that I was certain was her. Pheromones. She had reacted to me, to the flirtation and incidental touches. And why not? Her liaison with Penn would have indicated an affinity for men like us—cock-sure, domineering scoundrels with all the right moves and the best table manners. I pushed back the temptation to feel bad for her, for any woman with half a brain who actually had a weakness for emotionally unavailable, elitist pricks like Penn. And me.

  Now I lingered over her at the buffet and disciplined the grin on my face down to an acceptably debonair smirk. It wasn’t that she’d nearly jumped out of her skin when I’d touched her or the obvious nervousness in the way she held herself so stiff. It was the fact that everything on her plate was dessert and all of it Brazilian. Not a sickeningly sweet petit forte to be had. No caviar or Kobe beef or braised whatever in truffle sauce.

  “You know,” I said once I’d finally overcome the need to laugh, “despite the nearly endless feasts people expect at places like this, Brazilians tend to make the midday meal their real indulgence.” I pointedly eyed her selection of sweets, placed on a full-size dinner plate, not the small dessert dish. Leaning in, I whispered, “You’ve got the right idea.” When her body gave a little jerk, like something between a flinch and a shiver, it was all I could do not to kiss her bare neck and blatantly challenge her to find out if I was a better lover than Ellison.

  It had been a long time—god, it must have been college, ten years ago—since I’d seduced a woman, since I’d had to. The women who dared come within arm’s reach now, the ones who knew who I was, didn’t need convincing and generally weren’t worth it. I told myself to take my time and enjoy the novelty of the experience, as I leaned in far closer than necessary to reach around Chloe and pick up another plate. Apple, iris, amber, and shivers. Delectable.

  “Let’s really get you set up before we head back to my table,” I suggested, then hooked this beautiful, skittish bird with one arm around her waist to guide her along the buffet.

  “No, really, I’m sure I have enough…”

  Her voice trailed off when my hand found the curve of her hip. At the same moment, I felt my gut and my balls contract. Curves. Mm, yes, I liked that. I could already imagine her softness under me, smooth thighs curled over my hips, warm arms stretched against mine as I held her hands above her head and took her hard while I made her tell me how much she loved it.

  Again I had to suppress elated laughter. And the impulse to simply take what I wanted. It had been too long since I desired a woman at least as much as she desired me, though that was assuming I was reading Chloe correctly. The exhilaration was like stepping out of the shower on a cool morning, finding a breeze blowing a storm in after a hot day, or Penn Ellison finding out I’d just bedded the woman who left him.

  It was a mercenary thought, unworthy of her, though not unworthy of me. A moment of guilt passed over me like a cloud swept briefly over the sun. I shook it off and motioned to the other end of the table with a subtle nod of my head.

  “There’s so much you have to try,” I insisted, reluctantly letting go of my hold on Chloe to spoon food onto the plate whenever I got her to nod at my recommendations. “Polenta. Coxinha croquettes. That’s chicken. Pato no tucupi. That’s duck in cassava broth. No one makes it like our cook, Manuela.” I dipped my head over Chloe’s, my lips almost brushing her high cheekbone. Though she reared back a fraction of an inch, she also instinctively swept her hair out of the way with a quick stroke of her hand along her shoulder. I whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t tell anyone our chef isn’t some blustery tyrant with an unpronounceable French name,” and then I winked at her. “You can’t teach people to cook like a real Brazilian grandmother, and she’s got sous chefs for the pretentious food.”

  Chloe stilled when I said this, narrowing her eyes and leaning back to finally look me in the face for more than a second. Having her full attention sent a surge of warmth and triumph through me. “You don’t like fussy food?”

  I answered her in a low, careful voice laced with deliberation and double meaning. “Depends on what the fuss is about. You can only have so many reductions and soufflés and molecular gastronomy experiments on the half shell before you just want something with substance. Something that’s going to fill you up.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched with the suggestion of surprise and…yes, there it was, a little bit of approval. Was it fair that I was using my knowledge of her modest background to impress her, circumvent her defenses, insert myself into her good graces? Hell, no, I thought a little too glibly, before another cloud of guilt damped down the reaction. But at least I was telling the truth, about Manuela and my preference for the cook’s empanada chicken and pea pies over any chef’s version of Lobster Thermidor or some nouveau thousand-dollar foie gras burger.

  Back at my table, with a handful of guests selected by my assistant from among those who had reserved the most expensive suites, I kept my business head about me and paid the appropriate attention to the conversation. I was used to saying one thing and thinking another, so I had no difficulty chatting up my lunch companions about the available recreational activities or how many miles of beach Ilha de Flor offered while keeping an eye sidelong on the one guest who mattered. Though I did enjoy the questions from the banking executive’s seven-year-old son about whether there were pirates on the island. I suggested he could root them out if there were. Would that someone had been even so passingly indulgent with my imagination at that age; I might not have followed in the family footsteps.

  Between bites of honey cake, Chloe asked the lad, in a sincere and serious voice, “Are you after buccanee
rs or corsairs? Or privateers, maybe?”

  Smiling behind my napkin, I exchanged an approving glance with her. I should have guessed Chloe was a woman who’d love history, perhaps as much as that little boy clearly loved the opportunity to dominate the rest of the conversation with an explanation of the difference between those pirate terms. It was one of the more enjoyable lunches I’d had in the three years since the resort opened. I could almost have forgotten about the unwholesome plans I was entertaining for the beautiful woman sitting next to me, her sensuous little tongue flicking out along her lips to catch a stray drop of honey, the poise in her shoulders begging to be broken by a firm hand and a hard orgasm.

  After the meal, when I pulled out her chair, I caught the corner of her napkin and whisked it from her lap, dragging the material down and across the thin silk of her dress and her thighs beneath that.

  She caught her lower lip briefly in her teeth and drew in her breath abruptly. “Th-thank you. I forgot…”

  “I’ll show you to your suite, Miss Bloom.” This time, when I took her hand to curl her arm under mine, she was stiffer, less yielding. Her resistance did nothing but encourage me, remind me that a woman like her would and should be a challenge. And make me want to pull her close, until that reluctance melted and her body with it.

  We were alone in the elevator, arms still entwined, one thigh grazing hers when I shifted. “There will be samba music and dancing lessons during and after dinner tonight,” I said.

  “Samba? I’d…I’d actually kind of like that,” she responded with a subtle note of surprise in her delicate but expressive voice, like she hadn’t anticipated enjoying herself here. What had she expected? What was she doing here?

  Penn Ellison. He’d nearly slipped my mind, but not really. Sad, but I still had my assistant flag any mentions of my old college rival in any kind of media. If one could really consider gossip blogs to be media, I wasn’t sure. These days I liked to think I was mostly over the vicious competitiveness I engaged in with Ellison when we both rowed for Cornell, though challenge and competition and ego were, well, in my blood. Like Penn’s. Seeing Chloe Bloom walk up to me today proved me wrong. There it was again, my jealousy that someone as irredeemable as Ellison could attract a woman who was about something more than wealth or social status. And the couple of articles I’d read in legal and real estate development journals profiling the successes of the young junior partner in her environmental law firm did depict a woman with greater passions than retail therapy and upward mobility.

  I sighed at myself as I escorted Chloe down the quiet hallway. Maybe, Adrian, it should have occurred to you that the woman only recently found out her boyfriend was unfaithful to her, and just as gossip column speculation had been anticipating an engagement. It would have been easy enough to imagine that she had booked this trip to escape the humiliation. But also that she might have found it difficult to lose herself in drinking and dancing with the wound so fresh.

  If I was a better man, I’d have decided then to step away from Chloe Bloom. Let her heal. Let her find someone…nice. Like a young law clerk or an accountant. Someone with a future and a little ambition. But no old money. No legacy. No compulsive need to conquer every challenge that came his way—or the arrogance to feel he was entitled to it, no matter who it hurt.

  But this was Chloe, the woman I had been wondering about for two years, and I was not a better man.

  At her door, I took the key from her warm fingers despite her mumbled protest. There was relief on her face when I held the door pushed back for her but made no move to step into her suite. Still, she had to brush past me, so tantalizingly close. The crotch of my slacks began to tighten and bind. When she took hold of the door, I folded my hands in front of me strategically.

  “You should pay a visit to the spa, to relax before dinner.”

  This got me a wistful smile. “I’d like that, but I didn’t get the chance to make reservations. Your brochure says many of the best treatments have to be booked as much as two weeks in advance.”

  I shook my head no. “Not for you. I’ll call down and tell them to fit you in. Anything you want.”

  Chloe raked her teeth along that lush pillow of her lower lip again, and my head filled with images of her doing that at the height of her pleasure, as my cock drove her to climax. There was a definite sense of daring, even flirtation, when she asked, “What do you recommend?”

  Ah, too easy, that.

  “Deep Surrender.”

  ***

  Despite the overly familiar behavior of Adrian Knight, and despite my dangerously wanton physical reaction to his practiced fingertips along my arm and his breath along my cheek, I couldn’t resist taking his recommendation. Deep Surrender, I soon discovered, was a coconut milk and warm stone deep tissue massage. It probably would have utterly broken the tension in my spine had my masseuse not been one of those improbably gorgeous staffers, the kind that had come to mind when I’d arrived. Chestnut hair and green eyes and very good hands.

  God, I hadn’t been touched by anyone but Penn in almost two years, and now this handsome stranger was working out the knots all along my back with such strong fingers while my insides were still melted butter from the heat in Adrian Knight’s voice. Twice I caught myself tensing my thighs, almost…straining for something more, and I prayed the poor masseuse hadn’t noticed. I’d have claimed embarrassment and asked for a female masseuse had I not been a late addition to the spa’s schedule. I couldn’t compound the inconvenience by being picky over the service before it even started, though I knew that wouldn’t have stopped ninety percent of their clientele.

  Just try staying in the moment, Chloe, I told myself. A deep breath. My eyes sank closed. Little by little, flexed muscles relaxed and allowed me to sink against the plush towel spread beneath me.

  “That’s it,” the stranger’s silky voice said from above me. “Let go.”

  Tight muscles. Bobbing stomach. And a distressingly insistent pulse from the sensitive pearl of nerve endings between my legs. I swallowed a curse and gripped the upper edge of the massage table, then made myself uncurl my fingers. My face turned in toward the towel, I hid a guilty, nervous smile. Some libertine I was.

  What was this trip supposed to do for me? Ah, yes, it was an escape from Penn’s phone calls and gifts, the pitying looks from my friends, the whispers at the office. But it was also supposed to be about going someplace no one knew me and…sex. No strings attached, no emotional involvement, no exchange of last names sex. An exploration of what it was men like my…like my father and Penn got out of sex divorced from love.

  I had never once had sex with someone I didn’t care for romantically. Even in law school, juggling classes and study sessions with a job as a law clerk, when I’d had no time for a bona fide boyfriend, I’d gone celibate rather than make use of the friends-with-benefits arrangements so many of my peers had. I knew several of my female friends who were the same way. No sex without love. No love without sex. But I also didn’t know a single man, among those close enough to admit as much to me, who hadn’t had numerous one-night-stands and short term flings. Was it a gender thing? Something hardwired in the brain?

  No, I’d told myself when I walked away from Penn that last night in his penthouse, I refused to believe all women had to be slaves to their hearts while men got to be best friends with their cocks. I could learn how to be like them, if I put my mind to it. Just as I’d learned to mimic the manners and posturing of the real estate tycoons and energy company executives, the investors from Hong Kong and Dubai, the regulators from Washington who did lunch with senators and cabinet members.

  But really, it wasn’t a one-to-one comparison, was it? My whole life had been about how smart I was, such a source of pride for my mother. Academic awards and scholarships that took me clear across the country to study at Stanford, debate team trophies, praise from the firm partners over journal articles I’d published or mitigation reports I’d drafted. It was hard not to absorb the a
tmosphere and start to resemble the privilege that surrounded me.

  Doing something like seducing a handsome masseuse—I smothered a silly giggle in the towel—was a different story. There wasn’t a class for that, and I didn’t hang out in bars enough to naturally pick up the skill. Maybe I just wasn’t the casual sex kind of girl.

  I told myself I wasn’t going to worry about it anymore tonight, as I gathered my thoroughly relaxed, slightly tingly limbs from the massage table. After wrapping myself in a fluffy white robe and pinning up my hair, and not making a pass at my gracious masseuse, I headed down a tile corridor to something called a eucalyptus sauna.

  My. God. I’d never felt anything like it. With the sauna all to myself, I perched on the top of three graduated wooden steps that lined the room and sank into the voluminous folds of my robe, half my face hidden in the collar. The steam heated my skin to a rosy glow while the eucalyptus penetrated my lungs and made the inside of my body feel like I’d been steeped in mint.

  I had to admit it. I had closed my eyes and was thinking dirty thoughts about Adrian Knight, about his hands massaging and prodding me under my towel, when I heard the sauna room door creak open and hiss slowly closed. Intending to give my anonymous companion the same privacy I wanted, I didn’t so much as raise an eyelid. Not when bare feet padded across the room. Not when the weight of someone sitting nearby on the same section of bench shifted the wood under my butt. Not until a very male sigh sounded from right beside me.

  When I peeked, I found the devil himself sitting next to me in his own white robe, head tilted against the wall at our backs, feet planted firm and wide apart. I closed my eyes before the sight really registered in my mind, but they sprang open again a moment later. By then, Adrian Knight had turned his head and was smiling softly at me. Rather like a polite hawk about to greet a lone chick.

  “Miss Bloom.”

  Though I’d just spent an hour-long massage coveting the male ability to enjoy sex without attachment, though I’d just been daring to fantasize about this man tracing his fingers along the swollen lips of my sex, though I was even now pressing my thighs together while my pussy contracted in anticipation, I frowned at Knight. It should only have been about half past four. What were the business hours in Brazil?