Looking Inside Page 7

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.” He stepped behind his desk. My heart jumped when he picked up the wooden paddle. He used it to point at the floor several feet away from him. “Come stand here in front of me.”

  I felt awkward walking naked, with my cuffed ankles and my hands behind my head, but for some reason, my nipples pinched tight in arousal as I came to a standstill before him. I looked up at him, uncertain, feeling very small in comparison to his tall, strong male body. Very aroused. His nostrils flared slightly.

  “You will come to fear the paddle a little,” he said. He extended the hand that held my instrument of punishment. My breath caught, but all he did was use the tip of the polished wood to caress the side of my waist. A puff of air left my lungs. He used the paddle to stroke the side of my now heaving rib cage. Then he lifted one of my breasts with it from below and slid the paddle along the side of the globe. He pressed it tenderly, and then let go. My breast jiggled at the movement. I moaned softly. He watched like a hawk while he moved the paddle over the top of my breast and gently circled the tip over my rock-hard nipple. “But you will come to love it as well, Katya. You’ll tremble with excitement every time you see this paddle in my hand.”

  I already was shaking with excitement. He gave a small smile, and I realized he’d known that. He slid the tip of the paddle down my sternum and over my belly. Lower. My eyes widened and I shifted on my feet.

  “Stay still,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing up at me. I remained unmoving with effort, my muscles tensed hard, holding my breath. “I’m going to make you burn, Katya. All of you. Now turn around.” I did so with his guiding hand on my upper arm. “And bend at the waist. Flex your knees slightly.” He used the paddle to gently tap at the back of one knee. “It will help you to take the paddle on your ass. Good,” he purred from behind me when I’d taken the position for my punishment. He swept the paddle along the back of my one thigh, then another. He came to the side of me and placed his hand on my shoulder, bracing me for the punishment. The anticipation was killing me.

  “Breathe, Katya. Don’t forget to breathe.” I inhaled deeply. He pressed the paddle into the flesh of my ass and circled it subtly. I couldn’t stop myself from moaning, my arousal had grown so sharp.

  “Are you ready to begin?” Xander asked me, his deep, mellifluous voice washing over me, soothing the prickling nerves all over my body.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He lifted the paddle and struck. My body started slightly at the blow, but he steadied me with his hand on my shoulder. The loud crack of contact rang in my ears. The paddling had stung, but that wasn’t what made me whimper. It was the feeling of Xander pressing the paddle again to my ass and sliding it erotically against my skin, soothing the firing nerves.

  Good God. She could feel Trey’s stare boring into her like a hot lance. Eleanor brushed the back of her hand against her upper lip, wiping away the slight perspiration that had gathered there. Her sex had grown wet too. It prickled in arousal. Her breath coming unevenly, she nervously ran her finger along the exposed skin beneath the hem of the romper, wishing she could touch herself. Her aching sex was only inches away from her gliding fingertips. A fever had settled on her. She pressed her fingers to her flushed mouth. She glanced up at Trey, feeling both vaguely guilty at the idea of becoming so aroused in public and unstoppably excited.

  She flinched. Xander MacKenna had nothing on Trey in the burning-stare department.

  His mouth was pressed together in a tight line. He looked furious. She glanced down to his lap instinctively. He was covering his crotch with Pride and Prejudice again. He made a taut gesture with the hand that wasn’t holding the book. Next to his abdomen, he pointed, the action small, stabbing and distinct.

  Her stare jumped to his face, her eyes widening at his fierce expression and glittering, stormy blue eyes. She glanced to where he’d pointed. He’d indicated the exit and the lobby.

  “Bathroom,” he mouthed silently.

  Her eyes widened. He was telling her to go to the bathroom in the lobby, and he’d meet her there.

  Of course she’d go. She had to. This is what she’d been plotting for, wasn’t it? Was he going to take her in the bathroom in a hot, sweaty tryst? The very idea made her light-headed.

  She stood abruptly, dumping the incendiary book into her bag and grabbing clumsily at her coat. Her mind was awhirl with what was about to happen. Trey Riordan had signaled—no, he’d ordered—her to go to the bathroom. He was about to confront her, talk to her . . .

  Quite possibly yell at her for getting aroused in public and teasing him so mercilessly for two nights in a row. She couldn’t quite be sure from his fierce expression what he planned. This was uncharted territory for her.

  Her lungs tight, she plunged down the two steps to the main floor of the coffee house. She instinctively veered away from Trey’s chair like she might from the smoke and heat of a raging fire. Regret slinked into her awareness when she noticed that several men were tracking her progress toward the exit, their excitement obvious.

  Shit. She’d been doing her little act for Trey, of course. But others had unintentionally been as caught up in her performance as she was.

  FIVE

  Stacy Moffitt frowned at her disapprovingly when Eleanor breathlessly requested her phone at the counter. She’d be tattling to Jimmy, Eleanor’s friend, about Eleanor’s odd presentation at the event. Her behavior hadn’t been outrageous to anyone but Trey, but still, it’d been notably unusual for those familiar with Eleanor.

  She glanced furtively back into the coffee house, positive Trey would be stalking toward her, perhaps intent on retribution for her daring at teasing him. The idea excited her unbearably. Her eyes widened in alarm when instead of Trey, she saw the black-bearded guy rushing her.

  “Are you ever going to actually stay for the whole event?” Stacy hissed as she extended the envelope that held Eleanor’s phone.

  “I’m starting to doubt it,” Eleanor mumbled, snatching the envelope from Stacy’s hand. The bearded guy was almost to the desk. She hurried out of the exit, intimidated by his glistening, feral-looking black eyes.

  She’d been so caught up in being late to the event . . . and then utterly captivated by Trey and her book. She’d forgotten about the guy’s rabid stares from last night. She increased her pace, anxious to avoid him. Her heels tapped rapidly on the tile floor of the lobby.

  “Hey, come back here,” he ordered.

  She broke into a jog, alarmed by the roughness of his tone.

  “Come back here, you little cock tease.”

  Her breath hitched when his footsteps grew faster. He was chasing after her. Alarmed by his aggressive snarls, she blindly headed for the doors and the street. Abruptly, the pursuing footfalls halted. There was a skidding sound on the tile floor.

  She looked over her shoulder as she plunged out the doors, her heart pounding like crazy in her ears. She saw Trey holding the bearded guy’s arm while the man spun around at the unexpected restraint. She halted in the doorway, horrified to see the bearded man lift his fist in preparation to strike. Looking beyond irritated, Trey caught the man’s arm, halting the blow with shocking ease. The bearded guy cursed and started to struggle, but Trey was much the superior as far as size and fitness. He held him off with both hands with relative ease. He looked over at Eleanor, his glare singeing her.

  “Go. Get out of here. Now,” he growled between clenched, white teeth.

  She inhaled sharply, experiencing his words like a slap. It’d been the first time he’d ever spoken to her.

  It’d probably be the last.

  Could you have screwed this up any more royally?

  She plunged into the November night, racing toward the curb blindly. Only one thought guided her: escape. She wanted to shut her eyes and block out Trey’s furious expression.

  Frustration swept through her
when she saw how snarled traffic was. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. For many people, the holiday had already begun. Spotting a cab with its light on, she jogged into the halted traffic.

  “Eleven sixty-one Lake Shore Drive,” she gasped, slamming the door shut and locking it. She strained to see into the museum’s lobby, but couldn’t make anything out from here. What was happening inside? Was Trey fighting that man? What if he got hurt, all because of her selfish lust?

  The light turned and the cab inched forward sluggishly. She couldn’t stand it. She had to get out of here.

  “Just turn right up here,” she told the cab driver.

  “You want to take North Avenue? It’s worse than LaSalle.”

  “Whatever . . . just get me away from here.”

  She saw the driver glance at her suspiciously in his rearview window, but she didn’t care. Her entire awareness was focused on getting out of there. He turned right. The museum disappeared from sight within seconds.

  What would have usually been a five-minute cab ride took four times as long because of their meandering route and heavy traffic. She mentally lectured herself on her stupidity the whole way. She wanted to explore her sexuality with Trey, and she wanted to be daring in her attempt.

  But maybe she was too inexperienced to recognize the possible consequences?

  The cab finally pulled into the turnabout in front of her building. She paid the driver and rushed out of the car, shoving her wallet back into her purse with frustrated forcefulness. She shivered, realizing she’d never donned her coat. The temperature hovered around freezing, and she was only wearing the finely knit romper without a stitch of underwear. Her legs above her stockings were bare to the frigid lake wind.

  Against her will, she recalled her mother’s concerned voice.

  “It’s not you, Eleanor.”

  Awash with mortification, she hurried into her coat as she approached her building. She glanced up distractedly in the process of pulling the coat around her and froze in her tracks.

  Trey Riordan stood outside of her building’s front doors, his hands deep in the pockets of the black wool peacoat he wore. His eyes glittered at her from beneath his lowered brow.

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell this is all about?” he asked her coolly.

  —

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but a stupid little squeaking sound. Before she could think of anything remotely plausible to say, he took several steps toward her, his gaze narrowing.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Ah . . . er . . . Eleanor Briggs,” she managed, her voice sounding thick and husky. Her tongue felt like it was about a foot thick. She swallowed with effort. “Are you all right?”

  “What?” he asked distractedly. He was studying her like she was some kind of weird-looking, possibly toxic mold he’d never seen before.

  “That man. The guy with the beard,” she said. His stare flickered to her face. Eleanor’s heart jumped. This was the closest she’d ever stood to him. His eyes looked darker beneath the night sky, a midnight blue with shards of light reflecting in them. His mouth was hard, but so sexy. Just looking at it caused a surreal feeling to come over her. “He . . . he didn’t hurt you, did he?” she asked, her gaze scanning his face worriedly and finding only rugged male perfection.

  She was talking to Trey Riordan. Well . . . sort of, anyway.

  “No,” he said pointedly, his brows arching. “He finally saw the wisdom of walking away. It surprised me, to be honest. You really had him worked up this time.”

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I honestly didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  He took another step closer, until less than a foot separated them. Despite the fact that she wore heels, she had to look up to focus on his face.

  “You mean you weren’t trying to turn him into a sex-crazed idiot?” he asked, and she saw the hard glitter in his clear eyes. He had been angry at her performance. He still was.

  “Of course not. I couldn’t care less about him,” she mumbled, awash in embarrassment. A gust of wind off Lake Michigan lifted several strands of her long hair, spilling it against her burning cheeks. She brushed it aside impatiently.

  “I see.”

  She started. “You do?”

  He nodded, his face completely sober. “You weren’t trying to make him or any other guy in that coffee shop crazy. You were just trying to torture me. Is that right?”

  “Yeah,” she blurted out, relieved he understood. Then she saw the furious slant of his mouth and realized how callous her admission had sounded. Her eyes went wide.

  “Listen, Trey—”

  “How do you know my name?”

  She flinched. After a pause, she pointed lamely at their two buildings. “We’re neighbors,” she whispered.

  His took another small step toward her, his fierceness palpable. He seemed to tower over her.

  “How. Do you know. My name?” he grated out succinctly.

  She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe. It was like she was a cringing little bug and he was a giant about to stomp on her.

  “Eleanor?”

  Her breath hitched at the sound of him saying her name. Her guilty confession came spilling out of her.

  “Our doormen are friends. Harry knows Ralph, your doorman. I . . . I saw you . . . in your bedroom from my condo a few times,” she said, blanching and glancing up at him apologetically. Maybe he was going to report her to the police for being a Peeping Tom? The fact that she couldn’t read his rocklike expression made her desperate. Her lame confession, fueled by guilt, just kept bubbling out of her. “And like I said, I caught a glimpse of you a few times, and I . . . well, I got curious. To be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she mumbled guiltily. “So I asked Harry to ask Ralph who lived in the penthouse next door, and Harry eventually told me it was Trey Riordan, the BandBook and TalentNet founder . . . you.” She paused to gulp uncomfortably. She noticed his slightly incredulous expression as he stared down at her. “And that’s . . . that’s how I knew your name,” she finished stupidly.

  For a few excruciating seconds, he didn’t say anything.

  “Bastards,” he finally said. She blinked in surprise at the irritated slant of his mouth. Surely his curse hadn’t signified her.

  “Who?”

  “Our doormen.”

  “Don’t be mad at them. I know they breached your privacy in telling me your name, but—”

  “No, it’s not that. After that little performance you put on last night, I asked Ralph if he could get me the name of the woman in the unit across from mine. I described you to him and Harry.”

  “You did?” Eleanor asked, stunned.

  “Yeah. He and Harry are thick as thieves. They always go to each other’s lobbies to gossip while they’re on their breaks, and Harry was there this morning. But they got all closemouthed when I brought up you. They blabbed my name, but acted like they had no idea who I was describing.”

  “Harry is kind of the protective type,” Eleanor explained apologetically. She still was vibrating over the news that he’d tried to find out who she was after her window dance.

  “And so after they told you my name, you recognized me at the reading event?” he prompted.

  She just nodded, her mouth hanging open. There was a little more to the story than that, but she’d already overplayed her hand in all this. A gust of wind whipped at her unbound hair again. He stood so close that several long tendrils blew up onto his shoulders and brushed his face. One clung to his whiskered jaw. A quiver of awareness went through her. It was like the strands joined them. Their gazes locked. So did her lungs.

  Slowly, he reached up and pinched a tendril between thumb and forefinger. His fingers slid down the length several inches as though testing the texture before he reached, placing
it carefully on her chest. Her skin in the proximity of his fingers tingled.

  The first time Trey Riordan ever touched her.

  It probably would be the last.

  “That was quite a show you put on last night. In the window,” he said gruffly.

  “Oh . . . yeah, that.”

  She found herself staring at his broad shoulders, the tree in front of her building, Harry’s distant figure behind his station in the lobby . . . anything but Trey’s face in that moment.

  “Are you embarrassed?”

  She blinked. Once again, he’d sounded confused. Suspicious. He was seeing through her mask. You’re blowing this, Eleanor, blowing it straight to hell.

  “No.” She met his stare boldly. “Are you?”

  “I’m not sure what to think or feel about you, to be honest.”

  The image of how intense he’d looked in the coffee shop and peering out his window leapt into her mind’s eye. Vividly, she recalled him bracing himself against the window and reaching to cup his erection.

  “Really. No idea what you’re feeling?” she dared him softly.

  For a second, he just regarded her narrowly. Then he smiled and gave a rough bark of laughter. He shook his head.

  “Are you planning on continuing to torture me?”

  “Only if you want me to,” she said, gratified at how quickly she’d countered him this time. Being so close to him was unsticking her man-awkward, gummed-up Eleanor brain. Miraculously, he had that effect on her. Some of the time, anyway.

  His smile vanished. “I’m not the type to appreciate a woman at a distance.” His stare dipped over her face. She experienced a swooping sensation in her belly. “Especially one like you.”

  Her heart flopped like a fish against her sternum.

  He jerked his head in the direction of his building. “Do you ever go over to Gold Coast?” he asked her, referring to the upscale bar-restaurant on the ground floor of his building.

  Yeah, plenty of times. Usually looking for you.