Chapter Nine

All Mack’s senses strained, hoping for something—anything—to tell her what was going on. Panic bubbled within her, the certainty she’d made a terrible mistake. It was so dark under the blindfold, there was no way to cheat and say she couldn’t see anything while secretly saved by a sliver of light.

Then she heard a click, the sound of a container opening. She smelled lemon. Garlic. And something else—vinegar? Herbs?

Suddenly, it all made sense. He’d made a picnic. Before she got here, he’d set up a fucking picnic.

And then hog-tied her to make sure she’d sit and stay for it.

What a prince.

“Okay,” she said. “I get it. Is this supposed to be romantic? Can you untie me now?” She tried to rein in her annoyance since she didn’t exactly have the upper hand, but it was hard. If he’d wanted a date, he could have asked for one. She would have spared him the trouble.

Which, on second thought, was undoubtedly why he hadn’t brought it up.

“No and no,” he said in response to her questions. “I know you don’t do romance, Mack. This is strictly business.”

Mack stopped struggling against her bonds. Was he kidding? Of course she did romance! Not with him, obviously, but how could he—how could anyone—think a woman wouldn’t want to be swept off her feet?

“I like flowers,” she said. She knew it was ridiculous to confess this while she was blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back on the edge of a lake, soaked in sunlight and the whisper of the wind. But in a way, that was why she said it. Sure, he hadn’t called or in any way acknowledged her existence until he needed something. But she was a person, not his plaything.

“You do?”

He needn’t have sounded so surprised. What, did he think she was soulless?

“Sunflowers especially,” she said. “I love how bright they are. Just so you know.”

She wasn’t lying. Billy’s partner, Todd, took to bringing him flowers on the days he couldn’t get out of bed, to brighten the room. Even when the days he couldn’t get out grew to outnumber the days he could, the flowers always made Billy smile. He’d talk wistfully about the world outside, how grateful he was that things kept right on growing. Toward the end he’d say, “You’re going to keep on growing too, Sprout,” using his nickname for her. On the day he died she’d gathered up the flowers in his room, pressed her nose to their soft petals, and cried. It wasn’t only for Billy, although that was part of it. It was every one of the tears she hadn’t shed for every one of the homes she’d been taken from or left.

“I would have thought you’d call things like that, I don’t know, unnecessary distractions,” Connor said. “Why water flowers when you could be working. That sort of thing.” She didn’t miss the snark in his voice.

“How little you know me,” she said. “But while this talk of my cold heart is entertaining, you’re the one who said we were here for work.” She tried to shrug out of her ties as she said, “I don’t quite see how this fits in.”

“Open your mouth,” Connor said.

“Aren’t we bossy.”

“Do it.” His voice was level, calm. A man of infinite patience. Of course he could sit here forever. He had the view of the mountains, the lake, and Mack completely at his mercy. She bet he liked the look of that best of all.

“What are you feeding me?” she asked warily.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t. Just taste it. Don’t think about what it is, or how it’ll sound on a menu, or what kind of restaurant it belongs in. Don’t worry about marketing, business, all that bullshit. Don’t ask what it looks like, where it came from, what it goes with, what’s coming next. Close your eyes, open your mouth, and let yourself taste.”

Fine. He brought the fork to her mouth. Under the blindfold she closed her eyes, even though it wasn’t necessary. It helped let the flavor unfold on her tongue.

The first note was citrus, bright and clean. Then olive oil, fruity and warm. Brussels sprouts, she guessed, flash-fried, barely wilted, still plenty of texture. Shaved small, and there were slivers of something else—almonds? No, hazelnuts. Without the dish in front of her she had to inventory each item in her mind, and she was sure she was missing something. But Connor was right, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was good.

“Okay,” she said. “What’s next?”

Because the food wasn’t the problem. It was the bigger picture—the concept, the menu, the kind of place where the recipes belonged.

Connor knelt close to her. All she could do was taste what he gave her. Something slightly sweet and soft. She couldn’t place it, and even though he wouldn’t tell her what anything was, she bugged him until he finally relented and told her beets.

“You’re lying,” she said. “Beets don’t taste like that. Beets taste like dirt, and that tasted like little pillows of heaven.”

“I’m thinking it could go on crostini,” he said, “but that seemed too messy to feed you.”

The reminder that he’d planned this—her helplessness, her open mouth, her hands tied, and her eyes closed—made her heart hammer against her ribs. Warmth radiated from her stomach, and her breath quickened. What was happening to her?

They weren’t supposed to be doing this. But his voice was low, his hands gentle, the same way he’d been when he’d guided her down the path. How could someone so dangerous feel so safe sometimes? When he gave her a spoonful of a chilled soup, he used his thumb to wipe a drop from her lip. She flicked out her tongue, licked the drop from his skin. Heard his sharp inhale—or maybe that was her own. She shivered even though the sun was warm.

The longer they stayed out there, the more her world was reduced to smell and taste and sound, the pant of his breathing, the breeze off the lake, her own heart thrumming in her chest.

“What’s next?” she asked softly, after a bite of ravioli rich with cream but still light. She heard another container opening. This bite had a crust, something buttery with a savory inside.

“Don’t think about it,” Connor said, as though he could see her mind turning. “Try to enjoy.”

“I’m not very good at not thinking.”

“I know. But try.”

He fed her another bite. This time it was from his fingers and not the fork. He didn’t touch her, but he didn’t have to. Mack shifted, the cloth around her hands making it hard to find the right position. One where the seam of her jeans wasn’t pressing into her, leaving her uncomfortably aware.

“You okay?” he asked, and Mack hoped the blindfold covered her blush.

“Yes,” she said. “Keep going.”

“Can you picture this with the cardamom bitters? Maybe an orange rind?” he asked about one bite. For another dish it was Thai basil and anise.

“You didn’t hate it,” Mack said.

“It’s a good idea.”

Mack leaned forward as best she could while she still had the indignity of her hands tied behind her back. “What was that? I’m sorry, this blindfold—I can’t quite hear you.”

Connor groaned. “I said, it was a good idea.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Nobody likes a gloater.”

“That’s not true. I’m quite happy gloating.”

“Do you want to try dessert or not?”

“Good girl is shutting up,” Mack said brightly.

“Oh, so you’re a good girl now?”

Or a very bad one, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue.

She smelled chocolate. Milky, rich. Something else—caramel, maybe, but that didn’t seem his style. Burnt sugar?

“Open your mouth,” Connor instructed.

Of course she obeyed.

He brought the spoon to her lips. The bite was soft, smooth. A subtle crust for texture, finely chopped nuts, a hint of vanilla. Cream.

It was delicious. Mack let out an audible moan.

“Good?” he asked.

“More.”

She felt completely bare, helpless to him, asking for it. He fed her slowly, another spoon, making her arch forward, coaxing her with a throaty “That’s it” as she took it in her mouth.

She’d say it happened instantly, arousal like a switch, a flame catching, a lighter flicking on. But she knew it had been building within her ever since Connor sat her down. She could feel it as she squirmed in her bonds, the press of her jeans making her ache.

This was never supposed to happen again. Hell, it was never supposed to happen the first time. But the next taste of chocolate she licked off his finger. Then again off his thumb. She wondered if he could hear her heartbeat or if it was just the blindfold that made everything so loud to her. She wondered if she was crazy, what she was possibly thinking. If he was laughing at her, at how he’d gotten her out here and reduced her to this, whimpering for whatever he offered. Practically begging.

“Connor—” she started. But she didn’t know how to finish.

“What else do you want?” he asked.

She thought about where to take this. “What else do you have?”

“I asked you first.”

“Um. I asked you second?”

“We’re not kids, Mack. Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“I—” She hesitated, unable to say it. Because if she said it, then it would be something she’d asked for, sought out, made happen on her own. Not something that happened to her, another twist in life she’d been unable to control.

“What else do you want to taste?” Connor asked again, and Mack sucked in a breath. She sensed him close, that smell of flour and warmth, but she couldn’t figure out where he was or what he was doing until she felt the pressure of his hand up her thigh, tight on her hip, and then the sharp, sweet press of him right where that seam was, heat flooding her so she knew he could feel it as she rocked her hips to meet him.

“I know what I like the taste of,” he murmured.

His lips were close to hers; he grazed them, but barely. Mack leaned forward to try to kiss him, but he pulled away. His lips, but not his hand. His hand worked harder through her jeans, and Mack couldn’t believe it was making her this wet to be touched fully clothed. She wanted to wrench out of her constraints, claw at him, and make him stop teasing her like this, but when she jerked her arms the knots wouldn’t slip free. He let out a low, sultry laugh and touched a finger to her chin to tilt her head up.

“I asked what you wanted to taste.”

“Fuck you,” Mack said, breathless and panting. “You promised you weren’t going to torture me.”

His hand pulled away abruptly, leaving a cool feeling where there had once been such heat. Mack whimpered, wanting him back—anywhere, anything, she’d take whatever touch from him as long as it wasn’t this absence.

But instead of listening to her, he stood. She could sense it from the way he shifted and the air seemed to change, a shadow falling over her face as he blocked out the sun.

What an asshole. He was leaving her without any release, her nipples hard, her body desperate to be filled. He had riled her up to prove that he could. The ego on him. The nerve to do this to her.

I’m going to kill him.

As soon as I can breathe.

She ached so hard it hurt, a sharp feeling right at her center. In that instant it didn’t matter that she’d just been thinking this wasn’t so bad, they weren’t being stupid or fighting, they could at least pull a menu together. In that instant, she hated him with an intensity that rivaled the throbbing need between her legs.

“Tell me what you want, Mack,” he repeated. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

When she didn’t answer, he said, “You hide behind that mouth of yours. That hard exterior. You act like you don’t need anything. You think the other night just happened like some kind of mistake, and maybe it did, but this time if you want it again, you’re going to have to admit it.”

“You’re wrong,” she spat, a knee-jerk reaction, and he didn’t have to laugh for her to picture that sly grin on his face, like she’d gone ahead and done him a favor by so nicely demonstrating his point.

“Please,” she relented. And then again: “Please.”

She heard the slide of his belt buckle. Slow, steady. She was going to soak through her jeans if he kept up this pace.

His zipper rang out in the stillness. Mack slid her tongue across her lips. She hadn’t realized she’d done it until she heard his breath catch and realized that was why.

“On your knees,” he commanded.

Oh fuck that was hot. Was she allowed to find that hot? Could she be independent, wear shut-the-fuck-up boots behind the bar, and still be slayed by such a command?

Apparently it didn’t matter what her brain thought on the subject, because her body was responding. She lurched forward, and he reached for her arm to help because of course it was hard to go from sitting to kneeling when you were blindfolded and your arms were tied behind your back and you were still debating whether you were even going to do this at all.

Or, more accurately, you were shouting at yourself that you were a fucking lunatic while you eagerly, desperately brought yourself into prime blow-job position as he took advantage of the shift to tweak your nipples through your shirt and you, starving for him as though you hadn’t just eaten an entire meal made up of small bites, wished he’d once again rip the buttons from your shirt and take what he already thought was his.

But Connor wasn’t playing it the way he had at the bar, when it had been reckless, fast, no time to stop and think through what was going on. This time he was slow, methodical, building her up so hot that it hurt.

“There you go,” he said when she was steady on her knees. “Comfy?”

“Not really.”

“I have to tell you, you look fabulous.”

She bet she did.

“That’s nice. I wouldn’t know, since I can’t see a thing.”

“Ah, but you have you other senses. Taste, touch. I know because you made it clear how much you enjoyed everything I gave you.”

“Does that mean you still think I’ve been good?” She couldn’t decide if she wanted the answer to be yes or no; her thighs would have tightened in anticipation no matter what.

But then he said, “Not too good, I hope,” and it felt like warm water running down her body, melting her, that promise that he wasn’t going to tread lightly with her.

He was standing before her. She could tell because when she tilted her head forward, trying to orient herself in the darkness, her cheek grazed the front of his jeans. She felt flames shooting up inside her, her body ready to combust.

His thumb traced her lower lip, and she flicked her tongue over it. When he stuck it in her mouth, she sucked.

“You’ll take anything in your mouth,” he said, standing over her like the dirty bastard he was.

She responded by biting down. He laughed and ran the wet thumb over her lips. “Are you going to behave?”

“That’s a risk for you, isn’t it?” She licked her lips and then bit the bottom one, tugging slightly, reminding him that she still had some power.

She heard the rustle of fabric, pictured him with his hand on his cock and wished she could see it, touch it, be the one pumping it thick and hard and drawing it into her mouth. She squirmed, trying to get her hands free.

“Look at you, kneeling there waiting for me to give you more to put in your mouth.”

“I’m kneeling here because you made me.”

“I don’t make you do anything you’re not dying for. Tell me you want it.” His voice shifted, a low edge. “I’m not going to give you anything you don’t want.”

It didn’t take much for her to cave. “Let me taste you. Let me suck you. Let me swallow everything you give.”

That must have been more than he’d been bargaining for, because he groaned loud enough that Mack, not for the first time, hoped there weren’t any hikers about.

“Say please,” he choked, like he could barely get out the words, and Mack felt the heat rush to her face—this time not in lust but in rage. How dare he make her beg.

But she did it. She sat there on her knees and she begged for him on her tongue. She said please, she said Connor, she said put your cock in my mouth and she wasn’t buzzed and it wasn’t late and she wasn’t stuck anywhere and she had no excuse and that was the point, wasn’t it? That was what he wanted from her. No pretext, just the obvious evidence that she desperately wanted to blow him.

That arrogant prick.

Except it worked. She did want to blow him. To suck him and tease him and taste him and fuck him, oh God, to fuck him. Again.

Not when she’d looked at his profile online, not when she heard his stories of the women he’d bagged, saw the grins he flashed to Austin when he didn’t need to put his debauchery in words, not ever in the whole time she’d known him had she considered that he was this filthy.

Or his cock this thick, this perfect, this silky soft along the head, running across her lips, skimming her tongue, pushing all the way in.

She didn’t have her hands to act as a guide, to stroke him while she worked the tip or hold him off and stop him from going too deep. She was completely at his mercy as she opened her mouth and his hips pressed toward her and then away, moving the length of him up and down her tongue.

Or maybe he was at her mercy, because he could barely control his breathing. It was coming low and jagged the deeper he pushed, and when her tongue swirled the head before plunging him back to her throat she stopped keeping track of who owed whom, because quite honestly the thinking part of her brain wasn’t quite working anymore.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling her tighter to him. Somehow he knew she liked it like this. Maybe it was the way they talked to each other, egging each other on, that let him know he could go hard, that she could take it. Maybe it was her, the way she worked her mouth over him, and he didn’t have a choice.

He pulled out, quick, panting, and she wondered what was happening, but then she knew—he was standing over her, lowering himself to her tongue, and she licked his tightening balls while the jerking against her told her he was stroking himself as she made good on the insistence that she take everything into her mouth like a good girl, like a bad girl, like whoever the hell she was when she was blindfolded and tied up on her knees out in public by a lake sucking him off and getting so wet she was going to have to go home commando.

Connor repositioned her head, slid his cock back into her mouth, and she worked her tongue until she felt him tensing, his hands pulling tight on her hair. And then he groaned, the best fucking sound in the world, as he filled her and filled her and filled her. He was still hard as steel when he pulled out of her mouth, sliding the smooth tip over her lips as she licked him clean, and she wished she could have seen him, the look on his face when he came. She hadn’t seen it last time, either.

The realization that there was a this time and a last time and that she couldn’t see him, she couldn’t tell, she didn’t know what the hell was going on, filled her with a sudden panic, an oh shit rising within. She twisted against her constraints, feeling locked in, feeling like she’d never get out of this, she’d never be free.

She realized she was talking, she was saying, “Take it off, take it off.” And he must have understood this was different, this wasn’t playing anymore, because he did, quickly, tugging off the blindfold and releasing the ties around her hands.

He stood back as she scrambled to her feet, squinting in the sudden brightness. But she was still herself, and he was still Connor, they were by the lake, the light was beginning to dip behind a few clouds streaky across the sky, and nothing had changed. Nothing was going to change.

She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t knowingly fling herself headfirst into this disaster. She couldn’t be this person, whoever she was, who could simply act out whatever he wanted when it was convenient for him.

“Are you okay?” His eyes ran over her face, but she couldn’t look at him. She still tasted him in her mouth, felt the phantom pressure of his hands in her hair.

She flexed her wrists, circled them around, tried to reorient herself to where she had been this whole time.

They were on a checked picnic blanket by the water’s edge. She’d had her right side to the lake, the path back to the parking lot snaking up to her left, mountains in a panorama behind the water. There were tall grasses and wildflowers and the dark outlines of trees. On the picnic blanket were the containers of food he’d brought before she arrived. It looked the same as how she’d pictured it in her head. But different, because it was real.

“That was incredible,” Connor said. He reached a hand around her waist, drawing her near. One touch and he’d feel how soaked she was, wetter than she’d ever been. Wet enough that she could feel it through her underwear, her jeans.

Wet enough that his fingers would slide in so smoothly, her body opening as he brought her to orgasm after orgasm with his fingers, his tongue. His cock when he was ready again.

And that was fine for a fantasy, the kind of thing she’d replay in the dark of night, wanting it to come true.

But in reality, she was wet enough that she felt it with every step as she ran up the path to the parking lot, leaving him behind as he called to her, following. But she was faster, she was in her car first, she was pulling away while he was yanking out his phone, calling her until she turned the sound off.

She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t be this, and he had to understand that they were done.