Under the pressure of the strategically placed knot, her clit was throbbing in a hard steady rhythm, her pussy, spread wide by the dual ropes, was drenching the soft hemp, turning it dark, and her breasts were cinched so tightly and wrenched so high she could feel every beat of her heart in the compressed flesh. She was certifiably horny and ready to fuck any dick except the bastard’s smiling at her. She counted to ten, then twenty, trying to talk herself out of being a horn dog with relevant images of icy glaciers or slimy worms or smug pricks who didn’t deserve to win this round or any round.
Rafe waited calmly, his huge painted dick stretched waist high, dictating the terms.
“I hate you,” she hissed.
“How much?” He smiled. “Remember that? I do.”
“And you’re still here.”
His hands spread out for a second before he slid his fingers down his dick. “As you see.” A tiny nod. “We’re waiting.”
She took a shaky breath, a second one, then moved.
He watched her intently. Smiled when she finally reached him. Gently gripped her hard, taut nipples between his thumbs and index fingers and slowly tugged on them until she flinched. Then he took her face in his hands, raised her head until their eyes met, gave her cheeks a gentle pat, and said, “Down on your knees.”
A quick in-breath through her nose. “No.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you feel good.”
A small silence.
Then a faint shift of her shoulder, a louder, “No.”
He flicked his finger at her. “Then you’re going to need some help getting out of that.”
“I’ll manage. Scissors or a knife should do it.”
“Where exactly would you be getting those?”
“In your dressing room—the scissors at least.”
He lifted a brow. “Going through me, then?”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Of course I would. Now, can we stop arguing? Get down on your knees.”
“Never,” she said flatly.
His eyes closed for a second, then opened again. “Fucking drama queen.” Spinning her around, he grabbed a loop of rope in the middle of her back, gave her a gentle shove, and as she lost her balance, set her down softly on her knees. With a quick nudge of his feet, he spread her legs, held her with one hand, and with the other, bound her lower legs loosely to her thighs.
Leaving her helpless.
Another nudge and she’d be resting on her shoulders, her ass up, her sex spread wide.
He circled her, his gaze shuttered, weighing his options, the thousand skulking shadows flitting through his brain needing to be dealt with. Or he could save the hassle and deal with them later. Or not at all. Deciding on the latter, he came to a stop in front of her, squatted in a smooth flex of his quads so she was level with his face, and gave her a small, private smile. “How’s it going so far?”
“You being a prick, you mean? It’s working.”
He stared at her. After a moment, he said, “I can keep you tied up.”
“Fuck if you can.” Her gaze threw off sparks like fireworks.
A split-second pause, then an easy smile. “I can do anything I want with you.”
“No you can’t.” Scorn rang through her voice. “You know the word obstinate right?”
He went utterly still for a second, then surged to his feet, spun around, and walked out of the bedroom before he did something he’d regret. He didn’t slam the door. He shut it softly. There was a quiet finality in the sound.
Shit. Her and her big mouth. What if he didn’t come back? Where the hell had she left her phone? Better yet, how could she move? If Rafe Contini wasn’t one of those masters of the universe who practically owned the world, she might not have been so worried. But he’d been pissed when he’d left.
Jesus, how did it feel to starve to death? Although she’d die of thirst first. What if he just left Geneva like he’d planned? No one would find her for God knows how long.
Although, realistically, she wouldn’t die of hunger or thirst, because if her mother didn’t hear from her every day, her mom would call Dominic. And he’d find her no matter where she was, even if she was at one of those remote Greek island monasteries where you needed to be hauled up the sheer cliff in a basket.
While Nicole was consoling herself that she wouldn’t die alone or at all, Rafe was sprawled on the sofa in the room next door, thinking he should pour himself a drink, or better yet, empty a whole fucking bottle. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so angry. Probably not since his old man died. Maso was about the only person who could send him into a rage; he was a fucking master at that. Rafe suddenly laughed. He wasn’t so sure Nicole couldn’t have given his old man a run for his money.