The Unbreakable Trilogy. Primula Bond
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All I’m doing is prancing around his drawing room, really. Awaiting further instructions. The streak of warmth across his cheekbones, the working of the muscle in his jaw give away what’s really on his mind.
The daring is like a pair of hands pushing, pushing me on. I go over to the sofa, bend over him, let my hair fall in a tent around our faces, tip his watching dark face up close to mine, then I push him back into the cushions and swerve away as I see the gleam lighting up his eyes.
I’m making it up as I go along, but I’m tired of dancing solo. I want him to join in now. I’m dancing as I assume he wanted me to dance, burlesque style but without the tassels and the props. I sway towards him, aware of how all my curves push against the shimmering silk.
I hold my hands out to him, wriggling and gyrating.
‘Dance with me, Gustav. Let go. Hang loose.’
I twist away from him, dance to the other side of the room, crooking my finger like a Scheherazade. And at last I get my reaction. His mouth snaps open in a wicked grin and my wrist is suddenly pulled out in front of me so that my arm is straight.
‘You’re gorgeous, Serena. I could watch you all night. Maybe one night I will do just that. You move like a sea creature. But I want you over here now.’
He tugs at the silver chain, smiling wolfishly at his game, at this small but potent display of power.
I resist the pull of it at first. But as he goes on pulling, and it takes the strain; that spindly meshing of silver threads has the strength of a tow rope. So I let him pull me until I come to a halt in front of him again, still swaying slightly to the insistent music.
‘I’m enjoying myself, Gustav. Dance with me!’
He shakes his head, holding the chain tightly in his fist, moves it from side to side so that my arm is forced to swing like a pendulum.
‘That’s what couples do. No, don’t turn your lovely mouth down like that. Anything’s possible, once we’re used to each other, but for now we’re still working to an agreement. I’m your patron. You’re my protégée. What a patron does is take the protégée under his wing. And what protégées do is what they’re told.’
I fold my arms and look away from him. Tap my bare foot impatiently.
He sighs deeply. ‘Please would you kneel down, Serena. You’ve had the effect on me I knew you would. Look.’
I look. There’s an unmistakable bulge in his jeans, straining at the dark blue denim. His eyes, glittering in the candlelight, half closed behind those thick lashes, are pulling me towards him as irresistibly as the chain.
‘I’ve been in this parlous state, on and off, since I first set eyes on you. You probably guessed that by now.’ He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture and we both stare at his crotch again.
‘Hands and knees, you say? You want me to scrub the floor now? Surely I can do something else for you? Much more fun. Protégée isn’t the same as servant.’
He laughs, so naughtily. ‘Very true. How about slave? That sounds a whole lot sexier, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe. If you’re Caligula.’
‘Hmm. Very tempting, if it wasn’t for the toga.’ He jerks on the silver chain. ‘So, what does a slave do when her master calls? She hears the command, and she comes, that’s what.’
But I don’t move. I can’t bring myself to go down on hands and knees, lick his shoes, his floor, whatever it is he wants me to do. He jerks again on the silver chain. I’m so busy resisting that I stumble and fall towards him, half falling into his arms, but he catches me, stops me in midair before him.
His strong hands are brakes on my hips. I stare down at his silky black hair which seems to grow as fast as his beard. He’s about to push me down onto my knees, his word being my command, but I don’t want to do that. I fall against him, press into him, his face is against my stomach, his nose is level with my navel, his mouth so close to where his fingers were yesterday.
His breath is hot on the silk at the top of my legs. I’m soft and weak from the dancing, the music, the kiss of silk on my bare skin. I push myself towards him.
‘Stay right there, Serena.’
He groans into my stomach. Such a primeval, sexy sound. My man, groaning because he wants me.
Then he pulls me slowly, almost thoughtfully towards him, his hands spread over my bottom to keep hold of me. He looks down with that questioning frown, why is he always so unsure, unwilling to let go? He pinches the fabric up between his fingers, right up, so that it’s all wrinkled up around my hips and there’s nothing between my naked skin and the cool air. I’m bared before him.
He reminds me of the hung-up, insomniac businessman in Pretty Woman. The scene where the escort girl comes downstairs late at night and finds him playing sensual jazz on the hotel piano. She sits on the top of the music stand, her legs on either side of him, rousing him from his apathy in the most obvious way possible, and as he pushes her silk nightdress up over her nakedness her toes start to play the keys out of tune.
I wriggle, press my thighs together. He slides his hand in sideways, and parts them.
The saxophone wails suggestively, up the scale, minor key, sad but sexy.
The way he’s looking. Examining this part of me like a precious jewel, a long sought specimen. It’s because he’s so slow, so quiet, his lips working silently as if he’s praying. It’s as if this core of me is rare, precious, the Holy Grail, something he’s somehow been denied. He felt it yesterday, but today he wants to see it.
It fills me with a hot, wild surge of womanly pride. There’s nothing special about the way I’m built. But this guy’s slow- burning, horny fascination is making me feel like the most special woman in the world. No-one’s looked at me like this or made me feel beautiful like he does. Ever. Not even my face, let alone my body.
Jake looked at me because he fancied me. Loved me in his adolescent way. He looked at my face, my eyes. Very occasionally brushed my hair if I begged him. But he was young and he was in a rush, greedy, hungry for me. Desperate all the time to get his rocks off. But he never took time out to look at me in this reverential way, like I was up on a pedestal.
Let’s face it. We were both young and hungry.
I lay my hands gently on Gustav’s head, on his face, run my fingers down his neck to say yes. Not that I need to. I’m his servant after all. But he’s right. The game is fun, whichever way you play it.
Gustav tips his head back to show me he likes my hands in his hair. I go on stroking him as he parts me gently with one hand. His lips are so close to my very core. He blows on the secret place as if blowing flames onto kindling laid in a cold grate. I wriggle invitingly. His fingers hold me open like a prize, wide open, unfurl me like a flower. One finger smoothes out each petal, making each part damp, then wet, as he touches it, and then his mouth is moving against me and he slides his tongue up me, like a cat, in one movement.
The kindling flares into life before I’m ready. I moan and shake uncontrollably, tugging at his hair. It’s not just the one small sliver he’s touched and inflamed. The wet slick of his tongue has licked right through me, embers catching fire. Literally to the roots of my hair, the tips of my fingers as the sensation shoots through me.
I gasp out loud, a really dirty, wanton sound, grasp his shoulders, tangle his hair in my fingers so that I’m sure it must hurt, and yank his face into me harder. He pauses. I loosen my grip on him, perhaps this isn’t allowed, but I’m not letting go completely. And then he licks again, his fingers still holding me open, the exposure exquisite yet excruciating, I feel like one of those botanical drawings, every detail sketched by a fine pencil.
And by his warm tongue, licking again, his other hand fanned out over my bottom to keep me in place, keeping me pushed against his mouth and thank God he’s taking my weight because my legs are buckling as he licks, and