Unfurl: Chapter 31

I won’t think about how he usually is in here. I won’t think about how many of these women he’s bent over sofas and screwed up against pillars and swept off into back rooms. Still, the jealousy, the knowledge that he’s so known and adored, adds an edge to my arousal that I seize onto. Dig into.

Two women sashay over. One’s Black and toned as hell, her skin lustrous in the dim light, the other’s white and auburn-haired and curvier. They’re both gorgeous, and they’re both clad only in complicated-looking lingerie that’s all straps and tiny lace patches. I can see everything.

‘Hey, Rafe,’ the Black one purrs. ‘Have you got room for two more?’

He shakes his head curtly. ‘Not tonight, Leila.’

They pout and wander off, but not before the temporary-sounding nature of his not tonight hits me right in the gut. He makes it sound like it’ll be business as usual next time. Before I have time to twist in agonies of insecurity, he has me backed up against a pillar and is crowding me, one hand flat on the plaster above my head as the other holds his jacket.

He leans in. ‘Belle, right?’

I allow myself an internal eye-roll, because Rafe-in-character is such a dick, before replying with an even that’s right, sir.

He licks his lips. ‘I like to try before I buy. Pull your top down.’

I swallow. We’ve discussed this, but now I’m here, surrounded by people in various states of undress and arousal, and now I’m noticing how many of those people have paused to watch what Rafe, King of the Underworld is doing with his random little blonde, it’s totally different.

My glances left and right do nothing to assuage my fears. I look back at Rafe, sorely tempted to break character and beg him not to do this, but he’s tugging at that plump lower lip with his teeth, desire stark on his face.

He wants this. He’s told me he’s not an exhibitionist, per se, but that it’ll turn him on no end, knowing how much everyone wants me and getting to sweep me off and have his way with me.

We’re both turned on by exactly the same thing, really. That idea of bagging a prize so delicious it has everyone else salivating.

Besides, my body’s responding to him.

To this.

I’m already wet and achy between my legs, and my nipples are hardening under my dress.

Rafe chucks his jacket on the arm of a nearby chair and swipes a finger over one nipple. Gosh, that’s good.

‘Top. Down,’ he annunciates.

There’s nothing to do but obey. In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m in a sex club, and I’m about to have sex. I may as well get my boobs out. They’re just boobs. I’ve done it before on French beaches.

It’s not a big deal.

‘Of course, sir,’ I say.

I maintain hot, intense eye contact with him as I reach up and slide one strap down, then the other. Hooking a thumb into the fabric on each side, I tug the dress down to my waist and fall back against the pillar.

His face is so close to mine. I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His scent has me captivated. I lose eye contact with him as soon as I get my boobs out. Obviously. I stand there and block out all the prying eyes except for Rafe’s. He can pry away.

And does he pry.

‘Hands above your head,’ he orders, and I oblige. He snags my wrists with the hand that’s been resting on the pillar and holds them there as he inspects my breasts like I’m some slave girl at an auction and he’s considering bidding for me. It’s so demeaning, and so messed up, and so incredibly arousing that all I can think is touch them touch them touch them. I arch my back, thrusting my breasts closer to his face.

‘Very nice,’ he says, and thank Christ, he raises his free hand and palms one breast.

Oh my God.

I jolt as he caresses it, and weighs it in his hand, and strums my nipple with his thumb. The people around us, the naked bodies, all fade away as my body’s entire capacity for consciousness shrinks to those few millimetres of his thumb against my nipple.

‘Fuck me,’ he grunts. ‘Fucking beautiful.’

He moves to the other nipple and gives it the same treatment. ‘Responsive as fuck, aren’t you?’

I moan, because yes, yes I am, and this man can do whatever he wants with me right now. I’m his tonight; I’m completely in his thrall and he’s barely touched me. I’ve felt so intimate with Rafe this past week, but this evening it’s his very coldness, his clinical, transactional demeanour, that has me melting and writhing.

He bends his head and sucks my nipple hard with a decadent pull that careens through my body. The low, masculine sound he makes at the back of his throat is barely audible above the throb of the music, but I don’t miss it. I flex my arms, I inadvertently thrust my hips against him, and he grips tighter. Sucks harder.

Next thing I know, he’s pulling his mouth off my nipple and releasing my wrists, and I stare at him in confusion as he straightens up.

He holds out a hand, palm facing up. ‘Panties.’

‘I—’ It genuinely takes me a minute to remember what the next move is.

‘I’m not done sampling you. Take off your panties.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I say. I hoist the hem of my dress up so I can access my thong—it doesn’t need much of a hoist, admittedly—and hook my thumbs into the scrap of elasticated lace that serves as a waistband. I slide it down my legs, grabbing at the pillar to keep my balance as I disentangle it from my stiletto heels, and triumphantly hook it over his outstretched fingers.

‘Good girl,’ he says, his eyes darting from my still-exposed breasts to my face. He shoots me a lingering look as he raises my thong to his face and buries his nose in it, and oh. My. God.

If I hadn’t already damned myself for all eternity, I have now.

‘Let’s see if you taste as good as you smell,’ he tells me and puts a firm hand on my back. He points to an empty sofa just beside us. ‘Bend over.’

Rafe knows I’ve been tormenting myself with that image of him bending his colleague over a similar sofa after our first session. He knows because I came clean the other night. And he knows I want to prove to myself that I’m liberated enough to let a man bend me over and eat me in public and to revel in every second of it.

He knows everything. My demons. My desires. And he’s a particularly kinky fairy godfather, swooping in to exorcise the former and ignite the latter.

His hands wrap around the back of my neck, through my hair, as he pushes me forward. I fold as gracefully as I can over the back of the sofa, planting my palms on the seat’s cold, shiny surface.

It’s wipe-clean.

Of course it is.

He lets go of my neck, and my hair tumbles all around my face. My neck is burning, and this silky shield is a small relief. I’m pondering whether my dress is just about long enough to keep my bits out of view of any passers-by when Rafe flips the hem right up. There’s an immediate hit of cold air to my most intimate flesh and the dull drop of heavy fabric on my back. My dress is now bunched around my waist and nowhere else.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I instinctively bend my knees, raise my head, in an attempt to lower my bottom slightly, but Rafe is sliding his hands over my hips, my cheeks, as if I’m a racehorse and he’s checking out my flanks. He tugs my bottom half sharply against him, and the sensation of raging erection through rough fabric hits me exactly where I need it, along that seam running from my clit to my entrance.

The guy he’s playing may be feigning indecisiveness, but my Rafe knows what he wants. The feeling is so exactly what I need that I shove myself back against him, and he laughs, low and pleased.

‘Told you you were responsive,’ he says. ‘Now, let’s see…’

His fingers dig in harder to my hips and there’s a scuffling sound. Next thing I know, his entire face is pressed against me. His nose is right by my entrance, his lips circle my clit, and he rubs his face over my flesh. Up. Down. God, I’m so exposed, and he’s everywhere, and it feels so utterly filthy and animalistic and carnal to have him rubbing his face against my most private parts like a man possessed that my hips begin to move in spite of myself.

He pulls away, parting my lips with two fingers, inspecting me as if this place is a market and I’m new wares, and God. I wonder how many people are watching right now. I wonder how many people can see everything I have laid bare for Rafe Charlton.

And then he licks me. One long, thorough lick that starts at my clit and moves up, up, up through the flesh he’s still holding open with his fingers until he hits the tight little ring of muscle that, until now, has been off the table.

‘Tastes delicious,’ he mutters and licks me again.

Holy crap. My legs are already shaking, the sky-high heels and imminent orgasm conspiring to have them collapsing from under me. My fingertips scrabble against the pleather of the sofa, and I moan.

‘You going to come hard for me tonight, Belle?’ he asks me, his voice carefully disinterested.

‘God, yes, sir,’ I manage.

‘Let’s see what she’s like inside,’ he mutters, and without warning a finger is plunging inside me. I’m wet, but it’s a tight fit, and the sting serves to remind me how much more I’ll have to accommodate shortly. The thought has me clenching around his finger, and he groans. ‘Fucking tight.’

His finger pulls out. His mouth leaves me. There’s nothing but cold air on wet, exposed flesh. I’m suspended here, my head filled with blood, my legs unsteady, my heart thundering behind my ribs.

He slaps my bare bottom. ‘Up you get.’

But, as I attempt to haul myself up, he’s bending over me, covering me, his hands going around my body to cup my breasts. He helps me up to standing and then I’m upright, my back to his chest, his hands on my breasts. Kneading them. Stroking my nipples. I tug my mane of hair out of my face and over one shoulder and am confronted with a definite audience. One guy has his dick out and is working himself slowly, his eyes stuck on us. Oh God.

Then I’m being turned in Rafe’s arm and he whispers in my ear, ‘I think you’ll do for tonight. Look.’

And my God, do I look.

We’re in front of a full-length mirror.

I’m all skin and legs, the top of my dress still bunched around my waist and the bottom part millimetres from showing off my landing strip.

My hair is everywhere.

My face is seriously flushed.

Rafe’s hands are cupping my breasts, pushing them upwards as his thumbs move over my nipples.

And his eyes? They burn into mine from over the crown of my head in the mirror.

I’m transfixed. I look totally wanton, and he’s the devil incarnate.

The sight is so carnal. It’s extraordinary. I’m some whore who’s almost naked in a sex club, and she’s about to be ravaged.

I have no idea who this woman is, but, right in this moment, I can’t imagine being anyone else.

‘You’re fucking hot,’ Rafe growls in my ear. He releases one breast and slides an arm around my waist, pulling me back against his erection. ‘Tight and hot. Just the way I like it. I’m keeping you for the night. Come with me—you’ve got work to do.’