Dangerously Bad Page 3

  But oh, his unusual size, and the way that in itself made her feel overpowered by him, made her want to melt into him. Under him.

  “Fucking world, anyway,” she muttered, moving down the street to where her car was parked. “Fucking world. Fucking men. Fucking me and my daddy issues that always get me into these messes.”

  On the drive to Duff’s shop she blasted some hard-ass, head-banging grunge metal, trying to drown out her thoughts. It didn’t help much. By the time she found parking a few doors down from SGR Motorcycles, her heart was pounding.

  She approached the door carefully, reached out to push it open, paused and pulled her hand back, giving herself a moment to cuss under her breath once more.

  If the man gloated she’d have to kick him in the balls.

  That thought cheered her, and she grabbed the door and swung it open, stepping through.

  Duff had his feet up on the desk, leaning back in his chair, a laptop on his knees. He wore the big black boots she loved most on a man, which she did her best to ignore.

  “Surfing for porn?” she asked.

  He glanced up, doing a double take. “Huh. I didn’t expect you to come back so soon.”

  “I didn’t expect to come back at all,” she admitted truthfully.

  He nodded, and there was some hint of respect in the gesture before he shook himself, closing the laptop and setting it on the desk as he got to his feet. “I’m glad you did.”

  Lord, he was tall. And gorgeous. And tattooed, which was always a bonus—she could see an amazing steampunk biomechanical piece that looked like a graceful combination of a tree and a compass covering the inside of his right forearm. A forearm that was solid muscle. And the size of his hands . . .

  Calm. The fuck. Down.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I am. Our last visit didn’t go as well as it could have.”

  She dropped her head. “I know.” Looking back up at him—and up and up—she told him, “That’s why I’m here. I need to . . . take responsibility for my actions. I’m sorry I was such a roaring bitch.”

  He cracked a grin, his dimples flashing as he shoved both big hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans. “Were you, now? Could have been much worse, in my estimation.”

  Her cheeks heated. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Aye. I do love to tease a pretty girl.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Duff. We’re never going to get through a conversation if you talk to me like I’m one of your adoring subbie girls.”

  He came around from behind the desk until he stood maybe a foot from her. Lowering his tone as he looked down at her, he caught her gaze with his. “Are you telling me you adore me, Layla? Because I could live with that.” He finished with a wink, one corner of his mouth quirking. She was about to argue when he stepped even closer, and God, she could see how long and thick his eyelashes were. How beautifully sculpted his chin was. And he smelled just right.

  “But you know what I’d like even more?” he went on. “I’d like for us to put this rough start behind us and begin all over again. What would you say to a reboot?”

  She blinked. “A reboot?”

  “Yeah, a reboot. I’ll start.” He held his hand out to her. “Hallo. I’m Duff. Recent transplant from Edinburgh, cousin to Jamie, who you appear to already know. Dominant, hedonist and general buffoon, or so my little brother tells me.” He grinned. “Your turn.”

  He motioned with his hand, and she took it, her mind a jangling battle between the pure chemical need to touch him and the wildly ringing alarm bells going off in her head, telling her she was moving into deep water. But when his fingers closed around hers, his enormous hand dwarfing hers, there was a comforting warmth underlying the zing of electricity that went through her like a small shock. She had to take a moment to review some of the things she knew about him, having seen him at the club—that he was a responsible Dominant, an excellent player. That he was as tender with his bottoms as he was wicked, which was something she felt was crucial. And there was that edge of gentleness about him and his good humor, contrasting with his hulking frame and natural alpha dominance, that was unlike anything—or anyone—she’d ever run into before. And which frankly made her knees weak.

  She swallowed, and let out a breath. “Okay. This is silly but . . . Okay. I’m Layla. Lifelong New Orleans resident. Hedonist, which you already know. And Domme, as you also already know.”

  His grin widened. “Very glad to meet you.” He leaned in toward her, lowering his voice. “We’ll put the head-to-head Dom battle on the back burner for now, yes? Yes.”

  He straightened up and let her hand go, and she found herself curling her fingers to hang on to some of the warmth, then shook her hands out when she realized what she was doing.

  “So, Layla, my shop is closed and I’ve no need to stay any later tonight—will you allow me to take you to dinner?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yeah, dinner. You know—that American custom where people eat in the evening. Or ‘tea,’ as it’s properly called.”

  She shook her head, cracking a smile. His charming affability was hard to resist. “Is that some sort of peace offering?”

  “I was thinking of it more as the first phase of a rather clever seduction, but I fear you’ve seen through my ruse. Still, it’s only dinner. What can it hurt? Say yes.”

  She cocked her head. “Said the sadist to the fly. But yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”

  The word danger flashed through her mind like a chant, but something about the danger itself was alluring.

  You are losing your mind.

  Maybe. But she was going to have dinner with him anyway.

  “I knew you liked me,” he said.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  He stepped nearer, until he was towering over her. Bending closer, he murmured softly, “Does it, now? Because I’m fairly certain I felt it when I kissed you yesterday. I’m about to do it again. This is your chance to say no. To use your safe word, if you will. And we’ll keep it real simple, given the circumstances. All you have to do is tell me to stop.”

  God, he smelled like a clean man, like soap and a T-shirt fresh out of the laundry. And beneath it was a faint trace of something dark and earthy that made her mouth water. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t pay any attention to the voice screaming in her head to tell him no, to run away. All she could do was tilt her chin to be kissed.

  He moved in slowly, pausing when his mouth was a mere inch from hers, his breath warm on her skin. She breathed him in—she couldn’t help herself—and even his breath was fresh and sweet in a way that made her dizzy, making her want to drink him in.

  She raised her chin a notch. He pulled back the tiniest bit. When she swayed closer he inched back once more. He was making a dance of it. A challenge. Making her allow him to see that she wanted it. Part of her wanted to rebel, to be angry, but her body was burning with need.

  He moved in once more, his mouth nearly touching hers, and she closed her eyes. Waited. Felt his soft exhale against her lips. Her skin tingled all over. When her eyes fluttered open she found his stunning hazel gaze on hers.

  “I thought you were going to kiss me,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.

  “I am. But it will be in my time. My time, Layla.”

  “Don’t . . .” she started.

  “Don’t what? Don’t try to dominate you? I can’t help it, you know. If you don’t want it, you know what to say. But this is who I am, down to the finest particle.”

  She shook her head the slightest bit. She couldn’t get her brain to work. Her body was taking over completely. No. Duff Stewart was taking over. And something in her fucking loved it.

  Don’t do this.

  He was quiet a moment, watching her, his gaze traveling from hers down to her mouth and back agai
n. She saw him swallow hard and wondered briefly if he was feeling as out of control as she was. But as he wrapped a hand up in her hair and pulled her in to kiss her, her mind emptied.

  His fingers burrowed against her scalp, and he pulled hard, commanding her, but his lips were soft and gentle. Just a small kiss, a brushing of lips across hers and her nipples went hard. He did it again, and again and again, and lust shivered over her skin, into the pit of her stomach. When he took her in his arms, she felt the massive weight of his muscles holding her, the hard planes of his unbelievable body as he held her close. And still his mouth was sweet against hers as he licked her lower lip, then traced her top lip with the tip of his tongue. Gently, he opened her mouth, his tongue slipping between her lips, exploring. And she was letting him do it, was kissing him back.

  How was it possible that these sweet kisses made her feel more taken over than if his kiss had been brutal? How was it possible that her body was melting into him, her breasts crushed to his massive chest, her hands going to his biceps, which were enormous and dense as granite? And she could feel through his shirt that one of his nipples was pierced, making her want to touch it, pull on it. Take it in her mouth.

  When he lifted her and set her on the cool metal desk, she sighed. He parted her thighs and moved in between them. Kissed her harder, finally. But she wanted it. Needed it. He moved in, pressing his body between her spread legs and she felt the solid ridge of his cock—impressively hard, impressively big—against her mound and found she was wet for him.

  She groaned into his mouth. He tilted his hips and ground against her.

  Oh, God. Yes.

  She felt all control slipping away. All power over the situation, over her own body.

  No!

  The alarms started to scream in her head and she felt it like a hard kick in her gut. She tore her mouth from his and pushed him away—or tried to. He lifted his head, licked his lips.

  Looking down at her, he watched her face for a moment while she tried to swallow past the inexplicable lump in her throat.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said finally. Quietly.

  “I’m not afraid,” she lied. “I’m just . . . This is getting out of hand.”

  He stepped back. “Forgive me.” Releasing her, he stepped back a bit farther, offering his hand to her. “Shall we get dinner?”

  She was a bit shocked by his immediate apology. By the sudden shift. And assured by the raging hard-on beneath his jeans when she glanced down. She didn’t mind that he’d been a bit out of control, too. Not that a Dom was above reproach. But that this Dom was a little out of his head—oh, yes, she loved knowing it. Loved it, and felt it gave her a little of her personal power back. Having a man at the mercy of his lust for her was always a bit of a heady power trip.

  She closed her thighs, straightened the strap of her tank top, which had fallen down, and pushed off the desk. “Okay. Dinner.”

  A grin quirked one corner of his mouth, making his cheek crease with that ridiculously charming dimple. “I wasn’t sure just then if you’d still have dinner with me.”

  “Honestly, Duff? I wasn’t, either,” she answered.

  CHAPTER

  Two

  SHE’D AGREED TO ride on the back of his bike to the restaurant, a Thai bistro in Uptown called SukhoThai, and some part of him never wanted the ride to end. Her arms were tight around his body, her soft breasts crushed against his back and the soft wind of the New Orleans evening blowing across his skin. He never felt more alive than when he was on his bike, unless it was when he played at the clubs. But something about riding with Layla, the trust she put in him to deliver her safely, her small body close behind him, felt just right.

  Maybe it was that hyperresponsibility shit again, part of what drove him to be a Dom, the kind of Dom who lived by the Safe, Sane and Consensual credo, as well as Risk Aware Consensual Kink. But no—it was damn well more than that, although he couldn’t begin to understand it. But what did it matter? The girl was on the back of his bike, riding through the night. He had half a hard-on and he was about to fill his belly. Life was fucking good, all right.

  He turned onto Magazine Street and parked in front of the restaurant. He held the bike up as she got off; then he kicked the stand down and swung his leg over. Layla was fumbling with her helmet and he reached out to help her unbuckle it, letting his fingers brush her smooth cheek as he slipped the helmet from her head, releasing her glossy black curls. She blinked up at him, her gorgeous, full lips parting; then she licked them—which made him bite back a groan. He was glad to have to take a moment to buckle both helmets to the bike—his throbber had gone from half-hard to full-bore in moments.

  Get ahold of yourself, man.

  He’d have liked to get ahold of himself, take his rigid dick in his hand and stroke until he came. Relieve some of the unbelievable sexual tension making his whole body vibrate. Damn, but this woman was something.

  “Duff? Are we going in?”

  “What? Yeah, sure. Of course we are.”

  He slipped a hand to the small of her back, where the warmth of her skin came through her cotton tank top.

  So, so not helping.

  Opening the door to the restaurant, he gestured for her to go in before him. As he followed her in she swept her hair to one side, allowing him to check out the tattoo on the back of her neck, a long line of Tibetan script running from the base of her skull to somewhere between her shoulder blades. Beautiful against her caramel skin. He’d have loved to put his mouth there, to lick that line of ink, see if he could make her shiver . . .

  He bit back a groan, and had to stay close behind Layla as the host led them through the place to seat them. Duff held Layla’s chair, and she looked up at him with a raised brow before settling into her seat.

  “What? Is it such a surprise that I’d hold your chair for you?” He sat down across from her. “The majority of American men seem to have lost all taste for gallantry, seems to me. It’s a sad state of affairs.”

  “It is. And they have. Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “My parents brought me up right. I can say that much for ’em, at the very least.”

  “I take that to mean you don’t have a good relationship with them?”

  Shrugging, he folded his napkin into his lap. “Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye.”

  Layla rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, leaning toward him. “Oh, really? And why is that?”

  “Nosy lass.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I am. Are you going to tell me?”

  “It’s a sad bit of history—I don’t know if you want to hear it.”

  She looked puzzled for a second, her brows drawing together. How had he never noticed how heavy her dark lashes were, framing the big almond-shaped eyes?

  “I do want to hear it,” she told him.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Why wouldn’t I? This isn’t a mercy date, you know.”

  He let out a chuckle. “You’re so used to your subbie boys, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Subbie girls. For the last year, anyway.”

  “Perhaps sometime you’ll tell me why it’s only been ‘subbie girls.’”

  “Perhaps. Don’t try to change the subject. You said you’d tell me more about your family.”

  “Did I? I suppose I did, in a roundabout way.”

  The waitress came to deliver two glasses of water and hand them menus. Duff thanked her.

  “You mentioned you had a brother?” Layla asked when the waitress had gone.

  “Yeah, Leith. He’s a young one—only twenty-nine.”

  “That’s not so young—he’s only two years younger than I am. How old are you, Duff?” she asked.

  “Ah, I’m an old man of thirty-three.” He paused. “And yeah, I suppose he’s not that much younger—it’s just that
I’ve always felt so protective of him. Responsible for him. Perhaps more than I should, at times.”

  Layla sipped her water. “I’ve never had that problem.”

  “No? Why is that?”

  “I’m the youngest. The baby, I suppose, and certainly treated that way. And my older brother, Charles, is a preacher, like my dad. I’m kind of the black sheep. No one . . .” She looked down at her fingers on the glass, those long lashes resting against her cheeks for a moment before she glanced up once more. “I guess no one expects anything of me. I mean they do—or they did—but I’ve sort of let them down.” She paused again, letting out a sharp laugh as she ran a hand through her hair. “God, I don’t know where all that came from. Tell me more about your family and Scotland and how you ended up here.”

  He mentally tucked away the bit of information she’d shared for later, then picked up a menu. “Shall we order first? What do you like?”

  “I like everything. What are you in the mood for?”

  He waggled an eyebrow. “Dangerous question.” He’d been teasing, but his dick wanted him to mean it. Hell, he did mean it. The woman was dangerous. To him. Maybe to herself.

  She shook her head, laughing as she went back to perusing the menu, and after a minute or two the waitress came back to take their order.

  “So,” he began once they’d ordered, “to answer your question, I came here to go into business with my cousin Jamie.”

  “I knew about that. Well, everyone at The Bastille knows who Jamie is, and that you’re here to open the motorcycle shop—which is how I showed up there—but I wasn’t sure if there was another reason for you to come to the U.S.”

  “There might have been other incentives. But Jamie and I, we’ve always been close, even though he’s been in the States since he was a kid. If I remember correctly, his family moved here soon after he lost his brother—his twin, Ian—in an accident when he was seven or eight. My dad and Jamie’s mum are brother and sister—Americans who came to live in Scotland as teenagers, when our grandfather remarried a woman from Edinburgh, so my cousin and I both have dual citizenship. We were kids together in Scotland, although he’s a bit younger. There was a time when we lost touch for a while, but we’ve always shared a love for speed, for a good engine, and that brought us back together. I’ve visited here a number of times. I’ve always liked it here. Loved it, really. There’s a magic to this city, but I guess you know that. There’s a magic to Scotland, too, with its castles and myths and legends. But I got damn tired of the cold winters in Edinburgh. And some places hold ghosts.” He caught himself before he could finish the sentence. That wasn’t a place he wanted to go with Layla. Or at all, truth be told.