Enticed (Dark Passions) Page 3

I felt perplexed. “How would you know that?”

  He sighed, took the handkerchief from my hand and patted away the remaining tears from my cheeks. “Stella Winters,” he said, “is a talented woman. But you know what they say, ten percent talent, ninety percent perspiration. Well, she was a flash in the pan. Created some interesting art in the late 80s, but she didn’t have the discipline to keep it up.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and stroked the curve of my neck.

  “You, on the other hand, have stamina. Senior copywriter at a major Manhattan ad agency? You don’t get to a position like that without having some serious staying power. And definitely not at such a young age.” Putting both hands on my shoulders, and fixing me with an intense gaze he said, “Your problem, Melanie, is that you’ve been too steady. You’ve proven that you have the discipline. Now you need to lighten up a bit. Get back in touch with your wild side.”

  I felt my knees start to tremble, and then I was shaking to my core. I looked up at him, feeling a mixture of fear and desire. Fear, because I felt so exposed and vulnerable. Desire, for the same reason. No one I’d dated had ever seen me so clearly, and so quickly.

  “Why are you shaking?” he asked gently, rubbing my shoulders.

  I locked eyes with him, and gave him a long, searching look. “How can you read me so well when we barely know each other?”

  He gave me a warm, but wicked smile and said, “Like I told you at the bar. I’ve paid very close attention to you. Does that scare you?”

  “Yes,” I murmured, feeling my lower lip start to quiver.

  Bradley slowly slid his hands down my arms, tickling me, making the flesh under my suit jacket tighten into goose bumps. His strong, reassuring hands finally came to rest on my hips, sending a delightful shiver through my frame. I looked into his eyes, and they had turned dark and moody. In one swift movement, he had me pushed up against the wall, his hands fisting my hair, his sensuous lips on my mouth. I felt him, strong and warm, pressed up against me, his lips tasting mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth. With every deft lick, every delightful plunge, I felt my body become taut with yearning, til everything in me ached for him. Just when he took me to the brink, with just his mouth alone, he pulled back, ran an index finger along my swollen lip, and said “Not here. Not now.”

  I gave him a pleading look, but he shook his head, and frustration flooded through me.

  “I have a surprise for you. Later. Right now, though, I have something I think you’ll be interested in seeing.” He smoothed down my hair with careful strokes, then pointed to a large photograph in the back corner of the gallery.

  As soon as I saw it, I was brimming over with sheer delight. “It’s perfect!” I said, bounding over towards it. The still shot was of the silhouette of tall, formidable looking businessman in a fedora and a three-piece-suit with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was shot from behind, so only his back and outstretched hand were in view. Standing on a balcony, staring out at a spectacular night view of New York city, he seemed to have full command over the incredible view, including the empire state building amongst a thousand shards of brilliant light twinkling as far as the eye could see.

  After my initial exuberance, I settled down a bit and gave him a curious look. “Is that you?” I asked.

  He shot me another wicked grin. “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. Then giving me one of his scorchingly intense looks that left my knees trembling he said, “I very much like the idea of you taking a piece of me into your private sanctuary.”

  “So, do I,” I said quietly, feeling my insides quiver with a strange, dark delight.

  “Well, it’s settled then,” he said, his eyes bright, and a smile in his voice. “It’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “What do I owe you?” I asked, opening my black leather purse and looking for my check book.

  “Nothing,” he said in a low tone. “It’s a gift.”

  I looked at him and vehemently shook my head, “No, I’m paying for this,” I said.

  “No. You’re not,” he said firmly. “It’s a gift. And you’re going to accept it. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  I shook my head, but he cupped my cheeks firmly between his hands and said, “You want this photo. And I want to give it to you. Believe me, it’s my pleasure,” he said, with a strange flicker in his eye. “Now stop waving around that check book and just say thank you.”

  I shrugged helplessly, and tucked my check book back into my purse.

  “Then it’s settled,” he said, with a satisfied expression. “I need your address. I’ll have it delivered to you.”

  “I’m just a few blocks away. On Spring Street,” I said, curling a strand of my now wild hair around my finger. I gave him my exact address, and he wrote it down. Then he dialed his delivery service, and gave them instructions.

  “You’ll have the photograph before midnight,” he said.

  Then, wrapping his hand around my waist, he said, “Come on. It’s a gorgeous night. I’ll walk you home.”

  ***

  Two hours later, I was relaxing on my favorite leather couch, having just stepped out of my bubble bath, and sipping a delectable glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, when the intercom rang. “Ms. Winters,” said my doorman in an even, professional tone, “there’s a delivery here for you.”

  “Please send it up,” I said, grabbing my cream-colored silk robe and pulling it over my pajamas. When I opened my door, the tall, blue-uniformed delivery man gave me an easy smile, and sauntered in with the large rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Where would you like this?” he asked, stripping off the wrapping.

  I looked around my apartment, and decided that it would look best over the carved-marble fireplace, where I’d have an unobstructed view of it from my couch. “Right there,” I said, pointing to the blank wall above the mantelpiece.

  After he had finished hanging the work in the perfect spot, I’d tipped him, and he’d left, I settled back onto my couch and just stared in awe at the twinkling lights of the city and the magnificent, potent specimen of a man who I had in front of me. I felt a secret thrill at being able to stare at Bradley so openly, so voyeuristically, without having to deal with the consequences of him catching me in the act.

  For a moment I sat there smiling smugly to myself, but then something strange happened. I felt a cool breeze whisper along my bare neck, and I could swear I saw Bradley’s hair ruffle in the photograph. But that was impossible. I shook my head to clear it, and took another sip of wine. But it tasted like whiskey, burning in my throat. My hands started trembling so badly I had to put my wine glass down on the coffee table. When I looked back up at the photograph, the city lights were visibly twinkling; I stared at the pulsing lights in shock, in fascination, but they became so bright they blinded me. My head started spinning, my throat burned, and my whole body felt white hot. When my vision finally cleared, it was as if the photograph had come alive. Bradley’s back was to me, and I was sitting on a black Moroccan leather chair. I could feel a powerful blast of wind coming through the open French doors leading to the balcony, and then slowly, Bradley turned his head, his expression full of both mischief and powerful desire.

  “So nic excitement.

  “How is this even happening?” I asked, alarm in my voice. Bradley looked at me cautiously, then stood up and came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

  “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be,” he whispered in my ear.

  I spun around, pulled out of his grasp, and glared at him. “And where exactly am I?”

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “This is my loft.”

  I took a look around me, and the fear was replaced with wonder. We were standing in a room with 14-foot high, gold coffered ceilings. There was an ornate Venetian chandelier handing from the ceiling, a giant grandfather clock in the corner, and an Albert Oehlen painting hanging over a Renaissance stone-carved fireplace. The French doors leading to the Romeo and J
uliet balcony were flanked with lush emerald green silk curtains.

  “Conduction,” I said, walking over to get a better look at the Oehlen piece. I turned and gave him a curious look. “This piece, abstract as it is, has always struck me as somehow darkly sexual.”

  Amusement flickered across Bradley’s face. “That’s exactly what I love about this work,” he said. “It’s full of passionate energy, both dark and light. It speaks to me. Sparks something to life in me.” He bridged the distance between us, and ran his finger gently along my jaw line. “We seem to have similar understandings of art,” he said, cupping my chin in his hand, and giving me a hungry look. My heart took a wild, ragged jump in my chest, and I could smell his subtle, woodsy cologne; it intoxicated me, and brought all of my most primal urges to the surface. But I pushed back the surge of desire, and pulled away from him.

  “How did I get here?” I asked, frantically searching his eyes.

  “Come on. Let’s sit down. I’ve got champagne and chocolate truffles waiting for us in the other room.”

  He reached out for my hand, and I took it. With my hand folded into his strong, sure grasp, his thumb stroking my knuckles, I felt my alarm subside.

  We entered a large sitting room with one wall made up of floor to ceiling windows revealing a stunning view of Manhattan. The other walls had mahogany paneling, and were covered in hand-painted Chinese silk tapestry. In the middle of the room was a round brass table, flanked by gilded Art Deco chairs. A bronze bucket holding a champagne bottle sat on a stand next to the table. Bradley guided me over to one of the chairs, pulled it out for me, and I sat down. I immediately noticed the oval smoked-glass mirror on the wall in front of me, reflecting back my image superimposed on the Manhattan skyline.

  Bradley poured us both some champagne, and then took a seat. I watched the pale liquid bubble and fizz, and then gave Bradley confused, questioning look. “Have a drink, Melanie,” he said. “It will help calm your nerves.”

  I played with the stem of my glass for a moment, and then brought the flute to my lips. I didn’t realize how tense my whole body was until I felt the crisp, bubbly fluid slide down my throat, warming it, and soothing my nerves. I downed the whole glass, and slammed it on the table. “I’d like a refill please.”

  Bradley grinned at me, his eyes twinkling, and said, “As the lady wishes.”

  When I’d downed the second glass, he laughed and said, “I think we better slow down. We have a long night ahead of us, and I don’t want your senses dulled.” He gave me a dark, smoldering look, and my heart fluttered up into my throat. His hand reached over to cover mine, sending a pulse of electricity rippling through me.

  I gave him a pleading look and said, “I still need an explanation.”

  He nodded his head and tightened his grip over my hand. “Has a work of art ever felt so real to you, so real that felt you could crawl inside it and live there for awhile?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yes,” I said, matter-of-factly.

  “Well, I discovered that with certain works, it is literally possible. You can climb inside the world of the painting and actually live there” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, feeling myself turn pale.

  “About five years ago, I acquired an Andy Warhol painting. One of Marilyn Monroe. I sat in front of it for hours, recreating the history from that time in my head, getting lost in the contours of her face. And then suddenly, something happened. It’s as though she came alive in front of me. I saw her smile, and then wink at me. My vision blurred, and when I came to, I was at the premiere of one of her movies, The Seven Year Itch. There she was, in the flesh, walking down the red carpet. And there I was, back in the sixties. I went for a long walk through the street of Los Angeles, wondering how I got there, and wondering if it was possible for me to ever get back.”

  I looked at him in fascination and horror. “Time travel? Are you serious?”

  He gave me a grave look and said, “Yes, Melanie, I’m very serious.” He paused for a moment and looked at me intently. “I discovered that coming back is easy. You just have to conjure up in your imagination the sensual details of the time and place you left from. I imagined the view from my balcony, felt the wind on my face, saw the lights flashing as though they were right there in front of my eyes. And that’s all it took. My vision blurred, and when it cleared, I found myself back in my penthouse, back in the 21st century, hearing the sirens of ambulances, the honks of cars, looking out at the silhouette of the Empire State Building.”

  He gave me one of his hot, searing looks and said, “I want to take you with me. I want to take you back in time with me.” He reached his hand toward my face, and gently caressed my lower lip with his thumb. “I can give you experiences beyond your wildest dreams, Melanie.”

  I felt completely overwhelmed. I sat there frozen in shock for a moment, then pulled my hand out from under his and shook my head. “I can’t,” said in a small voice. “I just moved to a new city, started a new job. I can’t just take off.”

  Bradley nodded and said, “You don’t have to decide right now. Just think about it.” He took a long sip of his champagne and studied me carefully with those hot eyes. “In any event,” he said. “That’s not what tonight is about.” He finished his drink, and then walked behind me and pulled back my chair. “Stand up, Melanie,” he commanded.

  The authority in his tone was such a turn on. I smiled to myself, and did as I was told. “See that coffee table in front of the couch, over by the windows?”

  I looked over at the brass coffee table, and saw a shoe box sitting on top of it. “Yes,” I said.

  “Good. Now, I’m going to sit back in my chair, and carefully watch as you take off your robe, your pajamas, and your underwear. When every inch of your delectable body is bared for only my eyes to enjoy, you’re going to walk over to that box, open it, and without a word, dress yourself in what you find there.”

  I turned towards him and raised an eyebrow. Part of me was ready to revolt against his authority, run out of there, back to the safety of my apartment. But as he sat there staring at me intently, both daring me and caressing me with his wildly sensual eyes, I felt my sex tighten with delicious yearning, and every inch of my body started to quiver with an explosive desire for him.

  We locked eyes as I slowly removed my robe, then my pajama top, and let them fall to the floor. As I stood there bare breasted, his burning eyes ran all over me, and I felt my nipples tighten. He let out a small groan and shifted slightly in his chair. “Remove your pants, Melanie,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse and aroused.

  I hesitated, and gave him a weary look. I felt so exposed already, I didn’t think I could bear the vulnerability of standing in front of him completely naked. “I can’t,” I said.

  “Melanie, you need to trust me,” he said. His glimmering eyes met mine and seared into me.

  “I don’t like feeling controlled,” I said, and it was true. I hated when Steven tried to tell me what to do. So why was I feeling so turned on?

  Bradley’s eyes softened slightly. “I’m not trying to bend your will to my own,” he said. “What I want, what I crave, is for you to trust me to take care of all of your needs and to give you the freedom to lose control.”

  My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my panties getting wet. This stunning, brilliant man who’d known me for less than a week really understood me. My eyes must have flashed in recognition because Bradley’s eyes were smiling with satisfaction. “Trust me?” he asked, his honeyed voice turning hoarse again.

  “Yes,” I replied without hesitation.

  “Then take off your pajama pants,” he ordered.

  With my sex tightening and tingling, and my blood roaring in my ears, I untied the draw string of my pajama pants, and let them slide to the floor. Bradley caressed the curves of my thighs with his eyes and sighed in deep satisfaction. “Your underpants,” he purred, “take them off.”

  And I did, which left me standing the
re completely nude in front of this powerful, seductive man who seemed to know my needs better than I did myself. I watched his eyes glaze with lust, and his breathing take on a predatory slowness. “Turn around so I can see your ass,” he commanded. I did as he asked. “God, Melanie. You have such a gorgeous body. Such a delectable ass. Soon I’m going to explore every inch of you with my fingers, with my tongue, with my cock.”

  My pulse started to race, and my mouth went dry. I could feel his eyes burning into my back, taking in the curve of my buttocks, and my whole body started tingling with fear and desire. “Walk to the box and open it,” he ordered.

  I took a few tentative steps toward the box, then got bolder. I started to sway my hips seductively, and I heard him groan behind me. “Just wait until I get my hands on you,” I heard him say under his breath.

  I opened the lid of the box. Red suede Louboutin stilettos. With six inch heels. I immediately fell in love with them. “These are gorgeous,” I said, my voice full of excitement.