Taste of Pleasure Read Free Page B

most definitely a tie-you-down-with-silk-and-seduction kind of guy, if she judged him correctly.
    “Calmer now?” he queried softly.
    Calmer? She didn’t think so. Not unless you called the growing ache between her legs and the tightness in her nipples calm, which she didn’t. But he was talking about her nerves. “A little.”
    He chuckled deep and low, sexy. “At least you’re honest.” He moved to face her again, his hands on her waist. “I don’t bite, I promise.” His lips curved with mischief. “Not hard.” He motioned her forward. “Let me tell you about the art. Or you tell me about it. You seem to have quite a knack for history.”
    She nodded, recognizing and appreciating his efforts to ease her nerves and take things slow. He led her to the first statue of a naked woman feeding a man grapes. A series of similar sculptures followed. He touched her often as they toured two similar rooms—held her hand, stroked her arm, settled his hand on her waist—sending warm sensations through her body. Even more so, because somehow she knew he was getting her used to him touching her, somehow turning the areas of her body that she wouldn’t think of as sexual—like her elbow, her wrist, the small of her back—into highly sexual places. All the while he chatted about the art, the way it had been brought to the museum, the role he’d played.
    The fourth room surprised her, set her heart pounding. It was a small room, not bigger than a hotel check-in booth, with a huge glass window displaying a room with a red, silk-covered bed. A woman was on top—a live, flesh-and-blood woman, who was completely naked. Her hair was blond, her lips bright red to match the sheets. She lay with her back arched, her breasts thrust forward, her legs parted. She was touching herself, and to Kim’s shock, she could see a roomful of people in stadiumlike seating on the opposite side of the glass room, watching the woman.
    Blake led her to the window and stepped behind her. “Self-pleasure is an art of its own.” His hands covered hers and pressed them to her ribcage, right above her stomach, then slid them upward, over her breasts—her hands, his hands. “Don’t you agree?”
    Kim bit back a moan, aroused, but worried the group of people or another group might be watching her…them. “Blake. I—” He stroked her nipples with a combination of her fingers and his. Her womb clenched, her teeth dug into her bottom lip. “Wait, we…I don’t want them—”
    “They can’t see us,” he said near her ear, and then trailed his lips down her shoulder. “Only the woman can see us.” His used his teeth to slide her strap off her shoulder.
    “This isn’t like any art gallery I’ve ever visited,” she whispered.
    His fingers slid her second strap down her arm, his teeth nipped the delicate skin where it had been. “This one is owned by a private, members-only club called the Society. None of the invitation-only guests enter the private showing rooms like this one unless they’re with a Master in the Society.”
    She swallowed hard, realization washing over her—he was telling her he was a Master, and she knew just enough to envision leather and whips again. She should be running. Why was she barely containing the urge to lean back and press herself against him? “You’re a Master.”
    “That’s right,” he agreed.
    “And that means?” She sounded breathless even to her own ears.
    “It means,” he said, his voice low, etched with a gravelly quality, “I’ll see to your pleasure and mine, but you have to be willing to give yourself to the experience, and to me.” He turned her to face him, pressed her back against the window. Framed her legs with his, and pressed his hands to the side of her head on the window. He wasn’t touching her. She wanted him to touch her, wanted it in a desperate way. She could barely breathe. The man was pure male power and sexuality, and she wanted him.
    His hands went to the window