“Go ahead,” she says boldly.
Every ounce of strength I possess is required not to do as she asks.
“Later. For now…” I position one of the clamps around a nipple.
She jerks.
“Easy,” I say. “This won’t hurt.”
“It won’t?”
“Not unless you want it to.”
I tighten the tiny screw slowly, squeezing her nipple, all the while a phantom hand tightens around my cock.
“Good?”
She nods, her lips parted.
“You look incredible right now,” I say. “So fucking sexy.”
My words are just words. “So fucking sexy” doesn’t begin to describe Skye’s newly bejeweled nipple. Once I clamp the other, just a flick of the chain will send her reeling.
I’ll control her sensations all evening.
Fuck. This isn’t anything I haven’t done before, but my level of excitement is a hundred times higher.
I adjust the second clamp around her other nipple. “Beautiful. So beautiful. Are you ready, Skye?”
“Ready for what?” Her words come out on a sigh.
“For this.” I yank on the chain between the clamps.
“Oh!” Her chest and the tops of her breasts redden, her nipples protruding as the clamps bind them.
She reaches toward my bulge, and again, all my willpower is required to brush her hand away, which I do reluctantly.
“Time to go, baby.”
“Braden…”
“I know. This will keep you on edge tonight. Right on edge and under my control. You aren’t to touch that chain, Skye.”
“But it’s on me. How can I not?”
“Because you won’t. If you do, I’ll know.”
“But how can you—”
“I will know. Trust me.” I pull her dress upward. “I want you to go without your bra tonight.”
“But the clamps will show.”
“No, they won’t. Your nipples will show, which is hot. They’ll be hard all night and will jut out farther than the clamps themselves. No one will be the wiser.”
“But—”
“And I’ll be able to subtly pull on your chain whenever I want.”
She gulps. “That will…”
“Drive you wild. I know. That’s the point.” I lean down and bite the shell of her ear. “Then maybe you’ll know how completely out of control I get just thinking about you.”
She nearly stumbles. Nice. I’ve got her in a haze. An edgy haze. Exactly where I want her. I steady her, and damn, just gripping her makes my cock take more notice.
“Go now. Fix your bloodred lips.”
She nods and walks to the bathroom.
I head into her kitchen and open cupboards until I find a vase for the roses I brought. I set the resulting bouquet on her small table.
When she returns, she gazes at them. “Thank you,” she says, “for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome. Are you ready?”
She nods.
Good.
She’s ready.
So am I.
For a night neither of us will ever forget.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Mr. Black,” Byron Daniels, one of the opera board members, says, shaking my hand, “we’re so glad you’re here. I’ll escort you to your table personally. Who’s this lovely lady with you?”
“Skye Manning,” I say. “Skye, this is Byron Daniels, a member of the opera board.”
Skye smiles radiantly, though her lips tremble just a touch. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Manning. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Our table is the best in the house, right up front, and it’s a table for two, as opposed to the others that seat eight or ten. A chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon and a platter of berries sit waiting.
“They think we like this better than Wild Turkey,” I whisper to Skye after we’re seated.
She giggles. A server attends to us quickly, opening the bottle and pouring two flutes. He hands one to Skye and then the other to me.
I take mine and clink my glass to hers. “To control,” I say, casting my gaze down to her breasts.
I’ll be controlling her all evening via the nipple clamps.
I’m looking forward to it more than she knows.
“To control,” she echoes and takes a sip of the champagne.
It’s crisp and dry, and though I don’t drink sparkling wine often, Dom Pérignon is in its own class. The bubbles effervesce against my tongue and seem to explode as they crawl down my throat.
The room is already full of guests. I don’t attempt to speak to anyone. People seek me out, come to me, schmooze me. Takes me back to the early days of the company when I was the one doing the schmoozing. I sucked at it. Ben was the schmoozer. He still is. My brother could sell a life estate to a dying man.
Peter Reardon and Garrett Ramirez sit a few tables away from us. When Peter looks Skye’s way, I dart him a glare. He looks away quickly. My architectural planning committee hasn’t made the contract decision public yet, so Reardon and his father may think they still stand a chance.
They don’t.
“Braden!” George Stanford, chair of the opera board, approaches our table.
I rise and shake his hand.
“We can’t thank you enough for your generosity,” he says.
“I’m glad to do it.” I nod to Skye. “George, meet my girlfriend, Skye Manning.”
My girlfriend. I’m not unaware of how strange the term sounds coming from a thirty-five-year-old businessman. I’m not sure I’ve ever used the word before.
George holds his hand out to a still-seated Skye. “A pleasure, Ms. Manning.”
“Please, call me Skye.”
He nods and turns back to me. “We had a great response this year. The gala is sold out. The first time that’s happened in fifteen years.”
“Interest in opera must be growing in Boston.”
“It is, especially among the younger crowd. I think young people are finally tired of the same old hip-hop and are willing to give the classics a try.”