Make Me Desperate by Beth Kery Page B

contraption in front of the fence ten feet away from her. He turned in her direction. Harper downed the rest of her champagne, set the flute on a nearby table, and walked toward him.
    “That looks like something from a torture chamber,” she said, attempting levity to hide her nerves.
    “It’s not. It’s meant for pleasure.”
    “Yours or mine?”
    “Ideally, both. But its intention is to give me complete control.”
    Her heart starting to thrum in her ears, she glanced warily at the black metal movable parts and cushions.
    “You don’t have to do it,” he said.
    “I know,” she replied.
    “I set it up here, because the design is thicker on the fence here,” he said, pointing to the wrought iron design of intertwining branches. “It’ll be enough to hide you, should anyone pass in a boat and happen to be staring, but it’s open enough that you’ll still be able to enjoy the view.”
    “Like I’ll be paying attention to the view,” she scoffed under her breath.
    She looked up when he stepped closer and his long finger brushed against the skin below her chin. His eyes shone, looking especially golden in the evening light. She stared up at him, spellbound.
    “It’ll excite me to have you in this chair. I think it’ll excite you, too. But it’s your call.”
    She nodded, swallowing thickly. She turned toward the chair.
    “How . . . how do I get on it?”
    “First, let’s get this off you,” he murmured, and she felt his fingers slip beneath the ties of her bikini at her back. Remembering what he’d told her about always wanting to undress her, she stood without moving as he drew the bikini top off her. He knelt and pulled the snug briefs down over her ass and thighs. She paused in the process of stepping out of the bikini bottoms when she felt his hand spread just above her knee. He swept it up, over her outer thigh, hip, and the side of her ass in a warm, greedy caress.
    “You’re so pretty, Harper.”
    Her mouth fell open. He’d said something similar to her several times before. It wasn’t the compliment a sophisticated, worldly playboy gave a woman. She realized that for the first time. It was the kind of compliment that came from an awestruck boy.
    “What?” he asked, and he was towering over her again, a big, powerful figure, his outline blocking the setting sun. He’d noticed the look of wonder and puzzlement on her face.
    “We . . . we haven’t met before,
have
we? I mean . . . before Tahoe?” she asked.
    His eyelids narrowed.
    “Why? Do you think we have?”
    She blinked, and the moment of déjà vu faded. She laughed at her stupidity. What she’d told him the other night was true. If she’d
ever
met Jacob Latimer, she’d remember it. In spades.
    “No,” she admitted.
    How could she possibly imagine that Jacob Latimer was remotely similar to a boy? Why did his presence keep calling up that sweet, poignant sadness of her early teenage years . . . the regret? Was it the loss of her parents and memories of her childhood inspiring it?
    He stepped closer. “Harper, what’s wrong?”
    “Nothing,” she whispered, shaking off the spell. She didn’t want to think about her losses. Not now. “I’m ready.”
    She saw him nod once, but thought a vague expression of suspicion or curiosity lingered on his face. He took one of her hands and guided her to the chair.
    “Straddle the seat first, then slide one leg into position while you keep standing on the other foot.”
    He braced her while she did what he instructed, her heartbeat starting a steady drumroll in her ears.
    “Now sit.”
    It wasn’t like sitting, in any normal sense of the word. The center cushions supported her both from below and from the front. When she came to rest, she was tilted forward at a forty-five degree angle. Her lower belly and hips pressed against the abdomen cushion, but the lower pelvic cushion took most of her weight. Her sex pressed at the juncture of both. Once in place, it was only