Knight's Mistress Page 16

  ‘You needn’t concern yourself, Mr Knight.’ She found it difficult to address him casually despite his suggestion. ‘Tact is a requisite in my business. You might even say the essence of my business.’

  She may or may not have smiled, he wasn’t certain. Her mouth barely moved. But then she added, ‘Telling a woman who’s thirty pounds overweight that she might like to consider a sturdier undergarment requires a great deal of tact.’

  His smile was instant, like a ray of sunshine. ‘Thank you. I’m relieved. My friend and I had a minor disagreement about the suitability of this situation, event, occasion – whatever best describes it. She was concerned that some of the – er – garments might be … I believe her word was “weird”. I assured her they should be perfectly normal lingerie. I hope that’s the case.’

  ‘Yes, of course. My stock is of the finest quality, most of it hand-made, some one-of-a-kind. I’m sure she’ll be pleased.’

  He came to his feet. ‘We can only hope. If you should need my help,’ he said, his tone deliberately bland, ‘I’ll be next door in my study. It’s the first door on your left as you leave the bedroom.’

  In the course of their journey up the broad staircase and down the hushed upper hall, Dominic conversed pleasantly about local matters, asking Mrs Hawthorne about Hong Kong’s massive rebuilding projects, whether she found the increased traffic congestion a deterrent to her business, if she was often called from her shop for fittings.

  She found him very American, casual in speech and manner, cordial and friendly, unlike most men of great fortune when dealing with a small business owner. She wondered what this woman found to resent in such an attractive man.

  Dominic stopped at the door to his bedroom.

  ‘The dressing room is to your left as you enter. Just go on in. She’s expecting you.’

  Mrs Hawthorne walked through the door he opened for her, heard it shut behind her and surveyed the large bedroom filled with light from six large windows. A huge four-poster bed with a canopy and curtains in gunpowder-green silk was placed opposite the windows; the views from the bed must be spectacular. An arrangement of chairs and a sofa upholstered in brick-red faille fronted a fireplace with a magnificent cast brass surround. The walls were papered in hand-painted scenes from the Victorian period, the artistry delicate enough to suggest a woman’s hand. The carpet was new, her feet sank into the plush pile, the colourful pattern from the Asian steppes. A number of Victorian narrative paintings, beautifully framed, hung on the walls.

  The room was exquisite. An example of everything that money could buy if one had a good eye and superior taste. Could the same be said of the woman waiting for her? Dominic Knight had clearly been solicitous of the lady’s mood – whatever the price of her company. Mrs Hawthorne took a small breath as she approached the designated door, not sure what kind of female she’d find in the dressing room.

  A spoiled aristocrat, a temperamental cinema star, a high-priced prostitute with attitude? Someone else’s wife?

  But when she opened the dressing room door, she came to an abrupt halt on the threshold, her eyes wide.

  None of the imagined females met her gaze. Instead, the figure before her was a startling facsimile, albeit a modern one, of the French print she had in her shop. The little Irish courtesan could have been this young lady’s twin. Perhaps it was the rolled arm daybed on which she was sprawled, or the cut velvet upholstery in the same shade of serpentine. Or the pose – face down, rosy cheeked, her legs spread wide on the pillow bolsters. In this case the lady was clothed, although her skirt was hitched up so her pale, slender legs were on full display. And the face had the same nubile beauty, her tangle of red curls only adding to the remarkable likeness. She cleared her throat – whether consciously or unconsciously – and the portrait came to life. Slowly, languorously, the figure rolled over with a soft groan and a flutter of her lashes, revealing a voluptuous body. The lingerie she’d brought would complement such a lush body, Mrs Hawthorne reflected, provided the lady was amenable.

  Although Dominic Knight’s ‘If you should need my help’ comment gave the impression the lady would be found amenable one way or another.

  Mrs Hawthorne smiled. ‘Good morning. I understand you might like to try on some lingerie.’

  Still drowsy, Kate quietly sighed. ‘I suppose he said that.’

  ‘I could come back later if you like?’ Having been warned of the lady’s reluctance, she was all deference and courtesy.

  ‘No – no, that’s not necessary.’ Kate shoved herself up into a seated position against the sofa arm, surveyed her visitor through her lashes. ‘Come in. I already promised I’d do this.’ She smiled. ‘So please stay.’

  Mrs Hawthorne decided this young couple might have the franchise on dazzling smiles. Or perhaps it was nothing more than their youth and beauty that dazzled. ‘Why don’t I unpack some of the boxes while you’re waking up?’ she said with a meticulous courtesy.

  ‘He must have told you I’d be grumpy.’ Kate waved her hand in a little nullifying gesture. ‘It has nothing to do with you, it’s him. He has his way too often. My name’s Kate,’ she pleasantly added. ‘I’m sorry Dominic dragged you out so early.’

  ‘I’m Elizabeth Hawthorne. And it’s not a problem.’

  Kate flicked her fingers at three large boxes. ‘That’s a lot of lingerie.’

  ‘Mr Knight didn’t know what you’d like.’

  Kate snorted. ‘I told him I wouldn’t need anything but he ignored me. He’s very charming, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Does he do this often?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s not a client.’

  A startled green gaze. ‘He isn’t?’

  ‘Not of my shop.’

  ‘You own the shop?’

  That small surprise again; the young American – her accent unmistakable – didn’t know him well. ‘Yes, the shop is mine.’

  ‘And this is important enough to get you here at ten thirty in the morning?’

  ‘He’s important enough.’

  Another small sigh. ‘I’ve noticed that. Do you have to deal with many people like him?’

  ‘Some. This is a wealthy city. What would you like to try on first?’

  ‘A robe so I can go back to sleep.’ Kate smiled faintly. ‘Just kidding. You decide.’

  ‘Why don’t we begin with the basics? That way I can get an idea of sizes and it won’t be necessary to try on everything.’

  ‘Perfect. Then this shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘We’ll go as quickly as we can, my dear.’

  As Kate discarded her dress, Mrs Hawthorne selected several items from the boxes and laid them out on a large table.

  The young woman was naked beneath her dress, Mrs Hawthorne noted. She wasn’t shy about standing nude in the centre of the dressing room. In that respect, at least, she and Dominic Knight must be compatible.

  ‘I hope this doesn’t take long,’ Kate murmured drowsily. ‘I’m tired.’

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine what had caused the young woman’s fatigue. Rumour had it that Dominic Knight’s interest in women was anywhere between eccentric and deviant, depending on the informant or source. ‘We’ll try to hurry things along, my dear.’

  The fitting went as well as could be expected with a client who was clearly uninterested in any of the lingerie and half asleep. Mrs Hawthorne fitted two bras, both gorgeous if she did say so herself, two pairs of lace panties, one garter belt, a bustier and one pair of silk pyjamas. It was enough for her to know what sizes Dominic Knight’s companion required. As a favour to herself, she fitted a last garment: her pet designer’s pièce de résistance bustier in gold lamé, beribboned and beruffled like some delicious confection. It was so absolutely stunning on the bored young lady’s shapely form, she could no longer remain silent. ‘If you don’t want to do this, my dear, why are you doing it? An observation only. Most women who have men buying them expensive things are generally pleased.
’

  Kate’s lashes lifted. ‘Really?’

  ‘All of them, to be perfectly honest. My lingerie is very costly. And quite unique. For instance, this is real gold lace,’ she added, adjusting the ruffle that showcased Kate’s breasts with a little flick of her fingers.

  Kate ran her hand down the gleaming lamé that reduced her waist size by inches and added them to her boobs. ‘How much is this?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. Let’s just say you have to be well off to afford it.’

  ‘And he’s buying all this too?’ She waved at the pile on the dressing room table.

  And all of the things still in the boxes. ‘Mr Knight wanted a full selection for you.’

  Kate’s cheeks flushed scarlet.

  ‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear. Mr Knight was very respectful.’

  ‘I suppose that means he pays you to be discreet.’

  ‘On the contrary, my business is based on discretion. No one pays me for that. Many men and women have reasons for wanting confidentiality. You’re quite safe in every way.’

  As if to contradict that sweeping statement, the dressing room door suddenly opened and Dominic stood in the doorway. ‘Excuse me. Not quite finished, I see.’

  He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him and surveyed Kate slowly, from head to toe, then back again, his gaze coming to rest on her ripe breasts mounded high above a wide swathe of ruffled gold lace.

  As the silence lengthened, Kate’s cheeks turned flame red. ‘Do you want something?’ she tartly said.

  He looked up. ‘We have to dress for lunch. You wanted me to remind you.’ His voice was neutral, his gaze was not. It was shameless in its intent.

  ‘This is the last item, Mr Knight,’ Mrs Hawthorne quickly interposed into the crackling silence. ‘Then we’re done.’

  ‘I hope you found some things you liked.’ His voice was ultra soft. ‘That’ – he half lifted his hand in Kate’s direction – ‘certainly is … a-attractive.’

  As Kate opened her mouth to reply, he said, ‘Just a minute,’ and turned to Mrs Hawthorne. ‘I’m afraid we’ve run out of time,’ he politely noted. ‘Just leave everything. Leo is waiting downstairs to pay you. Tell him which you prefer – cash or cheque.’ His smile couldn’t have been improved on by God himself. ‘We can’t thank you enough for all your help, Mrs Hawthorne.’ He swung back to Kate. ‘Isn’t that so?’

  The shopkeeper suppressed a gasp. Dominic Knight’s gaze was glittering with lust, a fine edge of violence conspicuous in his stance – a predator about to attack.

  ‘Dominic!’ Kate hissed, shooting a nervous glance at the strained fabric of his fly. ‘Mrs Hawthorne.’ A witness.

  He didn’t respond.

  She panicked. She could see the National Enquirer headline now.

  Then he slowly exhaled, leaned in close. ‘Don’t move,’ he said under his breath, whip-sharp and taut.

  ‘What if I do?’ she said in a stinging whisper.

  ‘I’ll beat you.’ Another small breath brought his erection under control and turning to Mrs Hawthorne, he said in a normal tone, ‘Let me show you the way downstairs. It’s easy to get lost up here.’

  CHAPTER 14

  As the door closed on Dominic and Mrs Hawthorne, Kate questioned her sanity, or his, debated her options about whether to stay or go, reminded herself she’d come here for selfish reasons, which brought her back to the issue of her sanity. But she’d always had more self-confidence than she needed; maybe Dominic Knight was just another challenge. And of one thing she was certain: he was a sex dream come true. Speaking of …

  The door opened and Dominic walked in.

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘And you didn’t move.’ He leaned back against the door, his face impassive. ‘Would you like a reward?’

  ‘Depends on your mood.’

  ‘I didn’t word that properly. I meant I’m going to fuck you.’

  ‘Rather than whip me?’

  His lazy smile was unrepentant. ‘Your choice.’

  ‘Great choices.’

  ‘Give me trouble and there’ll be no choice,’ he said, pushing away from the door and moving towards her.

  ‘I haven’t agreed to any of your rules yet. I have choices.’

  ‘I haven’t agreed either,’ he quietly said, stopping just short of where she stood. ‘So there aren’t any rules.’

  He suddenly seemed very large. She took a step back. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘It’s just damned tempting to whip you when you’re dressed like a – like that,’ he said in a soft rasp, an unguarded brutality in his gaze.

  She flinched. ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

  He closed the small distance between them in one long stride, grabbed her hands in a bruising grip, shoved them behind her back and rammed his body into hers. ‘Don’t you dare touch me?’ he growled. ‘When you’re wearing that fuck-me number?’

  ‘It’s your fuck-me number,’ she snapped, staring him straight in the eye, her temper spiking at warp speed when he pushed this hard. ‘I didn’t ask for it. I’m fine with vanilla sex. Especially with your mother around.’

  The transformation was instant, the bucket of cold water metaphor entirely apt. He even gave his head a shake as though coming up for air.

  ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve,’ he said with a hint of a smile. ‘I’ll give you that.’ But he didn’t move, his grip still harsh, his body still crushed against hers.

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  He remembered saying that to her at their first meeting. His brows lifted faintly. ‘Are you mocking me, Miss Hart?’

  ‘No, I’m pushing back. I said I would.’

  He gave her a considering gaze for a brief moment, then quietly said, ‘We’ll see how that works out.’ He brought her arms around to her sides, smiled. ‘My mother won’t be around long, Miss Hart. You’re going to have to get more creative.’

  ‘There’s always no.’

  He softly laughed. ‘That should tax my self-restraint.’

  ‘Or your integrity.’

  He didn’t immediately respond. ‘You talk a lot,’ he said finally.

  ‘About things you don’t want to talk about.’

  ‘That I never think about.’

  ‘Because women never say no to you?’

  He hesitated, then blew out a breath and said, ‘Right.’

  He had small chinks in his armour, like now, when he would have preferred not answering and did. And this morning with his mother had been revealing, as was his easy rapport with Max. His kindness in offering her orgasmic pleasure first and often was unselfish too. ‘Should I stop talking?’ she asked, wanting to please him when he had that small furrow in his brow, wanting to please him almost always.

  He gave her a heart-stopping smile. ‘Maybe for now. There’s not much time before lunch.’

  ‘Oh,’ she whispered, his beautiful smile sending all of her newly addicted senses into full-out operational mode.

  He smiled. ‘You like that?’

  She took a calming breath. ‘Just a little. How do you do it?’ She glanced at his crotch, smiled. ‘Silly question.’

  ‘You do it to me, babe. Twenty-four seven.’ He slid his fingers over her bound waist, down the taut line of her stomach under the boning, took a small breath before returning his hands to her waist and squeezing slightly. ‘And this ultimate bondage is just frosting on the cake. I wanted to eat you alive when I saw you in this.’

  ‘No kidding. Mrs Hawthorne practically passed out.’

  ‘This gold lamé thing is really hot, you’re hot,’ he murmured, as if she’d not spoken. He raised his hands and passed his palms over the soft silken swell of her breasts with breath-held delicacy. ‘These are fucking hot.’

  ‘Hey, watch it, that lace is real gold,’ Kate whispered.

  ‘Perfect. It goes with your real tits,’ he murmured, his fingers gliding over her pliant flesh, his focus starkly unambigu
ous.

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me the price.’ Kate caught her breath as Dominic slipped a finger down her cleavage, then two.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I can afford it.’ Scooping the heavy weight of one breast from the half scallop of fabric supporting it, he bent his head and stopped her from talking. His mouth was deliberately feather-light on her bruised nipples, the warmth of his lips no more than a whisper on her flesh.

  As she uttered one of those low, languorous moans that he’d learned last night unlocked her pussy, he reached behind her and ripped open the covered hooks with a wrenching twist of his wrist, letting the costly garment fall to the floor. Lifting his mouth, he swept her up in his arms. Compelled by a savage need he neither liked nor understood, he swiftly kicked the door open, walked into his bedroom and moved towards the bed. Although the still functioning portion of his brain blamed his blind impulses on the get-your-rocks-off bustier.

  ‘Now,’ he said on a suffocated breath. ‘I’m going first.’ He tossed her on the bed, pulled off her panties, unzipped his slacks with a jerk of his hand, crawled on top of her, shoes and all – a first for a man of enormous self-control. ‘Keep up if you can.’ He guided his rampant erection to her sex. ‘We’ll play’ – intent on positioning his cock precisely on her pouty cleft, his voice trailed off – ‘after …’

  A second later a low, throaty groan rumbled deep in his chest as he rammed inside her so hard and fast, she went rigid beneath him. But he didn’t care, the staggering impact to the head of his dick was vibrating wildly up his spine, spiking through his brain, had him momentarily seeing stars. Dragging in a harsh breath, he waited for the stars to recede, then impatient to duplicate the raw, agonizing sensations, he pulled her clenched fingers from his shoulders, shoved her arms to her sides, circled her wrists in a vice-like grip and held her captive. Flexing his legs, he withdrew, tightened his glutes and plunged back in, the force of his driving invasion moving her a grudging inch up the silk comforter.