Ian was like a darker, harder edged version of Kent. Something about him attracted Marisa from the start, and not just the forbidden element of his being her fiancée’s brother. Ian had a magnetism Kent lacked. And the way he looked at a woman couldn’t help but bring out disturbing effects. It was like he didn’t care what society thought, what was appropriate or not. Marisa tried her best to avoid proximity, but it was no use, not the way he could hold her with his gaze from anywhere in the room.
If only she knew what he was thinking. Sex, yes, but not just the ordinary physical act. Ian had a world he lived in, she was sure of it, and any woman who followed would never be the same again. Kent seemed oblivious. That was typical, hence her nickname for him, the good twin. Ian was the bad one, and how perfect that label seemed.
She felt like an open book to him and each time he so much as smiled at her she would turn beat red. There was no way he could know what was beginning to happen in her secret fantasies, the way the spike haired twin replaced the softer haired one, the piercing blue for the passive aqua. Really—how could he have a clue? Was he there at night when she and Kent made love? Did he know how she made the substitution, Ian for her fiancée?
Not even Kent knew that, and oh, god, how guilty she felt. She would do anything to fix matters, even moving the wedding date up, but Kent was having none of it. He was a man of principles, a man who lived by time tables.
“Besides, what is the rush?” he would end up asking her each time the matter came up.
She could only swallow hard. Ian. Ian. Ian.
One of these times she feared she would call out his name during sex!
The time they played football in the back yard of their parent’s mansion, shirts against skins, she cringed as Ian removed his top, looking straight at her as he bared his lean chest, washboard abs and smooth pectorals. Kent was certainly fit, but not like that.
Twice Ian tackled Kent in the first quarter, putting his brother flat on his back.
After the second time he made his way over to Marisa.
“Coffee tomorrow,” he said.
She shrank back. “I couldn’t.”
He smiled. It hadn’t been a question. “Three o’clock, the place on Mulberry. You know it?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Good.”
Warmth filled her, even as she thought of the danger. Her nipples grew hard under her blouse. Would she show up? How could she?
On the other hand, how could she not?
A dozen times she changed her mind. It was a Monday so she only had to sneak away from work—no explanations needed for Kent. What the man didn’t know, right?
Ian was waiting for her at a back table. He had coffee for her, just the way she liked it.
“I pay attention,” he said.
He held her seat for her, something Kent never did. Men and women should be equals. That was Kent’s idea.
“You look incredible, Marisa.”
She blushed, pretending she hadn’t fussed picking out the black blouse and skirt which hugged her curves and advertised her femininity to such great effect.
“My brother is quite a lucky man.”
“Ian…” She opted to forestall any further small talk. “I assume you have a reason for inviting me, other than idle flattery?”
He arched a brow. “You think it’s idle?”
“To the extent I’m engaged to your brother? Yes.”
Ian took hold of her hand, which she had made the mistake of leaving on the table. “You’re trembling,” he said.
“L-let go of me,” she protested, trying to sound commanding.
Marisa felt something give way. Horrified and outraged as she was, it was like this relief washing over her. “I said let go,” she repeated, this time with a little emphasis.
His fingers circled her wrist. “Your lips are fucking incredible, do you know that?”
She drew a sharp breath. “Please…”
“I enjoy the way you beg, Marisa. I think I would like more of it.”
“What about Kent,” she whispered, unable to voice anything more.
“You let me worry about my brother. I want you to focus on what you want right now.”
“I—I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
His brow furrowed indicating a look of slight displeasure which chilled her hotly to the bone. “I think you do know, Marisa, your eyes scream it.”
She lowered her gaze. “I can’t.”
Ian laughed. “You’re a trip, aren’t you? Look at me, Marisa.”
She obeyed, feeling a dark thrill as she did so.
“I told you not to worry, didn’t I? Your job is to tell me what you want.”
“Sometimes…I have fantasies.” Marisa whispered the words, hearing her own voice as if through the end of a tunnel. Was she really going to admit these things?
She shook her head. “They aren’t right, they’re wicked, and I am a very, very bad person.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge?”
Marisa knew all too well Ian was the last person in the world to be trusting right now, but the sound of his voice, his subtle insistence was wearing her down. “I’m with a different kind of man, it’s…it’s all different.”
She dared not mention the name of Kent or imply Ian’s role in her imaginary dalliances. “He’s stronger, more assertive, that’s all.”
“He takes control of you in bed, you mean?”
Marisa nodded, scarcely able to believe they were having this conversation.
“And you are tied down, punished, what?”
He took her hand across the table. “I want to know what your imaginary lover does to you.”
This time he had her by the eyes, his gaze locked on hers. Almost in a trance, she told him everything. “I have to obey him, he tells me what positions to assume, whether to lie for him or…”
“Or suck his cock? It’s okay, you can tell me.”
“Yes, that…and more.”
She went on to reveal the rest, the ways she was used and humiliated in her own fantasies, even to the point of enduring painful spankings to make her cry.
“But the spanking idea gets you off, too, doesn’t it.”
Marisa was so over him reading her mind. She wanted to tell him where to get off in the worst way.
Ian let the conversation go for a few minutes, allowing her the respite of a few minutes silence. And then he started again.
“Marisa, I must ask you, and forgive me please for this…”
Oh, god. She braced herself. Now what?
“These things you’ve told me, do you think my brother could ever deliver, because from what I know of him—”
“I love Kent,” she interrupted.
She felt foolish, stupid even in the light of it.
“Of course, you do, Marisa.” A moment or two more passed and then he released the bombshell. “But he doesn’t bring you to climax, does he?”
Marisa wanted to throw her drink at him. She trembled all over. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, you know that?”
“Sure, I know that better than anyone,” he said, not batting an eyelash. “The question is do you know what you are? You need to be a slut, Marisa, and you need to belong absolutely to a man with absolutely no scruples.”
Marisa was on her feet. “I will thank you to never mention this, ever.”
“And I will thank you to meet me at eight tonight.” He tossed a card on the table.
The name of the establishment spoke for itself. She crumpled it and landed it in his glass. “Go to hell, Ian.”
“I’ll be expecting you,” he ignored.
“Too late, I don’t even remember the name of the place.”
He smirked. “Shall I say it out loud?”
Marisa noted the eyes of the stranger just two tables away.
“I remember it,” she muttered.