Darkly (Follow Me #4) Read Online Helen Hardt

Categories Genre: BDSM, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Follow Me Series by Helen Hardt
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Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
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Until I break away.

If I don’t, I won’t be able to stop. And I doubt she will be, either.

I draw several ragged breaths into my chest, my heart racing. Her lips are sexy and swollen, her chest rosy, her nipples hard and protruding against the clingy fabric of her blouse. I resist the urge to tweak one.

“Dinner tonight,” I say huskily. “I’ll pick you up here at seven. And this time, Skye, you’re coming to my bed. Get used to the idea. It’s going to happen.”

I turn and walk out the door.



Sitting next to me in the back seat of my car, Skye clears her throat. “Where are we eating tonight?”

“My place.”

“Oh? You cook?”

“I have a personal chef. She’s taking care of everything.”

Skye nods.

Marilyn’s been with me a few years now, and she knows my tastes. Her skills as a chef are top-notch, and I pay her more than she’d earn in a five-star restaurant. The hours are better, too. She’s adept at all cuisines, but Italian is her specialty.

A robust Italian dinner will set the perfect mood for what I have planned for tonight.

Odd, how I want this woman—Skye—so badly. Is it the thrill of the chase because she turned me down last night?

No.

It doesn’t happen often, but I’ve been turned down before. I simply move on.

So what is it about her?

She’s an enigma to me. A woman who’s focused and values control, yet something about her screams submissive to me. My instincts about submission haven’t been wrong yet, so I trust them.

Beyond instinct, though, I know little about Ms. Manning and how she’ll react to my particular tastes in the bedroom.

I know only that I must have her.

We arrive and take the elevator to my place. Sasha greets us at the door.

“Hey, sweet girl,” I say, petting her. “Annika will take you out, okay?”

“Is Annika the chef?” Skye asks.

“No. She’s my housekeeper. She’s probably upstairs.” I quickly send a text.

Within a few minutes, Annika, gray-haired and spry, whisks into the room, leashes Sasha, and walks her out, never saying a word. I prefer my staff to be the silent type. We get along well that way. Christopher’s the most talkative of the bunch, and he’s hardly a conversational wizard.

A sweet yet pungent fragrance punctuates the air—tomato and basil from the Italian meal Marilyn prepared. I inhale the scent again, my mouth already watering. I specifically requested that she not cook lasagna. It’s too filling for what I have planned for later this evening. Penne arrabiata, full of spicy heat, and veal Marsala, less spicy and more filling but not so much to make a person uncomfortable after the meal.

Skye stands, fidgeting with her hands and looking delectable.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I say.

Her lips quiver just a touch, and she continues fiddling with her fingers.

She’s nervous, of course. But I don’t want her to be nervous. Perhaps a drink will help.

“Wine?” I ask. “Or something stronger?”

“Wine is good.”

“Red?”

“Sure.”

“How about a Chianti Classico? It’ll go well with dinner.” I pull a bottle from my ornate wrought-iron rack.

She nods and removes her blazer. “What’s for dinner?”

“Penne arrabiata and veal Marsala. You like Italian?” I open the bottle, pour two glasses, and hand one to Skye.

She takes a sip. “Yes. Love it.”

“Good.”

She smiles hesitantly, and I get the feeling she’s trying to draw one out of me.

As much as I want to smile in Skye’s presence, some inner instinct tells me not to give in.

So I keep my lips together.

“Marilyn set out some antipasti for us. Follow me.”

I lead her to the kitchen. She widens her eyes at the marble and hardwood as I show her to the island surrounded by barstools. The antipasti—olives, melon, salami, prosciutto, and small blocks of white cheese—rests on a silver platter. A cruet of extra-virgin olive oil and another plate holding short wooden skewers sit adjacent.

“Please.” I wave my hand over the platter. “After you.”

“No, go ahead,” she says. “I’d like to enjoy the wine for a few minutes.”

“Of course.” I take a skewer, load it up with the antipasti, and then drizzle olive oil over it. I hold a napkin to catch the drips and pull the green olive off with my teeth.

And I imagine those teeth around her nipple.

My groin tightens further. The peppery and slightly bitter flavor of the olive oil always tantalizes my tongue. Why is Italian food so sexy? All I want to do at this moment is tear all her clothes off and drizzle olive oil over her naked body, lick it off in its peppery glory.

Damn.

She stands frozen, watching me intently, not making any move toward the food.

“Please,” I say again after swallowing.

She nods, grabs a skewer, and pushes a piece of cheese onto it. Then an olive, a piece of folded prosciutto, and cantaloupe. She moves it toward her mouth.


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