Текст книги "Dangerously Bound"

Автор книги: Eden Bradley

Соавторы: Eden Bradley
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

She was soaking wet, gasping for air, shivering all over. And she was lost in the intensity on his face, the way he looked at her, at the pleasure she saw there.

For you, Mick . . . always for you.

His hand slid away from her mouth, and she drew in a deep breath. His fingers still moved inside her in a slow, circular motion, and pleasure built once more, hot and unbelievably fast, yet they moved so slowly it kept her suspended again, moment by moment, hanging on the edge.

“Do you need to come again? You can answer me.”

“Yes. Please, yes.”

A smile crooked one corner of his lush mouth as he pulled his fingers from her pussy and dragged them up over her belly, leaving a trail of her own juices. “I know you do, baby. But we’ll save that one for later.”

She almost cried out in frustration, but she bit it back just in time.

For him.

Her body was buzzing, a mind-blowing combination of pleasure spent, need unmet, and that sense of being taken over completely. She watched as he turned his back to her, one hand on her stomach so that he never lost contact with her as he picked something up from a chair he’d pulled close to the hanging bed. When he turned back, she saw he held a small, wiry canelike instrument in his hand.

“Have you seen one of these before, Allie? You can answer by nodding if you have.”

She shook her head.

“Good girl. This is called an evil stick, or misery stick. I’ll leave you to guess why. It’s made from a very narrow rod of carbon fiber, making it strong and flexible. The handle is woven leather, just to make it easy for me to hang on to. This one is only about six inches long, but it can cause some sensation, I promise you that. It stings like hell, and it’ll mark you faster than almost anything. But then, I’m guessing you’re a girl who loves her marks, am I right?”

She nodded, trying to keep her gaze on his and not on what she was sure would be a wicked little toy. One she couldn’t wait to feel the bite of.

“Then let’s give you a taste, baby girl.”

Baby girl.

Oh, she loved those southern endearments, had missed it so much. No man she’d ever been with could make her melt with a few words the way Mick could.

He stood over her, held the tiny rod by the handle over her stomach, used his other hand to bend the tip up—then let it go. It slapped down onto her skin, the sudden, sharp pain making her yelp.

Mick laughed. “I told you it was evil, baby.”

He did it again, and again and again in such rapid succession she didn’t have a chance to catch her breath. But she loved the overload as pain spread through her body, from the skin on her stomach to her limbs, leaving a wake of pleasure behind. Endorphins, those lovely natural opiates the brain produced in response to pain, built just as quickly as his merciless onslaught of sensation, until it all became a blur. Pain and pleasure as she struggled against her bonds, not really wanting to escape, but simply unable to hold still.

Her throat was tight and growing sore from holding back the yell that needed to escape. Her breath was a sharp pant, like fire in her lungs. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more without screaming, he stopped and smoothed his palm over the hurting welts on her stomach. She almost purred, it felt so good. Felt proud that she managed to hold it back, that she’d managed the pain without screaming.

“You mark beautifully,” he said, studying her stomach, his gaze focused, his brows drawn. “Lovely little welts on your skin. They almost look like scratches.” He scraped his nails over her flesh, and she gasped. He went back to caressing her, murmuring, “Skin like a baby. Just as soft as ever. I always did love the feel of your skin.”

He went quiet for several long moments and she lay still, enjoying his lingering touch, the power of his attention being so acutely focused on her.

He was more present than any man she’d ever met, any Dom she’d ever played with. She didn’t know if it was their dynamic or if that was simply him. But she understood how powerful an aphrodisiac it was for her. She was wet and ready for more already. Still.

Always.

He bent over her until his cheek was right next to hers and whispered, “Time for some more rope, baby girl,” and kissed her cheek softly.

She turned her face, wanting him to kiss her, needing him to, but he straightened up and began to untie her ankles. She almost wanted to cry. She bit her lip instead, holding the emotion back.

Just be in the moment.

She waited while he got more rope, taking a few cleansing breaths, trying to calm herself.

He pulled her red silk panties down, slipping them off, then took her right leg and bent it at the knee, brought it up to her chest.

“Hold it right here,” he instructed.

She did, and he began to wrap the rope around her bent leg, binding her calf to her thigh. He looped the rope around and around, and she concentrated on the lovely slip and slide of the rope, on the way he used his hands, touching her now and then as he tested the tightness of the ropes, as he smoothed them against her skin. He tied his knots, then moved to the other side of the table and did the same thing, then slid his hand under her to pull a new length of rope under her body, over her stomach, then again, and again before he knotted it. He used one more piece of rope to anchor her leg ties to the rope around her waist, holding her legs in place. And as he worked she felt a sense of utterly vulnerable openness in this position, with her knees pulled up high, exposing her. Yet at the same time she felt safe in the ropes, in his ropes. Cradled. Cared for.

*   *   *

MICK TOOK A moment to step back and simply look at her. She was pure sex to him. She always had been, but right now, bound in his ropes, with her sleek little pussy peeking out from between her thighs . . . hell, if he’d had any less self-control he’d be coming in his jeans right now.

He ground his jaw tight.

Keep it together.

He could do it. He always had.

Except for that night all those years ago when he’d taken her. When he’d done things to her that should only ever be done after negotiations. But he hadn’t known about all that back then—the kink community. The rules that kept everyone safe.

Stop kicking yourself.

And she was waiting for him. And Lord knew he couldn’t stand to wait one more second for her.

He pressed against his raging hard-on and cleared his throat. His own needs would have to wait. It was his responsibility to do what she needed, damn it.

He smoothed a hand over her calf, stroking slowly over the ropes all the way down to her painted toes, enjoying the length of her gorgeous leg, the graceful arch of her foot, the beauty of her bound like this. He stroked up, swept his hand down to her inner thigh, felt the muscle there clench. His groin tightened in answer.

Better to use the toys. Keep a little distance without losing the necessary connection in rope play.

He drew the evil stick from his pocket and flicked it against the back of one thigh, smiling when she moaned. He did it again, harder this time, watched the pink welt come up on her skin.

“Hurts more in some places than others, doesn’t it? Marks more easily, too. But I love that as much as you do. I love to see the pink come up on your skin, to feel the rise of the welts. They’ll last a week if I do it hard enough. Like this.”

He snapped the evil stick hard against the outside of her thigh, and she pulled in a gasping breath. She could take a lot without yelling, screaming, crying out. He admired that about her. But he couldn’t help but take it as a personal challenge, too.

He snapped the wicked little toy against her skin again, crossing over the last welt, but she held her tongue. Oh, she was going to be a hard case. But he could break her down.

He flicked the stick on her inner thigh this time, knowing how much more sensitive an area it was, and she flinched. He did it again and again, hard and fast, listening to her breath catch, watching the way she struggled in her bonds, her back arching, her stomach muscles clenching. He knew she was lost in sensation, and he loved seeing her like this. Lost. Flying. His.

He kept at it, moving to the other thigh, then back again, striking her welted skin, watching the marks grow red and angry. She was panting hard, but still she held her tongue. He chose one area of untouched skin and snapped the stick over and over in the same spot, letting the pain build. Finally she cried out, and he stopped.

“Oh, that was good, baby girl. You can really take it. I’m so proud of you. And pleased that you kept silent for me. I want you to know I understand that—that proud struggle.”

He stroked her cheek, held her chin and looked into her beautiful brown eyes. They were sheened with tears, and something in his chest went tight.

He bent over her, and she blinked up at him. She was watching him closely, need written all over her face, but for what he wasn’t certain. To come again, he knew. But there was more there . . .

He leaned in closer, studied the lush curve of her lips, the fineness of her skin, her long, dark lashes. Her mouth . . .

He swallowed a groan as he bent closer, close enough to breathe in her scent—all sweet woman, innocent somehow, even now. Her lips were the prettiest shade of pink he’d ever seen, almost the same shade as her tempting nipples. His chest tightened. His cock swelled. He knew if he kissed her now he’d be as lost as she was in the throes of pain and pleasure.

He leaned in until his mouth was almost on hers. Moved closer, until his lips just touched hers.

His cock jumped, tight with wanting.

He pulled back an inch. Christ, her lips were velvet-soft. Made him crazy to think about kissing her. Really kissing her, making out with her the way they used to.

Making out leaning against a streetlamp, her breath and his, panting together while he crushed her in his arms. Her soft body felt almost fragile to him, and yet he had to hold her tighter, to run his hands up under her shirt and dig his fingers into the flesh at her sides. And all she’d ever done was sigh and press into him, kiss him harder.

Christ, he hadn’t understood! Even then, she’d wanted it. Wanted to feel that sense of possession. Even the pain, maybe. But it was the possession that had always counted most. He’d kissed her as if he owned her.

He could kiss her like that now, and she wouldn’t resist. Would welcome it.

No.

He pulled back a few inches.

She bit her lip, watching him, the need clear on her lovely face. So damn lovely . . . Lips like fucking velvet.

God fucking damn it.

Have to . . .

He dove in, grasping her face between his hands, crushing his mouth to hers. She made a keening sound low in her throat. It only made him kiss her harder. Made him open her lips with his tongue and search for hers. And Lord, it was sweet, her tongue. Making him crazy as he kissed her, drove his fingers into her silky hair. Heat and softness. Desire and her. Allie. His Allie, Goddamn it.

She was kissing him back exactly as he’d known she would, and he breathed her in—he couldn’t get enough. He pressed harder with hands and mouth, using his strength to still her, to force her to just take it, rendering her helpless. Yes, that’s what he needed—to feel her surrender to him completely. To give herself up to him. Because if he wasn’t totally in control of things . . .

Oh, Lord, this was way fucking out of control.

He let her go and pulled away.

She moaned softly.

“Mick . . . ?”

He shook his head, ran a hand over his jaw.

Christ, to feel her lips after all these years. His cock was throbbing, hurting. And his heart was hammering in his chest, thundering like a freight train.

Control.

“Shh, Allie.”

“Did I . . . ?”

“It’s okay, baby,” he said.

Was it? He’d have to figure it out later, when she wasn’t naked and bound and giving every inch of herself to him.

“It’s okay,” he said again, maybe more to himself than to her this time.

He took a step back. She watched him do it. It hurt him to see the look on her face. She looked . . . bereft. He felt exactly the same way. But he could satisfy the needs of her body, at least.

He pulled in a deep breath, made an effort to get his body under control.

“Shh,” he soothed as he stroked a hand down her leg once more, slid it over her thigh, smoothed his palm across the raised welts, did it again, pausing to scratch lightly with his nails. It did what he’d intended: shifted her focus. And his.

He looked down at her damp slit, at the swollen tip of her clitoris peeking out at the top of the pink folds. So damn pretty.

He brushed the tender lips with his fingertips, felt her shiver. He teased at the lips with his fingers, stroking, tickling, then prying them apart. He forced the burning physical need for her to sharpen his focus rather than fracturing it, his years of practice lending him strength of will and the absolute control he’d long required of himself. He paused, held his hand still, her sex spread open and waiting. He glanced up at her face, found her eyes tightly closed.

Using his middle finger, he pressed against her opening. She sighed.

“Is this what you need, baby? For me to make you come like this? I know what you’d like even better. For me to use my mouth on you. You used to come so hard when I went down on you. Do you remember? I want you to remember now.”

Her body convulsed, a slow, liquid movement that told him everything he needed to know. She was right there with him. His cock was pulsing but he ignored it, concentrated on the beautiful woman under his hands.

He slid his free hand under the ropes on her thigh and pulled her legs up higher, opening her pussy even more. She was soaking wet, the pink flesh glistening. Lord, to be inside her . . .

But no. That wasn’t part of the agreement.

He would make her come again, though. He would make her come so damn hard she’d never forget it.

Neither would he.

He let her go and moved up to the head of the table, quickly loosened the ropes so that her arms had more mobility. Then, moving around to the end of the table, he grabbed the ropes on her thighs with both hands and slid her body down to the edge. He pushed her legs up once more, held them there with one hand while with the other he parted her pussy lips, hot and slick under his fingers. When he leaned in, he felt the heat of her against his face. He bent closer and breathed in the rich ocean scent of her desire. And as he moved in to flick his tongue at the tight nub of her clit, his cock hammered with need.

He let himself feel the fire there, let his own desire guide him as he licked her, used his fingers to spread her open and pushed his tongue into her waiting hole. She was making a small mewling noise, but he didn’t care—he didn’t need her to be quiet any longer. He only needed her to need this. To come hard for him. He needed to control her pleasure. To control his own through controlling hers.

Christ, he was out of his head.

But she tasted so damn good, like salt and honey on his tongue. He sucked her clit into his mouth, rasping his tongue back and forth across the tip as he pushed his fingers inside her, loving the clenching, wet velvet of her.

He sucked harder, curved his fingers until he found her G-spot, pressing and rubbing.

Her whole body was quivering, her hips arching against his mouth. He sucked harder, flicked his tongue faster, burying his face in her, his fingers sinking into her over and over. He added another finger, then another, filling her up.

He swore he smelled her come before her pussy began to clench with her orgasm. Then she was growling, panting, yelling his name, her back arching off the table. Her hot pussy spasmed around his fingers. He kept licking, sucking, and before her first climax was over it started again. She screamed his name this time.

“Mick! Oh, Godddddd!”

He didn’t stop until he was certain she’d stopped coming. He gave her a few last slow, sensual licks, loving how incredibly wet she was, loving the taste of her pleasure. Finally he pulled back and wiped his mouth on her bound calf, kissed her there, nipped at her flesh, kissed her again.

“Beautiful, baby girl. That was perfect,” he murmured.

He stroked her legs again, down to her toes, checked the color of her skin for circulation before moving up to her face. He held her chin in his hand.

“Look at me, Allie.”

She opened her eyes. They were gleaming, her pupils wide and dark. She was flying—on her orgasm, on the pain play. Maybe on some of the emotional roller coaster he was on. But she seemed okay. Maybe doing better than he was.

He leaned in and brushed a quick kiss across her lips—he didn’t dare allow himself more.

“I’m taking you down now,” he told her.

She was quiet as he untied her, pulled the ropes off her body, watched the small shivers running through her as he let them slide across her skin. They fell on the floor, and he helped her to stretch first one leg, then the other, before untying the ropes holding her wrists. He stood at the top of the table and massaged her hands while she lay quietly, her breathing steady. He looked at her lithe body, her muscles loose, her eyes closed, her gorgeous hair all around her. So damn beautiful. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. No one had ever come close. No one ever would.

His.

His heart knocked against his ribs.

Have to get her into my arms.

He moved around the table and picked her up, and her arms went around his neck. He carried her to the love seat and sat with her in his lap, pulled the soft, gray blanket he always kept in his toy bag around her. She laid her head against his shoulder. She felt so damn good in his arms. Too good.

He didn’t want to feel like this. It was dangerous. He’d been young and shallow when he’d walked away from her before. Now he was old enough to know what he’d be losing when he let her go.

And he would have to let her go again. No matter how much he felt she should belong to him. Because . . .

Because of what? Because of the stupid things he’d done when he was younger? Even though she’d come to him, sought him out, sought this out?

“Mick? Can I . . . can we talk now?”

“What? Yeah, baby. We’re out of scene. We’ll do whatever you need to do. This is what aftercare is for.”

“I need you to talk to me.”

“Do you need to hear that I’m pleased with you? Because I am.” He stroked her hair. “You took it all well.”

“I’m glad. But I just need to . . . talk. Like we used to.”

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

“How about you tell me what the tattoo on your forearm means?”

“Non Timebo Mala—it’s Latin for ‘I will fear no evil.’”

“Ah. So . . . what does that mean to you?”

“I’d rather we shelve that discussion for another day. It’s complicated.”

“Okay. Then tell me about your work.”

He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. They were glassy as hell, and he knew she was still subspaced pretty heavily.

“I’m sure Marie Dawn has told you plenty. Is this really what you want to hear about right now?”

“Yes. And she has told me some. But I want you to tell me.”

He knew sometimes it helped a bottom to come down by idly chatting. Why did this feel like something more? But he would do it, anyway.

“I’m sure you already know I have my own business. I do private security for fairly large venue events—concerts, boxing, that kind of thing. The company has grown a lot in the last few years. I have a staff of maybe thirty, including three in the office, although mostly I work from home when I’m in town. I’m trying to talk my friend Finn in Atlanta into coming to work with me here, to handle Internet and firewall security for my clients so I don’t have to contract that out. And he could do some of the on-site work, too, so I don’t have to travel so much. Currently, I travel a lot. I go to meet promoters, the venue managers, to check out a space if there are special circumstances I don’t want to leave up to my security heads. Not that I don’t trust them. But I might have a few control issues.”

“No kidding.” She laughed a little, turning her face into his chest. He loved seeing her like this—relaxed with him. It felt easy. Familiar. “You have the perfect job for a Dom,” she said.

He smiled. “Yeah. Maybe. What about you? I heard you were studying all over Europe. That must have been incredible.”

“It was. It was also hard. The pastry chefs I studied with were like drill sergeants. It was almost impossible to do anything right in their eyes. But when you did . . . well, you knew you’d really done it perfectly, and that makes it all worth it.”

“Sounds like you’re in the perfect profession for a submissive.”

“Maybe. But I really want to do my own thing now. I’m ready.”

“What do you want to do?”

She was quiet for several long moments while she played with a button on his shirt.

“Mick.”

“Yeah, baby?”

“All I want right now is to be here like this. With you. Is that okay?”

“Sure. We can stay here as long as you need to.”

“No. That’s not what I meant. I meant can we . . .” She stopped and he felt her breath hitch.

“Can we what?” he asked.

He thought he knew the answer. “Allie, if you’re suggesting what I think you are . . .” he started. “I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know. Do we even dare try again? Everything went so wrong before, and it was my own damn fault. This—the kink—I can handle. But even this is starting to spiral out of control. This conversation wouldn’t even be taking place if we weren’t playing together.”

“No, of course not.”

She looked crushed. He hated himself a little. But he owed it to her to be honest with her.

Damn it.

He never should have kissed her. One kiss, and it could be the beginning of his undoing.