Her Only Desire (4 page)

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Muffled sounds came from the receiver, followed by a female voice. “This Miss Floret?”

Tilly sniffed, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Yes, Ms. Parham.”

“Sorry, he was a little agitated today. Insisted on callin’ again.”

“I don’t mind if he calls. I don’t get to Thibodaux often enough to see him.”

“Sorry about this. He thinks you and your mama are comin’ for him. Now that he’s talked with you, he should be good for a while.”

“I really don’t mind,” she said again, her stomach knotting.

The group home supervisor stayed on the line for another minute. Tilly must have made appropriate responses, but she was surprised when she heard the click as the call disconnected.

“Oh hell,” she whispered. There had to be another way. Something that wouldn’t entail her selling her soul to the devil in order to afford to bring Denny home. Or at least to Bayou Vert, since the town was familiar and Denny didn’t do well with change.

Tilly glanced again at the photo—of Celeste dressed in her pretty blue prom dress, her face radiant, and her arm around Tilly’s shoulder, her hand cupping her shoulder. The bracelet glinted in the flash of the camera.

This was how she remembered her cousin. In that one shining, happy moment. She’d overheard mutterings from her aunt when she’d been drinking, about the horrible state of Celeste’s body. Her aunt had seen it because she’d pushed through the line of officers who’d ringed the little shoddy cabin where Celeste had died.

Bathed in blood. Nude. Knife slashes and deep gouges had ripped her face and belly. Tilly was fiercely glad she had this last memory of her cousin, looking beautiful and entitled. So beautiful there’d never been any doubt who’d be crowned prom queen.

She’d worshiped her cousin, but from afar, since Celeste’s world was all filled up with people much more exciting than a gangly little girl. They’d never been close and never spent much time together, other than the few times Celeste had tolerated her presence when family gathered.

Tilly had mourned her passing, but only because that was what family did. She felt guilty over the fact she didn’t care more. Or maybe her empathy had been driven from her when she’d suffered living with her uncle and aunt very briefly after her mother’s death. The looks her aunt had given her were filled with bitterness. She was alive. Her precious daughter wasn’t.

Turning abruptly away, Tilly walked to the Naugahyde armchair and settled in, drawing her knees close to her chest. Suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around them and hugged herself. A shiver shook her frame. The past was the past, and she needed to make sure it stayed buried.

Everything was so complicated. Getting more so every day. If she went to work for Boone, she’d still have to wait to bring Denny back. He needed constant supervision, and Bayou Vert didn’t have an adult day-care facility. The longing in his voice as he’d asked when he could come home tugged at her heart. Made her feel guilty because she hadn’t worked out his return yet. He’d been there nearly a year. A part of her had hoped he’d adjust well and that maybe she could return to Houston and her old life. Of course, the gap in her résumé would mean she’d have to take a less prestigious position than the one she’d left when her mother fell ill.

Guilt burned in her stomach like acid. Denny wasn’t an inconvenience. He was her brother. Although he was seven years older, she’d been looking after Denny since she was a child. She hadn’t minded that other kids looked at her funny when she’d led him around by the hand. When he’d been teased, she’d fought his battles. Nursed his scrapes. Read him stories when he couldn’t sleep. He’d been her cuddly, fuzzy bear. She’d been his princess.

When she thought about the fact that she’d grown up and he hadn’t, her chest hurt. But over time, she’d learned to cope with the disappointment, believing something innocent and beautiful was preserved forever inside him—until she’d found his treasure box.

Try as she might, she couldn’t look at him and not think about the significance of the pretty gold bracelet she’d found nestled there. Maybe there was an explanation, one that didn’t lead to a horrible conclusion. Still, she’d never asked him how he’d come by the bracelet. She didn’t want to know. Because if she knew for certain, she might have to tell someone else, and her promise to her mother to protect him always would be broken.

Feeling as though a noose was slowly tightening around her neck, she could no longer avoid the truth. She had only one choice. With tears slipping down her cheeks, she acknowledged she’d have to accept Boone Benoit’s offer. She’d have to enter his world and hope that once he’d won this little battle of manipulation, he’d turn his attention to someone else.

Wealthy and handsome, he no doubt had women falling from the sky to be with him. His flirting today had to have been because, as far as she could tell, she’d been the only woman on the estate. And perhaps because he was willing to use whatever talent he possessed to get what he wanted.

But
why her
? Did he know she was Celeste’s cousin? Did he get some sick thrill from knowing he held her fate in his hands? She hoped that wasn’t the reason. Because if it was, she shouldn’t be feeling the way she did—trapped, but deep down thrilled by the fact. One look into his eyes, and she’d drowned in the sensual promise she saw there. He’d only had to pat his knee, and she’d followed his silent command.

What on earth would she do if he wanted more?

Boone rattled the ice in his glass, and then set it on the bar.

“Another, Mr. Benoit?”

At the bartender’s question, Boone shook his head. If he accepted another, he wouldn’t be permitted past the secret door at the back of The Platform’s busy lounge. He’d downed a single scotch on the rocks—just enough alcohol to soften the rough edges the day had left. Any more than that and he’d be banned from playing. The club’s strict code of conduct was the reason he’d joined in the first place. Boone didn’t like messy.

He straightened his tie and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Port of New Orleans, barely registering the tinkling of piano keys and the soft croon of a blues singer everyone else in the crowded upscale lounge ignored. Beneath him, barges with blinking lights slid into the dock while dockhands worked around the clock to unload their cargo. Moonlight glinted on the crests of the large boats’ wakes.

The Platform had been built in the sixties to accommodate the exclusive tastes of oil executives and transportation scions. As a businessman who served the security needs of both those industries, he’d earned an invitation several years ago.

“Your room’s ready,” Serge said as he stepped close to Boone’s elbow.

Without shifting his gaze from the window, Boone asked, “Did you find something special for me?”

“She’s new. Blonde. Says she likes a little pain.” Serge grunted. “Nothing heavy, but enjoys a flogging and some pinching.”

Boone’s lips curved in a smile he didn’t really feel. Still, his cock stirred and filled. The image of another young blonde’s wide blue eyes sent his libido into a pleasant state of arousal. He drew in a sharp breath and met Serge’s dark gaze. “What’s her name?”

“Mandy,” he drawled, then smirked.

Likely a pseudonym. Many prospective subs assumed girl-next-door names to imply an innocence they didn’t possess. Then again, few of the wealthy clientele who played here ever gave their true names either. Since he didn’t have any political aspirations, or a family who might be shamed if his proclivities ever came to light, he never bothered to build a fictional persona. “Would you like to join me?”

“Seeing as how I don’t have any other plans…” Serge shrugged, his lips twitching.

The two men strode through the main salon, past the bar to the guarded door hidden behind it. After a nod, a heavily built guard buzzed the door to allow them through.

Inside was another lounge, similarly decorated, with plush seating areas and a juice bar. While the two lounges shared physical similarities, here the atmosphere was heavier, scented with sex and sweat. His heartbeat kicked up a notch, an automatic response whenever he entered a club designed to cater to his particular needs. His body moved more fluidly through the room, and his glance noted the platforms sitting in the four corners of the large room and the players performing scenes for those gathered around the stages.

Muted techno played in the background, the bass a deep throbbing beat that pulled at his groin. Lights dimmed around pockets of plush seating, an invitation to leave behind any inhibitions and make use of the chaises, chairs, and sofas.

Boone’s gaze flicked over a threesome—a naked redhead seated in the center of a red velvet sofa, sandwiched between two businessmen whose shirts and pants lay open. The woman’s hands pumped on both their cocks as she kissed one then the other, her legs splayed to allow one to fondle her bare pussy while the other massaged her plump breasts. His mouth twisted in a snarling smile when the woman glanced at him, licking her lips.

Boone skirted a platform where a blindfolded woman, whose manacled wrists were attached to chains extending from the ceiling, bent over a padded sawhorse. Her bottom was plugged, and the Dom standing behind flicked her with the end of a short whip. One of her thighs gleamed with the fluid dripping from her swollen cunt as her reedy voice warbled with delight. He slowed, studying the careful strokes the Dom delivered, approval curving his mouth.

He veered toward the hallway and the long line of private rooms. At one door, he stopped, punched in the key code, waited for the lock to gleam green, and then pushed open the door.

When he stepped inside, he scanned the room. All was in order. The walls were painted a soothing sage. All the furnishings were dark teak; upholstery was black leather. Recessed lighting added an air of intimacy. The glassed-in shower had a stack of clean towels waiting on the bench beside it. The platform bed against one wall was covered in a fresh Egyptian cotton sheet. Cabinets that held his implements gleamed from a fresh application of polish.

The woman kneeling on the pad in the center of the room was nude, hands on her thighs, her head bent, gaze cast dutifully toward the floor.

Serge had done well. Boone scanned her with a practiced eye. She was cute, not too slender, with large, pink-tipped breasts. Her skin was creamy pale—not a tan line in sight—and her hair a silky blonde. Her triangular-shaped face gave her a kittenish look. His gaze halted on her hands—short, bare nails. Nice. He hated polish on fingernails.

Boone drew in a breath and began to disrobe, hanging his jacket and his shirt on a coat tree next to the cabinets. Behind him, he heard the sounds of Serge washing his hands in the sink set in a bureau, and then sliding open drawers.

Boone toed off his shoes, slipped off his socks, and then padded barefoot toward the woman. He bent and tucked a finger under her chin to lift her face.

She tilted her head, her blue eyes blinking.

He studied her. Midtwenties. Dark brows. Not a natural blonde, but her hair hung just past her shoulders, and the length pleased him. Her expression, however, did not.

Her eyes glittered with excitement; her lush, painted-red mouth pouted.

He had no doubts she’d try to top him at least once during their session. He didn’t have the patience to deal with any brattiness tonight. Any attempt by the woman to direct the outcome of their session was doomed for failure. “Serge tells me you like nominal pain. Flogging, pinching. Any prohibitions?”

“I told him no vaginal intercourse,” she said huskily, then bit her bottom lip as her gaze swept his frame. “Although I could make an exception.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His mouth curved, and he dropped his hand. “Get up now.”

“Yes, sir.” She moaned a little as she pushed up from the ground.

He wondered how long she’d been waiting like that and whether her muscles were prickling as blood circulated back into her long legs. Glancing at Serge, he tipped his chin toward the chains dangling from the ceiling. She wouldn’t have to kneel again any time soon.

Serge had stripped as well, retaining only his trousers. He stepped toward the woman and led her, a hand politely cupping her elbow, toward the chains. With his expression neutral, he lifted her slender wrists one at a time and secured them in leather-padded cuffs. Then he walked to the wall and turned the wheel that drew up the chains. He didn’t stop until Mandy stood on tiptoe, her arms stretched toward the ceiling.

Boone admired the arch of her back, the thrust of her round buttocks, and the curve of her large, uptilted breasts. He strode toward her, cupped one fleshy cheek, pleased with the firmness of her bottom. “A spreader bar between her knees, I think.”

“Yes, boss,” Serge said, his voice quiet and tight.

His friend’s tension was unusual, almost disapproving. He seemed to like the girl, and that surprised Boone. Serge had always thought of women as mere conveniences and nothing more. And because Boone wasn’t all that interested in Mandy, he decided Serge would take a more active role than usual.

Boone circled her, studying her body—her toned legs, her tight abdomen, her freshly waxed pussy.

Serge walked behind her, nudged her feet farther apart with his toes, and then bent to attach a spreader bar, wrapping leather bands around her knees that closed with the crisp crunch of Velcro. His hands lingered on her knees, and then slid up her inner thighs.

The woman’s breath hitched. The position couldn’t have been comfortable, because she hung now by her wrists, her body contorting to stretch higher on her toes to relieve the pull.

But Boone didn’t want her comfortable. He wanted to see whether she’d complain.

He touched her between her legs and found her dry, her lips cool, showing no sign of arousal. But that was changing.

Mandy’s breasts quivered with her quickening breaths. Her nipples beaded prettily.

He flicked one with his thumbnail.

Without a word, Serge stepped beside him and offered him a set of feathered clamps.

Ignoring her widening glance, Boone teased her nipples with brushes of the feathers, waiting patiently as her breasts tightened and her nipples extended. Then he pressed open one clamp and attached it to a red tip, using the screw on the side of the clamp to tighten it. He attached the second clamp and tightened it too.

“How’s that feel? Is it too much?” he asked softly, glancing at her face to gauge her expression.

Her mouth opened, jaw sagging just a bit with pleasure, but she shook her head. “Tighten it a little more.”

Disgusted at her lack of manners, Boone dropped his hands and walked away, listening for her reaction, knowing she wouldn’t be able to control her temper.

Sure enough, her breath huffed out. Her feet shifted. A thin, gritted groan sounded.

With slow strides, he walked to an armchair and settled in, facing her, his expression perfectly blank.

Her eyes shot daggers at him. Her bottom lip stuck out like a stoop.

Behind her, Serge lifted a brow.

With a slight lift of his chin, Boone gave the signal.

Serge raised his arm and swung a bare wooden paddle at her backside. The oak paddle with its drilled holes made a satisfying whack.

Mandy gasped at the stroke and tried to turn her head toward Serge, but her arms were extended too high for her to do anything but dangle as he landed more slaps on her backside.

Boone suppressed a smile as her eyes grew wider and wider, the pout wiped off her face as swats from the paddle warmed her bottom. As Serge continued, she twisted her body slightly to the right and left now, trying to avoid his steady strokes.

Boone didn’t doubt her distress, but since she didn’t ask for Serge to stop, he allowed his friend to continue dishing swats, watching Mandy with growing approval as her body shivered and soft hiccuping sobs sounded, while at the same time, her breasts hardened, and her pussy pulsed with the tensing of her thighs. Mandy was thoroughly aroused.

Serge paused and patted her bottom with his palm. “Skin’s nice and red.” He slipped his hand lower and cupped her pussy from behind. “Not dry anymore either.”

“Huh?” Mandy twisted, her toes balancing comically beneath her spread knees. “Bastard!”

Boone watched his friend dip a finger inside her cunt and swirl it. “But not nearly ready for you, sir.”

Serge glanced toward Boone, who gave him a nod to continue.

Her pussy made a wet clasping sound as it clenched around Serge’s fingers, and he plunged them deeper. Her body sagged. Her next indrawn breath was edged with a cry and her pussy clenched moistly again and again.

Boone cleared his throat.

Serge withdrew his fingers and gave her hip an approving pat.

“Release her,” Boone said, keeping his voice uninflected.

While Serge lowered her hands and unwrapped the cuffs from her wrists, Boone opened his pants, pushed them down just far enough to free his cock, and waited, keeping his breaths even and his cock
uninterested
. His concern was for whether she’d give him what he wanted most right now: complete, utter submission.

Freed, Mandy swayed on her feet for a moment, rubbing her wrists, her gaze falling to Boone’s soft shaft. Her cheeks reddened, nostrils flaring with desire, as she slid her tongue across her lower lip. She didn’t lift her gaze to lock with his, something he was glad of because if she did, no doubt her pride would demand she preen just a bit.

Boone placed both hands on the chair arms. “Come to me on your knees,” he said softly.

Mandy glanced back at Serge.

At the narrowing of his friend’s eyes, Boone’s belly tightened. Had she given him a smug smile?

Her expression didn’t give away her true mood as she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled slowly toward Boone. For now, she behaved.

Serge’s gaze dropped to her bottom and pussy. His eyelids dipped and a smile played on his mouth. He was likely enjoying the results of his efforts. The sight of a reddened bottom and lush, wet pussy were their own rewards.

Mandy’s breasts swayed beneath her, her head dipped, more lioness than kitten, because her eyes were narrowing as she drew closer. When she reached Boone, she bent lower to rest her head on his bare foot.

Boone held his breath, waiting. A test he was sure she’d fail.

When he didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence, her tongue licked the top of his foot tentatively. When he still failed to respond, she drew his big toe into her mouth.

What the hell? Boone’s eyebrows shot up.

Serge grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

“Give me a plug,” Boone mouthed, as he frowned down at the girl who was doing everything she could to tempt him into letting her have her way with him. Each pull on his toe caused an answering throb in his dick. He nearly laughed at his predicament, but because he meant to retain control of this session, he tamped down his sudden pleasure, concentrating instead on his growing irritation.

He sighed. He’d wanted her to suck his cock, but her blatant teasing called for more punishment. No wonder she’d been available for play, unclaimed. Mandy didn’t understand the nuances of the game they played. Didn’t have a true sub’s heart.

Serge padded close, a tube and a thick black plug in his hands.

“Take her to the bench,” Boone said, his tone sharp.

Her head bobbed up, a hint of anger in her eyes. The pout returned to her lips.

When she stood and walked woodenly to the spanking bench, Boone stripped off his pants. His nudity would make her think he was more interested than he actually was, and he liked the feel of the air-conditioned air wafting over his steamy sex. His interest in her needs and pleasure was quickly fading.