She was tied. She was spread. She was his. He went to his knees before her, oblivious to the hardness of the floor. It wasn’t any harder than his cock, and it kept his senses keen. He smelled her perspiration born of desire and need, the sweetness of her juice. Then he tasted her. God, he could never get enough of her. She was so clean, soft, pink, gorgeous. She made him
feel
the sex between them. With her, it wasn’t a physical act, it was an experience. When he told himself he needed more from her, he hadn’t realized how much he already had if he only knew how to use it. She was a woman with a wealth of sensations and emotions, and there was so much more to discover with her.
She gushed against his mouth as he licked her, sucked her, took the swell of her clit between his lips and worried it until she was crying and trembling above him, her legs shaking.
Putting his hands to her thighs, he held her wide and took her with long sweeps of his tongue.
She panted and moaned. “Please, please, please,” she chanted.
She was close. He backed off. “Don’t you do it, slut. Don’t you come. Your punishment will be worse if you disobey.”
She was born to disobey and be punished for it, and as he took her once more with his mouth, he pushed two fingers inside to stroke her G-spot. Her cries filled the room that was suddenly no longer cold, but hot, hot, hot. She quaked, her thigh muscles bunching, tensing, and her body swayed against the scarves binding her to the ceiling hook. The climax was magnificent, a flood of sweetness. Her cream covered his lips, filled his mouth, and he held on, licking her, drinking her.
When he finally rose to his feet, her cheeks were wet with tears that had leaked from beneath the blindfold. The moisture sparkled like diamonds in the dim light from the hall.
“Bitch,” he whispered, pretending it was a sweet nothing. “Whore.”
Her chest heaved with need. “I’m so sorry, Master, I didn’t mean to come.”
“Shut. Up.” Two words, two sentences. “I don’t want to hear any more out of you, you disobedient little slut.” Then he grabbed one of the smaller scarves he’d left on the table and wound it around her face, filling her mouth as he tied it off in back. “Not one more word. Not a moan. Not a plea. I’m going to fuck you, and you will remain silent and take it, you dirty little whore bitch.” He pulled her head back by her hair, bared her throat, her skin fragrant, delicious. He bit her. She made a noise, though her lips closed around it. “Now you can’t deny you wanted Frank to fuck you.”
She shook her head at him. Hand fisted in her hair, he held her still. “Liar,” he whispered. “You wanted him down between your legs like the slut you are. You’re so bad. You need so much punishment. I’ve been lax with you.”
Her breath puffed. She was slick with need, her skin, her pussy.
“I’m going to fuck you like a whore, restrained, blindfolded, and gagged.” He wasn’t sure the moment he’d started
needing
this, too, getting off completely on it. When had it stopped being about her? He was changing, too. Yet again, he ignored the warning voice in his head. This was what they both wanted, stepping fully into the bondage and humiliation game.
“I will have you,” he growled. The omnipresent condom in his pocket, he was ready, donning it with expert fingers. Then he lifted her, wrapped her legs around his waist. She wasn’t anchored, and her body swayed as if she were on a swing. He backed her up against the wall.
He couldn’t kiss her through the gag. She couldn’t see him through the blindfold. He could only fuck her. It was almost impersonal. Until he thrust deep inside her, and
everything
became so fucking personal, it stole his breath. Her body gloved him, sucked him in. She tightened her legs at his waist. The fit was snug, delicious, her inner muscles working him. She dragged him closer to the edge despite the fact that he hadn’t moved in her yet. Lost in the feel of her, he had to stop a moment to remember to breathe.
“Bitch,” he whispered, and slammed home once more, shoving her into the wall. A small part of his mind thought of the bruises she’d have on her spine, but he pounded into her again and again. So much emotion, he didn’t know what was real, what was faked for her sake, the anger, the need, the rush of desire.
I want you, I need you, I have to have you. You’re mine.
Words over and over in his mind until there was nothing but them and her body around him, milking him with her climax, and the sharp rise of his own orgasm crashing over him.
BREE CLUNG TO HIM, TOOK HIM DEEPER, LET HIM FILL HER, NEED her, want her. She soared. It wasn’t climax, it was something more, something so much better. She didn’t feel the unforgiving wall, the ache in her spine, the tightening of the scarves around her wrists, or the dryness of the cloth in her mouth. In the darkness behind the blindfold, there was only the feel of his body and the words he kept saying.
I want you, I need you, I have to have you. You’re mine.
She’d driven him to the admission; he couldn’t help himself.
This
was what she’d always needed from a man, to know
she
was the special one, the precious one, the
only
one.
Now he leaned heavily against her, squishing her between the wall and his body. Deprived of sight, there was only sensation, his raspy breath shooting against her throat, his shirt clammy with perspiration that was already cooling in the dark, the roughness of his clothing against her inner thighs as she clung to him, the beat of his heart against her chest, the thrum of her own blood through her veins.
“Christ,” he muttered into her hair. The guttural, needy quality of his voice made her tremble all over again. “You drive me to it. It’s your fault. You force me to punish you.”
He gave her the words she craved. She’d never wanted to analyze why she needed them, why they made everything all right. She wanted only to wrap her arms around him, feel his skin, taste his lips, whisper to him, feast her eyes on him. All she could do was let him hold her.
Until finally he puffed out a rough breath. “Shit. Didn’t mean to leave you hanging.” He laughed at the joke, but his speech was slow, drowsy, as if he were still lingering in some orgasmic never-never land. Pushing away from the wall, he disentangled, until there was no contact at all, and she stood awkwardly with her arms over her head and her heels wobbling on the floor. There was only his scent left marking her body.
He fumbled with the scarves at her wrists, then the knot above her head that held her bound to the ceiling hook.
“Dammit, they’ve tightened. I’ll have to cut them off. I’ll get a knife from the kitchen.”
His footsteps receded. The room was suddenly cold, her heartbeat loud in her ears. He’d taken off neither the gag nor the blindfold, and the darkness was suddenly disorienting. She felt naked and exposed, her nipples stiffening uncomfortably in the cool air. Her wrists throbbed where the knots had constricted and were starting to cut off her circulation. Her knees felt as if they’d buckle without the scarves holding her up. God, she wasn’t going to accidentally pull the hook out of the ceiling?
Then his hands were on her again, sliding up her arms, slicing through the scarves tethering her to the hook. She was suddenly free, though her wrists were still bound together, but as he went for the blindfold, the darkness dizzied her, her knees weakened, and she stumbled. She went down too fast for him to catch her, and without sight or the full use of her arms she couldn’t break the fall. She couldn’t see it coming when her forehead whacked into something hard.
Stars, pain shooting across her scalp, inside her skull, then she was flat on her ass on the floor.
“Fuck,” he spat out. “Jesus Christ.” Luke yanked off the blindfold, tugged off the scarf he’d used to gag her, then sliced through the ones securing her wrists. “You okay, baby? What the hell was I thinking?” He put his lovely cool fingers to her forehead, through her hair, then looked at his hand. “Thank God you’re not bleeding.”
Picking her up, he cradled her in his arms as he carried her out of the dining room and down the hall. Her shirt was still a tight band above her breasts, her nipples bared, her pussy exposed. The feeling returned to her hands and fingers in painful pins and needles. Her mouth was dry.
It had been beautiful and perfect while he was doing it. She hadn’t noticed the aches and pains. Or rather she’d reveled in them. But now, not so much.
In the bathroom, he flipped on the light, and she closed her eyes against its onslaught. After setting her on the toilet lid, he pulled her shirt down, covering her breasts with a careful, gentle touch. Then he was opening and closing doors and drawers. She slitted her eyes and held a hand up in front of them to block the light until her pupils adjusted. Hunkering down before her, Luke upended a bottle of hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball, then dabbed at her forehead.
“Ow.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” His eyes were dark, stricken. “The edge of the sideboard didn’t cut you open enough to bleed, but there’s an ugly gash that needs to be cleaned.” He dabbed the wound. She tried not to whimper, but it stung like a son of a bitch. “I should have been more careful,” he murmured, his voice raspy with guilt. “I should have realized your legs would be weak.”
“It’s not your fault.”
He didn’t look at her. “You need to go to the hospital and get examined to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
She snorted. “I don’t have a concussion. And I’m not going to the emergency room. That’s ridiculous.” The wound throbbed slightly, but she didn’t have a headache. “It was a bump, no big deal.”
He gently smoothed her hair back, dabbed again at the gash as if that would change everything. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Derek had hurt her far worse, and he’d meant to do it. Other men had as well. They never said they were sorry.
You drive me to it. It’s all your fault. You force me to punish you.
Luke had said that, too, and she liked it. Yet those other men had said it when they did bad things to her, when they hurt her on purpose. Things she accepted because she had to. Because she deserved them.
I don’t know what that means,
she wanted to say.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
There was a terrifying pathology to it all. Why did she have to have sex the way she did? Why was it okay to come only if she was being punished?
She didn’t want to think about it,
couldn’t
let herself think about it. If she did . . .
Everything
would come tumbling down around her.
“I need to go,” she said, pushing at him. She didn’t want to think about that stuff, not here, not now. Not with him. Awful, terrible things might spill out and drive him away.
“I’m sorry.”
Quit apologizing.
Bree wanted to shout at him. But then he’d think something was wrong, and he’d nag at her until he forced her to say something she’d regret. Keeping her voice calm and steady was a strain. “It wasn’t your fault. I stumbled. It was all good. I liked what we did. But it’s late and my mom will expect me home soon.”
He backed off as she stood, and damn if she wasn’t overly conscious of being nearly naked with too much light shining down on her. “Where’s my skirt?”
“On the floor in the dining room. I’ll get it.”
While he was gone, she took the opportunity to stare at herself in the mirror. He was right, the skin wasn’t actually broken, but there was a thick, bloodred, inch-long line that was already turning a sickening shade of purple. She must have hit the edge of the sideboard. The skin around it was puffy and reddened. She should ask for some ice to cut down the bruising and swelling, but she didn’t want to stay long enough for that.
Get out, get out, get out.
The night was ruined. It had been so good. Kinky and exciting. The woman he’d bought a drink for. Frank hitting on her. Luke dragging her out and punishing her so very well.
But she’d screwed it all up, and now she just needed to run away from all the aftermath.
She wished she had her own car.
“Here you go.” He actually held out the skirt to her as if he wanted to help her step into it.
She grabbed it from his hand. “I need a moment.” Then she pushed him out and practically slammed the door in his face.
Why did she always ruin a perfectly good thing?
28
FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.
He’d called her a bitch, a slut, a whore, and a cunt, tied her up, blindfolded her, gagged her, fucked her against a wall, and had the best damn climax of his life. Then he’d let her fall into the sideboard. As he was dropping her off at her mother’s house, the bruise was already unsightly.
What they did was supposed to be fun. He wasn’t supposed to hurt her, not even inadvertently. Over the last two weeks, he’d been escalating, pushing her for more, doing more to her. And fucking loving it. All while her father lay dying. Or dead. Their relationship was whacked, and things were out of control. His fault, he
knew
better.
“Bree.”
Hand on the passenger door, she stopped. “Don’t apologize again,” she said, her hair falling across her face to hide the damage. “It was an accident.”
“Accidents like that shouldn’t happen.” The roughness, the punishment, though it was playacting, couldn’t be good for her, not with unresolved conflicts made worse by her father’s death.
She reached out, touched his hand, angling just enough to show him a smile. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m to blame.”
The words exemplified her issues.
She
deserved it;
she
was to blame.
She was out of the car without giving him a chance to refute that. As he watched the front door close behind her, he wondered how much longer they could do this before she broke.
IT WAS AFTER TEN, AND THE HOUSE WAS DARK. SHE TIPTOED DOWN the hall.