by Nikki Sloane
His fingertips trailed over the lace. Was he tracing the patterns? No. His fingers slipped under the edge and tugged—
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
The word was sharp and corrective. “Quiet.”
It meant I had to hold my breath as he eased the sides of my panties inward, wedging them uncomfortably between my cheeks like a thong and exposing more of my skin to him.
Every inch of me was now combustible. I was going to burst into flames, which would consume him, his antique couch, and likely raze the entire mansion. That was how much heat he was generating. Beneath his strict grasp, I clenched my fists and dug my fingernails into my palms.
I’d never been spanked before. Not by my family, and certainly not by a lover.
Macalister fell into neither of those categories currently, but that wasn’t surprising. He wasn’t a man who could be labeled or categorized. He was unique. An enigma.
The first smack of his hand against my backside physically felt like nothing. It made a staccato slap of skin striking skin, but it sounded far worse than it was. There was no discomfort or much of a sensation, really, yet my body’s desire to respond was enormous. I’d wanted it to hurt, to burn, to take my breath away.
He spanked me a second time, this one on the other side, but he maintained the same level of energy, so the blow fell harmlessly, and disappointingly, across my skin. I craved more. It was like an itch I couldn’t quite reach. Scratching the skin close to it gave some satisfaction but didn’t do the job.
I wiggled under his grip, my hipbones grinding against his thighs, and he hissed, “Stay still.”
The first pair of spankings he’d given me were a test, which I’d passed, because his second set were quick, hard, and no fucking joke. My eyes went wide at the sting that lingered like a band of heat across my bottom, and then I hazed as he pressed his palm against my enflamed skin, massaging in a slow circle.
My head spun with how turned on his touch made me. Pleasure simmered inside my center, building with each circuit of his hand smoothing over my skin. And he wasn’t immune to the effects of delivering this spanking either. There was a bulge thickening beneath the fly of his suit pants, impressively firm against my belly.
He’d told me to be quiet, but it was beyond my control, and the words came from me like a long, soft sigh. “This doesn’t feel like punishment.”
He said it as a challenge. “It doesn’t?”
Before I could process the question, he struck me so hard, my cheek reverberated with the impact and I inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. Okay, that one was legit, and I—
“Fuck,” I groaned, my eyes fluttering closed.
Macalister’s fingers pressed against the damp center of my panties, rubbing gently against my clit, and the pleasure it produced was white-hot. It curled my toes inside my shoes, and I melted across his lap, threatening to liquify and drip down his legs.
“Watch your language.”
It was shockingly natural the way we fell into our roles. I was the disobedient little girl who craved attention, and he was the disapproving dominant, determined to teach me a lesson.
I wanted it to sound snarky, but his fingers twitched, and more pleasure jolted through me, so my retort was breathless. “Sorry, Daddy.”
His hand cracked across my ass. “Do not call me that.”
I bit down on my tongue, but the inappropriate chant continued in my head. Daddy, daddy, daddy . . .
God, his fucking fingers. They teased without mercy.
I squirmed against his hold, not wanting to break free but enjoying his restraint. And when I writhed in his lap, it made me rub against his erection, and the faintest grunt of pleasure escaped his lips.
Strain filled his voice, so his order verged on a plea. “You will hold still as I’ve asked you to.”
“I can be good,” I whispered. With the thin lace, it was like nothing stood between his touch, and he pressed harder on my swollen clit, causing sparks behind my eyelids. “I can be so good . . .”
Whatever had been holding him back broke down. He came unleashed, overwhelmed with desire. He let go of my wrists so he could curl the fingers of both his hands into the waistband of my underwear and peel the fabric down until it was gone, hung on the backs of my knees.
No longer inhibited by the lace, Macalister slid two fingers across my most intimate part and discovered exactly how powerful an effect he held over me. I was wet. So wet, it had to be shocking to him, but all he issued was a hushed sigh. My hands moved mindlessly, seeking whatever part of this gorgeous yet cold man I could find. One latched onto his leg, and the other followed the line of buttons on his shirt upward, searching for skin to connect with.
The gravel in his voice did nothing to hide his lust. “I suspect this also doesn’t feel like punishment.”
The pads of his fingers strummed over my clit. I quickly shook my head and dug my nails into the suit fabric covering his thigh. His strokes pulled a whimper from the back of my throat.
But abruptly, his touch was gone.
He was harsh and wicked. “And now? Is this punishment?”
Oh, my God. Yes. The absence of his touch after he’d built it up wasn’t just cruel—it was torture. But it was one I was far too familiar with.
Perhaps it was hard for him too, because he didn’t stay away for long. Only a series of deep breaths, long enough for me to mourn his absence and revel in his return. His fingers kneaded and probed . . .
And again, he suddenly went still. The muscles in the legs beneath me hardened.
“What—?” I’d never heard him sound so uncertain.
My desire was a thick fog and slowed my response time. It took me a full two seconds before I understood what had caught him off guard, and more blood rushed to my face. “Uh . . .” I pinched my eyes closed tightly. “I have a VCH piercing.”
“Which means?”
My pulse roared like a jet engine, so loud I wasn’t sure if my faltering voice could be heard over it. It probably didn’t help that I spoke like I was dying. “It stands for vertical clitoral hood.”
He took in a lengthy breath. “Stand up and show me.”
It was impossible to hear any emotion in his tone, so I couldn’t tell if he was interested or horrified by this new development. I’d gotten the piercing last year during Kelly Sumner’s bachelorette party in Vegas. I’d heard it could increase stimulation, and I loved the way it looked. But leave it to me to find the one guy who might not find this sexy.
I was still shaking in response to his touch, plus my panties were caught around my knees, so it was difficult to push off the couch, but somehow, I managed. I stepped out of my underwear and left it behind on the floor, teetering on my unstable legs as I stood in front of him.
He was sexy as fuck as he sat back against his couch and crossed his thick arms, his Cartier watch peeking out from behind a sleeve cuff. His hair was dark in the low light, and his angular face and expression were darker still. The look in his penetrating eyes was carnal. Macalister was a wolf watching its next meal from the shadows, planning exactly when to strike.
Anxiety twisted me tightly, and the heated blood flowing through my system left me jittery and quivering, but I placed my sweaty palms over the tops of my thighs, pressing my skirt against my legs, and slowly began to drag them up.
It was terrifying and exhilarating, this idea of showing off my body to him and the jewelry I wore that no one else knew about. A fantasy of mine come to life. I was a member of his royal court, submitting myself to the king for his evaluation. Up my dress went, all the way to my waist, baring my nakedness to him. And I was starkly naked. I liked a clean look and had shaved bare just this morning.
His scrutinizing gaze focused between my legs, and it was so intense, I felt it like a caress, as if his hands were gliding between my thighs. But his eyebrows tugged together, creating a crease between them, and his attention rose to my face.
“Well? I’m waiting,” he said i
mpatiently.
Oh, God. Because he couldn’t really see the piercing like this. I pinned the bottom half of my dress to my hips with my wrists, and reached my fingers down, peeling myself open.
It was vulgar. Pornographic.
But the way his shoulders lifted as he sat forward? That was obscene and erotic. Excitement spiraled inside my stomach. His eyes zeroed in on the small set of pink gems decorating my skin, one stacked over the other, just above my clit.
“Do you like it?” I breathed.
His expression was unreadable, and he didn’t answer me. But he licked his lips, and my entire body shuddered. The lewd thoughts in his mind began to seep out at the edges of his expression, and I let out a slight sigh of relief.
“It’s new,” I whispered. “You’re the first person to see it.”
Oh, this, he definitely liked. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, not quite a smile, but he was pleased. I knew a thousand secrets, but this was the first one I’d only shared with him.
I dropped my skirt, covering myself, and his scowl that followed was epic.
“You wore that dress for me today,” he sat against the couch and slung an arm across the back of it, “but now I think you’ll wear nothing.”
I went weightless, yet also as heavy as the grand piano that sat in the corner. I didn’t say no, because I didn’t want to—and I wasn’t capable. That was the only thing that scared me about him. He could make me do almost anything.
But the question burst from my lips. “Why?”
He tilted his head, curious. “Because I want to see everything.” When I didn’t move, he added, “I haven’t seen a naked woman in years, Sophia, and I have no doubt you will be an exceptionally beautiful one.”
Electricity crackled across my arms, and goosebumps rose from my skin. There was something satisfying in knowing I’d be his first, not only after prison, but after her. The first woman he’d chosen to pay attention to in the post-Marist era of his life.
The room wasn’t warm or constricting anymore as I reached behind my back, caught the zipper pull of my dress, and eased it down. The back of the dress peeled apart, it slipped from my shoulders, and the whole garment tumbled from my body, leaving me dressed only in a black bra.
He’d been doing that thing he often did, where his hand was in a loose fist and his thumb ran back and forth over the knuckles, but when my dress was a puddle at my feet, his thumb stopped moving. I held his gaze as I arched my back, reached behind myself, and undid the hooks of my bra.
Macalister’s eyes hooded, the lids suddenly too heavy to stay all the way up.
I didn’t have a body like statuesque Alice did, and I wasn’t as slender as Marist. No amount of diet and exercise could overcome my genes, and I was never going to have thigh-gap or a perfectly flat stomach. But I was healthy and fairly happy with how I looked, even in a bikini. The advantage to my curves meant I had breasts. Big, full ones that made other girls envious.
The summer before my senior year at Columbia, Carrie Jensen had asked if I would send her a topless picture to use as an example for her plastic surgeon. Since pictures were forever and I didn’t trust a soul in Cape Hill, I went with her to the consult instead.
Her new tits were nice, but they weren’t as good as mine.
Macalister’s gaze moved like a glacier over me, taking in every inch of my bare skin, lingering on my nipples that had pebbled from either the cold or his attention.
“Turn.”
I shivered with enjoyment at how his voice had lost its power. Staring at me was undoing him. He’d said it as an order, but it came out as a request, and I obliged him. I turned in place, treating him to a full three-sixty view of my body, and when I came back around, the unadulterated lust in his eyes made my heart skip.
Fuck, he looked at me like I was everything he’d ever wanted and couldn’t have.
“Oh, Sophia,” he said, “the things I’d do to that fucking perfect body of yours if I were a younger man.”
It was so rare that he swore, the curse word carried more weight. The impact of it disrupted my mind, and the truth spilled free. “I don’t want you to be a younger man.”
His eyes turned stormy. “Don’t say things like that to me.”
“Why not?” It was true, and I suspected he knew it.
He glared at me with his strict eyes and his sexy mouth pressed into a scowl, and it was scorching. Sweat threatened on the back of my neck.
“Because,” he seethed irritation, “just look at the state you’ve put me in.”
To emphasize his point, he smoothed a palm down the front of his pants, attempting to tame the erection bulging from behind his zipper.
My shoulders lifted as I inhaled deeply, and I flicked my gaze to his. “I can take care of that.”
Desire swirled like dust motes in the air, and it was intoxicating. Macalister stared at me with a mixture of emotions, but they blurred together, and I couldn’t pick a single one out. His gaze was inescapable, though. It was quicksand, and I stayed absolutely still, knowing it’d suck me in faster if I tried to fight it.
His unspoken words suspended between us. We can’t.
The battle waged inside his head over the sensible thing versus what he wanted to do. His banker’s mind considered the pros and the cons, and when he arrived at the decision, he tossed it aside and gave me a stern look.
I can take care of that, I’d said.
His hand went to his belt, and he began to undo it. “Yes,” his tone was absolute, “you will.”
TEN
SOPHIA
WAS THIS ANOTHER FANTASY I’d visualized enough times that it had now become real? My heart lodged in my throat as Macalister sat on his tufted couch and used both hands to slide the end of his belt free, then worked to undo the button and zipper beneath. Like everything else he did, he moved efficiently, and it took him no time to complete his task.
My body forgot how to work. I didn’t blink or breathe as he fisted himself and stroked down his length.
Holy mother of God, he was huge.
His enormous ego had to be at least partially backed up by big dick energy.
“Breathe,” he reminded.
I filled my lungs with air as I took in the erotic scene playing out in front of me. His gaze meandered over my naked body, drinking me in as his hand pumped leisurely along, pleasuring himself.
He used a finger from his free hand to point at me, and that demanding finger turned upside-down and curled back toward him. Once, then twice. He was beckoning me to come closer, and I had no choice in the matter. An unseen force propelled me forward.
“Stop.”
His sharp word could make the world stop turning, I was sure of it. I froze, one knee buried in the couch beside him, on my way to straddling his lap.
He peered up at me with his trademark disapproval. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I blinked, stunned. “I thought we were going to—”
“No, you are mistaken,” he said. “You haven’t earned the full privilege of my cock.” He set his cold hand on my hip and pushed me back. “On your knees. Your mouth will be adequate.”
“Adequate?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Yes.” He was indifferent to my shock, and his fingers dug in as he guided me down onto my knees in front of him. “I will show you how I like it.”
And then I was kneeling between his spread legs, my hand on one of his knees. Was he fucking serious? I used the most condescending tone I possessed. “I already know how to give a fucking blowjob.”
Macalister scooped a hand behind my head, his fingers twisting into the strands of hair at the nape of my neck. “Excellent.” He jerked me forward, thrusting my face into his crotch. “Then, demonstrate.”
I wished I didn’t like his bossy way, but—oh, how I did. His forceful tone, his arrogant demeanor, his critical eyes . . . it all worked for me. I’d spent a lifetime getting attention from everyone but the people I desperately wanted it from
.
He was the first to reciprocate.
So, while I loved Macalister’s disapproving looks, I hungered to please him. I wanted him to find satisfaction, to be as consumed with me as I was becoming with him.
He made a tight noise of pleasure when I latched a hand around the base of him and prepared to take him inside my mouth. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hide how badly he wanted this. His pupils were large and dark, and his chest rose and fell with his stilted breath.
I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and slid down on him.
The legs I was nestled between tensed, and he exhaled loudly, his gasp punching the silence. His hand was still on the back of my head, but there wasn’t any pressure or guidance there. His other reached out and grasped the corded edge of the couch cushion beside us.
Macalister’s cock was thick and hard, and when I closed my lips around him and sucked, he pulsed against my tongue. The sensation was vocalized in a pleasure-filled sigh, and warmth flooded down my limbs.
Would he moan?
Oh, my God, could I make him curse?
The idea thrilled me. I swirled my tongue around the fat head of him and was rewarded with a louder, deeper sigh. Heat buzzed through my body. Every reaction I caused in him gave me one in return.
It wasn’t all that comfortable kneeling on the hard floor with bare knees, and although his suit pants were undone, the tails of his dress shirt kept getting in my way. It was Macalister’s first blowjob in years, and I wanted to rock his world, so I backed off and fisted the top of his pants.
Our gazes met, and he understood what I wanted. He lifted, helping me pull his pants and underwear down over his hips, and then he sat forward on the edge of the couch, pushing his clothes down to his ankles. I was going to resume what I’d been doing, but he seized my face in his hands and crushed his lips to mine.
He’d said my mouth would be adequate, and it was clear he meant to use it in every way.
His kiss obliterated.
It could level buildings and decimate cities and win wars. I gasped into his hot mouth. When his tongue stroked against mine, I felt it between my legs. And as our kiss deepened, his hands moved, slipping down my neck and over my shoulders. His fingers flowed down my arms then inched their way onto my back.