Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  She lifted her hips slightly, offering herself to him. Sam’s cock was rock hard in his jeans. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and stripped himself naked, though he planned to wait to take his own direct pleasure.

  The tip of her little pink tongue ran over her top lip as she gazed at his erect cock with raw desire. “Show respect, slave girl,” he said, though he was barely able to keep the grin off his face. Yes, he did want a true slave girl, respectful, submissive and yielding to his will, but he couldn’t deny being pleased at her obvious appreciation. There was time, plenty of time, he hoped, to train her in proper decorum.

  Sitting on the bed beside her, he ran his fingers over her smooth pubic mound, sliding them down between her spread legs. She moaned softly as he probed her labia, lightly teasing and pulling the silky soft flesh. He felt her heat. She was wet and his cock twitched in anticipation.

  Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.

  He stood and moved to the head of the bed. Taking each wrist, he cuffed her to the posts at the headboard and then did the same thing with her ankles, leaving her spread eagle and vulnerable, his for the taking.

  He reached for his single tail whip. He ran the single, deceptively soft strand of leather lightly over her breasts and belly, drawing a shudder from her.

  “What are you, Rae?”

  “Your slave girl, Sir.”

  “Who do you belong to?”

  “You, Sir.”

  “Whose cunt is that?”

  “Yours, Sir.”

  “Whose ass?”

  “Yours, Sir.”

  “Whose breasts?”

  “Yours, Sir.”

  “And what can I do with my property?”

  “Anything you want, Sir.”

  Sam nodded, a surge of lust shooting through his cock. “That’s right. Anything I want.” He drew the whip down her body, pulling it so the tip ran lightly over her labia. “I could whip you until you bleed, isn’t that right, slave girl?”

  Again she shuddered, and her voice was less steady, but she said, “Yes, Sir.”

  He drew back the whip with a flick of his wrist, noting her face as she squeezed her eyes shut in sudden anticipation. He lowered the whip without striking her. “Don’t anticipate, Rae. Just accept it. All of it. Everything I give you.” He stroked her arm and bent down to kiss her cheek.

  “You’re doing good. Real good,” he murmured. “I’m proud of you.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled.

  He sat beside her, cupping her left breast. He reached for her nipple, flicking it lightly until it hardened. He gripped it and twisted, drawing a sudden gasp of pain from her lips.

  “Accept it,” he repeated. “Everything I give you. Breathe deep. Flow with the pain. Give in to what you long to be. And let me be the one to take you there, not by the hair, but by the hand. Do you want that, Rae? To give yourself freely to me?”

  “Yes.” She held the s, letting it hiss into a sigh.

  “Breathe,” he whispered, his fingers still tight on her nipple. He watched with awe and admiration as her face transformed, the tension easing from her features, her eyes slowly opening to focus on his. He twisted again. She let out a rush of air, but kept her eyes on his.

  Releasing her tortured nipple, he bent over and put his mouth on it, licking away the pain as he sucked the engorged bud, pebbly hard against his lips. Unable to resist, he kissed and suckled her other nipple as well, enjoying her sweet moans.

  He sat up and stared down at the mounds of soft flesh, the nipples like dark pink gumdrops. “One day, when you’re properly trained and ready, I’ll pierce your nipples. You will take the needle for me, won’t you, Rae?” He knew what he was asking. He waited.

  She swallowed hard, a flush rising on her cheeks, but she nodded, whispering, “Yes, Sir.”

  He smiled and stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. That won’t happen until you’re ready, until you tell me it’s what you want.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she repeated.

  He ran the whip lightly over her body again, moving in an easy, soothing rhythm until she was fully relaxed and open to him. He caught her off guard with a sudden flick to her right nipple. Rae cried out, jerking in her restraints. Sam reached for her pussy, sliding a finger easily into her wetness.

  “Your body doesn’t lie, Rae. You need this.”

  He flicked the second nipple and then focused lower, letting the leather curl around each thigh, leaving small red marks where the tip hit. He struck her bare pubic mound, flicking the tip in quick succession, covering her skin with little blossoms of color, each petal drawn with the tip of his whip.

  Rae was writhing in her constraints, her eyes closed, her lips parted. Sam thought about ordering her to open her eyes, to focus directly on the whip, but decided to let her be for now. This didn’t have to be training—it was more about reconnecting. He would help center her again, recreate the intricate patterns of pleasure and pain in her nerve endings, remind her body and her soul of what she needed—of what they both needed.

  When he struck her labia with the light but direct flick of the whip, Rae gasped and stiffened. “Breathe,” he reminded her. “You can do this. You are doing it. For me. For us.”

  Sam couldn’t help but recall the last time he’d said those words, and her scathing response. He waited now, holding his breath. Rae slowly opened her eyes and fixed them on his.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “For us. I want this. For us.”

  Hiding the relief that left him nearly weak, Sam refocused on what he was doing. He flicked the whip again, a little harder, its tip catching Rae’s clit. She screamed, her fingers curling into fists.

  “Breathe,” he reminded her. “Flow with the pain. Embrace it. Let it take you where you need to go.”

  She drew in a deep breath, her fingers loosening. He struck her again on her sensitive labia. She jerked and gasped. She was breathing hard, her eyes squeezed shut.

  He waited.

  Finally, she opened her eyes, which glittered in the candlelight. As he watched, she lifted her pelvis, arching forward, offering herself to his whip.

  “Please, Sir,” she begged. “Please.”

  Pride and lust surged through Sam in equal measure. He knew he would spend the rest of his life making himself worthy of her sweet submission. Aware she needed him to continue, he whipped her cunt, her inner thighs, her belly, her breasts, and then worked his way down again.

  “Yes!” she cried over and over. “Again! Again! Please, Sir. Again!”

  He didn’t stop until she was crying, tears flowing down her cheeks, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. When he gauged she’d had enough, he dropped the whip and released her tethered ankles. Kneeling between her legs, he ran his hands lightly down her flanks and massaged her feet. Leaning over her, he released her wrists and rubbed her arms. She lay still, her hair tousled, her eyes fever-bright.

  Her skin was marked with dozens of little welts he’d raised with his whip. Her cunt was dark red and swollen, its heady scent intoxicating. Crouching down, he licked the salty-sweet folds of her pussy, soothing away the sting of his lash. He placed a hand on either thigh, holding her open as he gently lapped at her labia, his tongue teasing over her clit.

  He didn’t stop until she was again begging, this time for permission to come.

  “Not yet,” he said at first, relishing his power, thrilled with her submission as he felt her struggle to obey. Reaching for his cock, he massaged it a moment, feeling it swell to full hardness, the tip gooey with pre-come. He maneuvered himself so he was ready, at the last second, to plunge into her heat.

  He grunted with pure animal pleasure as he thrust inside her. It felt so fucking good—the fit between them better than perfect.

  “Now!” he demanded. “Come for me now.”

  He felt the delicious clench of her muscles against his cock as she spasmed and jerked beneath him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him in deeper as she came. Her ar
ms encircled him, holding him with surprising strength as she undulated beneath him.

  He pulled her up into his arms, covering her face in kisses as he thrust inside her, tumbling headlong into a climax as she held him close, locked in her tight embrace.

  They lay still for a long while after, entangled in each other’s arms. Sam felt something tear in his heart, a sweet wrenching pain. He understood Rae was in fact the one who wielded the real power, even if she didn’t know it. She held his heart in her hands. It was at once frightening and exciting to realize his own vulnerability.

  “Rae?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Who do you belong to?”

  “You, Sir.”

  “And who do I belong to?”

  “Me, Sir.”

  The End

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  Also Available from Claire Thompson:

  A Lover’s Call

  A Princely Gift

  Accidental Slave

  Alternative Treatment

  Binding Discoveries

  Blind Faith

  Cast a Lover’s Spell

  Caught: Punished by Her Boss

  Closely Held Secrets

  Club de Sade

  Confessions of a Submissive

  Continuum of Desire

  Dare to Dominate

  Dream Master

  Face of Submission

  Finding Chandler

  Forced Submission

  Frog

  Golden Angel

  Golden Boy

  Heart of Submission

  Heart Thief

  Island of Temptation

  Jewel Thief

  Julie’s Submission

  Lara’s Submission

  Masked Submission

  Obsession: Girl Abducted

  Odd Man Out

  Perfect Cover

  Pleasure Planet

  Princess

  Safe in Her Arms

  Sarah’s Awakening

  Seduction of Colette

  Slave Academy

  Slave Castle

  Slave Gamble

  Slave Girl

  Slave Island

  Slave Jade

  Sold into Slavery

  Sub for Hire

  Submission Times Two

  Switch

  Texas Surrender

  The Abduction of Kelsey

  The Auction

  The Compound

  The Cowboy Poet

  The Master

  The Solitary Knights of Pelham Bay

  The Story of Owen

  The Toy

  Tough Boy

  Tracy in Chains

  True Kin Vampire Tales:

  Sacred Circle

  Outcast

  Sacred Blood

  True Submission

  Two Loves for Alex

  Two Masters for Alexis

  Wicked Hearts

  THE HOSTAGE BARGAIN

  ANNIKA MARTIN

  When small town girl Melinda Prescott is taken hostage by three hot bank robbers, she quickly discovers that a life of bank heists, luxury hotels, and kinky menages is way more exciting than working on the family farm. She should be scared of her dominating, fierce captors…but there’s something wicked inside her that’s craving to obey their every dark desire.

  Melinda eagerly throws in with her three smoldering fugitives…and realizes little by little that these are no ordinary bank robbers—and that bad guys aren’t always what they seem. But will her delicious captors overcome their own demons enough to let her in? And can they fight a conspiracy that’s larger than all of them?

  “The Hostage Bargain is a quirky steamy read with heart… It’s meant to be a fun read and it totally succeeds as I haven’t had this much fun reading an erotic romance in quite a while.”

  —Yummy Men & Kick Ass Chicks

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this ebook only, or sharing as permitted by your ebook vendor.

  Cover art: Sweet N’ Spicy Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental. All the characters in this book are adults.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  I was looking busy behind the teller window at First City National Bank one Sunday doodling a frame of stars around a piece of scratch paper when three bank robbers burst in, cleaned the place out, and took me hostage. Three, might I add, hunky bank robbers.

  But I digress. And, I didn’t know they were hunky at first because they wore zombie masks—mottled skin, sunken eyes, blood, the whole zombie nine yards. I approved. Zombies were pretty hip, and also scary.

  In addition to the masks, they wore business suits and leather gloves, and they moved with military precision. This, too, I approved of. If somebody was going through the trouble of robbing the First City National Bank of Baylortown, Wisconsin, I wanted them to be overachievers.

  They commanded all seven of us tellers to put up our hands—so we wouldn’t push any silent alarm or panic buttons, no doubt. What they didn’t know was every single one of us FCN tellers hated bank owner Hank Vernon with a passion—a writhing, lava-like passion churning deep in our bank teller hearts. Any one of us would’ve loved to see his bank implode or explode or just crumble into the river, hopefully taking Hank Vernon and his financially predatory kin with it.

  I was the queen of the Bring-Down-Hank-Vernon Brigade. I had more Vernon-inflicted wounds than all of my co-workers put together.

  The robbers ordered the other tellers to march around and join the patrons on the floor, but because I was at the end of the row—or maybe I looked friendly and cooperative, heaven knows I was planning to be—they gave me the job of cleaning out the drawers and putting money into a bag under the watchful and piercing green eyes of a green-faced zombie.

  “Touch anything else and you’re dead,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, dude,” I said, heart racing a million miles an hour. I’d never considered being robbed as an extreme sport, but it was quite the rush, this feeling of excitement and aliveness coursing through my veins. I had a thing about extreme sports: I loved the exhilaration of risk, of careening out of control, the way the adrenalin made me come alive right down to my fingertips.

  “I’ll do anything you want,” I said breathlessly. “Anything at all.”

  His gaze intensified.

  I didn’t mean that sexually, I almost added, but stopped myself. The idea of doing anything he wanted sexually had a sudden dark appeal that surprised me, and I knew from the directness and energy in his gaze that he heard it exactly the same way.

  Shivers crawled up my spine.

  I grabbed more money.

  More yelling out on the floor. “Down! Fingers knit or I blow you heads off!” As if to emphasize his point, one of the robbers kicked the coin counting machine over onto a glass table, making a terrific crash. Somebody whimpered. That I did not approve of. The bank patrons and my coworkers were good people who didn’t deserve to be frightened.

  I, however, was practically vibrating with excitement.

  “Send us off with tracking devices or exploding dye and you’re dead,” my guy growled at me. “We’ll come back and mess you up.” Then he grabbed the flowers out of the litt
le vase at my station and ripped them up and threw them on the floor.

  Okay!

  I moved to the next drawer. “I’m telling you, don’t worry. I’m into it. Tell Scary Spice out there not to shoot anyone and we’re good.”

  His green eyes blazed. “I make the rules here. Not you.”

  My belly tightened; that was so hot, the way he said it. Did he know? Was he being hot on purpose? “Ten-four,” I said.

  His eyes locked on mine, or more, he looked right into me as though he recognized me. Not personally—I’d have known those green eyes anywhere—but like he knew how jazzed I felt.

  My breath sped as I gave him back the bag; my hand brushed his leather glove and a frisson of shivers shot through me. He might well look like Frankenstein under there, but at that moment, sexiness oozed from him.

  Years ago, my mom showed me an article that said thrill-seeking people are missing a brain chemical, and that they make up for it by taking risks. She thought it explained a thing or two about me. If it’s true, I’m glad I’m missing it. I can’t imagine going through life without leaping from the cliff over Mucklanaho River, or racing down the abandoned ski slide, or getting excited about green-eyed criminals.

  “The safe.” His gaze glowed behind his mask. “Who can get us in?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised on that count,” I said. “It’s open.” Hank had left for the day, and the rest of us weren’t exactly conscientious when he was gone.

  “Thor!” He waved his gun at one of the other two robbers.

  A guy in a blue zombie mask jumped over the counter with startling athletic grace.

  “Three minutes twenty.”

  “Thor? As in the Norse god?” I asked.

  A pair of green eyes bored fiercely into mine.

  Gulp. I turned and led them back, straight into the walk-in, and pulled open the money safe. The big robber ripped the camera from the wall and pulled bundles of money off the shelves with fast, efficient movements while Thor held the bag. These men had done this before. It was fabulously badass, and even then, I was thinking this scene would become a staple in my repertoire of stranger sex fantasies for months.