by Brynley Bush
My knees feel weak, my every sense is heightened, and that long dormant zing of desire is coursing through my veins. I close my eyes as his other arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady as he repeats the process with my other breast, scraping and twisting and tugging until both of my nipples are stiff and elongated and my sex is throbbing.
He pulls the rubber-tipped, tweezer looking clamps that are connected by a thin chain out of his pocket and I gasp as he applies one of the clips onto one distended tip, sliding a tiny metal ring up the arms of the clamp so that the pressure increases and my nipple is trapped between the two sides. It’s exquisite, a tiny pinch of pain that’s oddly arousing. I stand motionless as he attaches the other one.
His eyes are dark but gentle as they search mine. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” I try to sound nonchalant but it comes out breathlessly.
He smiles faintly, and I know I’m not fooling him for a minute.
“Then I guess I should tighten them a bit.” He slides the ring higher up and the pressure becomes more intense as my nipples start to throb. I whimper slightly and he stops. “Perfect.”
He grabs the chain and tugs on it lightly, and I almost come undone. The feeling is incredible—an exquisite bite of pain that shoots straight to my sex and has it rippling with tiny little spasms. Using the chain like a leash, he pulls me toward the wall.
“Stand with your back to the wall, arms over your head.”
I comply, even though some distant part of my brain is telling me I should run like hell. He steps closer, invading my space with the sheer breadth of his chest and the heat of his body. And my god but I’d forgotten how good he smells—clean, masculine, and woodsy, with a hint of sultry sex.
With capable hands, he firmly grasps the chain between the wrist cuffs and fastens it onto some kind of hook over my head so I’m pinned to the wall like a butterfly. He tugs on the chain between my breasts again and my back arches as the pinch of the clamps intensifies deliciously.
“You like that,” he observes with a small smile.
I don’t answer.
He turns and selects a flogger from the bag at his feet and then takes a step toward me. The flogger looks just like the one Michael used, except it’s all black, and I’m thankful that I already know this one is pretty benign because there’s a gleam in Marcus’ eyes that’s making me a little nervous.
My relief is short-lived. With a flick of his wrist, he whips the leather strands across my clamped breasts. I gasp, sucking air into my lungs even as I feel the telltale moisture gather between my legs. He’s not messing around. And it’s hot as hell.
He begins flogging my breasts, lightly at first, and then with increasing intensity, and all I can do is close my eyes and absorb the exquisite feeling. Occasionally, the leather strands hit the clamps and the unexpected but brief bite of pain sizzles through me, somehow increasing my arousal. All too soon, he stops.
I want to stomp my foot and demand he continue, but before I can get a word out he’s in my personal space again, so close that my hypersensitive nipples chafe against the crisp, starched fabric of his button-down shirt, sending another wave of pleasure rolling through me.
His hand closes lightly but firmly around my throat.
“That was just a taste, Ari. Now, unless you’re willing to admit you’ve had enough, I’m going to turn you around and flog your ass until it’s a lovely shade of red and you’re begging me to stop. Is this what you really want? If not, just say so now and leave.”
The fucking bastard. He’s trying to scare me into leaving, but I can’t back down now, and I’m not sure I really want to. Even though it’s Marcus. Or maybe especially because it’s Marcus. I’m more than a little intrigued by exactly how far he’s prepared to go with this, and how far he’s willing to take me.
“This is what I want,” I say stubbornly, tilting my chin up slightly.
“Well then, gattina,” he rasps, using the Italian nickname for kitten that he used to call me by a lifetime ago. “Let’s begin.”
I watch, wide-eyed, as he reaches back into the bag and pulls out two more floggers that he arranges next to the black suede one on a low table next to the sofa. One is a mix of suede and shiny oiled leather with medium falls, and the other is downright wicked-looking, with thin leather strands and little plastic beads on the end.
He unhooks my arms, unclips the hooks that connect the cuffs together and removes them.
“What are you doing?” I ask a little wildly. “I told you this is what I want.”
“I won’t restrain you, Ari. If you stay, it’s because you choose to. I don’t want there to be any doubt that this is what you want. What you’re asking for. Now turn around and put your hands on the wall. If you move them, we’re done and you go home.”
“You can’t do that!” I protest angrily.
“First rule of BDSM,” he says lightly, tapping me on the nose. “The Dom makes the rules. The submissive chooses whether to accept them or not.”
I growl in frustration and the son of a bitch has the nerve to laugh. “You’re still adorable when you’re mad,” he says.
In response, I glare at him before turning around and placing my palms deliberately on the wall above me. He’s out to prove a point, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him.
Marcus Dunn can fucking bring it!
I shut my eyes tightly and brace myself for the sting of the flogger.
But instead of the flogger, I feel his hand—rough and possessive—caressing my ass. His touch is firm and sure, and I wonder if the man ever hesitates over anything. Doubtful.
I start to relax in spite of myself as he runs both hands over my ass, kneading and rubbing as he hums his approval. Although Michael had done the same thing, it feels totally different with Marcus. The feel of his solid body behind me is both reassuring and incredibly sexy, and the way he’s intentionally priming my ass makes me excruciatingly aware that this is just a precursor of what’s to come.
The more he rubs, the more conscious I become of every sensation—the pressure of the clamps on my breasts, the seductive weight of the chain hanging between them, and the feel of his masterful hands on my skin.
Then he bends down and picks up the flogger with the wide falls. At first he just trails it lightly it over my ass. Then…smack. The leather strands flick across my butt, warming my aroused flesh. Despite the fact that I knew it was coming, it catches me off guard and I almost move my hands.
He uses the flogger steadily and skillfully, the speed and pressure of the blows increasing in direct proportion with my arousal. There’s an occasional sting from a few strategically placed harder hits, but somehow the tiny pain only makes my desire burn hotter.
He switches to the smaller flogger with the narrow falls and plastic beads and it starts to actually hurt, but I don’t care, because the pain immediately morphs into an equally potent pleasure. My skin grows warmer and more sensitive with each strike, and the sensations tangle together as the heat from my ass radiates all the way through to my core. Oh god. It’s sweet agony, bearable but only just so, and I feel a desperate yearning building deep inside of me. Pain and pleasure blur until I don’t know where one starts and the other stops. I give myself over to the sensation as the flogger rains down endlessly, driving me toward some sweet surrender.
He drops the flogger and his bare hand makes contact with my ass. Fuck! His hand is somehow even more intimate and painful, probably because my ass already feels like it’s on fire. He spanks me again, alternating cheeks with quick upward glancing blows, hitting the same spot over and over until I’m squirming to keep my hands in place. He tugs sharply on the chain between my breasts and my belly tightens as need coils deep in my loins. I move my legs, pressing my thighs together to ease the ache.
But he’s having none of that, and he kicks my legs apart without breaking the rhythm of his hand on my ass or the relentless tug of the chain. I’m going to fucking explode!
Abruptly, the b
lows stop and he rubs my ass with his hand, pressing into my heated skin. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. His fingers dance up my slit and probe me intimately. I open my mouth to protest, but a quick yank on the chain diverts my attention, and then he’s circling my clit and I forget everything else.
“Turn around,” he commands softly.
I slowly turn to face him. He pins my wrists above my head again, his face so close to mine that I can see the flecks of gold in his warm brown eyes. His full lips are inches from mine, and I close my eyes as I arch slightly toward him, eager to feel his mouth, to taste him again after all these years.
But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, his hand is on my breast, loosening the clamp, and I gasp at the intense pain as the blood floods back into my nipple. I whimper.
“Shh,” he murmurs. “Taking them off is the worst. Breathe.”
I try to suck air into my lungs, but it’s hard when his hot mouth is closing over my throbbing nipple, his tongue licking it gently and sending little tremors vibrating through my sex.
“Deeper!”
It’s a command, and I obey, inhaling deeply as his fingers find the other clamp. He removes that one also, his mouth and tongue instantly soothing the pain and sending me hurtling toward that sharp precipice of desire again.
“See? You could do better.” His voice is gruff and confident.
I swear I’d do anything he told me to when he uses that low, authoritatively sexy tone.
With one hand still imprisoning my wrists, he slides his finger through my wet folds and plunges it deep inside of me. I arch my back, my breath coming in short pants now.
“Please!” I beg mindlessly.
He gives me what I want, his finger alternately dipping deep inside me and then slowly circling my clit over and over until I’m writhing beneath his grip. With his finger buried inside of me, he curls it toward my pelvis, touching some hidden bundle of nerves. At the same time, he presses against my clit with his thumb and I come undone.
My scream seems to come from somewhere else, and I convulse around him. I’m floating, lost in some alternate galaxy of bliss. I slowly come back down to Earth and the realization that I just let Marcus Dunn—the man I’ve hated for the last ten years for walking away from me without a word—give me the best orgasm I’ve had in…well, ten years. Damn him!
He seems almost as shocked as I am, and I see regret flare in his eyes. I thought I was over the humiliation and pain of his rejection, but it seems I’m doomed to relive it. He walked away from me, and from what we had, for a reason, and apparently nothing’s changed.
Well, fuck him! There are plenty of other guys here who can give me what I need, now that I know what it is.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have taken it that far.”
“No problem,” I say breezily, turning my back to him as I quickly slip my dress back on. “Thanks for the lesson. It was…nice.”
I feel smug satisfaction at the way his mouth tightens at the insult.
“Go home, Ari,” he says wearily.
“I’m just getting started. Just because you don’t want to play any more doesn’t mean I don’t. I'm here to have fun, and I intend to have it. You don't have to babysit me anymore. I'm fine.”
I’m halfway to the bar where a group of Doms are teasing a poor girl who’s been laid out on the bar as the men alternate taking shots off her body when he catches up to me. He grabs my arm and whirls me around to face him. There’s no doubt about it; this time he’s mad.
“You think I don’t want to play anymore?” he demands.
“Yeah! That’s exactly what I think. I saw the regret in your eyes after... that.” I wave my hand toward the corner we came from, unsure what to call what just happened. “If I’d known you’d be here, I never would have come. But we’re both here, and I for one have no intention of leaving. You may not want me, Marcus Dunn, but that doesn’t mean no one else does.”
“That’s it,” he growls. He grabs my arm, dragging me away from the bar and toward the lobby. “There is clearly some unfinished business between us. We need to talk.”
We’re in the grand lobby now and the fire that was roaring earlier has burned down to glowing embers. “Here?” I ask. There’s no way I’m inviting him up to my room.
He glances over at one of the leather couches where a tough-looking man is cradling a woman wrapped in a blanket in his lap.
“No. At my cabin. Get your stuff.”
“No!” I say indignantly.
“Fine. You don’t need anything anyway. I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”
He half drags me over to the front desk, where a different man I haven’t seen before is working. “Tell Dominic that Ariana left with me. We’re going to my cabin for the night.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Marcus stops me with a warning glance. “Be quiet,” he says softly so that only I can hear, “unless you’d like to find out what a gag feels like.”
I clamp my lips together.
The man retrieves Marcus’ coat, and Marcus wraps it around my shoulders.
“I’m not going to your cabin with you,” I protest under my breath.
“There’s no way we can talk here,” he says flatly. “And I’m not going to have you spending the next ten years thinking I didn’t want you.” The hard planes of his face soften slightly. “I’ve spent more nights than you can imagine dreaming of the feel of your skin and the taste of your lips.”
“Then why…” I begin before I’m cut off by a giggling trio of girls racing through the lobby, a burly pirate in hot pursuit.
“Not here. My cabin’s just a few miles away and will give us some privacy so we can talk. Now you can come willingly, or I can tie you up, throw you over my shoulder, and drag you there. Your choice.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his sensuous lips. “Some women get off on the whole kidnap fantasy.”
I would literally run fifteen miles barefoot in the snow before I’d admit to him that the thought of that is more than a little appealing.
“On second thought, what’s pirate night without capturing the girl?” he says with a grin.
And with that he scoops me up and carries me out into the snowy night.
Chapter Three
Marcus
“Where’s my gun?”
Ariana McKnight is the last person I ever expected to see standing in the kitchen of my cabin. She looks delectably rumpled and utterly fuckable wearing nothing but my t-shirt and a tiny frown that makes me want to kiss her senseless. But I know better. Even last night after she goaded me into flogging her in the club, when her lips were inches from mine—so close that I could feel her breath—I knew better than to kiss her. I still have some small vestige of self-preservation left.
“I’ll hang on to your gun until I’m sure you’re not going to shoot me in the balls,” I say with a small smile. She’d fallen asleep in the car, waking up enough to groggily threaten my manhood when I undressed her, taking off the uncomfortable-looking shirtdress and replacing it with one of my old t-shirts. If she’d known the thoughts that went through my head at the sight of her in nothing but her sorry excuse for a thong, no doubt she would have followed through on her threats.
Instead she’d instantly fallen back asleep. Not surprisingly. A scene like the one we did would have made even an experienced sub exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I’d tucked her into my bed and then spent a restless night on the couch, my dreams filled with images of the woman in the next room under me.
“Do you always carry?” I ask with a hint of amusement.
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Even though I’m not a SEAL anymore.”
“You’re not?” she says, shocked. “But you loved your job.”
“Sometimes you have to let go of the things you love, even when you don’t want to,” I say softly. “I got a medical discharge. I’m an attorney now.”
Her eyes widen more, and then she cocks her head to the side with
a faint smile. “Criminal?”
I laugh. Even after all these years, she still knows me well. Criminal law has always appealed to my uncompromising sense of justice and my innate need to protect and save people. “I started out doing criminal, yes, and I still do a good bit of it. But my practice is full service. We do criminal, business, civil, and more recently, a lot of intellectual property work, as well as some insurance work. In fact, I flew here yesterday to talk to a witness in one of my insurance cases.”
She raises her perfectly arched eyebrows. “Your practice? Like, you own it?”
“Dunn & Wallace in San Diego. Give us a call if you ever need representation.” I wink and she smiles as her lashes lower flirtatiously.
When she looks back up, her hazel eyes are dancing. “I need representation now. I’d like to press charges for kidnapping.”
I laugh, and in that moment, it’s as easy and uncomplicated as when we’d met that unforgettable summer in Italy ten years ago. I was there on a rare vacation from my SEAL team. I’d come for my grandmother’s funeral and stayed, ostensibly to help clear out her house and put it on the market, but the truth was, I needed the break. I’d seen enough violence and senseless death during my last three deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan to last a lifetime, and losing one of the men under my command during a risky mission to take out one of the main decision makers of Al Qaeda had taken its toll. Italy, with its beautiful color-saturated scenery—its golden yellow hills, lush green vineyards, and sparkling, brilliant blue Adriatic Sea—had been just the balm I needed to begin healing my soul. The beautiful, hazel-eyed woman who’d walked into my life at an Italian market had done the rest.
I’d planned to spend the evening we met the same way I’d spent the past five nights—sipping gin and tonics on the veranda of my grandmother’s villa while the unfamiliar but blessed quiet of the bucolic countryside enveloped me. But I’d run out of tonic water and had stopped at the market, asking an old woman working there where I could purchase some. She’d looked at me like I was crazy, chastised me soundly in Italian while gesturing wildly, and then flung her hands up in disgust and left me standing there wondering what had just happened.