The Negotiation: A BDSM Romance

by Christina Thacher

  Yes. This. She wanted this, her entire body pressed against his, her nudity just enough of a power differential. Plus, he was definitely the one driving this kiss…

  She slid her hands around his waist. She wanted to run her palms under his shirt but protocol suggested that would be rude. Instead, she pressed them lightly against the warm cotton. When would she see him naked? All those Doms who thought nothing of stripping off to some absurd leather jock strap when their bodies really looked better fully clothed…she had to get the one Dom in the world with a hot, hard bod and modesty issues.

  Sebastian pulled away. “You’re thinking too much. Will you tell me what it is that consumes your mind even as I’m kissing you?” It didn’t sound like a question.

  “Yes, if you command me.” Isabelle kept her voice neutral and calm. A good Dom—and Sebastian was that if nothing else—would never pry into a sub’s private thoughts. She didn’t lift her gaze to challenge him. He could infer whatever he wanted from her demurral.

  “I think a better move would be to feed you.” He seemed to be laughing at her, silently. “Come.”

  His kitchen was large, airy with white cupboards, stainless steel appliances and a gorgeous granite counter. The island was probably more square feet than the floor in her apartment’s galley kitchen. She wasn’t much of a cook, but this could get her to change her mind. She smiled, imagining wearing a pristine white apron and nothing else.

  He read her mind. “Do you cook?” he asked over his shoulder as he walked to the fridge to get a small ham and some cheese.

  “Not really. My apartment here is quite small. I tend to keep things simple.”

  He carved the ham with a sure touch, piling thin slices onto a plate. With fresh bread on a cutting board, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and condiments, it was a feast. Isabelle’s mouth watered at the thought.

  “First, though, some water.” He handed her a cut-glass tumbler. She took it and sat at the table after he waved her to a specific chair.

  “You’re not a ‘pillow-on-the-floor-for-the-sub’ kind of Dom?” She sipped the water, which was refreshingly icy. He’d been right—she was dehydrated.

  “I don’t like those power games. I don’t want to treat a sub like a pet, or a servant, or a slave, or a whore.”

  Isabelle laughed. “What are we to you, then?”

  “Sexual beings.” He shrugged. “I don’t deal with subs on an emotional basis, as no doubt Mistress Kathryn told you. Perhaps because of that, I try not to mess with their heads.”

  Some imp inside Isabelle poked at her to get a reaction from this arrogant man. “So we’re sex toys.”

  He looked up. His eyes glowed with something—humor or annoyance, it was hard to tell. “Sex toys who can climax. Never forget that aspect.”

  She nodded in acknowledgment.

  He set the table in swift, efficient gestures. The round table at the back of the kitchen went from unadorned glossy wood to perfect casual elegance in less than a minute. Isabelle, who barely noticed her own dinnerware admired the botanical prints on Sebastian’s plates. He used real cloth napkins. She wasn’t sure she even owned any.

  He arranged the bread, ham and cheese so that she could reach everything. “Another thing I won’t do is serve hot food to a naked sub.”

  She glanced down at her chest. Mine. “It might mess up your calligraphy.”

  He smiled. “Precisely. I like you pink only by design, not by accident.” He piled some ham onto his plate. “In fact, I was thinking we might break out the impact implements after lunch.”

  She drew in a shaky breath. Calm down. You can handle this. She swallowed. Would he get mad if she asked for something?

  “Sir?” Isabelle lapsed into protocol out of sheer nerves.

  His mouth hardened. “Yes?”

  She watched his face carefully. “I would like to service you. If you would permit it, Sir.”

  His lips flexed and his brow crinkled. “I don’t—” He stopped himself. “I—I will consider it.”

  Blood flowed back into Isabelle’s arms and legs. She took a bite of her sandwich. That bought her some time. When she’d swallowed, she said. “Thank you.”

  Was she thanking him for the food or the possibility that she’d get her hands on his cock? As amazing as her orgasms were at Sebastian’s hands, she wanted to make him come. If he didn’t order it, though, she couldn’t provide it. That dynamic—with her dominating the action—was all wrong. It was just that she wanted it so much, his cock in her hands, in her mouth.

  Damn him. Most men—most Doms—loved the “acolyte worshipping at the altar of my cock” scene. Isabelle suspected Sebastian knew precisely why she asked. It would very über-Dom of him to deny her the chance to make him come.

  “Open,” he commanded.

  She’d stopped eating. She glanced at her sandwich, with one generous bite removed. Her eyes flashed to his and she opened her mouth. He popped in a pecan half. Ooh, yummy. Spicy and slightly sweet. She smiled at the taste.

  “Another.”

  She parted her lips and he popped it in. She closed her mouth in a parody of a porn-star pout. He laughed.

  “Maybe,” he said in a low tone. “For dessert. If you eat all your vegetables.”

  They both laughed.

  Then he added, “And don’t flinch at all during the impact play.”

  Damn him. Such a big ask, and such a huge incentive.

  Her eyelashes brushed her cheeks. “I’ll do my best, Sir.”

  * * *

  Ah, Isabelle. So easy to read and so hard to outwit.

  Sebastian watched as her body radiated the calm willingness of the perfect sub. As if he could read her mind, he sensed her frustration. She really wanted to suck him off—her longing made him ache to oblige her even as his brain resisted the lure. There had to be a way to make them both happy. Well, okay, he wanted to be happier. It was in his nature not to give a sub everything she wanted.

  According to Bob, Isabelle’s control was amazing. What Sebastian wanted was a win-win situation. Either she complied and he got a mind-exploding blow job, or she failed and he got the satisfaction of having “won.”

  It came to him—the perfect solution. He cleared the table, put the dishes in the dishwasher, and led Isabelle up to his bedroom.

  “Face down, across the width of the bed.”

  When she complied, he gauged the height of her head. His bed was deliberately high for just this sort of reason—putting a sub’s body at the perfect height for his diabolical scenes. Just to be safe, he had her place a pillow under her torso. That made her back arch charmingly.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. He wanted her to think he was going to get impact gear—and he was—but he also needed to strip naked. He didn’t like to do that with a sub watching. Too intimate. It wasn’t great to be naked in a sub’s company, but for the fair Isabelle he’d go that far.

  When he came back to the bedroom, he had a paddle, a leather-sheathed crop, a short whip…and a white handkerchief. He watched her face as he approached. He loved a sub’s eyes widening when he brandished the whip. Isabelle, contrary little vixen that she was, just grinned at him. He scowled in return. He’d make sure she wasn’t grinning when he was done.

  Then it hit him. She was grinning because he was naked and fully, painfully aroused. Damned anatomy. Women could hide most of their arousal—That’s just a cool breeze making my nipples hard…—but for men, the truth was waving in front of them for all to see.

  He could blindfold her, but he didn’t want to. He loved the flare in her eyes, that unholy light when she wanted something enough to beg for it. Of course, she couldn’t beg for anything in this scene.

  “Lips over your teeth. Good. Keep them there.” He stroked his cock, pressing it down enough so it brushed against the edges of her mouth. She opened wide and he slipped his cock in. “No tongue.” The heat of her breath and saliva made him crazy to pump in her mouth but he didn’t. He could control himself.
The question was whether she could.

  She made a little noise, whining perhaps.

  “Isabelle. Eyes on me.”

  She looked up.

  He dangled the white cloth.

  “You’re going to hold this handkerchief. That’s your safe word. Drop the cloth and I’ll stop everything. Make a noise if you understand.”

  She mewled.

  “Excellent. Here’s how this is going to go. You claim to have superb control over your body during impact play. We’re going to test that. You will keep your mouth on my cock. You will not suck it, lick it, or in any way try to pleasure me. If you think you can’t manage that, drop the white hanky.”

  She mewled again.

  “If I feel your mouth closing on me, I’ll stop the scene and you will have failed. If I don’t, you will get what you want.”

  Another mewl.

  “I’m not going for maximum pain, and you’ll know exactly what I’m doing at all times. Five strokes with the paddle, five with the crop and five with the whip. Make a double noise if you can’t manage that.”

  A single mewl. Excellent.

  Sebastian wished he could play with her nipples and clit. He wanted her to be as excited as he was. Not to worry, he’d tie her up later and drive her insane with all the things he wanted to do to her.

  He leaned forward, paddle in his right hand. He angled the paddle so it would strike across her ass. She took it like a champ. Her lips barely moved on his cock. “Good girl,” he said. Jesus, he was impressed. And relieved. It suddenly hit him that even with her lips wrapped over her teeth, this was a fucking stupid thing for him to do.

  Too late. He trusted Bob. He trusted her. And he wanted her to win. That was a first for him.

  The remaining four strikes with the paddle turned her ass cheeks a pretty hot pink. The crop laced the pink with slightly darker stripes. Still she managed to hold still. His cock, bathed in her saliva, was killing him, demanding that he thrust his hips, something to get off. This was turning out to be as much a test of his endurance as hers. The sight of her head tilted up from the bed, her eyes looking at him for cues about when he’d strike her next, the corded stretch of her neck—it all inflamed him to the point of losing control.

  He’d promised her five strikes with the short whip, but he couldn’t put any heat into it. He flicked the tip against her buttocks so the whip cracked but barely touched her. Five snaps of his wrist and he was free.

  “Now, Isabelle. Now.” Sebastian grabbed her fiery hair and pulled her mouth tight on his cock. She sucked hard, using her tongue and lips in a swirl of vacuum pressure. So good. So damned good.

  He threw his head back, his hair brushing the taut muscles at the top of his back. He felt like Atlas astride the universe. He could sense the pull of her cheek muscles as little ripples along her scalp—and huge waves of sensation on his cock.

  A flutter of white caught his eye. The handkerchief. He was so close to coming—to exploding—that it took a second to understand that was her safe word. Her safe word, for Godsake. Then he felt her fingers on his balls, and one fingertip on his asshole. The moment of panic—when he thought she needed to end the scene—heightened the corkscrew of pleasure she’d impaled him on.

  Sebastian closed his eyes after that and gave himself over to the lush agony of resisting his orgasm. He held on for as long as he could, but she was too good. Her mouth was perfection. The orgasm was even better.

  Chapter Five

  Isabelle jerked when her cell rang. She’d gotten lost in thought—or to be more precise, lost in the memories of her weekend with Sebastian.

  She looked at the caller ID—Katie, thank God, and not her boss. Jack, the campaign manager, was busy building a large campaign staff for which he did not yet have room. Fine with Isabelle. Working from home normally allowed her to focus better, not go into a sexual trance thinking about Sebastian’s hand wielding a seductive velvety flogger…

  The phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Well?” Katie’s voice hovered somewhere between amused and annoyed. “You were supposed to call me during the weekend so I’d know he hadn’t whipped you to death. Instead, all I got were crickets. And you know it’s the wrong time of the year for crickets. If it had been anyone other than Sebastian, I’d have stormed the place. Frankly, with him, I expected you to call in tears saying he’d kicked you out early.”

  “Oh, God. I forgot all about checking in. Sorry.” Isabelle couldn’t help it. Despite trying to play it cool, her voice came out ridiculously smiley.

  “I’ll bet you are,” Katie taunted. “So, spill. What was the weekend like? Did he make you cry?”

  “Not exactly.” She had cried, only not the way Katie meant. When Sebastian kissed her at the very end, she’d stopped at her car, stunned and confused by everything that had happened. She’d been shocked to feel her cheeks damp with tears. Cheeks rounded by the same damned grin she had on her face now, remembering.

  “Isabelle, I command you to answer me.” It was Mistress Kathryn’s best Domme voice.

  Isabelle just laughed. “I would if I could. It was an amazing weekend. He didn’t make me cry, not like those silly women at The Club.” But he had made her feel uncertain of herself as a sub, and that hadn’t happened for over ten years.

  “Did he let you come?”

  “More like he wouldn’t let me not come.” And there was that shit-eating grin again.

  “Jeez, Izzy, what did he do to you? You don’t even sound the same.” There was a pause, then Katie announced, “I’m coming over. Are you on some stupid deadline for Jack Sprat?”

  “No, he’s in Iowa again.” Jack Duncan—nicknamed Jack Sprat because he was beanpole thin—wasn’t too annoying until the last six weeks before election season. In a presidential campaign, the concept of a “season” lasting eighteen months just meant that her busy times came and receded like daily tides.

  “Right. Courting the granny vote,” Katie teased. “Okay, I’ll be over in half an hour, or two hours if there’s an accident on the Beltway.”

  “Sounds good. That gives me time to get to the bagel shop and pick up some of those rugelach we like.”

  Katie groaned. “Only, don’t get a dozen this time. Or…or freeze some. I have to fit into my PVC bustier later this week.”

  Isabelle snorted. “Now, why do the complaints of a Domme fail to move me?”

  “You are so lucky we’re friends. And that I don’t get off making women obey me.”

  “Not to mention, I don’t kneel for anyone who weighs less than I do.”

  Katie laughed. “I’ll be there soon. Put the coffee on in fifteen.”

  When they’d finished the pastries, and Isabelle had poured them fresh cups of coffee, she settled back into the sofa. “Let the grilling commence.”

  “Did you guys fuck?”

  “Yes.” And right on cue, Isabelle’s lips curled into the same shit-eating grin.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so satisfied. Who knew the Asshole Dom had it in him.” Katie shook her head in amazement. “I’d figured you’d storm out of his place halfway through the first afternoon.”

  Isabelle thought how they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms after that mind-blowing session on his bed. “He’s not as hard and fast about protocol as I expected.”

  “No wire-mesh cage for you to curl up in.”

  “That would have made me leave on the spot.” Isabelle sipped her coffee. “No, he was surprisingly normal between scenes. We talked about his business, the use of statistics in modern-day campaigns, whether the Nats will end up dead last this year.”

  Katie narrowed her eyes. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. He behaves like a normal guy unless you’re playing with the whips and chains?”

  An image of Sebastian barefoot and shirtless in jeans filled Isabelle’s mind. They’d had pizza on Saturday night, sitting in that magnificent kitchen, talking. Then he got up, threw away the remnants
of their meal and held out his hand. The look in his eyes told her immediately that they were once again Dom and sub. She’d gotten goose bumps at that look. Even the memory of it made her itchy.

  She twitched slightly. “Uh, what? Oh. Right. Yes, he’s pretty civilized when he’s not focused on being a Dom.” She flushed and ducked her head to avoid Katie’s stare.

  “Holy shit. He’s got you blushing like a teenager.” Katie pursed her lips. “I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around this. Still, I’m impressed that you made it the entire weekend.” She fiddled with her coffee spoon. “So—which was better? The sex or the BDSM?”

  The sex. “The BDSM.”

  Katie nodded. “I expected that. Still, good BDSM goes a long way, as you know from your years with Bob.”

  Poor Bob. In every respect he suffered from comparisons with Sebastian D’Alessandro. “It’s just nice to play with a guy who doesn’t have a vanilla wife at home.”

  “Are you sure Sebastian’s not married?”

  Isabelle gaped at her friend. “You are the most cynical woman on the planet. I slept in his bed. Do you really think I’d do that after spotting evidence of a woman in that house?”

  “Oooh, so you admit it. You looked in the medicine cabinet.”

  Isabelle wanted to look virtuous, but it was too hard. Finally she admitted, “Of course I did.” She glared at Katie. “And there’s nothing. No ladies razor. No discarded shampoo because it doesn’t make your hair silky like the ads said it would. No ugly eye shadow with a red sale-price sticker on it. Trust me, no woman lives in that house.”

  “Unless she’s perfect and never buys the wrong beauty products?” Katie’s laugh made it clear she was kidding.

  “I see. You think Sebastian is married to some paragon of femininity who’s so exquisite that he has to take all his frustrations to The Club and find fault with the hapless subs there.”

  Katie smirked. “No, he’s single. Mac would have made sure you knew that before he negotiated a way for you two to play. And, if Sebastian hadn’t disclosed something as significant as a wife, Mac would still know about it and get it out in the open.”