by Sabrina York
He twisted gently and a fat dab of cream oozed from her cunt, dangling there.
God, I thought with a shudder. She liked this. She loved being humiliated in front of a complete stranger, tantalized and teased. The cunt.
Suddenly irritated beyond belief, I turned away. He laughed.
“Yes,” he hissed in that deep, hypnotic voice. “I think you like this. I think you like this a lot.”
He did something to her, that writhing woman in his arms—what it was remained a mystery because I had squeezed my eyes shut. She mewled like a feral cat.
“You like witnessing her punishment. Does it make your clit twitch to know I’m punishing her for you?” He chuckled again, probably because I’d squeezed my eyes shut even tighter. “Yes. I can see it does.” I heard a rustle of movement and then he was close, whispering hotly in my ear. “I can smell your arousal. Smell the honey dripping down your thighs.”
My eyes flew open. He was so close I could make out each lash. The dark rings around his golden irises were mesmerizing. His hot fragrant breath bathed my cheek.
“You hunger for this.” His fingertip—one single fingertip—circled my nipple. It ruched and pebbled. “You want to be punished in her place.” His nostrils flared and he leaned closer. “Come with us tonight. Come with us and I’ll let you hold the strap.”
A memory, buried deep, bubbled to the surface. The memory of a hot commanding man, a strap, my ass on fire and lashes of ecstasy. It nearly brought me to my knees.
But then the elevator dinged and I snapped out of the trance. Recalled myself.
I’d left that life. I’d left it for a reason.
It always began with passion and play but before long it devolved. Before long, he would slip dark degradation into the scene. Before long, the pain would become too emotional, too real.
I edged around the temptation and slipped into the hall. “I-I can’t.” Goddamn it. Again, I was lowering my gaze. It took nearly everything in me but I forced myself to look at him. I repeated my vow with conviction. “I can’t.”
A flash of disappointment washed over his expression but it quickly morphed into grim determination. “Pity.”
He took her hand, that woman who could, that woman who would, and tugged her after him, out of the elevator toward his penthouse. She teetered on her stiletto heels, holding on to him for balance.
I trailed along behind like a forlorn pup, wreathed in regret. I’d had to rip every vestige of passion from my life just to feel safe. And sometimes I hated it. My life. Empty as it was.
He stopped at his doors and speared me with a sharp look. “Think about this tonight, as you relax in the luxury of your loneliness. Think about what’s happening just across the hall and how it could’ve been yours.”
Gathering the delusion of indifference around me like a cloak, I swiped my card. Ignored how it trembled. The doors clicked open and, posthaste, I slipped inside. To hide.
His voice followed me. “Think about your punishment. And how much she will enjoy it in your stead.”
As the doors closed on him—on them—I nearly collapsed in relief. At least I thought it was relief. Of course it was.
I did enjoy the luxury of my loneliness. Hell, I’d earned it. Paid for it with the price of my first—and only—marriage. And perhaps a chunk of my soul. I damn well should enjoy it.
But as much as I tried not to, I did think about him. And I thought about her. And the punishment that should have been mine, if only I’d had the courage—or the stupidity—to accept it.
Sunday
For once, I didn’t spend the day at work. I forced myself to get out. Socialize. I had lunch with a couple friends and we took in an afternoon movie. Although, I haven’t a clue what it was about. Throughout the day, I kept drifting off into dark fantasies and darker ruminations.
When I returned home, he was waiting. We stepped on the elevator together.
Flicking my pashmina over my shoulder to illustrate my indifference, I glanced at him. He was mouthwateringly handsome in a cable-knit sweater and tan khaki pants. He tucked his fingers into his pockets and lounged against the wall of the elevator.
“Where’s your friend?” I asked. I tried not to sound snide. I don’t think I succeeded.
“Lola?”
Something prickled at my nape. “Is that her name?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Unaccountably annoyed, I glared at him. Really. A man had no business being this attractive. “Where is she?”
He nodded upward, indicating his penthouse. “I told you she’d be punished.”
“But…” My breath caught. “That was yesterday!”
His gaze, suddenly serious, suddenly still, raked me. “She’ll be punished until you release her.”
“What?”
“Do you want to know what I did to her?”
“No.” A whisper.
He ignored me. “I tied her to the bed. Eased a butt plug into her pucker and a vibrator into her cunt. I had to tie it in because it kept shooting out—she’s that wet.” He grinned and winked, as though we were having a casual, everyday conversation about something completely ordinary and mundane. Like laundry. “It’s a great little vibrator with some very interesting settings. My favorite is particularly devious. Whenever she squeezes, it shuts off.” He leaned closer. Caged me. “Do you know what that means?”
I swallowed. “No.”
His tongue flicked out and dabbed at his lips. “It means she can’t come. She’s been lying up there all afternoon. Tied spread-eagle, in agony.” I flinched. His eyes narrowed. “Ah, you like to be tied spread-eagle, don’t you? To be utterly helpless. To thrash against your bonds. To be completely unable to touch yourself. Coming closer and closer to that ultimate release. And then, just when you get there, just when you can feel it coming…oops. The damn thing switches off.” He tsked. “You can imagine how frustrated she is by now.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Don’t you know?”
I shook my head. Tried to quiet the whispering wraiths scudding through my soul. Because somewhere deep inside, I did know.
He teased my neck then let his palm trail over my chest. He found my jutting nipple—of course he did—and scraped it with a fingernail. “I’m telling you because the only way she’s ever going to find release is if you make her come.”
My gut dropped to my knees. “What?”
He was drawing a web around me. I could feel it tightening. The old hunger bubbled and spat.
His touch agonized me. Because all he did was stroke, oh so gently. And God help me, I wanted, needed more.
But I knew better than to ask.
“It won’t take much, my pet. Not at this point. A touch. Maybe a nibble or a suck. You can bring her torment to an end.” He caressed my thigh and my heart froze mid-beat. His long warm fingers slid over and up, just to the right. He found my center. Pressed.
Delight skittered along every nerve. I gasped, quivered, creamed. “I-I’m not going to m-make your girlfriend come.” Was my voice really that wobbly? That weak?
“Who said she’s my girlfriend?” He delved deeper, rubbed the crease in my slacks.
Everything within me clenched. Still, I found the strength to step away. He followed.
“I-I’m not going to do it.”
“Of course you will.” Oh dear. Had he opened the hook at my waist? Had he eased the zipper down? Were those his fingers sliding into the shadows between my legs? “You have to play by the rules.”
I commanded my legs to move, to walk away. They did not. “W-who said I wanted to play? I don’t. I don’t want to play.”
“Yes,” he murmured, hot into my ear. “Yes, you do. Look at you. How aroused you are. Do you think I can’t tell?”
Ah. A touch. Skin against skin. He nudged my swollen clit. Teasingly, he made a deeper pass, reveling in the flood of arousal he found.
“Come on. End it for her. You want to.”
He laughed. “I know, sweetheart.” His fingers, three of them, slipped through the slick soup and eased, as one, into my weeping cunt. A slow, steady slide.
Good. It felt so good. He filled me and stroked me and stoked the fire until it burst into a flame I could not deny.
“You aren’t doing it for her.” His voice quavered a little as I tightened around him. “You’ll do it for me. Because I want to watch.”
And so, God help me, I did it. When the elevator doors slid open, I went with him. He led me like a child through the double doors of his penthouse and back into his bedroom.
And there she was. On the bed. She was tied like he’d said, arms and legs held wide and firmly pinned to the four posters. She wore a blindfold and earphones. A fat vibrator poked out of her pussy. It was strapped to a belt at her waist to keep it from popping out as she writhed. And she did. Writhe.
“She can’t hear us.” He stepped up behind me, cupped my breasts and thumbed my nipples. “She’s listening to the audio of one of her favorite fuck films. It keeps her hot.”
She seized and cried out. The vibrator had just turned off.
“Ah. Poor thing.” He tugged at my pants. When they fell to the floor, I kicked them off. My panties followed.
He didn’t immediately fumble for my exposed pussy—as so many men might. Instead he rubbed his broad palms over my belly and my thighs, teasing me until I pressed back against him. His stony cock pulsed between my naked butt cheeks.
“She wants you to touch her,” he breathed into my hair. “Just like you ache for my touch, she aches for yours.”
“I can’t.” This, in a choked whisper.
“Yes. You can. Let me help you.” He took my hand and together we reached for her. I grazed her clit. It was engorged, slick.
She moaned, thrust up into the caress. “Please. Please let me come.” A trail of dry tears tracked her cheeks. She’d been begging for hours.
“Mmm.” His voice rumbled through me. “Do it again.”
I did. This time without his coaching.
He murmured his approval. “It’s so fat.” He stroked my clit, even as I stroked hers. “So very juicy. Wouldn’t you like to lick it? Take it between your lips and suck it?”
I tossed my head back, reveling in his touch. He knew just how to rub me, how hard, how long.
But then he stopped. I wriggled in the desperate attempt to find him again. He did not allow me to.
“Wouldn’t you?” he repeated, his tone harsh.
The rest of his question eluded me so I shook my head.
He smiled and stroked me again. The sensation was so strong I could barely stand. “Or would you rather rub against her like this? Make her come with the kiss of clit to clit?”
I didn’t want to do this but I wanted to please him. It frightened me, just how much I would do to please him, how quickly he had conquered me.
Trembling, aching, I got on the bed and straddled the bound girl. I placed my cleft against hers and began to rub. She arched up into me with a cry of delight. The vibrator started back up with a faint throb, resonating through us both.
“Yes.” His palm was firm on my ass. With little effort, he guided my every motion. “Make her come. Release her.”
I didn’t expect it but even as I ground against her, brought her closer to the precipice, my arousal heightened. The insistent drag of slick wet skin against slick wet skin, the jarring drag of nub against nub, consumed me. My passion, my heat, billowed, bloomed. And then just as my orgasm welled, just as ecstasy burst within me, his fingers, thick and forceful, shoved into my cunt.
The fullness, his delirious thrusts, sent me over the edge and I came around him.
She came too, crying out and writhing and shuddering against me.
That only heightened my pleasure.
I had released her. And he had released me.
I thought he would fuck me then. Fuck one of us. But he didn’t. Instead he helped me dress with gentle hands, walked me to the foyer and kissed me on the forehead.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked.
I gaped at him. Surely there would be more than this. “But…”
A muscle clenched in his cheek. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
A Gordian knot twined in my belly. “I suppose.” We did live next door to each other, after all.
His expression relaxed. He picked up a small package from the table by the door and handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“A present for you. Wear it tomorrow.”
“What is it?”
“Do you promise to wear it?”
My glare lacked conviction. “Yes.”
He smiled. “Don’t open this until the morning and then put it on right away. Don’t delay, or I’ll know.”
“How could you?”
His smile tightened. “Not until morning, sweetheart. Promise?”
And God help me, I did. I promised.
I sat up half the night staring at that damn package. Wondering.
Wondering what was in it, sure, but more than that. Wondering why he hadn’t taken advantage of my arousal. Why he hadn’t fucked me.
I’d been ready. Dribbling. Drooling for it. He could have demanded anything and I would have complied. I shivered at the thought, the implications of his hold over me.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t taken the advantage he’d clearly won.
Why not?
My heart stilled as a lowering prospect slithered through me. Had I read this wrong? Had I only been a toy in their game?
An unbearable, humiliating thought given my savage, inconvenient craving for him. I did not want to share.
I had no business feeling such burning envy, such blinding jealousy. But I couldn’t help myself from wondering…had he fucked her? Was he fucking her now?
The image flooded my mind and right on its tail, hot thrashing hunger. A gnawing ache.
More than anything, I yearned for a strong dominating man—I always had. But they’d never failed to disappoint me.
Was he different than my ex had been? Or worse?
As I curled up in my cold lonely bed, one question swirled in my mind. What torment would tomorrow hold?
Chapter Three
Monday
Tomorrow, it seemed, held aggravation. And plenty of it.
I put off opening the box until after breakfast. I sat there for a long while, sipping my coffee and glaring at the package sitting on the table like a two-headed snake. It wasn’t that I was scared to open it. Well, maybe a little.
Turns out, that was a good instinct.
When I finally opened it and looked inside, I nearly closed it back up, stormed across the hall and threw it in his face. It was an elaborate kinky version of a G-string. A series of straps, really, attached to a long V-shaped piece of rubber. The rubber was studded but the studs were random, of varying sizes and heights, designed specifically to rub against my clit, to drive me mad with wanting.
He wanted me to wear this? All day? I was furious. Then I saw the note.
Slowly, I opened it and scanned his bold, stocky script. And through my fury, my arousal began to bubble.
Wear this beneath your skirt, it said, and nothing else. I want to think of you walking around all day with your pussy exposed, your clit throbbing and your cunt lips parted and moist. I want you to remember how vulnerable you are. Remember how hot you are. I want you to think about it. All day. Think about it as you dampen the leather of your chair in the boardroom. I want you to rock into it while others are droning over their boring presentations. And I want you to think of me. Thinking of you. Wanting you. All day.
Okay. I was tempted. More than tempted. But—I’m sorry to say—the fear won out. I have never liked cowards and never liked the thread of cowardice in myself. But I went through hell in my first marriage to a dominating man. Little games like this had been so hot then. But they’d turned ugly quick.<
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And this just didn’t feel right. So I didn’t put it on. I didn’t wear it. As much as a part of me wanted to, I couldn’t do it.
I spent all day thinking about him though, as he had so commanded. But probably not in the way he’d intended.
I thought about that woman and what we’d done. What he’d made me do. I thought about the fact that he hadn’t fucked me last night but she’d still been there when I left. That he’d probably fucked her and fucked her good. And it pissed me off.
He was a gorgeous man, the epitome of all my wet dreams rolled into flesh. And he was attractive to me in so many other ways. But if I gave in to him, if I let myself fall for him and he kept seeing her—or any other woman—it would destroy me.
It had happened before. It’d taken me years to find myself again.
My aggravation only heightened when the new owner of our company, Jackson Carter, stood us up for a meeting. And not just any meeting—our very first meeting, one my team and I had been working weeks to prepare for. None of them cared much. In their opinion it just delayed the death knell many were expecting. And they got donuts.
But I was livid.
My mood was so bad that when my secretary saw me coming toward her in the hall, she whirled around and headed the other direction.
Not my best day.
By the time I got home, I was ready for battle. Ready to tell him what I thought about him and his sleazy girlfriend and his tawdry games and his lurid G-string. He didn’t meet me in the elevator so I stormed over to his penthouse and pounded on the door.
He answered in gray flannel darkened with sweat. Oh crap. He’d been working out. The scent of him, of hot hard man, wafted to my nostrils and my resolve nearly crumbled. He was so fricking gorgeous. I wanted to lick him. But I was angry, I reminded myself.
The first words out of my mouth weren’t what I intended. “Where is she?”
He stood back and allowed me entrance. I blew through the living room and into the bedroom. He followed, hands tucked into deep pockets. “Gone.”
I snarled, “Gone where?”
“Away. She won’t be back.”
That gave me pause but I was still in a tizzy. An entire night fretting over this, an entire day fuming at him, had taken its toll on my sanity. Certainly on my patience.