The Lark and the Bull

by Carolyn Faulkner

  She knew all she'd have to say was that it did, and it would be gone, but she couldn't seem to find the backbone to do that.

  A finger found its way between her lips, and she sucked at it eagerly, but it was quickly taken away, as if he couldn't stand it any longer.

  "N-no," she answered breathlessly, going a little crazy when the heat began to rise in her nipples.

  The very same wet digit then began to tease the very tips of each of her nipples in turn before he dipped it, too, into the warming lotion before returning it there.

  "Bastard," she spat, shifting herself to the right and left, breasts swaying enticingly with each movement.

  He chuckled evilly, but said, "Good. I'm glad. You know I don't want you to be scared."

  Her arms were gathered behind her, and something soft and silky—a tie, she guessed—was used to keep them there.

  "I usually like to hold your wrists behind you—I like the feeling of control that gives me, and it's so intimate to restrain you that way. But I want to have both of my hands free to touch you. Tell me, little one, are you still close?"

  Her answer came on a long, low groan. "Christ, yes!"

  "And you know you're not to come until I say so, right?"

  "Buuuuulllll! Please!"

  "No, not right now. For now, I just want you to stay still."

  At first, he lay back—not touching her at all except where they were already connected, feeling her pulse around him occasionally in frustration—and reveled in the exquisite sight of her. She was beautiful like that, nude and desperately wanting, full almost to bursting, nipples hard and tight, literally dripping around him, deprived of sight and the use of her hands, legs spread widely around him as she was perched on him and impaled by him at the same time.

  He wasn't much the picture taking type, but he wished he had a camera, especially since she wouldn't always be available to pose like this.

  Bull ruthlessly shoved that highly unpleasant thought aside in favor of indulging himself in the delicacies that were right there in front of him.

  Finally, he began to move her, and he very nearly came himself at the sound she made when he did—he didn't think he'd ever heard such a deeply hungry moan from a woman. She sucked her breath in through her teeth and tried to wrestle control away from him, but he held her easily to his own slow, lazy rhythm, drawling, "Remember your rule, baby."

  She shrieked at him in frustration, then began to chant, "Please!" over and over again.

  "Shhh," he soothed, and she stopped. "Soon, baby. I promise. Soon."

  He worked himself in and out of her slowly, strongly, skating very close to the edge, himself, and she was a beautiful mess, breasts heaving with each breath, hair a wild thatch with damp tendrils stuck to her skin with sweat, cunt grasping at him desperately with each stroke as her aching, hungry clit remained untouched, for the moment.

  All of a sudden, he sat all the way up, clutching her to him very tightly, one arm looped solidly around her waist, and the fingers of the other finding a clit that was incredibly swollen.

  When his fingers came in contact with her again, she actually screamed and fought to get away, as if it was too much for her, but he held her fast, stroking those callused fingertips over her, the combination of lotion and her own juices keeping her slick for him.

  Bull began to fuck her fast and hard, stabbing up into her in short, sharp jabs.

  He pressed his cheek to hers, whispering fiercely, "Come, Lark. Surrender yourself and your pleasure to me."

  He no sooner finished saying it than she did it, and it was all he could do to keep her anchored over him. She was wild and damned near uncontrollable, but he was more than up to the challenge, refusing to let her go as she clamped down on him with everything she had— screaming, crying, fighting, begging him to keep making her come, then, when she was on round three, begging him not to.

  Bull ignored her, of course. Her first climax had him emptying himself into her, long before he really wanted to, and more helplessly than he wanted to admit.

  But she was the real star and he knew she always would be to him. She took his breath away every time he saw her find her ecstasy—and the fact that she could seemingly do this forever just amazed him. Eventually, he swore to himself that he was going to take a weekend with her and just keep her coming.

  But the reality was that she needed to be in some kind of shape to talk to the team this afternoon, so he let her off easy at eleven or so, gathering her to him in the aftermath as she slowly came back down to earth, clinging to him for a very different reason than she did sometimes, but he was glad for both opportunities to soothe and calm her.

  His hands traveled up and down her back and sides lazily, voice hoarse with the depth of his emotions. "You are fucking phenomenal. Just float there, baby. You don't have to move a muscle."

  And she didn't.

  He looked up at the time that was projected onto the ceiling of his bedroom. They had approximately three hours, so he simply let her rest. He'd get her up in an hour for a shared shower, although he knew it was going to be a test of his resolve not to take her in there, too. He hoped he could find the will to resist the temptation she presented, but he was realistic enough to know that his body wanted him to get as much of her as he could, while he could, so he thought that might not work out.

  He only hoped they weren't late. The chief was relaxed about a lot of things, but he was a bit of a stickler about punctuality.

  In the end, they were only a half hour late, which, considering how much time he wanted to spend banging her, was pretty good, as far as he was concerned.

  Chapter 8

  It had been almost five months since she'd been home.

  But, if she was honest with herself, this place was becoming more like a home to her than she'd ever imagined that it could. Not because of anything she was doing, but entirely and completely because of the man she was with.

  Bull was—she struggled to admit it, because of their shitty beginning—pretty much perfect for her. She knew that this kind of fit—the way they clicked together sexually, in particular—was something that was very rare and unique.

  He wasn't the only one who had been searching for someone and coming up empty—and living near Boston, as she did, she had a lot more possibilities than he did, yet she was still alone.

  But he was…everything. He was smart and funny and had a good job. He was protective and, dear God, he was sexy and the number one reason why she went through panties at an alarming rate. He was the perfect Dom for her, and she knew without a doubt that if she let him, he'd be the perfect Daddy. Lord knows, he'd already demonstrated that to her in the worst of times for her.

  What would he be like to live with—in that kind of lifestyle— day to day? she wondered entirely too often, which only added to the ache she lived with because of him.

  And on top of all of that, she had feelings for him that wouldn't be pushed away, emotions she didn't want to have, but that were strong and tender and refused to be ignored, although she refused to give them their proper name. If she did, the pain when they separated—which she was horrified to acknowledge that in the back of her mind she was still quite certain they would—it would be a million times worse.

  Truth be told, though, as much as she was trying to protect herself from this inevitable hurt, she was already regretting pushing the idea with him that they were only together temporarily, although she was pretty sure that there was at least one big thing holding her back from being willing to commit to more.

  And that was his attitude towards her abilities. He might have toned down his vitriol about it because, at heart, he was a big softie and he was more than willing to help her recover from it. But she didn't think that he'd really changed how he felt.

  This case was a test, and she knew she had a question to ask him—to find out what he really thought now. But she was taking the coward's way out and not asking it, because she was, frankly, terrified of the answer.

/>   She'd stayed away from her real home much longer than she intended to, but the murders had ramped up—there'd been three of them in just that space of time, and they were still no closer to an arrest than they had been when she'd first gotten here, which she didn't think said a whole lot good about her contributions to the case, unfortunately.

  She'd done everything she could—visited the scenes, touched the clothes, even met some of the witnesses or watched from behind a two-way mirror as they were interrogated. Lark still maintained that they were dealing with a woman, but she was really the only one who believed that. Even Holly wasn't on her side.

  "I mean, come on," she was saying one afternoon when they'd gotten together for lunch at a reasonably good Mexican place, especially for West Virginia. "You know what the statistics are like. Chances are that it's a guy. Women don't generally do this kind of stuff."

  "Yeah, well. I know what I feel, and it's a woman."

  "We don't even have much in the way of female witnesses, and we don't have any female suspects!"

  "I know, I know, but you don't have any male suspects, either." The fajitas at this place were amazing, and she wasn't much interested in defending her stance yet again. They were at a stalemate. Why go over it all again? Bull was constantly wanting her to talk about why she thought it was a woman, and she was getting damned sick and tired of not being believed.

  "So—you and Bull going to the Policeman's Ball?"

  She remembered him—or someone— mentioning it at some point or other, but not much stuck in her mind about it. "When is it?"

  "This Friday."

  "Well, since he hasn't said a word to me about it, I'm going to go out on a limb and say no."

  The younger woman looked defeated. "Oh."

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, nothing. It's just that Frank and I have tickets—we usually go—and I was kind of hoping that you guys would be there, too. It's pretty heavy with police and fire department people—you know, the same types all the time going to all of the same things, just like every small town." She took a mouthful of her Cindy's Salad, with its enormous, softball sized lump of chicken salad in the middle of it. "I know Bull always buys a ticket every year, but he never goes."

  "I remember hearing that somewhere along the line."

  "Yeah. His dance card would be so full if he'd just go. I think every woman in town's after him." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she looked mortified that she'd said that to her. "Not—not with you there with him. I didn't mean—"

  Lark smiled. "Relax. I know what you mean."

  "Is that something you'd be interested in at all?" Holly asked tentatively. "I know there are tickets left."

  "Oh, I don't know. I don't really have anything down here to wear to something like that, and all those people with all their problems…"

  "Oh, but you'd be with Bull, so less of that, right?"

  "Yeah, I guess."

  Holly sighed. "You don't sound very enthusiastic."

  "I've never been very social, you know? For obvious reasons. I don't know how to dance, either."

  "Neither does anyone else there, believe me. But I'm not trying to push you."

  "I know. Thanks for the suggestion, though."

  It seemed that great minds thought alike, though, because that evening, as she was trying to recover from their usual pre-dinner fuck, he asked casually, "Any interest in going to the Policeman's Ball?"

  Lark snorted. "Did Holly try to muscle you into that, too?"

  He sat up more. "She talked to you about it?"

  "Yeah, at lunch. Sounded kind of desperate. Don't they have any friends, the two of them?"

  "Well, this place is hardly a hotbed of, well, any kind of activity, and I think she thinks of it as a kind of social obligation—a way to get ahead in the department. She's probably right. The Board of Selectmen are there, the mayor's there, Dale goes, although I know he hates every minute of it, and so does his wife."

  "Wouldn't it help you to go, then?"

  "Probably," he said with a shrug.

  "Have you ever been before?"

  "Nope. I buy a ticket 'cause it's a good charity—they do a lot of good work for police widows and kids, scholarships and such—but there's never been anyone close to me when it came up that I was interested in taking."

  "Aw, that's sweet of you!"

  "Why don't we go? I know I could get another ticket, and, like you said, it might be good for my career."

  She snorted again. "Uh, you wanna rethink that, genius?"

  "What?" he frowned down at her as they lay sprawled in his big chair, which was a recliner that was more than big enough for the two of them. Hell, the thing was big enough for two of him!

  "Well, remember how you—and the rest of the department—reacted to me—and some still do?"

  "Who?" he asked, tipping her chin up so that he could catch her eyes. "Is anyone hassling you?"

  "No, they're not, Detective. You can put down your nightstick."

  That got her a sharp smack on her bare bottom.

  "I was just pointing out that not everyone is likely to be happy to see me."

  "Tough titty, I say."

  She raised her mug of coffee to him. "Eloquent and succinct. Bravo."

  He continued to frown at her. "We should go. I haven't had a chance to show you off at all, and I'd like to. Will you?"

  "You're not making it an order?" she asked, somewhat surprised, but also impressed.

  "No, I'm not. You already know that I'm not that kind of a Dom, I hope. I like you to be independent. Until I don't," he teased, squeezing her around the middle. "And besides, if you truly wouldn't enjoy yourself, or it would make you feel bad to go or whatever, then we don't have to."

  He'd done so much for her, yet asked for very little, so she was hard pressed to tell him no. "Yeah, if you want to, okay. I have to find something to wear, though. I didn't really bring anything very pretty down."

  "Please, woman. You could go in there in a flour sack and you'd be the most beautiful woman there."

  "Aw, stop!"

  "I mean it." He kissed her forehead. "You're incredibly beautiful, and smart, and funny, and I can't believe that you're hanging around with a big, dumb lunk like me."

  Lark sat up and straddled him, wagging her finger in his face for a change. "'If you were mine, you would have just earned yourself a spanking,' mister!" she threatened fiercely, throwing his own words back at him.

  Bull just sat there grinning at her like an idiot.

  She put the tip of her index finger to her chin, trying to remember more of what he said to her then. "'I don't like men being all negative and, um, 'Everybody's got flaws'."

  "You do listen to me!" He laughed. "Then why do you end up getting spanked so often, I wonder?" he teased.

  "Because you're mean, that's why," she pouted.

  "Nah, baby," he reassured, snuggling her closer to him. "Not to you. Only ever to someone who tried to hurt you."

  She reached back to rub a bottom that had rarely been allowed to return to its natural color since they'd met. "Sure seems that way when you've got me over your knee, or grabbing the far side of the table, or bent over the side of the bed, or even your car, if I remember correctly on one recent occasion."

  "Well, little girl, sometimes you need to be corrected, and, luckily for you, I'm not one to let things slip by that need to be addressed on your pretty little backside."

  "Yeah, lucky," she agreed with less than no enthusiasm.

  The entire day of the ball, beginning the night before, Lark insisted on spending away from him, which was something that Bull wasn't much a fan of. He bitched and moaned about it loudly and frequently, but after he'd practically left her comatose from his amorous attentions, he let her go back to the place she'd still been renting but rarely spent time at any more.

  The ball began at eight, and she had told him that he should pick her up at seven thirty.

  He, of course, arrived at seven fi
fteen and waited fifteen minutes before he knocked on her door.

  "Come in—it's open!"

  That made him frown. Someone was going to catch hell for that, for sure.

  "You're already in trouble, you know, kitten," he said almost conversationally. He didn't bother to look around the place, as he would if it had been hers. He would have loved to have taken the opportunity to learn as much about her as he could, but instead, he just stared out the window.

  She strolled up behind him, in the act of putting an earring in that was being a bit stubborn. "How can I be in trouble when I haven't done anything yet?"

  About to tell her exactly why, Bull turned and the words left his mind. And his mind left his mind. He felt as if he'd been punched in the breadbasket.

  She looked as if she belonged on the cover of Vogue.

  "Damn, woman, you are a knockout! You are going to put every other female there to shame, and every man—" He stopped mid-sentence and grabbed her coat, putting it over her protectively and starting to button it up, then belt it tightly. "If you're going to wear that, you're not to take this coat off for the entire time we're there," he ordered.

  She was wearing a figure hugging, spaghetti strapped black velvet cocktail dress that was burned out in a lacey pattern that was more burnout than velvet by a long shot. It looked as if it had been spray painted on and showed entirely too much all of her best assets. On her tiny feet were black patent leather platform stiletto heels, too—adding insult to injury—as they showed off her incredible legs obscenely well. They also added at least six inches to her height. The usual halo of blonde curls had been tamed and teased into a do that was both sophisticated and beautiful. The only jewelry she was wearing were big gold hoops in her ears. Her makeup was flawlessly done, but not overly so.

  And he didn't know what kind of perfume she was wearing, but it smelled like sex to him. She was the complete package—a walking wet dream. The whole ensemble screamed sex, which was why he had quickly realized that he should have insisted she wear a floor length turtleneck. Or a nun's habit. Or a muumuu. Anything that didn't leave her looking like…that.