A bubble of emotion caught in her throat. “It is?”
“Yes, damn it, woman, you’ve got under my skin, no one else ever has, not like you.” He hooked the crook of his index finger beneath her chin. “We’re perfect together.” He quieted his voice. “More than perfect, we were made for each other.”
Marie couldn’t speak. This was more than she’d ever dared hope. She’d prayed that maybe he’d spend another year in New York and she’d continue to be his Friday submissive, but never dared hope for this.
He wanted her to stay? Tonight, tomorrow and the next day?
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Say you’ll be mine.” He dropped to his knees and took her hands in his, rested them on his cheek. “I want you in every sense of the word. I want to introduce you to my family as my woman. I want to show you off at the finest restaurants and the most exclusive clubs. I want to take you around the world, share experiences, climb mountains, visit the Seven Wonders. I want you. You. In my life, that’s it. What I want.”
Marie stared down at her Master on his knees at her feet. “You really want all of that? And me?”
“Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent. It’s the only way forward for us.” He nodded and kissed her hands. “You see me for me, not some rich bloke who’s obsessed with his empire. Not some Dom who can deliver pain and pleasure. You get me, I know you do. My faults, my kinks, my drive to succeed.”
“Yes,” she said, stroking his hair. “I do. I see all of you.”
“So please. Stay and be mine. I’ll buy you a collar tomorrow, whatever you want in it, diamonds, rubies, anything.”
“A collar?” Marie had never worn a collar. Of course she knew of them what they meant, but…
“I want to own you, and by that I mean love and protect you, bring you pleasure and make sure that your life is full and rich with experience and give you the opportunities to fulfil your dreams of designing.”
Marie’s eyes filled; she could see the small shelf of tears sitting on her lower lid. “Really? You want all of that?”
“Yes, really.” He stood and cupped her face. “Be mine. Damn it, I really love you. More than anything, and there is still so much of you I don’t know that I want to love.”
As tears overflowed, a sob erupted from her. “I love you too. I want all of that, but most of all I want to be yours, wherever you are in the world, whatever you’re doing, I want to be with you and be yours.”
“Oh, God,” he groaned then kissed her hard. When he pulled back his face held relief. “Thank fuck for that.”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t want to be yours?” she said, running her hands over his chest, her palms catching on his nipples. “After all this time, after all this?”
“I can never quite tell with you,” he said. “You’re different, you keep me guessing. I can’t always read you.”
She smiled at that. Different. Yes, she was. “So maybe we should go back to bed and seal the deal.”
“I think that sounds like an excellent plan.” He pushed his hips forward, his hard cock nudging into her belly. “But set the alarm. We have shopping to do tomorrow.”
“We have?”
“Yes, that collar and…” He smiled. “My brother Kane is in town with his new lady. We should get you a dress for when we go to dinner with them tomorrow night.”
Marie smiled sweetly. She wanted to jump up and down, punch the air, turn somersaults, and slide down a rainbow, but for now, she’d take slipping into bed with the man who owned her heart, body and soul, and look forward to being introduced as his when she met his family.
In Expert Hands
If you enjoyed In Safe Hands and want to know more about the Ward brothers, grab a copy of In Expert Hands, the full length novel that follows Taylor’s sexy Dom brother Kane as he finally finds a woman who’ll give herself over to him.
Available only from Amazon.
More About Lily Harlem
Lily Harlem is an award-winning, bestselling author of erotic romance. She writes for publishers on both sides of the Atlantic and her novels and short stories regularly receive critical acclaim. Check out her website for details of all her books which include male/female pairings, male/male and her favourite, ménage a trois. Lily writes full time and is sure to have something that will heat up your eReader.
Website http://www.lilyharlem.com
Blog http://www.lilyharlem.blogspot.co.uk
Confetti and Collars
Harlem Dae
You’ve got a gold-plated vibrator lodged in your cunt and you’re naked in the dark on your hands and knees. Waiting. Isn’t that always the way with him? The waiting’s the best part, though. Isn’t it? Yes, you whisper, yes, it is.
Affirmation, that’s another delicious thing. As well as the spanking, his filthy words, the prickle in the air when he’s behind you and you have no idea where he is. Not exactly. But that’s yet another bit of excitement to add to your list. Fuck, you may as well say everything he does is love, love, loved. Because it is. He’s your everything, your reason for being here.
For waiting.
Something clicks, and the shadows surrounding you are lightened a little. Not much, but enough that black has turned to dark grey.
“You have no idea how delightful your cunt looks stretched around that vibe,” he says, his voice floating through the murkiness.
They seep inside you, his tones, warming you to your bones. Centres you, gives you something to latch onto. In here his wealth and status means nothing; he’d be Master if he swept the roads for a living rather than running a global conglomerate. You’d still latch like a lost lamb, cling to the energy his presence generates.
He’s to your right, as far as you can tell, and that’s where he always stands when he’s getting ready to strike your arse. Perhaps that click was him turning on his small torch—he’d said he might well use it.
How long have you been in this position? You have no idea. Time ceased to exist a while ago. You’re used to staying in one place, have the art of remaining still down to a T. He taught you how to go inside yourself, to block out the pain that comes with being immobile, your mind somewhere far away from your body.
“It’s a beautiful sight, that cunt of yours,” he says.
And the cunt in question spasms, grips the wide sheath, and you get that glorious tingle in your clit. The one that will soon spread throughout your engorged slit then radiate until your whole body’s consumed with bliss. The ultimate goal, that’s what the explosion of that tingle is, to come so hard you don’t know what your name is. What day it is.
Is it possible that he can make you forget the latter? After all, the day, this day, has been something you’ve been looking forward to for a long time. The date, the time imprinted on your mind, a brand that has constantly reminded you of what you’re prepared to do. How you’re prepared to live. Who you’re prepared to live with.
“It looks like your mouth does when I’ve shoved my cock in there. And you like it shoved, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir,” you say, breathless, because he’s right.
You love consensual violation, the way he treats you like a whore at times, using, abusing in the most debase acts. The dirtier, the more taboo the better. It suits you, fits like the proverbial glove, snug and warm. You wonder what he has in mind for today, what he’s cooked up in that brilliant mind of his while he’s been chairing a board meeting. And he is brilliant. A shining beacon on the horizon of your soul, the only thing that makes you complete.
You quiver, drowning in anticipation. You’re lost to it, your senses flying free, reaching out to seek any change in the air, any shift of movement, any indication as to what he’s going to do next. He doesn’t usually say beforehand, no real details anyway, and that’s how you like it. Going in blind. He knows your limits, wouldn’t push you past them for all the riches in the world.
He loves you, doesn’t he?
Yes, he does.
“Tonight I want to try something a little different,” he says. “A step up, so to speak, with regards to pain. You’re ready for that now, aren’t you?”
You nod, eager for him to get on with it, then realise he may not have seen your movement. “Yes, Sir.”
Heart beating harder at the knowledge he’s going to ramp it up a bit, you stare at the wooden floor you can’t even see to steady yourself, ensure that you don’t teeter. If you do, he’ll pause, query whether you’re all right to go on, and that would spoil things. Everything must be perfect in this scene. It’s an important one.
“I have a new toy, pet.”
Stomach rolling, you immediately imagine what it could be. Already a flogger, whip, tawse and paddle sit in his leather case. Mind in overdrive, you berate yourself for not looking inside that case when you arrived. Safe, that’s what you’ve become. Cocooned in it, held captive by it, and that’s how it should be. You trust him more than you trust yourself.
But wouldn’t it be better to have a slight edge to any given situation? Isn’t it better not to assume that things will always be this way? He’s proved that just now, that at the point when you thought it was time to fully relax, that you knew what was likely to happen and when, he’s going to mix it up.
Tonight was never going to be normal play anyway, was it? You knew that without him having to say. It’s a given. Tonight is something you’ve both been heading towards, something you both want. To scream out to the world that you belong.
Money has nothing to do with it—you’ve found home, with each other, that’s what this is about.
Exciting, isn’t it?
Again you nod, welcoming that feeling you had when you first met him, the heady rush of lust and love. It’s faded a bit over time, you and him busy forming patterns, stability, trust. But now he’s bowled you over with his statement, making you realise that you shouldn’t underestimate him. Of course he’s the kind of man to want more, to try new things. How could you have forgotten that trait of his?
Ah, you got comfortable, is that it? You allowed yourself to forget to keep things fresh. He hasn’t, and that’s a good sign. He wants to make every scene special, but this scene? It has to be spectacular.
A spotlight comes to life, growing hot on your arched back, casting you in a circle of light. That wooden floor you couldn’t see is stark now, old, the varnish long gone owing to many feet walking across it over the years. Your knees ache, but if you shift your legs apart even the tiniest bit, you risk that vibrator sliding out of your cunt. No relaxing of those muscles now. Keep everything tight. You’re fully exposed, and it isn’t just him who can see you. There’s an audience to consider.
How does your first time in public feel?
You blush, but not because your cunt and arse point towards a room full of people. No, you’re nervous, you want to get this right. Give those people out there something worth watching, something they’ll remember and possibly use later while alone. They’ll conjure up the image of you, displayed for all to see, and wank themselves to the visual you’re creating now.
“I will warn you that this will hurt, pet—more than usual.”
There has only been one time where the pain became unbearable, and that was at the beginning. Your first experience of being struck with a bullwhip burned, had you thinking your arse was literally on fire. Remember that? Remember the intensity and how you’d teetered on the brink? Your safe word lingered on your tongue, ready to be spilled out along with your rasping breaths, and oh, it had taken such self-control not to scream it out.
“Good girl,” he’d said. “Such a good, good girl.”
The memory of it fires you up, has your cunt throbbing. The vibrator bobs in time with the spasms, and someone gasps, someone else groans. They know, don’t they, that you’re thinking, that rude thoughts have made the toy move like that. They know because they’ve been in your situation, perhaps not for the same reason as you, but there all the same.
He takes a couple of steps towards you, his thickened presence tells you that, and the wooden boards creak. The sound splinters your nerve endings, sending spikes of electricity careening through your body. You shiver, let the sensations spread and dance. Hold your breath until your head spins. He presses a hand to your arse cheek, and you jump, remember to breathe. With circular movements, he warms your skin. You rock slightly from the attention, tiny shards of pain pinging from your knees and up your thighs. Delicious, that’s what this is, the preparation before the finale, the practice before the real deal.
“Your arse is hot, pet. So very hot. Almost ready to take the gift I have for it.”
Gift. He always calls it that, and he’s right. What he gives you is a present, one that is unwrapped slowly, the paper ripped in increments, never wrenched off in one rushing pull. You have to wait to see what the removal of the paper reveals, getting glimpses of what’s on offer but never the full picture until the last piece of wrap has fallen away.
Christmas. Every day with him is like Christmas.
He taps your arse, gently at first, a soft set of beats that become harder and faster. Your skin tingles, and not just where he’s striking, ensuring you close your eyes in order to get where you need to be. You’re standing at the arrivals gate, about to check in. Once you hand your ticket over, you’re free to fly.
Heat spreads from the abused area, the edges of that heat prickly as it meets with cooler skin. With each slap his fingertips get closer to your cunt lips, setting off a vibration that threatens to send you over the edge too soon. You hold your breath again, willing yourself not to allow the tendrils of pleasure to change into something much stronger. No, now isn’t the time to indulge, to come. You’re only allowed to do that when he tells you so.
His strikes are harder now, a couple of seconds between each one as he undoubtedly lifts his hand further away in order to give you a good whack. And they’re good, so bloody good—the best.
“Nearly there, pet,” he says, smacking, smacking, smacking.
You imagine what the audience are viewing, jealous that the mirror you normally look into when in a scene is absent. You can’t see his face, can’t know when he closes his eyes briefly, the usual indication that he’s composing himself, trying not to come. Always alert to your needs, this Dom of yours. The perfect man, perfect partner who will look after you for all of time in all four corners of the globe.
Is the floppy lock of his fringe swinging? Do his cheeks hold a dark blush from exertion and pleasure? The visuals are getting to you, aren’t they? You bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying out. Your nipples have joined the party, hardening, their growth tugging your breasts. Pressing your fingertips into the floor, you breathe through your nose, the intake of oxygen like an eraser on your mind, wiping everything away until all that is left is a whiteboard.
A whiteboard you can fill with whatever you desire.
And desire is the key word, isn’t it. Desire for him, desire to please, desire for the sub-space that removes everything except painful pleasure.
But today, instead of wanting to completely submerge in that glorious mind fuck of hypnotic eroticism, you want to keep a handle on who is around you. Not the individuals, they don’t count, it’s the sum total. The audience watching this absolute submission and you’re total trust and humbled adoration of him have to play a part in this.
The slapping eases on your arse. The heat blooms so much you feel like a tongue of fire is licking the skin. Curling over your anus, your stretched, wet slit and finally stroking your clit.
A few approving murmurs reach your ears. They like the colour you’ve gone. A violent red no doubt, like the flames of Hell. Though it isn’t hell, not at all, and when he kisses the small of your back and taps his tongue down your cleft it feels like Heaven is calling you.
“Oh, my sweet, you are ready for the new toy,” he says. Again you wish you could see him, watch the way his carefully chosen gold-hued tie swings as he leans over y
ou, see the sheen on his lips, damp from your sweat and from where he’d no doubt nibbled his bottom lip during the last moments of the spanking. He always does that.
You whimper when his mouth leaves you, hating the loss of touch and heat. But you supress the sound because this day is for celebrating, showing the world who you are together, as one, how much you can obey your master.
“Relax,” he whispers in your ear. “It’s coming.”
A pain so precise you can make out individual dots of agony whips down on your left buttock. You struggle to keep the vibe in place as the slices of blissful sting head straight to your cunt causing it to spasm.
Another slap, the opposite cheek. You have no idea what is causing this shocking sensation, a million needles jabbing at your skin in one resounding slap is what it feels like but not one you recognise.
Again the vibe bobs. You feel it slipping, sliding, your copious moisture not helping the situation.
Groaning in dirty delight as well as fear of letting him down you writhe, clench all your internal muscles.
“I’ve got you,” he said, and you know he has, because he always has. “I’m here.”
The vibe is moving, pushing in securely again.
Relief sweeps over you. He’s helping you out, saving you from embarrassing yourself in front of the congregation.
But he doesn’t stop at one careful push of the vibe. Oh, no, that would be too kind. Instead he begins to fuck you with it, swiping it over your G-spot in a push-pull that he knows will get you coming with a gush.
“Now you can all see,” he says suddenly and in a loud, commanding voice. One you know means he’s demanding not just attention but also to be obeyed. Only today, it’s not just me he’s ordering, it’s the room full of people. “How much my sub loves me and how much I care for her. And today, with the spillage of her blood, I celebrate her absolute trust in me and take her into my care for as long as we both shall live.”
Spillage of your blood? Your mind wanders, but it’s hard to concentrate, the orgasm he’s stoking is beginning to weigh heavy in your pelvis.
Sexy Just Got Rich: Brit Babes Do Billionaires Page 27