The Dungeon Fantasy Club

by Anya Summers

  "Blow," he commanded.

  She did as he instructed. She kept her face buried in his chest as embarrassment replaced the tears. What must he think of her? Falling apart like this, with a stranger, no less? After her experience tonight, she should be freaked out that she was alone with a man she didn't know, but she felt safe with him. Unlike her attacker, he didn't make her skin crawl. In fact, she became more aware as her crying jag subsided. Warmth had seeped inside her at every spot their bodies touched. Ophelia was curled up like a cat on his lap, her face buried in his firm shoulder, plastered to the contours of his body. He felt marvelous.

  His rather large hands rested on her. They had stopped stroking her as some point during her waterworks, and were now motionless. One hand had curled around her waist, the other rested on her thigh, teasing the hem line of her dress. For the first time, she noticed his warm scent, a little spicy, mixed with deeper notes that made her think of the great redwood forest and set off her pheromones.

  Still holding the bag of peas she angled her head back, taking in just how masculine this man was. This was no poser, no mama's boy, or metrosexual, but an unabashed, unapologetic alpha male who exuded confidence, dominating the world with his presence. Her body had plastered itself to his, melting in a puddle, and she perceived how nicely she fit inside his arms. Her softness met with his corded muscles, not finding an inch of give.

  He was sexy, dangerous and, studying his tousled burnished copper locks, she had the distinct urge to run her hands through it, to see if it was as soft as it seemed. She knew she should say something, thank him for what he had done to rescue her, and then leave this place never to return. The thought of never beholding the sexy fullness of his lips or the way his eyes turned to liquid metal as he considered her filled her with sorrow—which was just crazy, they'd didn't know each other. But she couldn't move away from him if she tried. She didn't want to as she studied his face, unwilling to break the spell of the moment.

  Neither did her mystery savior, or so it seemed, as his amber gaze regarded her, his eyes assessing her response to his nearness. His long fingers stilled against her, tightening their grip slightly. After everything Ophelia had experienced tonight, the stark desire igniting in her belly was the least expected. It should shame her, but the thought of that rough hand sliding under her dress and touching her center made her breath stutter in her throat. And those damn lips of his were so close, and were just begging to be sucked on.

  Ophelia's sister had accused her on many occasions of thinking too much. Ophelia was the proverbial over-thinker. She never made hasty decisions, usually agonizing over them thoroughly and examining every possible scenario she could think up. But this time, just this once, she didn't want to think things through or worry about the consequences. She just wanted to feel like a normal woman. Acting on instincts, she lowered the unthawed bag of peas to her lap and kissed him full on. His stubble rubbed against her lips enticingly as she moved her mouth against his. His taste reminded her of an aged whisky, with hints of honey swirled in the mix, and made her desire above all else to drink him down to the last drop. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, nipping at the fullness. Her hands crept up to the corded muscles in his neck, attempting to pull him closer.

  He drew back, staring at her with banked fire simmering in his eyes. "I don't think we should go any further, sweetness, you're vulnerable right now with everything you've been through, and it wouldn't be—" he began.

  "Please," she cut him off and whispered her plea, panicked that he might send her away when she wanted to crawl inside his solid warmth and stay there a while. She wanted to lose herself in him, even if only for the night. In a weird turn of events, the last place she wanted to be was at home alone—or worse, run into her sister and have to explain what had happened. She'd have to describe how she got the bruise on her cheek and what had transpired in minute detail to her over-protective—albeit loving—big sister.

  She tightened her hold, pleading with him the only way she knew how. In a move that would normally have shocked her, Ophelia grabbed his hand on her thigh, picked it up and placed it over her breast, squeezing the palm and holding it over her flesh so there could be no misunderstanding of what she wanted from him. Then she planted open-mouthed kisses on his corded neck, licking and nibbling at his collarbone.

  "Fuck," he groaned, tipped her chin up with the hand currently not fondling her breast as his lips crashed down upon hers. He possessed her, was all she could think. His kiss vibrated throughout her entire body. She shifted; wanting, needing to get closer to him but never breaking contact with his lips. The bag of peas slid forgotten to the floor as he aided her clumsy movements until she straddled his thighs, plastering herself against him, and felt the turgid bulge of his erection through the flimsy barrier of her panties.

  This was what she had been craving, what she had woken up at night wishing for; pure, undiluted, and unapologetic gotta-have-it-right-now passion.

  She nearly whimpered at the salacious contact, rubbing herself against his covered member. With his tongue and teeth, he plundered her depths, thrusting inside her mouth. Flames erupted inside her body as hunger overrode any second thoughts about her path. All she yearned for was to feel him inside her. And she wanted more, wanted all that he was willing to give her and then some. She'd spent far too many years reading about passion and now, having glimpsed a mere taste of the explosive passion he offered, she wanted to drink him down and revel in it. She needed to feel his skin under her hands, no longer caring for the restrictions hampered by their clothing. Running her hands over his glorious chest, she tugged at his shirt, pulling it up, revealing the honed muscles she wanted to worship with her tongue.

  She broke contact with his mouth long enough to mutter, "Off," panting with need, her breathing shallow.

  He growled, nearly ripping the shirt off over his head. His mouth captured hers again before she'd been able to get a good look at his mammoth chest. Her hands caressed his upper body muscles, testing their firmness, running her nails over the whirls of dark hair covering his pectorals. He made quick work of her dress, never breaking contact with her mouth as his hands unzipped the blue material. He slid the straps of the dress off her shoulders, pushing it down to her waist and then unclasping her bra until he freed her breasts, tossing her bra over the couch. They moaned in unison as her bare breasts made contact with his chest.

  He shifted positions so that she lay with her back on the couch and he was hovering over her. He took her hands and positioned them above her head.

  "Keep your hands there," he ordered. Then his mouth trailed kisses over her chest until he reached her breasts. Taking one of the pert areolas into his mouth, he sucked on the perky bud. Each liquid pull on her breast shot electric currents of need straight to her core. Her dress rose up, bunching at her waist as she undulated her hips against the thick length of his cock, which was still imprisoned in his jeans.

  One of his hands snaked down, sliding beneath her panties. A single digit traced her labia, her folds already coated and slick with need. He slid two fingers inside her tight channel and her hips bucked as he speared her depths. His thumb rubbed and circled her clitoris, finding that one spot that made her mindless. The combination of his fingers penetrating her pussy, the tugging pull of his mouth working her nipples into engorged peaks, and his thumb teasing her sensitive nub made her say something to him that she'd never said to another man in her life.

  "Fuck me," she begged, beyond thought or reason.

  He moaned around her breast, ripping her panties off with a quick yank. He undid his pants, shoving them down his hips, and his glorious erection sprung forth. He positioned his cock at her entrance and in a single swift thrust, seated himself to the hilt inside her pussy.

  When she would have brought her hands down, he grabbed them both with one hand, holding them above her head. He brought her legs up around his waist and he sank further inside. Then he proceeded, with no further preamble, to d
o exactly as she had asked him to do. He gave her the fucking of her life. If there was an Olympics category for sex, this man would be a gold medalist, a god among mere mortals in bed sport. He rolled his hips in short brutal digs meant to drive her crazy and slow, hard plunges where she thought his big broad cock would split her asunder and which had her begging for more.

  "Please," she whined, needing to come. But he wouldn't let her.

  She was supremely glad for her expertise in yoga as he bent her knees up to her chest, tipping her pelvis up so that he could enter her from a different angle, reaching an entirely new depth of penetration. He stroked his length in a seesaw motion with some thrusts that were long and so deep they ached as they touched her womb, and then short plunges that left her panting for more.

  Sweat moistened her skin. There was a fine sheen coating his chest as his hips picked up the pace, his cock disappearing in rapid succession inside her pussy. It made her hotter, seeing him spearing his flesh inside her. His fingers stroked over her engorged nub, and she felt herself nearing climax. She writhed, needing that shining release that she could feel building.

  "No." She whimpered as he withdrew, only to reposition her so she was kneeling on the couch with her ass up in the air, and head resting on her hands.

  He pulled apart the globes of her ass, his fingers tracing over her pussy lips, and she groaned. Her grumble of frustration turned into an open-mouthed moan as he pounded his length inside her from behind. He set a brutal pace. And she took every single stroke, and reveled in the feel, lost in the bliss of need. She had devolved into a carnal being who only cared that he continue fucking her.

  His fingers dug into her hips as he pumped his length. She realized the mewling sounds she heard were coming from her. He quickened his speed, hammering his cock inside her to the point where she saw starbursts behind her lids.

  She felt him lengthen and swell with each stroke, and knew he was on the verge. He snaked his hand around her waist as he ruthlessly plunged. He caressed her clit with the pad of his thumb, rubbing the swollen flesh, and Ophelia felt herself splinter into a thousand pieces.

  "Ah," she cried, thrusting her hips back in ecstasy and feeling him stiffen and roar his own release as he spurted inside her. He kept plunging, drawing out the orgasm, sending waves of spasms through her as her muscles clenched and shuddered around his thick length.

  They collapsed on his couch in a spooning fashion, his cock still semi hard and inside her quivering, buttery folds. Closing her eyes, she slipped into a sleepy afterglow haze, feeling more safe and protected than she'd ever felt before.

  Ophelia woke a short time later when she heard a male snore in her ear. Her eyes popped open and the entire night's events came rushing back. Arms the size of small tree trunks were wrapped around her body. Her limbs were satiated, her backside snug against his front and she looked down. His member lay against her sex, its size impressive even in its softened state. The spooning action had given him direct access to her body like an 'all you can eat' buffet as he slept and his hands held her breasts cupped within his palms.

  A blush spread and bloomed over her cheeks, she could feel the heat of it scorch her face. What had she done? She'd done exactly what she'd wanted to do. Her mission operative for coming to the club tonight had been to have sex. And she'd done precisely that, she'd had stupendous, out of this world, sex. She could feel all the muscles she didn't normally use were sore and stiff. Her inner thighs felt chafed. Her nipples were raw from his attention. And she felt better than she had in an age. What a night!

  With extreme caution she slowly extricated herself, praying that she didn't wake him up. As much as she had enjoyed being with him, it had been a fantasy come to life and she feared the waking reality. If he woke, it would break the spell of the night, and could end up ruining one of the best nights she had ever had.

  She slid successfully from his grasp after some careful maneuvering. The hardest part was moving his beefy arms. Once freed from their embrace, she slipped off the couch onto the floor. Then she tiptoed around collecting her bra and purse, avoiding the bag of peas still melting on the floor as she clutched her heels. She would wait until she was out of his loft before slipping them on her feet. She didn't want to risk them clicking against the wood floors and waking him.

  Dang it!

  She couldn't locate her panties anywhere. She eyed the couch, wondering if they were hiding under his fabulous, rock-hard body. Even in sleep he had the body of a demi-god turned gladiator. She just needed to be covered enough for a cab ride home. If she went and searched the couch, she would surely wake him and break the night's spell. Worried that he could awaken at any moment, she decided to go commando. Really, other than during the walk out to the cab, no one would see her anyway. She stretched the material of her dress over her rear and naughty bits as much as she could. It would have to do until she arrived home.

  In a weak moment, she spied his black shirt in a puddle on the floor and stuffed it inside her purse as a memento for the night. One that would go in the annals of her record books as the best sex of her life.

  With a single backward glance at his gorgeous, sleeping form, splayed out on the couch, she blew him a kiss he would never see, and left his loft. She took the same route he had used to bring her up here, exiting into the club, which was still going strong even at this late hour.

  Ophelia departed Dungeon Pleasures, sliding into a waiting cab, heading back to her real life in Burbank. It wasn't until the cab lurched away from the curb that she realized she didn't even know his name.

  Tobias Ford woke to an insistent knock on his door. He sat up, assessing his surroundings. Finding himself alone and half naked on his couch didn't bode well. His brain was foggy from his orgasm hangover. God, his wounded little bird had been a sweet piece, one he wanted another taste of as soon as he sent whoever had chosen to disturb him this time of night away.

  "Just a minute," he grumbled, standing and stuffing himself back inside his pants. He'd never gotten around to taking them off all the way—he'd been in too much of a hurry to slide inside her slick pussy. He rarely ever lost his control during sex. He'd learned through years of training, just like with his military background, how to hold off his own pleasure until he'd brought a sub her release. Tonight had been an amalgam. She'd set his soul on fire with her pouty, trembling lips, large, sad doe eyes, and killer body. She'd surprised him with her boldness, something he didn't think she normally was, and he'd allowed her to set the tone initially. He hadn't counted on her driving him wild with those two little words. Her breath had hitched when she'd asked him fuck her; like she'd been terrified he'd turn away from her. He'd heard the words before, but never had they been uttered by such an innocent, nor brought forth his protective Dom urges in quite that way. He'd needed to possess her then, brand her so that no man would ever quite leave their mark on her the way he did.

  He shuffled to the door. Where was his little visitor, anyway? Bathroom maybe?

  He yanked open the door with a yawn and his club shift manager, Bret, stood there with the deposit bag. Tobias liked Bret. He was a good manager, a patient, gay Dom who was always smartly dressed, and a softy when it came to women in need.

  "We took in a larger haul tonight, boss, and since you were finally free, I wanted to drop it with you," Bret said, grinning with a knowing glance; bro code for, 'Dude, you got some, sweet!'

  "What do you mean since I'm finally free?" Alarm bells sounded in Tobias's brain.

  Bret replied, "Our little damsel in distress, mon enfant, the one you rescued earlier, left the club about fifteen minutes ago."

  She was gone. Why that should bother him, he wasn't sure. Normally he'd be happy he didn't have to make small talk with a woman he never planned on seeing again. He typically avoided spending more than a night with one woman. He preferred variety and, more than that, remaining unattached. That way he didn't have to worry about having one of his episodes and scaring, or worse, physically harming t
hem. His PTSD on bad nights could be brutal, and Tobias hadn't allowed himself to get close to anyone since his ex had walked out on him four years prior.

  "Ah, I see." Tobias ignored the question in Bret's eyes. He was not going to talk about his interlude that evening. He had never even gotten her name, and now his sexy little wounded bird had flown the coop. Son of a bitch. He could still taste her sweetness, a blend of honey and vanilla, on his tongue, and craved more.

  "Thank you, Bret. I'll get it done in the morning." He slammed the door on his sputtering manager. Tonight had been the first night since he had returned from the Middle East on which he had not woken up sweating with images of blood, bombs, and bodies—and he knew, deep down, that his little bird was surely the cause.

  Even if he had to move heaven and earth, he would find her.

  Chapter 2

  Mid-October

  How could it be positive?

  The display on the pregnancy test confirmed Ophelia's worst fear. She was pregnant. As in: she was now a statistic in the unwed mothers category.

  Well, that's what happens to women who have sex without protection.

  She groaned. They hadn't even used a condom for pity's sake. Who in the twenty-first century didn't use condoms during sex? She did, that's who. She couldn't even wrap her brain around the potential STDs she could have caught with her carelessness, and she'd never even considered the possibility that she could get pregnant. It hadn't even been on her radar. She wasn't on the pill because it didn't tend to agree with her system—and, let's face it, that night had been the first time in roughly two years that she'd had sex. While it had been a bizarre night from start to finish, she'd never done anything so stupid in her life. Ophelia didn't even know his name, and now she was carrying his child.

  For all her bookish brains, when it came to real life outside of eighteenth century literature, Ophelia was lost. How could she have let this happen? All of her well thought out plans, her dreams for her life went up in smoke as she stared at the screen that blared she was pregnant. She'd need an income that wasn't the pitiful stipend she was paid through the university that helped her afford her education. She'd have to find him, tell him that he was going to be a father. Maybe learn his name, see if he wanted to be a part of his child's life.