by Liz Meldon
Fuck. For a few seconds, my vision went black. Black, followed by swirling galaxies and stars. She was so tight, positively soaking, trembling beneath me as I doubled over and blanketed her body. I pushed deeper, bucked my hips, lifting her off the table as far as the restraints would allow while she squealed.
Fuck, this was going to be a good two months.
Teeth gritted, I traced my fingers down her sides, enjoying the way she twitched and squeaked. Ticklish little thing. Good. I played with the end of her braid and moved my hips in slow circles, grinding her into the table. A part of me would have liked to just reach under her, between her thighs, and work her clit through a climax. Instead, I dragged my tongue along her spine, thrilled with the way her skin prickled again, and straightened.
I gripped her hips with both hands this time and pulled her back, as far as I could, to spare her the bite of the table’s edge. Then, without any pomp and ceremony, without any word of warning, I took her—hard and fast. A ragged scream tore from her throat as I pounded into her, our bodies slamming together. A symphony of slapping skin, Belle’s noises, and my groans soon swelled across the first floor, drowning out the rest of the world.
The rest of my problems, concerns, worries.
All that mattered was her—and her reward.
I angled myself on the next thrust, shifting about so I could hit the little sweet spot along her inner walls with each pump of my hips. Her noises became sharper, squeakier. I caught my reflection in the nearby glass wall just as a feral smile crossed my lips; I had her.
Belle came like a wild woman, trying to flail, to arch and bow her back, but unable to move beyond what I had allowed. Her cries turned breathless and her cunt convulsed around me. I fell forward with a hiss, catching myself on the table as her pussy massaged me, hugged me, threatened to drag me into the storm with her.
Not yet.
No, I was determined to prolong her pleasure first. Shoving her back up against the table, I ground my hips against her ass, circling them, bucking them—whatever I could do to lengthen her climax. I even managed to force another breathy shriek out of her when I latched onto her clit, massaging it between two fingers as she continued to ensnare my cock in a vise-grip.
When she finally started to settle, her breathing less erratic, her eyes closed, I grabbed her braid and wrapped it twice around my hand. A sharp tug wrenched her head back. Belle straightened with a moan—perhaps in protest, but I didn’t care. I held her like that as I resumed thrusting, fucking her with hard, brisk strokes.
Both mindful of the strain on her neck and operating under the assumption that my poor submissive was both tired and hungry, I forced myself to finish faster than I would have liked. I could have gone on. I could have stopped, toyed with her some more, and then—but we had two months for that. So, with one final thrust, one that lifted her off the table again, I let go.
I came with a groan, releasing her braid as I fell forward, my forehead settling between her shoulder blades. Like a snowflake, every orgasm was unique. This one hit me like a tidal wave, a stunning release of power and fury. As I folded over her, catching my breath for what felt like the first time in years, the heat of our bodies curled between us, pleasure lapping at me like a wave surging up the shore. It pulsed, growing weaker with each beat, until finally I could stand up without losing my balance.
With a weary, satisfied sigh, I undid Belle’s gag clasp. It hit the table with a wet thud. My thoroughly used sub dragged in a deep breath of her own, then settled onto her cheek, her eyes heavy.
“Are you all right, Belle?” I massaged the base of her neck, pleased with her sleepy smile as she nodded. “Good. Let’s get you ready for dinner then.” Straightening once more, I gave her ass a gentle smack, avoiding the marks. “I’m afraid you’re woefully underdressed.”
Her giggle made my heart happy, and without another word, I saw to her restraints, all the while thinking that day one of this vacation—had been a day well spent.
House Rule #13
Sundays are for Belle to do as she pleases.
7
Belle
Sunday, February 3rd
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!
I knew I shouldn’t have been this excited for a day off. I’d only been here two days. One and a half, technically, if you counted our half-day on Friday. In the grand scheme of things, I was only on day three of fifty-nine. The thought of a free day shouldn’t have had me bouncing around, giddy—but what the heck. It did. Living on a tropical island, with a whole twenty-four hours to myself? Luxury villa at my disposal? Pool? Sand? Sun? Beach? Cinema room?
Of course, I’d make the most of today.
Puttering around my new room, I tossed everything I’d need for a beach morning into my tote bag: towel, e-reader, sunscreen, goggles. The flippers I’d carry down there. Just like yesterday, the weather on Dean’s Ixora Isle was utter perfection. After a particularly harsh New York winter, all this time in the tropics ought to boost my spirits to the moon and back.
If only I wasn’t still so in my head about things.
With a sigh, I planted my hands on my hips, scanning the space for anything I might have missed. Hair plaited back in a braid? Check. Bright white new bikini that made my cleavage look awesome? Check. Sunglasses? I frowned, searching the all-white linens of my freshly made queen-sized bed—one of the house rules: keep my space tidy—then the little glass tables on either side. A flicker of panic gripped me, and then—oh. Sunglasses were on my head. I rolled my eyes, readjusting them for good measure.
While there were a number of guest bedrooms on the second floor, along with an outdoor seating area overlooking the pool below, Dean had given me the nicest one—in my humble opinion. Spacious and airy, much like the rest of the house, it was just big enough that when I closed the door, I didn’t feel claustrophobic in a place that so clearly belonged to someone else. This was my domain, even if it was all white and minimalistic, accented here and there with blues, greens, and browns that harkened back to the gorgeous forestry outside.
Tote packed, I quickly zipped into the ensuite bathroom to brush my teeth. Not only was there a standing shower with a rainfall showerhead, but also a large claw-foot tub big enough for two. Dean had made it clear on our tour after—ahem—our second round of his “game” that this was my space. He wouldn’t enter unless invited, or there was some sort of emergency. Nor should I feel obligated to extend an invitation. He’d insisted that this room was mine, which I appreciated.
After all, not much else on Ixora belonged to me; it was nice to have my own little plot of land inside Dean’s kingdom.
Teeth brushed, flyaways smoothed, I bounced back to the bedroom and grabbed my tote and flippers. While I’d swum in both the Pacific and the Atlantic before, I had never done the snorkeling thing. All my gear had been purchased last month in preparation for this trip—hopefully it was up to snuff.
I shied around the huge window overlooking the gardens below. Dean had pointed out all the flowers he’d had added recently—maybe for me, a thought that gave me a funny feeling inside, but, then again, maybe not. At the time, I’d humored him, nodding and smiling and pointing out the ones I thought the prettiest.
As soon as he left, however, I had closed the curtain and hadn’t opened it since. I didn’t even look out the window of my own apartment. Even though I was only on the second floor here, standing next to it, to a pane that could lift up if I wanted, made my heart plummet into my stomach and my palms turn cold and clammy. No thank you, heights. I didn’t need anything else around here making me nervous.
Because Dean did enough of that already.
This job did enough of that already.
By day three, I had already emailed Penny about some, not all, of my concerns, and as I shut my bedroom door, I could almost hear her voice reading the words of her curt reply in my ear.
Belle, you are getting paid a shitload of money to vacation on a tropical island for two months while s
ome hot guy dominates you. Can you just enjoy it already?
As I padded down the staircase to the first floor, glancing behind me briefly, careful not to look over the glass railing, I couldn’t help but feel just a bit silly. Penny was right. I ought to be enjoying myself. What Dean did to me—I liked it. A lot. I found I liked the punishments and the rewards, reminiscent of teenage fantasies inspired by dark romances read behind closed doors. The feel of Dean’s hands on my body, his words dancing across my skin. The flint of his Dom stare contrasted with the warmth of his aftercare. I liked all of it.
But I still couldn’t get completely out of my head—because, should an escort like a client the way I liked Dean? Or was professional distance a requirement in all scenarios?
It didn’t feel very professional to like him, or to enjoy what he did to me, as much as I did, to think about both as I was falling asleep, fighting the urge to slip a hand between my thighs…
Once on the bottom step, I hastily scanned the first floor, my cheeks on fire. No Dean in sight.
We’d had breakfast together an hour ago, which he had still cooked for me like it was any other day, but since then—nothing.
Which was good. Apparently, I needed the space—on day three.
I plopped my sunglasses onto my nose with a sigh as I slipped out the sliding-glass door near that enormous dining table he’d bent me over on our first night. My mind shouldn’t be racing. I should be in the moment. I should enjoy myself, just like Penny’s email had said—but I knew for a fact she didn’t lose herself in her sessions with clients. She had the professional distance down pat.
I glanced back at the glass, lingering for a moment, pretending to adjust my tote strap. A warm, gentle gust billowed across the landscape, rustling the palm fronds, blanketing me from top to bottom as the midmorning sun bore down from above. In the distance, the Caribbean Sea lapped at the shore. Birds twittered noisily, shooting between trees. I caught their reflections, their choreographed dances, in the tinted glass. Just through the window—that table. I hadn’t maintained a professional distance that night. I’d been lost in the moment. Drowning in Dean, in the way he did what he wanted to me, coaxed out such a ridiculous high…
Swallowing hard, I turned away. Going forward, I had to get better, find a way to create professional boundaries between us—yet still appear one hundred percent present.
Somehow.
Because Dean didn’t want a faker. He’d made that clear with all the times he had told me to be myself, as best I could. To not put on an act. I wasn’t on stage anymore.
But…
Ugh.
Let it go, Belle.
Because today was Sunday.
And Sundays were all for me.
Mercifully, my surroundings soothed me. While the snow and slush and ice and hail of Manhattan’s winter made me introspective and distant, the chorus of Ixora Isle’s nature had me unfurling like a flower in bloom. The breeze carried away my worries. The symphony of whispering leaves and skittering wildlife quieted my racing mind. And the sight of the sparkling blue waters ahead—well, it was good for the soul. By the time I navigated the jungle path between Dean’s mansion and the waterline, pausing at the peak of the little hill that slanted down to the white sandy beach, my anxiety had dissipated.
For now.
And, for now, I’d take what I could get.
Barefoot and smiling, I sauntered down the slope, kicking the sand as I went, and stopped midway between the trail and sea to dump my stuff. Soaring green islands rose up across the water in the distance. Dean had told me we’d take day trips every so often, and I had a whole secret wish list scribbled in my diary with all the things I wanted to do. At no point would I thrust my personal agenda onto him—because Monday to Saturday, we did whatever Dean planned.
Still. As I surveyed the horizon, a hand hovering over my eyes to shield them from the glare, the possibilities really were endless.
Just as I bent over and dug into my tote, searching for the sunscreen to get the spot on the back of my neck that I always forgot about, a very distinct rustling sounded behind me. Shooting up, I whirled around to find Dean Donahue—because who else was on this island? Honestly, Belle—strolling toward me with a folded black chair under one arm, his laptop under the other. He sported an army-green panama hat on his head, beige board shorts, no shoes…
And a completely bare chest.
Corded muscle snaked up his arms. Defined pectorals. One, two, three, four—six clear-cut abdominal muscles and a deliciously sharp V-cut slicing down beneath his shorts.
Guh.
I swallowed hard, suddenly fidgeting with my bikini top straps as he strolled toward me. Unhurried. Confident. He moved effortlessly—like he owned the place.
And he did.
He owned me, too.
The thought had a flicker of arousal bolting through me, my heart beating just a touch harder.
“Hi,” I managed, waving shyly when I realized I’d just been gawking at him—gawking like I’d never seen a hot, shirtless guy before. Which wasn’t true. The Children of Hades were always in various states of undress at Elysium, men too. I’d seen the abs. I’d seen the rippling shoulders.
But no one made them look quite as mouthwatering as Dean.
As he carried on toward me, I couldn’t help but think about what we’d been doing at this time yesterday. According to the house schedule, right now would be office work time for Dean—he had a thousand irons in a thousand fires, so I couldn’t fathom how he had managed to swing a two-month vacation—and taskwork for me. Yesterday’s task had been polishing all of Dean’s dress shoes, naked, while he worked away at his desk. He had about a dozen for me to do, which I’d done sitting up on my legs, ankles crossed beneath me, chest out—just to give him something to look at.
Only he’d barely looked at me. Not while I polished, anyway. It was when I was finished that his dark stare found me. He’d then instructed me to take all the shoes back to the rack in his bedroom closet. One at a time. And I could only carry them in my mouth. No hands.
Thankfully, I hadn’t used actual polish to clean the already fairly-clean shoes; just a cotton rag and my own elbow grease. So, one by one, I’d picked up each shoe, the scent of leather and sophistication fusing to the insides of my nostrils, and crawled from the second-floor office to Dean’s bedroom. Straight to his closet, no snooping around. Still naked. Knees screaming from all that time on the tile. Twenty-four times I made the trek. Dean had sauntered after me for every single one of them, a few feet behind, occasionally ordering me to move faster, slower, to stop so he could slip a finger between my damp folds…
It was fun. For all my worrying and stressing, yesterday had been a lot of fun—and there had been exactly zero sex involved. After the morning session, we’d had lunch. Dean massaged my legs during pool time, admiring my faintly bruised knees, and then we’d played another game for our afternoon session.
While not as pleasurable as his first game on the jet, we’d both gotten something out of it.
With the coffee table moved aside, Dean had scattered ten foam balls around the sitting area on the first floor. Some on the plush throw rug, others on the tile. He would then time me for fifteen seconds, and I had to grab all the balls I could, hands clasped behind my back, and put them in a bowl on the couch. However many balls were left dictated the number of times he’d flog me.
The first time I’d missed six, and I think he went easy on me.
Four the following time.
We played for about a half hour, taking breaks here and there for Dean to check on my poor butt and thighs, neither of which was fully recovered from my punishment the day before. In fact, I had a feeling that was why he’d gone easy on me with the flogger, which stung a little but could have been much worse.
By the time we’d finished, Dean had a tent in his shorts. My hips, butt, and thighs burned pleasantly, and my slick inner thighs told us both just how much I’d enjoyed myself.
House rules and all that. I couldn’t imagine Dean would be all that thrilled with me sneaking into his bedroom at three in the morning, begging him to just let me come.
Or—actually—maybe…
No. I blinked quickly, chasing the thought away, as Dean set his folded chair in the sand beside my things.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. A small part of me worried that I’d made a mistake, that I’d missed the memo and today wasn’t an off day for me like all the other Sundays. After all, we had only been here a day and a half. Maybe I was supposed to be up in his office, waiting for my daily task.
“Fine, fine,” he said with one of those breezy, handsome smiles that had me weak in the knees. “I just don’t have a lifeguard down here, and I don’t like the idea of you swimming by yourself.”
My arms fell to my sides, relief quashing the anxiety. “Oh.”
Dean was worried about me. He’d come down to watch me swim, to play lifeguard while I explored paradise. Warmth fluttered in my chest, the same sensation that bloomed at the sound of his praise.
“I know it’s your day off,” he said, handing me his laptop briefly while he unfolded his chair. He then took the device back and set it in his seat—and I tried not to drool over his muscle, over the faint scent of a musky, masculine cologne. How the guy managed to work as hard as he did and stay in such stellar shape was beyond me. I knew he jogged in the mornings before breakfast—I’d caught him yesterday after I called the office to confirm I was still alive—and there were a bunch of free weights in a storage bin by the pool.