From Leather to Lace

by Jasmine Hill

  He nuzzled her neck and ran a hand up her side before he slipped it beneath her bikini top to tease and thumb her nipple. She arched against him and pressed her breast harder into his hand as his knee pushed between her legs. He ground his hips against hers as he clutched her bottom with one hand and pulled her hard against him. She felt his erection throbbing and hot between her legs and wriggled and bucked beneath him, desperate for some friction to ease the ache that was flaring low in her belly. She pushed him up quickly and helped him pull his T-shirt off before she reached between them to unzip his shorts then freed him from the confines of his boxers. He hissed between clenched teeth as she wrapped her fingers around his length and stroked him hard. He pumped himself into her hand and pushed her back down on the bed.

  “Baby, I’ll come too quickly if you keep doing that,” he rasped against her ear.

  “I want you inside me,” she gasped.

  He didn’t need any further prompting. They were both close, both desperate to be fulfilled by the other after over a week of nervous tension and abstinence.

  “My pocket,” Maxwell ground out. Sarah dug in his pocket and pulled free a foil packet, which she swiftly ripped open before she rolled it down the length of him.

  He quickly untied the knot of her sarong and wrenched her bikini bottoms to one side. “This is going to be hard and fast, baby—I hope you’re ready,” he growled before he plunged into her deeply, driving himself inside her to the hilt. Sarah gasped at the feel of him filling her and forced her hips up hard to meet his thrust.

  She moaned loudly as he tore her bikini top off and fastened his mouth around an erect nipple, swirling his tongue around the taut bud before sucking it into his mouth. She opened her legs wider, wrapping them around his waist and forcing him deeper inside her with her heels, and digging her fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders. The tendons in his neck were taut with the effort of his self-control as he plunged into her over and over again hard and fast.

  He pulled out of her and pushed her breasts together before sucking both her nipples into his mouth and teasing the taut buds with his tongue and teeth. She cried out and pumped her hips up, desperate to have him inside her once more. He quickly pulled her bikini down her legs and discarded it.

  “Turn over,” he demanded urgently as he whipped her onto her stomach, and, grabbing her hips, pulled her backside in the air. He clutched both her breasts as he entered her hard from behind, plunging his thick, hard cock so deeply that she cried out as he filled her. He stilled and wrapped one arm around her waist, cupping her to him.

  “It’s deep this way,” he murmured in her ear as he started to drive in and out of her. Sarah matched his pace, pushing back hard to meet his thrusts. She was so close, she could feel the pressure building and her muscles tightening. The ripples of pleasure at her core were starting to crest to waves as she frantically pumped against him.

  He nipped her ear as he trailed one hand down her belly until he reached the swollen nub between her thighs and pressed it with his thumb. “Come on, baby,” he insisted urgently.

  “Oh, God,” she cried out, bucking hard against him as the dam broke and massive waves of pleasure crashed through her. Her internal muscles tightened and clenched around him as he thrust into her. His muscles went rigid and he curled his body over hers, clutching her tightly to him before he climaxed loudly, shouting her name as he did so.

  Maxwell held her close to him for a moment, waiting for their breathing to slow before lowering them both to the bed. He lay next to her, his head resting on one arm. Sarah turned onto her back and gazed up at him as he smoothed her hair out of her eyes and kissed her reverently on the lips.

  “Has it really been only a week since we did that? It seems like so much longer,” she murmured breathlessly.

  He chuckled, running his thumb over her bottom lip. “It does seem like much longer,” he agreed. “I can’t believe you are going to belong to me completely.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow but before she could respond to his comment he continued.

  “I’ve told you I don’t like to share, baby. I’m aware this makes me sound like a chauvinistic bastard but it’s the way I am. I couldn’t change that part of my nature even if I wanted to. I don’t mind what you do as long as it doesn’t include prancing around in front of other men wearing those sexy Dominatrix outfits—I want those reserved for me,” he stated emphatically.

  Sarah couldn’t blame him. After all, it had been that exact issue that had destroyed her two previous relationships and if the situations were reversed she knew she would feel exactly the same way.

  “God, the emotions that went through me when Roxy first told me you were a Dominatrix. My mind couldn’t reconcile the woman I had met with what I imagined a Dominatrix to look like. I had to see you in action for myself and when you first walked into that dungeon you took my breath away—though I was quick to hide it. You looked fabulous, sexy and formidable, so different to when I first met you looking lovely and demure. You were like two different women. After that first session I knew I had to have you.”

  “You know, you hid it surprisingly well at the party, Maxwell. I wouldn’t have been able to act so calmly in that situation—pretending that the previous evening hadn’t even occurred.”

  “I wouldn’t be the successful businessman that I am if I couldn’t pull off a decent poker face.” He smiled as he stroked his finger down her cheek. “I remember when you first arrived at my house for the party. I had been waiting for you. You looked so beautiful, so different—like a chameleon,” he said softly. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you—you utterly captivated me.” His caress feathered from her cheek to her neck before reaching her right breast where he ran his finger in slow circles around her nipple. Sarah’s breath hitched as his touch sent sparks of electricity shooting through her.

  “Now here you are with me,” he continued, “transformed, gone from leather to lace,” he said huskily as he continued his lazy caress.

  “Gone from leather to lace for you,” she whispered as she pulled his head down to hers so they could once more lose themselves in each other.

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  The Dark Side: Darkening

  Ashe Barker

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Don’t you just love Beethoven?

  Well, I do. I always have, since I was tiny. I’m just drifting along nicely to his Symphony Number 3 in E-flat major and contemplating the heroic doings of Napoleon Bonaparte—apparently Beethoven’s inspiration for this particular symphony—as my mobile starts trilling. Definitely need to choose a new ringtone sometime soon—this din could be mistaken for a budgie caught in a car door. What could I have been thinking, choosing that? Napoleon never had ringtones to contend with. Neither did Ludwig van. And I don’t appreciate the interruption.

  It’s not even seven o’clock in the evening yet, and I am curled up in bed. I am surrounded by archaeology textbooks although I’m not in the mood for serious reading, and I do have Ludwig for company. But still—in bed by seven and trying to teach myself about the mysteries of ancient Egypt out of sheer boredom is just pathetic. I so need to get a life.

  The phone has somehow disappeared under the duvet. I know it’s there somewhere because the budgie’s still screaming its silly head off. It gets louder after a few rings. God, what overpaid nerdy whiz-kid thought that little gimmick up? A pushy phone—that’s all I need. I get enough nagging from my mother. ‘I just want what’s best for you, dear…’

  “Sod ringtones.” Now I know I’m losing it, because I’m actually talking to myself. I suppose the real danger sign is if I start answering. An uncomfortable thought. I shudder as I shove it brutally aside. I’m fine, absolutely fine. Now.

  On that thought, I finally get my hands on the screeching HTC spawn of Lucifer and drag it out to face the light, punch the passcode into the keypad and answer.

  “Hello, Eva Byrne…?” Always t
hat expectant little pause, my name turned into a question as though I might not after all be me. Wishful thinking.

  “Eva…? Evangelica, is it…? Ange, is that you? It’s Natasha…” A little pause, no doubt to give me time to remember who Natasha might be. It doesn’t work—my mind’s a complete blank. And no one I know calls me Ange. Or Evangelica—unless it’s my mother in a very bad mood.

  “…from the agency.”

  Right, that Natasha. The snooty bitch with fuck-me heels and killer red talons glued onto her fingernails who looked at me like I was a lesser life form when I called in at the Little Maestros musical tuition agency a couple of weeks ago. I was looking for some alternative way of making a living, and if I could find something I actually liked doing, so much the better. I love music, and I quite like teaching, so I dropped off my CV and qualifications with a few agencies, just in case they might have some temp work going somewhere. Natasha looked a fraction more respectful when she spotted my first class honours degree in music from King’s College, London, but rather spoilt the effect by asking me for proof of identity. Obviously she thought I’d stolen the degree certificate.

  On reflection, I think her suspicions were aroused by my skinny black jeans, No Fear grey hoodie and psychedelic Converse trainers, topped off by a mop of wavy—or should that just be plain frizzy—red hair falling to the middle of my back. I’m not your archetypal music teacher.

  My unruly hair is a constant nuisance, the bane of my life. It bounces, frizzes and waves everywhere, and short of shaving it off I have never found a way of controlling it. When I was a child my mother tried everything to get it into some semblance of order, and brushing it every morning became a war of attrition. The hair was winning, hands down, until eventually my mother had one of her Hiroshima moments where she takes decisive, drastic and usually disproportionate action. She marched me along to The Cutting Shop down on Stamford Hill High Street and had the lot chopped off. It curled more than ever in defiance after the vicious assault, but at least it would fit under a hat.

  At five-four in heels and looking about sixteen—I am twenty-two, but like to tell myself I have worn well—I guess I didn’t fit the image of a serious violin teacher as I perched in a trendy little black leather bucket chair in front of Natasha’s pristine white desk, while she sneered down her aristocratic nose at me and suggested I was an impostor.

  I wasn’t especially desperate to impress Natasha the super-bitch—other agencies are available—so she was treated to my scruffy, sullen teenager look. Maybe my unpromising first impression was why it took her so long to get back to me. Oh, well—I need the work so I’d better make an effort now. If humble and well-mannered is called for, that’s what I’ll do.

  “Ah—hello, Natasha, how are you?” Always polite, that’s me, whatever the provocation. It’s my mother’s influence.

  “There’s a job come up you might be interested in.” She pauses to let this sink in, make sure I’m listening. “Music tutor to an eight-year-old girl. She’s learning the violin.”

  I am listening, and suddenly I’m very interested. I need to get a life, we’ve already established that, and here’s one that might just do. I really want a job as a musician if possible, at least for now. I’m not bothered about earning much, and I know that private tuition is hardly going to keep me in shampoo and tampons, especially with the agency creaming off most of the fee. But with my somewhat unique talents I can earn enough in a single evening to cover pretty much anything I might need. This job sounds just right, just what I’m looking for. I can play a mean violin—shouldn’t be too difficult to teach a little girl the basics. I put Ludwig on pause for a few minutes and resolve to be very polite indeed to Natasha.

  Natasha rushes on with her explanations, obviously in a hurry and clearly desperate, which is probably why she’s ringing me. “Valerie was doing it.”

  Valerie—do I know a Valerie?

  “She’s been teaching her for the last three months, but she busted her leg skiing and she’s laid up somewhere in the French Alps.”

  French Alps—all right for some… But still, she’s got a broken leg and now I’ve got her job, so I guess life sort of levels itself out.

  Natasha is still gushing on. “Our contract with the client says we’ll provide a replacement, and you’re it. If you want to, of course… I need to know now, though, because we’ve already blobbed for two days and the client is not best pleased.”

  No need to ask me twice—I’m sold. “I’ll do it. When do they want me, and where is it?”

  “Ah, well, that’s the thing. You start tomorrow, at nine—the client is very definite about that. Doesn’t want little…whatever her name is…ah, yes, Rosie, little Rosie, missing any more of her lessons just because of a broken femur.”

  Sounds reasonable. “Okay, give me the address.”

  “Black Combe, Oakworth.”

  “Where?” Quick flick through my mental A–Z of London—nope, no Black Combe that I know of. Probably one of the new high-rises in the Docklands. Can’t place Oakworth either, come to think. But not to worry, that’s what satnavs are for.

  “Oakworth. It’s in Yorkshire. It’s near Haworth. Where the Brontës lived. They wrote books.”

  “Haworth!” I know where the bloody Brontës lived, and what they got up to. I’ve read all their novels God knows how many times, and I know Yorkshire is up in the north of England somewhere. How far up north?

  Not too far, actually. I dump the London A–Z and start rifling through my mental UK atlas. I have a photographic memory for maps, as well as pretty much everything else I see or read, so I can visualise it perfectly and I know exactly where Haworth is. And what it’s like—I have a mental image of a Wuthering Heights rolling moorland scene. Windswept, dramatic wilderness. These images rush through my head as all goes quiet on the other end. Natasha wisely gives me a moment to collect my scattered wits.

  “But I’m in London.” Stating the obvious is one of my many talents. I’m in North London, admittedly, but Yorkshire, Haworth, is still two hundred miles away. “How am I supposed to get there ready to start work tomorrow at nine? Which station do the trains to Haworth go from?”

  “King’s Cross, change at Leeds, then again probably, not really sure…” Always helpful and well-informed, our Natasha. “But the job’s not in Haworth. It’s in Oakworth and that’s another train ride on top, assuming there’s a station there. These places up north can be a bit cut off, you know. The train’s no good—you’ll have to drive up. You could be there in four hours. Five tops.”

  No station? What sort of place is this? And I happen to know she’s wrong. Haworth does have a station, and so does Oakworth. I must have read about this once, because I know that they are on the Worth Valley line and that quaint little steam trains run along there every weekend, full of Thomas the Tank Engine groupies and railway enthusiasts, no doubt. Not much good to me now, though. I need a high-speed rail link or, better still, a helicopter, not the timeless magic of steam.

  I glance at my bedside clock. It’s just turned seven now, so even if I can set off within half an hour that means arriving in a strange mainline-stationless town after midnight, finding a hotel—if they have one—getting checked in and settled, and up in the morning in time to find this Black Combe place before nine in the morning. Bloody hell.

  Even while I’m panicking quietly to myself, though, I know I’m going.

  “No need for a hotel.” Is Natasha a mind reader now, or did I say all that out loud? “The job is live-in. You’d get all expenses and accommodation, and a tuition fee on top. Shall I tell them you’re on your way?”

  Pushing all unhelpful irrelevancies out of my head—for example, if I felt like being really picky, I could ask Natasha why anybody would need a live-in music tutor—I jump into action. Too right, I’m on my way. Natasha promises to make the call and I leap out of bed to chuck a few clothes in my holdall and grab my violin. I’m going to Yorkshire.

  * * * *
>
  Since my hasty exit from the dreaming spires of Oxford six weeks ago, I’m going out of my mind with boredom. I can’t stand it. The last few weeks of bunking up with my mother have been just barely bearable. She means well, I know she loves me, but she always worries about me and my future. She desperately wants me to be safe and settled, but can’t for the life of her understand what mental aberration made me dump a distinctly promising career in academia—at one of the most prestigious colleges in the world—and show up on her doorstep without warning, rhyme or reason.

  I tried to pass it all off as something fairly casual, told her that I’d seen enough pomposity and pretentiousness at St Hilda’s venerable College to last me as many lifetimes as I might be blessed with, and I am desperately longing for a slice of real life. I appreciated it didn’t sound convincing, even to me, though I happen to know it’s true. Well, some of it. As far as that story goes.

  But by the look on her face I had apparently lapsed into some obscure dialect of Swahili—one language I am not especially familiar with—for all the sense I was making. I don’t think I was able to articulate my present dilemma very well—unusual for me, I’m normally a precise and persuasive communicator, probably because I usually have the advantage of knowing what I’m talking about. But for once, I don’t. I have no idea where the sudden and overwhelming panic came from that drove me to pack in a perfectly nice and well-paid job, a job promising me academic prestige and offering glittering prospects, and present myself instead on her doorstep.

  It started weeks, maybe months ago. I was suffocating at Oxford. At first it was just a feeling of inadequacy. Me—inadequate! I couldn’t work out where it was all coming from. I’m bloody good at what I do. Used to do. My perfectly logical brain told me there was absolutely no reason to doubt myself. But the doubts still grew. They grew into fear, then into panic attacks. I started forgetting things—appointments, names, deadlines. I started arriving late at work with no idea why or how I got delayed. I was losing track of time. And some days I didn’t turn up at all, just stayed under my duvet and ignored my phone as it rang and rang. All the time I was becoming more frightened, more confused.