Love Letters Volume 1: Obeying Desire

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Love Letters Volume 1: Obeying Desire Page 4

by Ginny Glass, Christina Thacher, Emily Cale, Maggie Wells


  He stepped forward, placed his glass on a small table that sat beside the cross, and made short work of fastening her wrists, then her ankles. Rising, he brushed his fingers softly under her chin again. Her eyes met his.

  “Tell me to stop.”

  “Red.”

  “Good girl. Tell me to slow down.”

  “Yellow.”

  “Excellent. Tell me why I shouldn’t just leave you here for everyone to look at all night.” Cameron loved the way her big brown eyes flew wide. He retrieved his glass and stood in front of her, waiting silently. After a few moments, he took a step back.

  “No! I—because I want you to touch me, Sir.”

  Cameron nodded, “Good for starters. Where would you like to be touched?”

  Lane leveled her eyes at him, lowered her lids. A very pretty flush crept up her neck to her cheeks. “Everywhere. Anywhere you like.”

  “Anyone here could touch you just as well, yes? There are men looking at you right now, wishing you belonged to them.”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Then tell me why.” Cameron suddenly burned to know, to know that Lane didn’t think he was some whack-job, puffed-chest hack of a cop, some egomaniac who thought the badge and gun gave him power—over the poor sap he had shot, over her. The perp he’d put down had taken the decision out of his hands. Lane would be the one making the decision here.

  “Because I only trust you, Sir.”

  He stopped midsip and looked over the rim of his glass at her. Something strangely warm suffused his chest. A small crowd was gathering around them. The bartender had left his post behind the bar to watch their scene.

  “Good.” He sipped the nectar again, letting the liquid pool under his tongue. He’d bought the drink with Lane in mind—her creamy peach skin, the ripe sweetness of her responses. Stepping forward and setting the glass aside again, he leaned over and brushed his lips over her right nipple. He opened slightly and rolled his tongue, letting the drink, hot from his mouth, trickle over her nipple and down over her chest.

  She gasped and arched away from the cross. Cameron drew back and blew a cool breath across the warm nectar. She moaned. He followed the trail down her midsection, dipped his tongue into her bellybutton. He cupped her hips, feathered his thumbs over her hipbones, the curves unnaturally slick with the tight latex stretched across them.

  “I want you to tell me about the last time you touched yourself.”

  Cameron had fantasized about Lane for agonizing weeks. He wanted to know if she’d done the same. He looked up to find her eyes closed, her lips parted, her face flush and bright.

  “Open your eyes.”

  *

  Lane opened her eyes and looked down at Cam. When she didn’t reply, he stood and walked to a stand of whips and floggers that stood on the platform with them. Rolling up his sleeves, he picked up a galley whip and came to stand in front of her.

  “Let’s start with when.” He was gorgeous, and she was on fire from just the simple touches of his mouth, his hands that he’d allowed so far. She would die in a puddle of red-hot need if he made her recount how she’d finally managed to get sleep last night. How the hell did he know, anyway?

  Lane swallowed thickly. “Last night.” She saw the surprise flicker in the cool blue of his eyes. Screw it, she might as well be honest.

  He lifted the galley whip and trailed it over her shoulder. “After our session or before?”

  “After.”

  This time he controlled the flash in his eyes, but she saw the small smile that he nearly didn’t hide. He ghosted the galley over her other shoulder and her skin raised in goose bumps.

  “Tell me what you did. Details. If you speak without pausing, I will make you feel unbelievably good. If you stop before I tell you to, the whip will hurt.”

  Lane couldn’t catch her breath. The galley was sliding over her nipples, brushing her belly, the tops of her thighs through the skirt. He played it lightly from her knees down to her feet and then back up. Her tongue reflexively moistened her lips. The words that started coming were in a raspy, yearning tone she didn’t recognize as her own.

  “I got home and took off my corset, my skirt. I left on my heels. They made me feel sexy.”

  “Very good. You looked amazing in them.”

  “I turned off all the lights in my bedroom. I pictured you there, in the dark, with me.”

  Cam swept the tails of the galley across her ribs, more pronounced this time, the swish of the leather a sweet sting. Lane was never more aware that she was helpless, that the bartender was watching them, that they had to make this real.

  “I was already wet from our scene. I didn’t bother with any other touching. I slipped my fingers down my stomach, the insides of my thighs.”

  “You were beautiful last night, our scene was perfect. Any man here would have taken you home.”

  “I wanted you. I wanted it to be you touching me, you inside of me, but you were angry with me after our scene. It didn’t help that you were mad. It didn’t keep me from wanting you. It just made the fantasy rougher, hotter. I came fast, thinking about you holding me to the bed and fucking me.”

  Oops. A little too real. Lane drew in a breath and lost what she was next going to say in the shocked, raw lust of Cam’s expression. Long seconds ticked by.

  “And then?”

  She didn’t want to tell him that she’d come once to the thrill of the angry-sex scenario, only to feel empty and start all over, with a gentler, sweeter Cam in her mind. One who held her, stroked her to frenzy, made love to her. No, that was too much out here, when they weren’t themselves.

  “And then?”

  She shook her head. His expression darkened. He grabbed the glass of nectar and drained the rest, waiting her out. When she still didn’t continue, his voice was as dark as his gaze.

  “Last chance.”

  She couldn’t. He drew back his hand and laid four strokes of the galley across her ribs, rapidly. The sting raised her on her toes and made her eyes water.

  “And then?”

  Again, she shook her head. Another four. She couldn’t catch her breath.

  “Answer me,” he growled, and when she didn’t, he landed a final four strokes, leaving her thrashing, panting, desperate to quell his displeasure.

  “And then I did it again, only this time, the fantasy was gentle. You were slow and sweet. When we were done, you said you loved me.”

  His face was unreadable. He dropped the whip to his side. The muscles of his forearm flexed as his fingers tightened, then loosened rhythmically on the handle.

  “Please.” She knew her voice was wavering, but it was an apt reflection of how shaky she felt on the inside.

  “Please what?”

  “You’re angry again.”

  “Sweetheart, angry is not what I am.”

  Lane couldn’t look away from him. Their eyes locked. Flame blue. She wanted to see it again, but not here. Not when they were pretending. He swiped a hand over his mouth and dropped the whip. He came to her, undoing first her wrists and then her ankles, sweeping her up off her feet in a move that had her gasping and linking her arms around his neck.

  “Privacy,” Cam barked at the bartender as he stepped down off of the platform, and the man nodded toward the back of the club. Lane didn’t argue, didn’t bother to think about their operation or the hordes of cops waiting outside, some even undercover as patrons themselves, waiting for the word from Cam to bring this place down. He was taking her someplace private.

  *

  Cameron found an empty private booth, pulled the door shut and tumbled Lane onto the plush red velvet of the circular bed inside. The room itself was barely big enough to hold the bed, so as Cameron jerked the buttons open on his shirt, he put a knee up on the edge, levering himself toward her.

  “Skirt. Off.” He couldn’t even form sentences. His cock was painfully sensitive as he rasped down his zipper and shed both his slacks and boxers in one fluid move. He unclipped
the gun from his ankle holster and put it on the bed above their heads. She shimmied out of her skirt and he shoved it off the edge, grabbing for one of her ankles.

  “Was that the truth out there, Lane?” He knew his grip had to be just this side of too tight—he felt ready to snap, go insane with want.

  “Yes.” Her soft answer was all he needed.

  “Tell me to stop.”

  “Red,” she said, and spread her free leg wide so that he could see the hot, pink wetness waiting for him.

  “Tell me to slow down,” he said, palming himself and squeezing roughly to alleviate some of the straining ache.

  “Yellow.”

  “Tell me what you want, Lane.”

  “You. Everywhere.”

  He jerked her closer, bent and sealed his open mouth over her. The scalding velvet musk of her suffused his thrashing tongue, her hips bucked and her hands threaded near-painfully in his hair. He licked and sucked and even bit a few times, too far gone to do anything but give himself over to the frenzy that they’d been cultivating for weeks.

  “Yes, oh, God, Cam, yes.”

  He growled against her, spoke when he paused for breath. “You like this? You want more?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” She sounded as mindless as he felt. He popped two fingers into his mouth to wet them, though she was soaked enough that it was unnecessary. He drove both inside her, curling them as her hips came off the bed.

  “Is this what you thought of? Hmm? My fingers in place of yours, filling your pussy? What else?”

  Beg for me to fuck you, Lane, beg for me.

  Her eyes didn’t even focus. Her hair was spilling over her hands as she speared her fingers through the unruly mass, her breasts rolling with the wild movements of her hips. “Please, Cam, please.” So close. He needed to hear it.

  “Say it, Lane.”

  “Inside of me. Put your cock inside of me.”

  He was over her, his hand around the thick, aching shaft of his cock, poised to give her every inch of what she’d fantasized about. He kissed her and it was like a prelude to battle—lips and teeth and noise.

  “I have to—we don’t have…protection,” he moaned when she lifted her hips, taking the head of his cock inside. He was seriously considering some desperate form of condom origami that would necessitate tearing up her skirt.

  Looking desperately around the room, he almost whooped in victory when he spotted an ornate basket on a side table. It was full of shiny little silver packets.

  The need in the deep amber of her eyes spurred him to hurry. When he was sheathed and ready, he levered back over her. His gaze locked with hers.

  “Ready?”

  She laughed, but it was mirthless, tense and urgent. “If you stop now, I’ll shoot you.”

  He pushed her knees up to her chest and buried himself all the way in a single deep stroke. She cried out, rolling her hips up to meet him. Their pace was, at first, arrhythmic and brutal, though they both seemed determined to try harder to bruise and claw and take the other completely.

  Cameron felt the tension building, way too fast. He slowed, but Lane scratched down his chest and pushed up, tumbling him back, climbing astride his lap to take back some of the power. Momentarily, they lost their balance and he tipped dangerously backward.

  Lane yelped and Cameron heard a loud crunch that sounded like the wallboard giving way. He righted them and they both looked back—Lane’s palms had punched right through the thin paneling. He grinned.

  “You okay?” He examined her hands, kissed each in turn. As she sank back onto him, he had a momentary flash, a moment of clarity in which he knew how dangerous this animalistic, wildly fantastic interruption was.

  “Never better,” she moaned into his ear.

  Fuck it. He would die a happy man.

  *

  Lane rode him like her life depended on it. It almost did—she was going to die if the clawing ache in her wasn’t satisfied, if she had to go one more night without coming under the hands and mouth and body of Cameron Isley. He was holding her hips too tight, he was slamming up into her with a force that would leave her sore tomorrow, but she didn’t care.

  “Is that all you got, Isley? I thought this would live up to my—” She lost her words and her breath when he yanked her head back with a handful of hair, bit her collarbone roughly. He pounded into her with impossibly more aggression. Too good. Too much. Too fast.

  “Cam, wait, slow down, I’m too…”

  “Close? Me too, sweetheart.”

  “Slow down, I’m going to…”

  “Calling yellow?”

  “No, I…just too…”

  “Take it, then. Come for me. Come on me.”

  Lane’s eyes rolled back at the fierce, commanding words. His fingers snaked between them, caught her clit, the wet knot of nerves rolling between his long, beautiful fingers. “Come on, baby, come on. Let go, Lane. Let go for me.”

  She lost it, clenching around him and going supernova—colors and stars and damn near blackout. She arched back against his forearms, afraid that if he didn’t hold tight, she would fly apart.

  He didn’t catch the first part of her scream, but he swallowed the last. A few strokes later, he was merging his own desperate, harsh cries with her frantic voice as he forced her down one last time. He poured in hot, spasming jets inside her, growling her name.

  After long, dizzying minutes, she collapsed against his chest, grateful but mystified at the strength in his arms even as they slackened around her. She was utterly boneless.

  When she could speak, her voice was choppy, her breath still labored. “Well, that was pretty much what I had conjured up.”

  She felt his laughter against her neck before he spoke. “Hey, Doc, turns out I did have to unholster my gun. And I didn’t freeze up.”

  She laughed too, pushing up to look at him. He smoothed her hair back. His face was languid, his eyelids heavy.

  “Maybe we should work on your second-round fantasy,” he said, searching her face.

  Lane smiled. “Maybe we should,” she replied, “but aren’t you forgetting something?”

  He looked bewildered and more than a little wrung out.

  “We kind of have a case to finish.”

  “If we haven’t blown it.”

  “I doubt we have. Your friend wanted a show, and we were at least loud enough to qualify as a concert.”

  His grin was wide and toothy, and the light it brought to his face warmed her heart. She rolled to her knees, unsteady, and reached for her discarded skirt. As she watched him pull up his pants, her eyes flitted to the two large holes they’d punched into the wall. Something glinted, catching the light.

  “Cam…”

  He turned and she pointed. Even in the low lighting, there was obviously something shiny reflecting out of one of the indents in the wall. Cam climbed up on the bed and tore out the collapsed paneling, widening the hole in the wall. The thin-ply board came away easily, and he reached in.

  “Holy shit.” He sat back on his heels. In his hands he held a compact brick of something wrapped in duct tape and labeled 1K. He dropped the brick and made short work of the rest of the panel, to the bed’s edge. A half dozen more bricks were packed tightly into the small space he’d exposed.

  Lane’s eyes widened. “That’s why there’s no major storage on the building plans. They’re putting it in the walls.”

  Cam nodded, sliding off the bed, scooping up his gun and his shirt. He handed both to Lane. “You’re staying here. I need to go alert the others. Lock the door behind me and keep the gun in your hand.”

  She nodded. He planted a deep, lingering kiss on her upturned mouth, one that turned into a second and then a deeper, more passionate third.

  Cam pulled away with a groan. “I don’t want to leave this here, Lane. We need to talk, once this is all over.”

  Lane cupped his chin and moved in close, pressing into his chest. “Call my office. I’m sure we can arrange a…session.”


  His wicked smile was one she hoped she’d be seeing for a long time to come. He bit playfully at her fingers as she pulled her hand away.

  “Put the damned shirt on. We’ve got to bust some bad guys.”

  Her salute as she stepped back to shimmy into his dress shirt was decidedly saucy.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  *

  B Is for Bondage

  By Christina Thacher

  “Hands in the air.”

  My arms are up before my brain processes what’s going on. I feel his hands come around my bare waist from behind as though he’s going to frisk me. The touch of his fingers on my skin from my ribs up to my wrists is soft but it still tickles. He fastens the padded leather cuffs.

  “You’re very tense, chérie,” he whispers.

  What can I say to that? This is only our third session, and while he’s brought me to extraordinary levels of release, I still struggle to shake off the anxiety that I’ll fail him.

  “Relax,” he murmurs against my neck. His breath makes my skin tighten.

  He gathers the length of my hair, which is thick but a rather ordinary light brown, and clips it to the top of my head. He’s done this before, pinning my hair up. But when he kisses my shoulder just below the curve of my nape, I feel so much more naked this time. I hadn’t appreciated the extent to which my hair clothed me, hid me from this sense of vulnerability and openness, protected me from wanting him too much.

  I shiver slightly. Le Professeur has taught me another thing about myself. That I’m submissive—well, I already guessed that. That I respond to bondage with tight nipples and damp thighs—also not a surprise. But his ability to surprise me by showing me how much I’ve been hiding just by keeping my hair down? He’s extraordinary.

  Marc smoothes his palm down my side and over my hip, calming me. I hear his voice, his accent breathy in my ear. It makes my toes curl. He tells me he’s going for his toys—I shiver at the word—and asks are my cuffs too tight? They aren’t, I say. I feel him nod just beyond my left shoulder.

  There’s a rhythm to our sessions. We chat a bit when I arrive, then move to his atelier, where I strip and wait for his instructions. Kneeling, bent over a spanking bench, pressed against a wooden cross, it can be anything. He made that clear to me on my first visit, a slight smile on his slender face. I’d have thought him shy if it weren’t for that sense of complete control he gives off.

 

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