For Sir
Page 5
“Maybe not so good after all.”
She didn’t reply. Really, he wasn’t looking for a response. So she stood immobile and waited. He let go of her. Then a cold, hard object pressed against her slit. Her muscles shook, but she remained silent. He rubbed it up and down her entrance, pushing it once against her clit, shooting a zing of pleasure through her. Then he was slipping it into her, a welcome invasion.
The hard bullet slid into her wet sheath with ease, and she gasped at the full feeling. He pushed his body against hers for a moment, lowering his lips to her ear and blowing softly. “Do not come,” he ordered her. And the bullet turned on, vibrating and pulsing within her. He bit down on her earlobe, and she screamed. He moved back from her, no doubt clutching the remote to the bullet going crazy inside her.
She was close, so freaking close. He pinched her left nipple, and she locked her knees to keep from falling.
“Good girl.” His voice deepened every time he spoke. She loved hearing that note in his words. The caress of love beneath his control. The bullet buzzed into high gear, threatening to break her hold on the orgasm she felt simmering below the surface. He would bring her to that edge and play with her there in just the way she liked.
He knew her body now. Probably better than she did. And he knew how fast and hard to bring her. When her life was spiraling out of control, he was the only person who could help balance her out. He was her rock in the middle of the chaos. A second later, a nipple clamp closed down on her already sensitized nub, and she whimpered.
“Almost there, baby. Hold on for me a bit longer.”
She nodded, unable to do anything but accept the pleasure consuming her. When he held a second vibrator against her clit, her whole body spasmed, but still she held on, shoved the orgasm back until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Until the need to come overwhelmed her need to be strong, to deny him. Until it forced the words from her lips.
“Please, Sir,” she begged.
And almost before the words had left her mouth, he commanded, “Come,” pushing the vibrator hard against her clit, and wave after wave of pleasure skyrocketed through her, pulsing again and again as she came, screaming his name.
Liz started awake, drenched in sweat and the sweet release of orgasm. Before she was fully awake, she was grabbing the pad and pen by her bed with one shaking hand and using the other to click on the light. She didn’t try to sort through the images or dissect the dream. She simply put pen to paper.
Write it down.
That was what the shrink had told her when she’d first gone to see him over a decade ago after moving out of her parents’ house. It was the coping mechanism he’d taught her to help her deal with the rage that had taken up residence inside her until it was all-consuming, to the point where she would pick a fight with someone—anyone—who happened to be close by.
So she didn’t analyze the mystery man who had been plaguing her dreams for weeks. Later, she could worry about what had put such ridiculous fantasies into her head, ones she knew she could never want in real life. Ones she would never act on. Instead, she wrote.
She wrote and wrote until her hand seized up. When she dropped the pen and the bright red words on the page swam before her eyes, she blinked hard to bring them into focus. Dawn was peeking into her window, and tension seized her. Digging her thumb into her other palm to massage the cramp, she stared at the pages of her notebook, unsure she could make out some of the furious scribbles she’d made.
Page after page of writing she couldn’t remember putting down flashed by as she flipped through. Holy crap. She hadn’t written like this in years. Hadn’t been so obsessed with an idea that it forced her awake in the middle of the night and was so urgent, so desperate to be put on the page that it wouldn’t wait until she scrambled down the hall and woke her computer. Scripturient indeed. The word encompassed her whole being—having an overwhelming desire to write.
The early-morning sunlight was pouring into her window now, and she knew she’d never get back to sleep. She swung her bare legs over the edge of the bed and slid her feet into slippers. Clutching the notebook and pen to her chest, she padded down the hall to the office and sat. After popping open the small fridge under the right side of her L-shaped desk, she grabbed an iced coffee. She closed the fridge with one hand and opened her laptop with the other.
Not reading the pages again—not allowing her mind to wander back to her dream—was the only way to ensure she didn’t lose the words before she got them down. The ideas would flit out of her brain faster than she could chug her iced coffee. And that was impressive. She took a big gulp and tried to hold her mind in that space of awake enough to function but not really fully aware yet. She set the plastic bottle down and yawned. Then her fingers flew over the keys as she transcribed the pages. Forcing herself to turn off her internal editor, she let creativity take hold.
When she finally reached the end of the scrawling notes, she kept typing, forming the scene, finishing the chapter, and then writing the next. Her stomach growled at the same time that she ran out of words, and she glanced at the clock. After nine a.m. already.
She saved, backed up, and closed the file, then shut her computer and wandered into the kitchen. As she rummaged in search of breakfast, she eventually let her mind revisit the dream. The mystery man from that dark purple boudoir had been taunting her for weeks. Maybe longer. She’d refused to acknowledge his presence in her subconscious mind.
Never before had she fought so hard against writing a book. Not even when she first realized she wanted to write erotic romance, knowing how displeased her father would be. At eighteen, though, she’d been used to that reaction from him. Reveled in causing it, actually.
That had been the push she’d needed to put pen to paper that first time, knowing how pissed off he would be with her for writing anything that didn’t fit into his narrow worldview. She put a pan down on the stove and turned it on, then poured a bit of olive oil into it. Somewhere in her fridge were the remains of the skillet she’d had for breakfast at the diner yesterday. She found them and tossed the onions, peppers, potatoes, and garlic into the pan, jerking back when the oil spit at her.
“Screw you too,” she said, the venom in her voice harsh even to her own ears.
Images from her dream flashed in her head, spliced with the image of her fingers as they skittered across the keys. She’d written it. Damn it! She’d done the one freaking thing she’d vowed she would never do. That sick part of her brain that had been so indoctrinated by her parents, the one that said she was supposed to do everything she was told, threatened to overwhelm her. As the rush of desire warmed her, shame was quick on its heels.
She knew there wasn’t anything wrong with people whose sexual proclivities were of the kinky persuasion; it had just never been her cup of tea, so to speak. BDSM was no longer considered a sexual deviance, but she was still too damned freaked out by it. She didn’t examine the whys.
Liz pulled her focus back to cooking breakfast, but her brain insisted on mocking her with all the ways she’d failed her one goal—to live her life independently of her past. It seemed she couldn’t do anything as an adult that wasn’t tainted by her crappy childhood. As she ate breakfast, she kept telling herself one thing—she was not going to write this book. It could plague her dreams and her waking hours all it wanted, but she wouldn’t let it out.
When she was sitting at her computer again, staring at the four thousand words she’d written in a single sitting, one word taunted her.
Liar.
*
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Also by Rachell Nichole
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To Sir
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About the Author
Rachell Nichole is a contemporary steamy romance author of more than a dozen romances. She loves writing sassy sizzling romances about memorable characters who have to fight to hold on to love.
In addition to writing, Rachell loves travel, teaching, and foreign languages. She lives in Pennsylvania with a mountain of books and the love of her life.
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