by Eden Bradley
He blew out another long breath. “If I set it up—and I am not promising anything—then I sit through the detailed negotiations between you two. Not just the initial conversation in which I get him—maybe—to agree to do this. It’ll be my responsibility as the Dominant introducing the negotiations, despite your history together. It’s proper protocol. No arguing about it.”
She nodded. “Of course. I understand that.” She paused, bit her lip. “Not sure if Mick will understand,” she muttered.
He scrubbed a hand over his head. “Two minutes back in town and already causing trouble. What am I going to do with you, girl?”
She smiled at him. “You’re going to help me give Mick Reid what we’ve both always wanted. Each other.”
* * *
ALLIE PUSHED OPEN the screen door and stepped onto her porch. The old wood boards creaked under her bare feet—she’d have Allister look at that.
It was an unseasonably warm and humid night for May, and she hadn’t had time yet to replace the old cottage’s air-conditioning. It was cooler out there, with a small breeze picking up the damp tendrils of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. She pressed her glass of iced tea against her hot neck—not the traditional New Orleans sweet tea—she’d broken herself of that habit in her years living in Europe.
She moved to the edge of the screened-in porch, searching the sky for the moon. It was a small crescent in the inky sky, the stars glimmering from between the clouds. Hard to believe Mick shared this same sky with her somewhere in the city. That he was that close.
It always came back to him. Especially now. Especially here, with the warm, sultry air soft on her skin, making her remember.
He wasn’t the first boy she’d kissed, but kissing him had changed everything. It was a mad rush of heat and need. Startling at first. Then something she looked forward to, craved.
They’d made out like crazy in high school. Mick would pull her aside every chance he got in the hall at school, into a dark doorway when they were walking down the street. His kisses were demanding, even in those days.
A small, soft breath escaped her lips as she remembered, as she closed her eyes and imagined the warm press of his mouth against hers. Desire was a low, steady hum in her system, heat blossoming between her thighs.
Oh, yes, Mick Reid could kiss like the devil himself.
He was every bit as wicked. She’d known it then. Loved it. Wanted more than he’d ever been willing to give her. But things were different now. She was all grown up. She knew how to get what she wanted. And she would find a way.
But back to the kissing . . .
She sat down in one of the wicker chairs on the porch, set her tea on the floor next to her, leaned back, and closed her eyes once more.
There had been those moments when he looked at her—watched her—and she knew he was about to kiss her. He’d pause, making her wait. Make her breathe in her desire, and his. Pure torture, but she’d loved it. Then he’d pull her in hard and crush her body to his, his lips to hers, and oh . . .
She pressed down on her aching sex through the thin cotton of her dress.
His tongue would push into her mouth, sweet and silky and full of need. She’d loved the way he needed her, as if he’d die if he couldn’t touch her, kiss her.
She was dying right now.
She opened her eyes for a moment. The porch was dark—she hadn’t turned on the lights. The street was quiet, empty. She closed her eyes and pictured his face once more, those lovely moments of anticipation before he took her mouth.
She slid her hand beneath the hem of her dress, slipped her fingers under the lacy edge of her panties and found her sex slick with need. She took in a breath, let her fingers slide through her damp heat, over the already-swollen folds.
God, the first time he’d gone down on her she thought she would die of pleasure. It was the one thing he’d given in on—he refused to take her virginity. But that plush, clever mouth kissing her there, licking, sucking . . .
“Oh . . .”
She pressed a finger into her body, moaned quietly. Added another.
He’d push his tongue inside her, then draw it out, pause endlessly, making her wait before he dove in once more, all wet tongue and soft lips, then he’d push his fingers into her.
She pumped her fingers a few times, need swarming her, her hips arching. Then she slid her fingers out to rub at her hard clitoris.
Mick . . .
God, she needed him. Needed to feel him again. Needed him to spank her, like he had that one night. His big hand coming down on her flesh, making her sore. Making her wet. Making her pant with need. Until, his fingers buried inside her, she’d come. Come apart. Screamed his name.
“Yes . . .”
She pressed into her needy sex once more, the heel of her hand pressing onto her mound. She shivered, remembered the sting of his palm on her flesh, his fingers working her mercilessly, milking her climax from her as she shivered in his arms.
“Oh!”
She came, hard, her body jerking, her sex tightening over and over around her plunging fingers.
“Mick . . .”
She gasped his name over and over until, finally, her body calmed, and she moved her hand from beneath her dress.
All around her was the sound of cicadas, a car driving by. She felt enveloped by the dark sky. By the pleasure still simmering in her system.
She needed to do it again, properly this time, with her vibrator, her legs spread.
Desire rose once more, her nipples pulling tight.
Yes, she needed it. Needed to come again and again tonight. Probably every night until she saw him. Until he touched her. And then Mick would make her come.
She groaned, got up and went into the house, letting the screen slam shut behind her, her glass of tea forgotten. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was this driving need.
She moved through the dark living room, past the old furniture and the boxes of her belongings, and into the bedroom. She pulled her toy bag from beneath the high four-poster bed and yanked on the zipper. It was dark in the room, the moon casting a pale silver light, but it only took her a few moments to find what she was looking for.
Impatiently, she stripped her sundress off over her head and flung it onto the floor. She climbed up on the bed and lay down next to the items she’d lined up on the white cotton coverlet: her big vibrator and a smaller one, a string of anal beads, a bottle of lube, some clamps, their metal chain glinting in the sliver of moon and starlight that hit the bed.
She got on her hands and knees and grabbed the big, phallus-shaped vibrator, switched it on and touched it to her clit. It was almost too much, she was so hot already. She bit her lip, rode it out, shivering all over, then spread her knees wider and plunged it inside her.
“Oh, God.”
She surged back onto the big vibrator, loving the way it filled her. The way Mick had filled her with his big, lovely cock.
His cock was thick and long, a heavy shaft of velvet-covered iron. She’d gotten to touch it, to wrap her hand, her mouth around it, to get him off. But he’d never been willing to fuck her until that night . . .
He’d held himself over her, heat coming off his big, finely muscled body in waves. She’d been writhing beneath him, waiting for him. He’d made her wait, as he always did, until she’d sobbed his name. Begged for him.
“Please, Mick,” she whispered, pressing the vibrating phallus deeper.
It wasn’t enough.
She sat up on her heels, the vibe still deep in her sex, and picked up the clamps. She felt the weight of them in her hands for a moment, the cool metal chain running between them, pressed it to her aching breasts.
“For you, Mick,” she whispered as she drew one nipple between her fingers, pinched it tight.
; She pulled in a breath, loving the spark of pain. She slipped her fingers over the hardened tip, caressing, then tugging, drawing the sensitive flesh out, did it again before closing one of the metal clamps around it.
She gasped at the sharp pinch, breathed it in, rode the pain out as she’d been taught to do.
She let the weight of the chain hang for a moment while she prepared her other nipple, caressing, pinching, pulling, then attaching the other clamp.
She drew in a hissing breath, let it out, let the pain carry her away for a moment, smiling as pleasure washed over her. Picking up the bottle of lube and the beads, she coated them, leaned forward, spread her thighs wider. She contracted her sex to keep the big vibrator inside her as she pressed the tip of the beads to her ass, took in a breath and slowly blew it out as she pushed the first bead in.
There was the familiar burning sensation as it reached the first ring of muscle. She forced her body to relax past the burn, past the keen pleasure shimmering through her from the vibrator and the clamps. She pushed it in a little more, adding the second, larger bead. Again there was the slight burn as it moved past the muscle, but pleasure surged just as deep inside her.
Her breath hitched as she pushed it in farther, and she had to bite back her orgasm. She needed to come. But she wanted it all. Wanted him.
Mick . . .
He’d never taken her ass. She’d wanted him to. Wanted it to be his big, beautiful cock pressing into her from behind. He’d wrap an arm around her waist, holding her tight. Making her feel owned.
She pushed another bead in, moved her hand to pull the big vibe from her sex, pushed it back in hard.
“Ah! Yes, Mick, please.”
She started pumping, the motion causing her breasts to sway, the heavy chain of the clamps pulling on her nipples. Pain and pleasure danced through her, from between her thighs, deep inside her. The sensations merged, began to blur, and she stabbed into her body over and over, the big vibrator pressing against her G-spot.
Her whole body was pulsing with the need to come. But she knew he’d want her to hold it back.
“For you, Mick.”
She went down, her shoulders supporting her body, her ass high in the air, her breasts pressed into the soft coverlet. She gasped when her clamped nipples came into contact with the bed, pain a sharp, lancing spark making everything more intense. She had to stop the motion of her hand, let the vibrator rest inside her. Had to take in a breath.
He would want more from her.
She reached back, imaging it was his big hands pulling the beads out of her, pushing them back in, using the motion to rub against the vibe, touching off shivers of sensation in the core of her body.
It was too much. She panted, then keened her pleasure as her climax ripped through her, making her shake all over, blinding her. Making her sob his name.
“Mick!”
When it was over she collapsed on the bed, drew the beads out and laid them on the small towel she’d spread next to her, withdrew the vibrator and turned it off, laid it beside the beads. Finally she turned onto her back and slowly released one clamp. She hissed as the blood rushed back into her deprived flesh, bringing a fresh surge of pain, a fresh surge of pleasure. She took a moment before she did the same to the other.
Groaning, she pushed her hair from her face. Her skin, her hair, was damp with sweat. It was several long minutes before she caught her breath.
Goddamn Mick. It was him every time. It had been for years. No matter the wonderful lovers she’d had in Paris, in Copenhagen. The Dominants she’d played with in Berlin, Amsterdam, San Francisco. It was always him she fantasized about. It was always his face, his hands, his body in her mind when she was coming.
This was why she had to see him. Had to have that one last chance to make him see her for who she was. For it to either work out, or finally be over. Because this had to stop—this obsession with a man who wouldn’t admit that he wanted her, needed her.
Now was the time. She would either get Mick to admit they belonged together or finally say good-bye. Forever.
* * *
MICK PACED THE living room floor of his French Quarter flat, the wood warm beneath his bare feet. His fingers flexed. He shook them out.
What the fuck was with him? Just because he’d heard Allie was back in town . . . Hell, she’d been in New Orleans at least a dozen times over the years, visiting her family in the summers or during holidays. He’d always tried his best to be gone when she was in the city, scheduling work gigs whenever he could. He hated to admit that he fucking hid from her, but he couldn’t lie to himself.
He couldn’t hide now.
He flopped down on the big brown leather sofa, grabbed the TV remote, rubbed his thumb over the buttons.
She was back to stay. Or so Jamie had told him. Inherited some old house in the lower Garden District.
If only he didn’t have such an efficient staff, he could use work as a reason to get away for a while.
An excuse.
Jesus Christ.
He tossed the remote down onto the table he’d built himself years ago from old reclaimed barn wood, and got up to pace some more, ending up in front of the windows that overlooked the street below. A couple moved under the streetlamp at the corner, stopped to wrap their arms around each other. He watched as they kissed, as the kiss went on. As they made out like teenagers. Maybe they were—he couldn’t tell.
He’d made out like that with Allie when they were teenagers. Kissed her until he almost had enough of her. But it was never enough. Not even that one night they’d spent together three years after the breakup, when he’d finally done with her a few of the things he’d always wanted to. Needed to. That had been nothing more than the most excruciating taste of something he’d never have again.
His mind wandered back, as it had so many times over the years, to the night when he’d had to tell her—had to—that they couldn’t be together. Fucking excruciating to see her cry.
“I don’t understand, Mick.”
She rubbed at her damp cheeks. His hands ached with the need to wipe her tears. To take her in his arms and tell her it was a mistake, that he was taking it all back. But he knew what he had to do before he ruined her.
“I’m leaving for college in Baton Rouge—”
“It’s not that far away!”
“I’ll be busy with classes . . . and you need to enjoy your senior year, time with your family before you go off to college yourself.”
“Mick, that’s just . . . stupid. We love each other.” When he didn’t answer she blinked at him, her eyes welling with new tears. “Don’t we?” she whispered.
His gut was churning with the lie he didn’t dare say aloud. “You’ll understand someday that this is the right move, Allie.”
She shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. “You’re wrong, Mick. I’ll never understand. Never.”
Why was he thinking about this now? Allie was the past. But the truth was, he’d never stopped thinking of her. Never stopped remembering what they’d had.
He ran a hand over his jaw. He had to shift gears.
Allie in his bed. At twenty she’d been more beautiful than ever. Her body had filled out in the best way possible, still lean but with the curves of a woman. And Christ, her lush breasts had filled his hands, the nipples going hard the moment he’d touched her bare flesh.
Jesus, her bare flesh . . . the taste of her skin, the feel of her body under his . . .
The sex had been amazing. The kink had been lightweight stuff, but he’d never forget it. He’d never forgive himself.
That had really been the end. And that monkey had ridden his back ever since. Nearly ten years and he still felt like shit for having led her down that dark path. And just as much for having turned his back on her without nearly enough of an ap
ology.
You are a Goddamn coward.
It was true. Allesandra LeClair was the one thing in life he was afraid of.
Not her, exactly. She was the sweetest girl ever born. It was the way he felt about her. Even now, after all these years.
Crazy that he’d never gotten over her. He’d traveled all over for work, almost as often to visit the BDSM clubs all over the country, giving rope bondage demonstrations, lecturing. He’d been with some of the most gorgeous women in the world. But it was always Allie in his head.
Allie and her long, silky hair, her big, brown eyes. Eyes like a doe—wasn’t that what they called it? There had always been something about the length of her neck, the way she moved . . . pure graceful innocence and pure sex all rolled up into one beautiful package.
And totally off-limits.
Which meant he’d have to find some way to stay away, even with her right there. New Orleans could be a small world sometimes.
He stepped back from the windows and went to the console table where he kept his favorite bottle of rum, poured his two-finger limit into a glass and tossed it back, set the glass down. It was good rum, but he still felt the burn going down. Enjoyed it. Needed it.
Because his damn head was spinning a million miles an hour with thoughts of Allie. Her face. Her sleek golden skin. Her scent like a summer evening—that wicked combination of purity with an edge of sinful promise.
He pulled in a breath, held it, tried to get his shoulders to loosen as he let it out. But it was no good. He was knotted as tight as piano wire, and that knot wasn’t just in his shoulders. His groin was pulled tight with desire. For her.
Her face. Her skin. Her scent . . .
He grew hard. The room grew warm.
He yanked his shirt off over his head, ran a hand over his jaw. Muttered, “Fuck it,” and moved his hand lower, over the bulge pressing against his jeans.
He was hard as stone just picturing her. How much harder would he be if he got his hands on her again?