by Joey W. Hill
"Ease this leg forward." Keeping her on her side, her upper body propped against the throw pillows between her and the arm of the couch, he adjusted her top leg forward so that knee was pressed into the wide cushion beneath her. He guided her hands so they were curled around the biggest throw pillow, big enough that she could hug it against her chest and prop her cheek on the top of it. It was a comfortable position for slumber, and the light of the TV and a dim lamp gave the room a dreamlike feel. Sleep wasn't what her body wanted. Dreaming, however, sounded awfully pleasant.
When she opened her eyes, she saw he'd left the couch, was kneeling next to it at her feet.
"Leland..."
"Mmm."
He had a way of using that one syllable to good effect. Not an interrogatory, just an acknowledgment. He bent his head, put his lips on her ankle. Then her calf. He was following the same path his hand had, though more slowly. He held his lips to her skin until the pressure of the kiss tingled through her flesh, then he moved to a new spot to do it again. He kept his hands involved, sliding them back up her calves, behind her knees, cradling her thighs. The first time she felt the tip of his tongue, tasting the delicate crease of her knee, she shuddered. As his hands climbed higher, she thought of all the reasons she shouldn't do this.
You will never use me as a lead or source.
She believed him. But that wasn't the reason she didn't stop him. He hooked her panties with his thumbs and slid the garment down her legs. The cotton pink panties weren't racy, but he removed them as if she were wearing a sexy swatch of silk. Though she had to lift the knee of her top leg an inch or two off the couch to help, as soon as he had her underwear off, he pressed her knee back down, telling her to keep her legs where he'd put them.
Maybe he'd chosen that position because it was a semi-fetal curl, a secure position to keep her from spooking. She was still wearing everything except her underwear. He hadn't taken off anything, even his shoes. Just as he'd promised.
While he was kissing his way along her calves, the back of her knee, he'd been pushing up the skirt, using the restless undulations of her body to free it from beneath her, so that the cloth was bunched up and held by one of his hands at the seam of her thighs, right below the curve of her ass. Now he adjusted it up to her waist, exposing her buttocks and upper thighs to the air, and to him. His sweatshirt was so big it gave him plenty of room to maneuver beneath it.
He tucked the hem of the skirt into her waistband so both his hands were free again. His mouth touched the back of her thigh and she squeezed the pillow tighter against her aching breasts. Then his mouth was cruising across and upward...
A semi-fetal position might feel secure, but he showed her how vulnerable it was as well. She made a noise as his clever lips found the folds between her legs.
With her body canted forward, her knee pressed into the couch, the lower leg stretched out, it was like she was presenting her pussy and ass for whatever he desired to do to them. Since he was leaning on the knee she had against the cushion, he'd effectively restrained her from anything but the smallest rocking movement, something she registered and responded to with one part panic and two parts yes, God. Her position compressed the nerve endings in her labia and clit, making them more sensitive to the wet heat of his mouth. Her fingers dug into the pillow. "Ah..."
That semi-fetal curl also gave his long arms a greater reach. He slid his hand over her skull, finding the longer hair of her pixie cut and tangling his large fingers in it, tightening his grip to draw her head back. It added to the sense of being pinned, held for his pleasure as his tongue stabbed into her pussy. She cried out, and found her writhing body couldn't budge his leaning weight as he started to fuck her with his tongue. He sucked on her labia, swirled his lips and tongue along it, just barely teasing the clit. She rocked against his mouth, yet every movement she made told her she was pitting her strength against a man who easily overpowered her, and not just physically. He simply held her still, made her feel every sensation washing through her. That thought made crazy, swirly things happen in her chest, that odd panic-pleasure mix, but her body's hungry responses wouldn't allow the panic to ruin this.
She'd been with men who thought they were being generous with the oral stuff, but in reality they only stayed down there long enough to get her lubed up before they stuffed their cock into her. It worked decently enough for good, functional sex, so she didn't push them to linger any longer down there than they wanted to do so.
This was not that. She was getting the message loud and clear that he was down there because he liked to eat pussy and that was what he wanted to do for a good, long time. He wasn't working her up to fuck her. Instead, she had the thrilling and terrifying feeling he wanted to wring every possible response out of her he could with his tongue, lips and hands, and he'd use all several hours before dawn if needed to see and feel all of them. He was also very good at driving her toward climax and keeping it just out of reach. The way he was holding her didn't allow her to adjust, to push her clit in more direct range of that amazing mouth, though that sensitive bud was feeling every bit of what he was doing to her. She was so slick that she could hear the wetness as his mouth moved over her.
Other than that, they were both silent, for the most part. She was panting, moaning, making little whimpers while he occasionally made a pleased noise, encouraging her. When he lifted his head, she was quivering, hard shakes like a nerve attack. "Leland."
He stroked her hair, tugged it again. "Do you want to come, Celeste?"
The warmth of his breath washed against her moist tissues.
God yes. Yes. But she found she couldn't speak. A paralysis was holding her tongue.
"What if I want you to come? Will you come when I tell you to do it?"
She nodded, realizing she'd closed her eyes as tightly as her hands were clenched on the pillow again. His hand slipped from her head, stroked over her white knuckles. Tracing the seams between her fingers, he gradually pried them open until they were tangled with his. He shifted their grips so her hand hooked over his, his thumb against her smallest finger.
She made a soft sound as he dipped his head and laid his lips against her cunt again, only this time when his lips parted, his spoken words sent another ripple of heat over her. "Then come now."
As he said it, his tongue slid over her labia, probing forward between her thighs, and found her clit. Just an easy stroke and tickle with the tip of his tongue, a torturously light movement, but that was all it took. She started to come, and thank God, he let her move enough to buck and give herself more friction against his teasing mouth, only now he pushed her deeper into the couch so he could also give her a more thorough lashing in that spasming area. He sucked her labia, stabbed his tongue between the folds again and nipped at her clit as his other hand shifted to hold one of her buttocks in a bruising grip. His thumb stroked her anal rim.
She screamed into the pillow at the barrage of sensations. She was shoving herself against his hold, straining for as much of that mouth and touch as she could get, and he gave her just enough leeway that she felt like an animal thrashing against restraints, his hold intended to protect her from her overwhelming hungers. She had a savage need to tear into him and take, take, take.
A scream became a shriek because he kept her going, working her through aftershock after aftershock that were more like multiple orgasms, something she'd never experienced from any man.
She knew she was coming down when the pleasure became a vise around her heart, squeezing her painfully. "Leland, stop. Please...stop."
He made a soothing noise, but eased his ministrations into caressing licks, his thumb sliding out from between her cheeks and his hand kneading instead of gripping. The way he was rubbing her ass sent little shocks of pleasure through her. Over both cheeks, a light squeeze, then more rubbing, a tracing of the creases between thighs and buttocks, a dragging, tickling stroke up the seam, then more rubbing. Wash on, wash off.
The Karate Kid reference
brought a small, hysterical chuckle that exacerbated the hard thudding of her heart. "I..." She licked her lips. Her voice was hoarse. "I need to sit up."
"All right." He pressed a kiss to her pussy, giving it one last top to bottom stroke with his strong tongue before he eased her up to a sitting position. He stayed where he was so her legs were guided to the floor on either side of his kneeling body. The couch was a deep one, but he gave her back support, adjusting the throw pillows behind her so she was sitting up straight in front of him, her legs spread. The skirt and sweatshirt fabric were pooled together in her lap, so it wasn't like she was exposed to him, but she felt exposed by the position.
He hadn't yet said he was a Dom, but the way he used body position for restraint, how he'd taken the upper hand, how he'd commanded her orgasm, had her antenna up and receiving that message clearly enough. She'd avoided this, damn it. She'd stayed away from clubs and online chat rooms and anywhere she'd encounter people practicing BDSM. She'd met this man in a convenience store, for fuck's sake.
He twisted around, pulled a couple tissues out of a box on the table. Before she could stop him, he'd reached beneath the skirt and was cleaning her up, absorbing her climax in the tissues. She tried to bat him away, closed her hand around his thick wrist, but he wouldn't be deterred. He wiped her gently but thoroughly, making her body twitch at the stimulation, then balled up the tissues and tossed them into a waste basket beside the recliner.
She didn't want to speak, and wasn't sure what that was about, but he respected it with his own silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable, "Oh hell why did we do that and how soon can we tactfully call an end to the evening" silence. Just the opposite. It was like nothing needed to be said and he was content tending to her without there being any words. As the seconds ticked by, she realized she didn't want to talk because anything she said would just spoil it. Or inspire him to say something that would spoil it. Which unfortunately made her feel more uncomfortable with how comfortable he seemed.
"Um...where is my underwear?"
He leaned over and drew them off the floor. Instead of handing them to her, he tucked them into his jeans pocket. Before she could protest that, he'd drawn her to her feet, which let her skirt tumble back into place as he straightened the knit shirt and the sweatshirt over it. Her legs were shaking so he eased her back to the couch on her side before he got up out of his kneeling position. As he towered over her, she blinked at the evidence of an impressive arousal straining against the jeans. Holy God. She'd done that. She should do something...helpful? Quid pro quo? Was that why he was presenting it to her like that?
Maybe not. Apparently it hadn't been intentional. Before she'd had more than a tempting glance, he'd turned away and gone into his bedroom, coming back with a pillow and a fleece throw. The tiny lump of her panties in his pocket couldn't compete with the much larger impression right next to it, but the implication of the two together were disconcertingly arousing.
"Give me my underwear." She started to push up to a sitting position again, but he was already spreading the throw over her. When he eased her back down, he tucked the bed pillow under her head. They both smelled like him, a pleasant cocoon.
"Not right now," he said. "Time to sleep."
"I need to go home."
"Daylight's not far off. You might as well catch a few hours here." He went to the door, programmed the security alarm. She heard the sonorous computer voice announce "Armed... Stay."
"Trapping me here?"
"Not at all. You can open the door. It will just set off the alarm." He bent over her, kissed her forehead. A friendly gesture that he turned sensual by cupping the back of her head, mouth lingering as he murmured against her flesh. "Sleep, Celeste. It's all right. You pleased me in every way. All I want you to do is rest here so I know you're safe. All right?"
"Once my brain clears, I'm not going to let you treat me like a child."
He chuckled. "Darlin', trust me. I'm not treating you like a child. And you damn well know it. Sleep tight." He pulled back enough to meet her eye to eye. "The alarm will deactivate at 6:00 a.m. and you can slip out of here while I'm still asleep, since I'm going in mid-morning. But eventually I'll come looking for you. This isn't a one-night stand."
"What if that's what I prefer? What if I'm done?"
"Well, you can tell me that when I find you. I'll tell you you're a liar, we'll fight about it, and then we'll have makeup sex."
"There are lots of movies about cops who are psychotic stalkers," she said darkly.
"A taste of your pussy would turn any sane man into a stalker. Can't hold that against us. But I'm big enough to stay first in line."
He rose and gazed down at her, his lips flattening from a smile to serious firmness. "And you know we're not done. We're just beginning."
Chapter Three
A man who gave a woman terrified of intimacy an escape route was either making things easier on the both of them, or had lost his fucking mind. Leland heard her get up at 5:45 a.m., marked the tiny shifts as she found her shoes and slipped them on. A few more footfalls and rustlings in the front room told him she was seeking her underwear. Her panties were in his room, tucked under his pillow where the musky scent of her arousal alone had damn near compelled him several times to break all the promises he'd made. If she was brave enough to come get them, all bets would be off.
A longer pause told him she'd probably figured out where they were. He could almost hear her teeth grinding as she debated it, but then the alarm, damn it all, deactivated promptly at six with a chirp, swaying her decision. He heard the door open with a squeak then close. Leaving the bed, he padded to the living room window and watched through the crack in the curtain to be sure she made it safely into her car. Though the autumn day was likely to warm up thanks to Baton Rouge humidity, he could tell the air was chilly now from the way she moved. The bolero jacket she'd worn last night fit her slim body nicely, but when he glanced toward the couch to see she'd left his sweatshirt behind, he wished she'd taken it. He didn't like her being cold. As she turned the ignition over and pulled out onto the street, the cast of the street light through her window showed him that her eyes were locked straight ahead, her pretty mouth tight.
Since they'd met in the convenience store, he'd been intrigued by the complexity of her body language, the minute shifts in her expressions that suggested so many thoughts and emotions. He could make some good guesses at the head games she was playing with herself right now. He suspected she was a submissive who'd had a brief brush with the lifestyle, had been intrigued enough to be scared shitless by it, and had studiously avoided it ever since because of whatever was keeping her so tightly wound and self-protected.
Though he wanted to figure a way past her shields, he respected the desire to self-protect. Give a cop the choice between walking into an ugly domestic violence fight where husband and wife were armed with everything from pistols to a child's wooden building blocks--which could cause stitches if hurled with enough force, by the way--or visiting a therapist for an evaluation, each one would take the bullets and brightly colored toys without a blink.
The reporter thing had nearly been a deal breaker. Would have been, if he hadn't come up behind her and heard her saying the kind of things he and his own guys thought about the matter. If he wasn't dedicated to the code of law, he'd happily dig a giant hole, shove every media weasel right into it and bury them up to their necks. Oh, and dump a cauldron of fire ants on them. Not that he had strong feelings about it or anything.
What had cinched it, though, was her reaction to the bratting question. She'd understood exactly what he meant, and had responded in a way hard for the Dom in him to resist.
"The Dom in him" made it sound like a separate thing, rather than a vital need like the beating of his heart. He hadn't dated since he'd accepted that a submissive orientation was a must-have for whatever woman caught his attention. BDSM people respected privacy because confidentiality was critical to many of them, so he still went
to a club or play party on occasion to hang out, have a drink and watch, but he hadn't found what he wanted there, either. As a result, he'd made a conscious decision to bide his time, wait and see if someone would ever ping his radar.
Celeste Lewis had, like an incoming missile.
There were people in the vanilla world who knew one another in and out, who found all the pleasure they needed in the simple intimacy of coming together in their bedroom. He guessed he was the BDSM world's version of that. He was seeking a woman with whom he could explore every corner of her submission to him in the comfort of their home. Their own private world that would never get too limited, because it was as limitless as their feelings for one another.
It made him sound like a sentimental dumb-ass, but the great thing about being built like a brick wall was he could love Hallmark movies, kittens and walking in the rain, and no one was going to say shit about it to him.
Celeste was a good-looking woman who he suspected saw herself as average-looking, despite the nicely toned body and lush breasts. If she didn't have all that fire inside her, she might have been right. But that fire gave her gold-brown-green eyes a glow, enhanced by the thick lashes. He liked a woman's hair, long or short, and hers had elements of both. The short shaved style on neck and sides let him tease the delicate bones of her nape, the sensitive shell of her ear, the erogenous occipital bone area. Yet those lustrous strands on top that tumbled over her brow and framed the right side of her face, teasing her cheek and jaw, gave him something to grip. They would let him pull her head back and expose her throat when he wanted to bite and suckle on her thundering pulse, remind her she was helpless in his hands, helpless to every crazy, nasty, over-the-top thing he wanted to do to her.
Yeah, she'd had an effect on him. Letting her leave this morning without pinning her against the wall and fucking her senseless had been difficult. He'd wanted her to leave with wobbly legs and his come slipping down those lovely thighs, because he sure as hell wouldn't give her back her underwear. But she was freaked out. Time to give her a little space, then he'd work on reeling her back in, see how that went. He was pretty sure he'd made enough of an impression to establish a tether between them. She was a submissive who'd responded to the Dominant in him, and wanted more. Needed more.