The Hot Sergeant (Second Chance Military Romance) (Hargrave Brothers - Book #2)

by Alexa Davis

  Thrills of sexual excitement flooded through me as I recalled how incredibly pleasurable it had felt when he spanked me while he was fucking me. I realized I did want more of that. My pussy quivered in anticipation of the erotic punishment to come, but then suddenly an image of Janice Porter with her face swollen and bruised and her entire back covered with welts and angry slashes. Had he punished her like he was about to punish me? Was the penalty for disobedience much worse than an erotic spanking followed by orgasms? Was he going to savagely beat me with whips or canes or even his bare fists? Panic began to well up inside me, and I didn't even take the time to see that he had picked up a vibrating dildo and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs from off the shelf. My imagination had already taken off on an irrational slant towards the darkest of horrors.

  "No! Stop!" I screamed out as Tristan approached me with the playful toys, ready to punish me right into another orgasm. "Get away from me! Just get away!"

  "Ssshhh. What's wrong?" he asked gently, but I was too hysterical to even listen.

  "I won't let you hurt me! Just keep away!" I screamed and pushed my past him with surprising force. I grabbed my clothes from the top of the shelf, turned the lock on the door, and bolted out into the hallway.

  Craig Varner was striding down the hall to check on the commotion and grabbed my arm. "What's wrong? Did he hurt you?"

  "No, and he's not going to. I quit! I'm never coming here again!" I shoved Mr. Varner off of me and into the wall and ran from building amidst a staring crowd.

  It wasn't until I was out in the alley behind the hotel that I calmed down enough to realize I was still naked. I hadn't gotten paid since I stormed out so quickly, so I couldn't call a cab and busses didn't run at this time of night. I pulled on my clothes and walked home in the dark and lonely night. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and I just let them fall. They weren't tears of sadness or humiliation or fear; they were tears of disappointment that I'd just ruined the best thing in my life. I wasn't thinking of the job or the money (even though they had been nice). I was thinking of Tristan Porter and how good it felt to have him taking me, to know that he was in charge, and to feel the incomparable pleasure of the orgasm he gave me. I knew I'd never feel that good again and it was all my fault.

  Chapter Seven: Tristan

  I couldn't fucking believe it. No one had ever run out on me in the middle of a play session before. I'd been fucking women since I was a teenager, and now I was forty Goddamn years old; that's nearly twenty-five years of fucking women. I'd done all kinds of bitches in all types of ways possible, and not one of them every backed out, changed her mind, or left – until now. It didn't make any sense.

  When I'd first gotten interested in BDSM, I'd taken the time to do a lot of research on the subject, learning about the kinky underground culture and the rules they used to play the games and keep them safe and enjoyable. It was fascinating, and the more I learned, the more I liked it.

  I had tried introducing Janice to my newfound fetish, but she couldn't get into it. She made an effort to try it in the interest of saving our marriage, but it was easy to tell she wasn't turned on by the game and so we went back to traditional methods, which gradually kept weaning away to no sex at all (at least, not with each other). So, I turned to Whip and the delightful women there who shared my affinity for bondage and sadism. Sometimes, they were women looking for a like-minded boyfriend to play games with. They tended to be problematic for the obvious reason that I wasn't divorced. More often, they were prostitutes hired by Whip to entertain lonely men like me who needed more unique services than they could find through traditional escort services. None of the women I had ever fucked as part of the BDSM games I enjoyed had ever wanted me to stop in the middle of a game.

  There had been a few more timid girls who had needed me to slow down and make the game less intense, but we kept playing and under the new, more gentle techniques, we both achieved satisfaction. I had become an expert over the years of reading a woman's silent signals through body language and knowing just how intense to make the play session for ultimate enjoyment. The clues were often subtle, but if you knew how to watch for them, they were easy to see – the dilation of the eyes, the rapidness of the pulse, the tensing of the muscles, the curling of the fingers or toes, and most importantly, the breathing. Was she panting, gasping, holding her breath, trying not to scream, moaning in orgasm? Did she hold her neck or shoulders stiffly or move her eyes rapidly, as if wanting to escape? Did her body writhe and undulate with spastic pleasure?

  Yes, I knew the signs and silent signals well and I'd been using them to read and understand the blonde, sexy Bitch since the moment I first met her a week ago. She was young and so inexperienced she was practically virginal, at least when it came to kinky sex. I commanded her forcefully to give her an excuse to release her inhibitions and enjoy herself, but when I touched her, I treated her with gentle hands. Her skin was flawless and so sensitive to the touch, she responded to the merest thing. When I spanked her, I saw all the signs of a woman who enjoyed the light amount of pain I had administered as a gentle sample and her pussy had come all over my cock nearly instantly. She was a masochist, even if she didn't know it yet. She just needed me to show her.

  Tonight, she had been having the time of her life. I was sure of it. All the signs were there and I know she had enjoyed the powerful orgasm I had given her. She wanted more – lots more. The way she was sucking my cock was ravenous. She'd gotten a taste of something good and was eager to devour it all at once, but I knew she'd get much more satisfaction if she learned to ingest her pleasure more slowly. The punishment I intended to inflict of her for her disobedience was going to be an endless array of orgasms. She had no reason to be afraid, and I still had no idea what had caused her to freak out and leave hysterically the way she had. It made no sense. The only thing I could figure out was that she believed the lies Janice had been telling and had let them fill her mind and overrule what she had learned from me. The imagination was a powerful thing, and when fueled by fear and lies, it could be overwhelm someone, like it had apparently done to her tonight.

  As I stood naked trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened, Craig suddenly burst into the room. He gaped at me and said, "She quit. What did you do to her?"

  "Nothing. She just freaked out. What the hell are you going to do about it?"

  Craig called down the hall and two prostitutes arrived at once. One of them had an athletic figure with short black hair and the other was a voluptuous blonde with brunette roots starting to show. Craig said to them, "Service our guest, ladies, and make sure to keep him happy."

  He exited the alcove, shutting the door behind him, and the two prostitutes knelt on the floor and started taking turns sucking my dick. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the process. This was exactly what I needed to take my mind off what had just happened and turn this shitty night back into a great one. Try as I might, however, I couldn't forget about the blonde that left.

  I opened my eyes and looked down at the brunette as she stroked my shaft while she licked the head of my cock and the dyed blonde suckled my balls. It felt good and just a week ago I would have loved it, but now all I could do was compare it to the sexy blonde Bitch. Her innocent young mouth had started out so unsure, but she had taken to my training perfectly, following my instructions exactly until I was groaning and barely able to contain myself. It had been the best damn blowjob I'd ever experienced, and now everything else seemed paltry in comparison. Frustrated, I shoved the brunette off me and ordered the dyed blonde to deep throat me just like the busty Bitch had done.

  The dyed blonde worked my cock with practiced lips and it was clear that she was expert who knew just how to please a man; and that's exactly why she didn't work for me. I was tired of these same tired women with their bored eyes and practiced moves. They'd been desensitized to the joys of sex through too much tedium from sloppy clients. The excitement was gone for them, and even while they made all the right moves and
moaned in all the right places, it showed in their dead eyes.

  The busty blonde Bitch had been brand new to the game. She was pristine and fresh, and every time I touched her naked flesh, I could see her body come alive with the tingles of sexual excitement. There was an electricity between us, and the current that coursed through her ripe body had shocked mine back to life again. I hadn’t realized it, but I had been dead to the pleasures of sex, too. Now that I had been resurrected with new life from this vibrantly fresh flower, the same stale dead meat would no longer do. I had to find her again. I had to know who she was and convince her to be mine or I would never know sexual pleasure again.

  I pushed the dyed blonde off of me and told her and the brunette to get the fuck out of my room. I was done with both of them. I got dressed and strode down the hall to the one man who could help me.

  "I need her name and her address," I barked the moment I barged into Craig Varner's' office. He didn't need to ask who I meant; he already knew.

  "You know I can't. The club guarantees that all members and employees will have their identities kept private and anonymous. I can't break that confidentiality for anyone – even you."

  I pulled out my checkbook and wrote out a sum I knew would change his mind and placed it wordlessly on his desk. I saw his eyes dilate when he picked it up. He folded the check and placed it in his pocket, and I noticed his hands were trembling ever so subtly. Then, he got on his computer and started typing.

  Feeling frustrated, I blocked his screen with my hand and said, "Well, who is she and where can I find her?"

  "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you," Craig said. I was ready to punch the bastard in the fucking face, when he turned the computer screen around and I saw what was posted there. Son-of-a-bitch. I left quickly, feeling scared for the first time in years – maybe ever.

  Chapter Eight: Olivia

  The walk home gave me time to calm down and get a hold of my emotions again. I wiped my cheeks with my hands, trying to look natural. When I walked through the front door of my apartment, I was disappointed to see that Clara and Suzanne were both home. I was hoping to get to be alone, but the way my luck was going tonight, I should have realized there'd been no chance of that.

  "Hey, what are you doing home so early?" Clara asked in a surprised tone from where she sat on the couch eating ice-cream with Suzanne right out of the carton and watching a chick-flick on television. It was easy to see that they were both between boyfriends at the moment. I couldn't even say that; I was just in between johns.

  I plopped on the couch between them and said with a sigh, "The modeling shoot got cancelled. In fact, it looks like that job is over.

  "The job didn't work out, huh?" Suzanne said with a knowing look, and I couldn't stop myself from blushing. We both knew that she knew the true nature of my modeling job, but at least she had the good grace not to share my disgraceful secret with Clara.

  "That's a shame," Clara said sympathetically. "I'm sure you'll get another job that's even better now that you've got this one to put on your resume."

  "I don't think this is the kind of job that will help me much like that," I said ruefully, making Suzanne nearly choke of her mouthful of mint chip.

  "Why not?" Clara asked innocently.

  "Let's just say it wasn't quite the kind of job I'd like to do again and leave it at that," I said with a note of finality in my voice that warned them both to give me some space.

  "Join us for some ice-cream and a movie?" Suzanne offered in an effort to help me get my mind off my troubles and change the subject to safer ground.

  "That'd be great. Let me take a shower and put on my pajamas first. Save me some of that fudge swirl."

  I excused myself to the bathroom and stripped off my clothes. The hot water of the shower felt like heaven and washed away some of the shame, guilt, and humiliation I felt over what had happened earlier that night. When I emerged, wet but clean, I felt like me again. I pulled my wet hair back into a loose bun on top of head so it wouldn't drip on my shoulders and put on my favorite pair of soft cotton boy shorts and a ribbed tank top. It wasn't sexy, but it was comfortable. I was done trying to be sexy for others; I was just going to concentrate on doing what made me feel happy and whole.

  "Okay, bring on the fudge swirl and the movie," I said with a relaxed smile as I entered the living room to find Clara sitting there alone. "Where's Suzanne?"

  "I don't know. The doorbell rang and she went to answer it, but she never came back," Clara sounded concerned. "I'd better go see who it is. Maybe she got trapped talking to a Jehovah Witness or her ex-boyfriend is trying to smooth talk her into coming back."

  Clara walked down the hall, and I heard her squeal. It wasn't a sound of fear or pain, but more like cry of joyous surprise. Moments later, she came running back down the hall into the living room and cried out breathlessly, "Come, Olivia. You have got to come to the door and see who's there. You have a visitor."

  "Who is it?" I asked, feeling completely puzzled by her reaction. Whoever was coming to visit me couldn't possibly be so thrilling as this.

  "You won't believe it!" she said and as I walked down the narrow corridor and saw who Suzanne was talking to at the doorway, I saw that she was right. I couldn't believe it: Tristan Porter had found me.

  WHATEVER HE WANTS #3

  Chapter One: Olivia

  "What are you doing here?" I gasped, like some idiot. I couldn't believe Tristan Porter was standing in my doorway. I thought I was safe from him when I fled the club, but I should have known he would find me. My heart pounded with fear, but I wouldn't let it show. Instead, I approached him with my head held high and squared off to him where he stood in my doorway.

  "I need to talk to you," he said, and even the sound of his rich, smooth voice made me want to swoon. Clara and Suzanne giggled and batted their lashes behind me like silly schoolgirls, but I held fast to my wits and glared at him hatefully.

  "Obviously, but maybe I don't want to talk to you. How did you even find me?"

  "Let's just say I'm a resourceful man. You don't get to be in my position without knowing how to get what you want. Can we please talk?"

  "We don't have anything to discuss. I told Mr. Varner that I wasn't sure I could work with you anymore, and all I got from both of you were bullshit stories trying to placate me. So, I quit. If you don't trust me enough to tell me what really happened, then I can't trust you, either."

  "You were right. I should have come clean with the whole truth from the beginning. It's why I'm here now – to give you the explanation you deserve. When I'm done, I'll leave you alone if that's what you want, but not until I've had the chance to tell you my side of things."

  I could see from the looks on Clara and Suzanne's faces that they were dying to know what he had to say, and I have to admit that I was more than a little curious. Nodding my head, I let him in and said, "All right, you can come in and talk, but if I tell you to leave, then I don't ever want you to come back."

  "Agreed," Tristan said. I led him into the living room and he sat on my cheap couch looking as handsome as ever in his designer suit. Nothing seemed to faze him and he even managed to look impeccable and sexy in my dowdy apartment. Clara and Suzanne fawned all over him, offering him wine and coffee and food.

  "No, thank you. I'd just like a few minutes of privacy to talk to Olivia alone," Tristan said. It was more of a command than a request and they both blushed as they disappeared into the far bedroom. He smiled ruefully, and said, "They were with you at the mall that day."

  "Yes, but I thought you were here to talk about you, not me. Just tell me about the photographs of your ex-wife. It's late and I'm tired. I'd like to go to bed," I said, trying to be intentionally rude in an attempt to put him on the defensive. It didn't work. He was as calm and collected as always, and as he looked me up and down with an appraising stare, I suddenly became acutely aware of how skimpily I was dressed, but I refused to let him see me flinch and just sat there next to him on the couch, meet
ing his gaze.

  The awkwardness in the room lasted forever, until Tristan broke the tension by moving first. He reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and pulled out a series of photographs. It was easy to see that they were the same pictures of Janice Porter that had been featured in the newspaper articles, but this time they were unedited and Tristan could be seen standing next to her, equally beaten up.

  "What happened?" I gasped, unable to mask my horror and sympathy. He looked horrible with a broken nose, a bloody lip, and two black eyes. His hands and torso were both bandaged tightly, and I correctly guessed that someone had broken his ribs.

  "It was the beginning of my rise to fame. I'd always been wealthy, so the money was nothing new, but the fame was. You might be too young to remember a time before reality television shows existed, but Pick Me was one of the first of its kind. It was groundbreaking entertainment, and I wasn't just the producer and creator behind it, but the starring face of America's top-rated reality game show. I was used to being featured in money management magazines discussing investment portfolios and other bland bullshit nobody gave a fuck about, but suddenly, I was being featured on the cover of People, Entertainment Weekly, and Time. Everyday Americans suddenly knew who the fuck I was and I fucking loved it. Believe it or not, being the richest guy in the room doesn't always make you the most well liked, especially with a personality like mine, but being the most famous does. Suddenly, every fucking person I ran into wanted to fucking lick my balls."

  "What does this have to do with the photographs of your ex-wife?" I rolled my eyes. I had no desire to sit here and listen to him brag about himself for the next hour.

  Sensing my exasperation, he got to the point. "Janice was alongside me for every moment of the ride. We'd started out as two young kids fresh out of college, married and living off the million bucks I'd inherited from my Dad. She was pissed as hell when I invested most of it in a new kind of television show, but when Pick Me took off, she was more than happy to celebrate with me just like it had been her fucking idea, too. We bought everything: vacation houses, jewelry, trips around the world. We went to wild parties that lasted for three fucking days. Vodka, whiskey, scotch, cocaine, heroin – we did it all and sometimes all at once. We even had a gang of drug dealers that delivered right to our door with just the push of a button. I'd met them at a party once, and after that, I set up a permanent business relationship with them. They'd deliver as much as we wanted, anytime/anyplace, and I'd cover the fucking bill.