HostileTakeover

by Joey W. Hill

  Her attention to detail would make her an excellent corporate investigator. Hell, no “would” about it. She apparently knew his life up one side and down the other. It was outrageous. He’d noted her decision not to follow up on his statement that he hadn’t ever had a girlfriend, which meant she knew why. She wasn’t the type to hesitate over asking a question if she didn’t know the answer, no matter how inappropriate the asking was. Yeah, he bet she was doing a bang-up job freelancing for Steve Pickard, impressing his veteran investigators.

  When she turned to look at him, a small smile playing on her face, he reached out. She took his hand, that smile warming like a welcome touch of late afternoon sun on a winter day. As they kept walking down the street, her hand felt good in his, slim and restless, fingers tightening, little teasing strokes as she pointed out this or that, asked him questions about the neighborhood. The silver beads he’d helped her acquire still swung on her neck. He’d removed his, added them to hers, so the two colors sparkled together.

  “Is Cass happy running Pickard’s satellite office here?”

  “Are you kidding? She loves it. She misses the Lakeshore house in Baton Rouge, but she and Lucas found such a nice place, she’s feeling better about it. The Lakeshore house was one she bought with her own money, and after all she’d been through to reach that point, it meant a lot to her.”

  “After everything you’d all been through.”

  “It was hardest on her. She was in charge of everything.”

  “You were second oldest. When she was working, you were in charge of the kids. The nanny Pickard hired was only part-time.”

  “Well, I took over because I wanted extra spending money.”

  “Yes, that was your official story. Pickard paid you the money he was paying the nanny, and you turned around and used it to help out with expenses for the kids and the house.”

  She shrugged that off, but he wouldn’t let it go. “All of you had to deal with what happened with your parents. Jeremy.”

  “It was okay. We were okay.” She didn’t like where this was going. Plus, she didn’t want the uncertainty and stress that had marked most of her teenage years to mar this moment.

  “Marcie.” He stopped her. “You’ve been goal-oriented since you were in puberty. You were planning to be a business major before you were out of middle school. Your whole life was about taking care of those kids, dealing with your parents’ instability and planning for a career. You didn’t walk through a carnival holding hands with a boyfriend either.”

  “Well, I can now. Given the company, it was worth the wait.” She lifted their clasped hands, put her other one over it. Daring, she dropped her head, pressed her lips to his knuckles, rubbed her cheek against him. His hand fit his large frame, the fingers deliciously thick when they pushed inside her, but in appearance they had a masculine elegance, like a master artist’s. She thought of his cooking again, as well as the other things he could do with those talented digits.

  Sighing, he brushed his other palm over her hair, tugged until she lifted her head. “You don’t have to be goal-oriented in every aspect of your life anymore. You can still have your career, but enjoy dating, getting out and seeing the world. Having fun with friends.”

  She withdrew, went back to strolling. “It’s funny how people say that. ‘Put off getting married and having a family, because you need to live your life first’. To me, loving someone is living.” She stopped then. “When you talk to someone who’s done all that traveling, experiencing and ‘living’, you know what they say? That they wish they’d had someone special in their life, sharing it with them. Marriage isn’t a prison sentence—it’s an invitation for someone else to join you on your journey, experience all those things together.”

  She left it at that, only because she knew the dangers of getting too personal with him, too fast. Did he know he looked at the others with their wives like the lone wolf? Still part of the pack but somehow not. She’d seen it in his eyes at Jon and Rachel’s wedding. It had frustrated the hell out of her, knowing she was still too young to help ease that for him. In the deepening lines on his face, the more serious set to his mouth, it was more obvious to her now than it had been even then.

  He took her hand once more. “It’s impossible to argue with you if you’re going to be unreasonable.”

  She slid her other hand around his elbow, so she could press her body against his. “That’s your way of saying I’m right.”

  “I would never say anything so foolish. Telling a woman she’s right is like giving a terrorist a nuclear weapon. Widespread destruction is inevitable.”

  Pinching his arm, she tried not to linger over the hard biceps that she was sure barely felt the impact. God, the man was built. Even in his suits it was obvious, that powerful cat way he had of moving, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shirts fit across his chest. She remembered him in jeans, how he’d looked playing with the kids. If she was mayor of New Orleans, she’d pass a law that said he had to wear those all the time and nothing else.

  He stopped in front of a row of townhouses that had obviously once been a large estate. It now continued its life of graceful historic beauty in three partitions, with the narrow dividing lines of more scenic alley nooks. “Since you know everything about me, I assume you know this is where I live.”

  “It was tough, because you’ve moved around a lot. In fact, you only bought this in the past year, and negotiated a price Satan would envy. Your place in the Warehouse District is close to the office, and you stay there most times.” In fact, she thought it odd—and hopeful—he’d decided to bring her here instead, because of the two, the Garden District was more like a home.

  He arched a brow at her. “Have pictures of me in the shower?”

  “I tried to perch in an oak tree with my extended lens, but I’m not a great climber and didn’t want to risk damaging the equipment.”

  She made an indignant noise when he swatted her ass, but she caught his quick grin as well. His hand came back to stroke, reminding them both she wore no panties beneath the skirt. Those butterflies swirled in Marcie’s stomach again, excitement and apprehension.

  “If I’m staying overnight,” she ventured, “I should pick up a toothbrush or something.”

  “Cass is sending an overnight bag for you via one of the K&A drivers. It’s probably already been dropped it off.” He approached the security grate that blocked the alcove of his front door and peered in. She saw the duffel as well as a garment bag hung on the outdoor light fixture. “There we go.”

  “You guys are scary. Like Boy Scouts on steroids.”

  “Says my stalker.” Opening the outer gate, he gestured her in underneath his arm. She let her fingers slide against his side as she did, under the pretense of the close quarters, but was surprised when he abruptly turned, lifted her up and pressed her against the shadowed wall of the alcove. Her eyes closed as his mouth took hers, his body pressing her hard against the oyster-shell stucco. Her legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, heels digging into the back of his thighs as he plundered her mouth. Digging his fingers into her hair, he tugged against her scalp mercilessly. She was gasping as he lifted his head.

  “When we go through that door, you are a slave. You understand, Marcie?”

  She nodded, then found her voice. “Yes sir.”

  “You don’t look at me unless I tell you to do so. The second you step over that threshold, you strip. Everything. Jewelry, hairpins, rings, all of it. You leave the clothes folded neatly by the door. Then you sit down on the floor. Legs tucked underneath you, knees spread so I have access to your pussy. Fingers laced behind your head, tits thrust out. You hold that posture, and you stay silent, unless you get physically uncomfortable or I ask you a question. If you start to get uncomfortable, you ask for permission to speak.”

  He waited for her nod, then let her down. Turning away, he unlocked the interior door. Once again, he held it open, gestured her to precede him. When she stepped across t
he threshold, he moved past her without a glance, a dismissal, as he went down the hallway into what looked like the kitchen area.

  She took off skirt, bra, shirt, heels. Earrings and bracelets, the ring Cass had given her that belonged to their mother. She put those things in a small dish on the hallway tree, then folded up her clothes beside them. Unclipping her barrette, she took out the couple of pins that held back the more unruly strands, put them with the rest. Then she followed his direction, folding herself down to the polished wood floor. She laced her fingers behind her head, spread her knees, thrust out her breasts.

  It was a posture that made her instantly, shamelessly wet. Unlike the obeisance pose, which was a position of humble vulnerability, this one showed pride in her surrender, fully displaying what was her Master’s. Her nipples were drawn up so that the barbells were a tingling burn in the piercings. Her clit piercing was the same.

  She could see him through the opening to the kitchen, just a piece of him. He was flipping through his mail. He set something down, was reading it as he stripped off his tie, pulled open a couple buttons of his shirt. It made her mouth dry. She had no doubt he was completely aware of every move she made, yet he was also so…detached. It was heating her blood. Her pussy would be making her calves slippery in no time.

  Stepping away from the table, he disappeared into another room of the house. She took the moment to look around. The floors were all hardwood, with that wonderful old wood smell. The narrow staircase probably led to a bedroom area, with a spacious window on the way up that let in afternoon sunlight. The kitchen looked modern and also full of sunlight. The house had obviously been remodeled inside, keeping the best of the old and integrating the new. It was tastefully decorated, but not female in the slightest. The walls were pale yellow with touches of bold earth-toned artwork here and there. No photos she could see.

  Directly in front of her was the archway into a living area with a sectional sofa and wide-screen TV, as well as more artwork. A copper glaze vase was under a separate spotlight, obviously a gallery piece. A couple Japanese maples flanked it. Gifts from Jon, she was sure, since he said the delicate five-point leaf trees brought tranquility and blessings to a home. Cass had a few as well.

  Though Ben had probably employed a decorator to reflect his tastes, the house had a good feel to it, like it was merely waiting for Ben to accept it as his home. She wondered what it would take for him to do that. He’d called the house a good investment, and the Warehouse District place was convenient to work. But this place felt like him. If he put down roots, staked his claim, this would be the place he’d do it.

  And he’d brought her here.

  She returned her gaze to the floor, everything within her coiling up in anticipation as his shoes tapped down the hall. She was completely naked. Naked in Ben’s home, waiting for his demands. She had that shaking thing going on, just beneath the skin, little thrills of sensation running along the insides of her thighs.

  “Close your eyes. Clasp your hands at the small of your back.”

  She did, and then he was touching her hair, gathering it up. He retrieved her barrette, used it to hold a flat twist on the back of her head.

  “Since you have trouble obeying something as simple as not looking at me unless you have permission…”

  She clutched her fingers hard as he fitted the head mask to her face. When her lashes fluttered, she found it had no eye holes, and then… She pushed down panic as he put ear plugs in those orifices before he brought the mask over them. The mask laced in the back, and he took his time, adjusting it and touching her face to ensure the opening for her nostrils was positioned properly. As he got the mask set, it constricted over her nose, cheekbones, forehead. The mouth opening was a mere slit, pressing against her lips.

  When he was done with the lacing, she felt cool metal at her nape, a brief pressure, then a small weight. “I’ve inserted a small padlock in the last eyeholes of the lacing. Only I can remove this mask, Marcie.”

  He was speaking right against her ear, but any other sounds were muted. He’d just blinded her, taken away most of her hearing.

  Now he was putting a collar on her. As he buckled it, he tested the constriction by sliding two fingers beneath it to caress her chin. It was a serviceable collar, wide and solid. Not a formal collaring, but still. Her quivering increased. She felt a tug. A tether.

  “On your feet. Follow me.”

  He moved as soon as she rose, and he didn’t set a slow pace, giving her time to feel her way or figure out where they were going. He was expecting her to trust him, to follow at a normal walk. She managed it, but she couldn’t help some small flutters of panic. When he stopped, his hand touching her bare abdomen to bring her to a halt before she ran into him, she thought they were in the kitchen, but then he made a turn into a room she hadn’t yet seen. It was warm, maybe a sunroom, which meant lots of windows. Was she on display to his neighbors?

  “On your knees, forehead to the floor, arms out front, wrists crossed. Ass in the air. Thighs spread.”

  She obeyed. She wanted to talk, needed to speak, but it wasn’t to ask a question. She needed to interact for reassurance. Imagining this and doing it were very different. She bit down on her tongue, stayed silent. He’d gag her with the least provocation, she was sure, and she definitely wasn’t ready to lose the ability to speak.

  Straps wrapped just beneath each of her knees, buckled snug so they wouldn’t slip down her calves. Then something else, something that pushed her out a little wider, made her have to rest more of her weight on her elbows and forehead. A spreader bar, one that would hold her thighs open no matter what. She could hear her rasping breath in her head. He wasn’t done yet, God help her. Cuffs around her ankles, and this time a light chain was run between them, a hobble. Moving around to her front, he cuffed her wrists together, and then she heard another chain run from them to something that anchored her there, perhaps the leg of a heavy piece of furniture, or a column in the sunroom.

  He rose and was gone. No, not gone. She could barely hear him, but it sounded like…a chair scraping? A laptop turning on? Yes, the piercing chime of a boot-up filtered through the plugs. He was going to leave her in this position while he worked?

  Not immediately, no. She drew in a breath as he touched her bare ass. Something rigid and small was inserted into her anus, followed by a feeling of warmth. Lube. He was lubing her up to fuck her, use her as he’d use a slave. More thick arousal trickled out onto her thighs. When she tied herself up, she always felt that peculiar stillness enter her, a dense type of arousal. This was ten times more intense, the volatility of an atom waiting to be split. She wanted to whimper, to moan, to cry a little. And she wanted him to keep wrapping her up in restraint after restraint until she couldn’t move.

  Shifting in front of her again, he curled his fingers into the strap on the top of the head mask, a replacement handhold with the hair trapped beneath it. Releasing the chain, he brought her up to her knees, wobbling precariously with that spreader between them, but he held her upright. Unhooking her wrist restraints to bring her arms behind her, he arched her back to attach them that to the spreader bar between her knees. Now she was dependent on her stomach muscles, her own unsteady balance and his hand to stay upright. But in another second that didn’t matter.

  Her lips parted as she smelled the heat and musk of his cock. She hadn’t heard him remove any clothes, but she had a feeling he was still fully dressed, had just opened his slacks to have her service him.

  He pushed against her mouth, and she had to adjust fast, because he didn’t take his time as he had before. He was already hard and huge, sliding into the back of her throat. She reveled in it, knowing her submission, having her so helpless, was making him hot. So hot he stretched her lips cruelly, bumped against her throat. She flicked her tongue on him, sucked, teased, stroked, doing everything to convey how much she loved doing this for him. With her standing on her knees, that arousal was rolling down the insides of her le
gs.

  She could come just from doing this. His other hand captured her breast, tugged on the nipple piercing, a sharp pain that made her cry out against him. He slapped the breast in reproof, making her gasp again. He did it to the other breast, a rough tweak and pull, followed by that sharp slap that made the breast wobble in reaction.

  He was tearing her up inside, pulling her between cruel pain and pleasure, training her to respond to both the same way. She might know that rationally, but it was like nothing she’d ever experienced. It was frightening, feeling it all spin out of control, but at some visceral level, she understood. He wanted her to let go of everything. Identity, mind, everything but being his slave, because anything else was an attempt to control, and he wouldn’t tolerate that. He held all the control. Whatever she’d imagined, it hadn’t gone this far, but if she wanted him, she had to be willing to fall out of the boat and watch it float away, sink to the bottom of his ocean.

  Now he’d let go of her head, leaving her to work him with her mouth while he grasped both breasts, pinched the nipples, rolled the barbells until she was trying so hard to focus, caught between ecstasy and flinching as he mixed pleasurable squeezes with sudden flicks that sent shards of pain through her nipples. Her back was starting to ache from her position, her jaw screaming, but she didn’t care. He held her up with his cock impaling her mouth and his hands holding her breasts. As far as she was concerned, it was exactly where she wanted to be.

  Taking hold of the headmask strap, he pulled her off him. Moving behind her, he freed her bound wrists from the spreader bar, and each other, but held onto them as he shifted his other hand to the back of her neck, pushed her face to the floor again. Her arms were brought back above her again so her elbows pressed into the wood. The way he took her to the floor was swift, a harrowing descent, blind and with nothing to control her speed but him, but again, she got the message. He was demanding her absolute trust. That was the kind of Dom he was, but she knew it was more than that as well.