Willing Sacrifice

by Joey W. Hill

Page 12

 

  And just like that, he slipped from the room.

  Chapter Four

  She finished up with Thor, thanked him and cut him loose. Even though she had no further plans for club play tonight, she didn’t change back into her street clothes yet. She did retrieve them though, putting them in her carry-on before wandering back out to the floor. She found Max in the same spot at the coffee place. As she came to him, she saw his eyes covering the intimate areas he’d touched. Her neck was still throbbing, and she thought it might be bruised blue and red tomorrow from the force of that hot, demanding mouth.

  By the time she arrived on the catwalk below him, the spot where they’d spoken before her session with Thor, he’d stood up. Leaning over the rail, he reached down, took her bag. She was already raising her arms, so he caught her beneath them, brought her up to stand on the lip of the coffee house floor. Then he put his arm around her waist, scooped her up beneath her knees and lifted her, guiding her legs over the rail and down to the opposite side.

  The coffee house manager gave her a quick once-over, but Janet knew her clothes weren’t too outrageous to fail the street-clothes-only requirement of this part of the club. She also recognized Janet as a regular, nodding in friendly acknowledgement.

  Max pulled out her chair for her, helped her scoot it up before taking his own seat, aligning his feet on the outside of hers under the small table. When the waitress came, Janet ordered a black coffee and a croissant. Then she folded her arms on the table, fixing her gaze upon him. She’d left the top three buttons of the blouse open, her breasts on a shelf-like display with her arms crossed under them. His attention naturally went to that, but then fastened on her pendant. Reaching out, he toyed with it, but she closed her hand on his wrist, drawing his eyes back to her face.

  “How did you know how to take care of Thor?”

  He shrugged, hooking a shoulder on the back of the chair. His thighs were casually splayed, his other hand lying loosely on the table. Did the man realize he oozed testosterone?

  “During BUD/S, you’re cold. A lot. The boat work, surf torture. If you and your team come out on top during the boat exercises, you might get rewarded with a few minutes on the beach, not having to be in the water. We sit like me and Thor did, folded into each other, back to chest, to share warmth. It’s a way of grounding and settling as well. Physical contact like that with another human being when you’re going through a lot of stress, it’s pretty basic. ”

  The words echoed those he’d spoken at the hospital that night. Sometimes, after something like that, human touch helps ground you, brings back your focus.

  “Surf torture?” Her brow lifted.

  “The instructors have us link arms and lie in the surf for about fifteen-minute stretches. It’s fifty-some-degree water. You start thinking Hell is polar caps, not a fire pit. ”

  “That sounds a little inhumane. ”

  He chuckled. “It’s not just to torture us, though there are times you think so. On missions, they know we’ll be in some pretty cold waters. Traveling in SDVs—SEAL delivery vehicles—especially the underwater ones, sucks rocks. By the time you get out, you feel colder than an ice cube. ”

  He leaned forward, tapping her knuckles, then stayed there, his finger resting on top of one of hers.

  “Why don’t you tie them down?” he asked. “Most of the Mistresses I’ve watched seem to prefer that. ”

  She knew what it was to be tied down, unable to escape while the blows came. Rationally, she knew this was different, but the first time she’d tried to tie up a sub, pushing her own boundaries, the blood had come back, the thud of blows, the straps cutting into her flesh as she screamed and tried to get away…

  A moment later, she realized her croissant and coffee were there. He pushed the plate toward her. “Maybe eat a little. You look pale,” he noted.

  “Is this a game to you, Max?” she said, staring at the food. Her gaze snapped back up to him.

  His brow creased. “No ma’am. I’m just figuring out the terrain. Determining where the land mines are. ”

  She tucked her hands around the coffee, warming them. “Call me by my name, Max. Please. ”

  “Janet. ”

  He brought his chair closer to hers, which kept her between the rail and his body. She didn’t feel trapped though. Instead, she was enclosed, a blanket on a cold night. He slid an arm around her waist, threading it between the chair and her body, and his palm wrapped below her hip, his fingers curving over her ass as he brought her up toward his mouth, his head bending to her.

  She didn’t wait for him. She met him halfway, and dove headfirst into the sensation. He met her, fire for fire. She wasn’t on the chair anymore. He’d hooked his other hand under her knee, turned and pulled her onto his lap, her buttocks pressed solidly down on his erection as he pushed his fingers into her hair, gripped hard, the sculpting clay not a deterrent. Their mouths stretched and strained, tongues lashing, wet lips rubbing together. She clutched his shoulders, the warmth of the coffee that had lingered in her palms replaced by the solid heat of his body. She wished she hadn’t worn this pencil skirt that kept her from straddling him, though she knew they were pushing the boundaries even now, probably back under the scrutiny of the coffee house manager.

  As if Max figured it out at the same moment she did, his grip tightened, but to pull her back, even if only a few inches. “Time to get out of here,” he said. “I want you under me. Those gorgeous legs wrapped around me. I want to taste your cunt. ”

  Her breath shuddered out, her fingers tracing his lips. He licked them, drawing in one to suck on it, hard, give it a sharp bite. The need pulsing from him was pure animal. No rules, no patience to talk about who was in charge. Unlike what most outsiders thought of it, BDSM gave civilized rules to uncivilized behavior. Right now, the pure instinct that predated it drove them both.

  Rising, he dropped bills on the table, picked up her bag. He offered his hand, but when she put hers out, he closed his fingers around her wrist, drew her up to him, against his side, and they moved toward the exit that way. His hand dropped to her hip, then lower. The man enjoyed fondling an ass, and had no compunction about doing it in front of others, though in all fairness, he wasn’t exactly in a place that disapproved of blatant sexual expression. He seemed fascinated with the tightness of the skirt, fingers following the way the fabric hugged and curved under her buttocks. He stroked, explored, interrupting himself only to open the door and guide her through it, so they exited to the parking area.

  The parking lot lights were a light sheen on the truck’s flank. His hand was back to doing that distracting pattern across her sensitive buttocks. But two could play it that way. When they reached the truck, she put her hands on his chest, pressing him up against his door. As she leaned into him, he dropped the bag and shifted his grip to her hips, bringing her even closer to him. He bent for another kiss she was sure would cause her brain to explode, but she tilted her head down, denying him. Those provocative lips slid across her temple instead.

  Her hand moved up his chest to the base of his throat, then to his jaw, curving around it before she tightened, digging her nails into his neck enough to make him understand the wordless demand. As he turned his jaw away from her, he took it an extra step, understanding her desire. He laid his head back against the window glass, exposing his throat fully to her.

  Power and pleasure flooded her, and she put her mouth on that strong column, suckling and biting it as he’d done her, wanting to leave those same marks on him. In answer, he gripped her ass in a two-handed hold so aggressive her boot heels left the pavement. The skirt was too tight, too stiff a fabric to give way before his sizeable erection, let it push into that valley between her thighs where she could feel that sweet pressure against her clit. Now she wished she had changed into her street clothes. But she took what the moment could offer her.

  She yanked at the dress shirt, not c
aring when buttons came loose. Such a properly dressed gentleman, he had the thin white cotton T-shirt beneath, and she clawed at it as well, pulling it loose from his waistband, bringing the hem up to his throat. He kept his hands on her hips, letting her do as she wished, inflaming her further. He was restraining himself. Catering to her needs, her wishes. Her nature. Yet she could feel the power and response building in him, stoked by her actions. Eventually, it would be too much. He’d tear loose of his self-imposed control and sweep them both away.

  It was an unspoken give-and-take, an intuitive power exchange so erotic because of the lack of defined boundaries and words, its unpredictability. She felt as free as a wild animal in truth. She could desire and demand anything from Max. He was strong enough to handle it, and her, and still make her feel safe. At least in this moment.

  Hard muscled flesh. Manna straight from heaven. She put her mouth on his pectoral and went right for sensitive places, closing her teeth delicately around his nipple, her tongue swirling around it. He was silent, but his body was a full orchestra, arched into that latch point, abdomen muscles taut beneath her other hand, her thumb caught beneath his waistband as her fingers splayed across the defined ridges. His heart beat rapidly beneath her other hand, pressed against his chest. The hand he had on her hip gripped hard, and he’d brought the other up to cup her head.

  Normally she’d have snapped out an order to keep both hands down, but what he was doing, fingers digging in then stroking, moving down to grasp her nape, felt too good. He was following the line of her neck to her shoulder, a motion that sent tingles of sensation down her spine to her tailbone, and from there into the deep crevices of her body, creating a bittersweet yearning.

  She ran her tongue along the crease between pectoral and upper abdomen. This man’s body was sheer fucking perfection, developed to fight, to serve. And all hers at the moment.

  She noticed he’d managed to catch hold of the skirt zipper and ease it up way past mid-thigh. The breeze touched her skin, replaced by the solid heat of his hand, sliding up the back of her thigh to cup her ass, bared by the black thong. She bit down on the nipple, and he pinched her in reply, his other arm circling her waist to band her closer to him.