When I'm With You Part V: When You Submit

by BETH KERY

  “Perhaps I was a little easy on myself,” she said in a quavering voice.

  He laughed. “Elise, you please me so much.”

  Her heart bumped against her breastbone at the sound of arousal tightening his voice.

  “You will paddle yourself ten more times. Count out loud, so I can hear you. I expect it to sting. If I notice the smacks weakening, I will tell you how many more you must take when you finish. Do you understand?”

  Arousal flashed through her, electrical in its intensity. Could there be anything more exciting than hearing Lucien instruct her in self-punishment, anything more stimulating than his utter confidence that she would do precisely what he demanded?

  “May I . . . may I touch myself now,” she asked, unable to disguise her breathless eagerness.

  “You may begin.”

  It was excruciating, the anticipation. She was having trouble catching her breath as she propped her upper body on her left elbow so as to better see the profile of her curved, naked bottom. She plunged her hand between her thighs and rubbed slick, hungry flesh. Her phone had never seemed remotely sexy before, but knowing Lucien was listening while she spanked and pleasured herself made the mundane technology incredibly erotic.

  She lifted the paddle over her ass.

  Smack.

  She jumped slightly. In her excitement, she’d landed the paddle more briskly than she expected. Her buttock prickled with mild pain. Her hand moved more strenuously between her thighs. “One,” she called out, remembering what Lucien had instructed.

  She paddled her ass again and grimaced. “Two.”

  At five, her bottom was starting to burn. Surely Lucien would be pleased, wouldn’t he? She rubbed her clit more rapidly in mounting excitement.

  “Are you turning pink?” he asked, his voice sounding slightly hoarser than before, like a rough seduction.

  “Yes,” she panted, inspecting her right buttock.

  “And hot? Touch your bottom.”

  She skimmed two fingertips over the taut skin with the hand that held the paddle, feeling the heat.

  “Yes,” she told him, her hand moving even faster between her thighs. He gave a harsh groan.

  “Continue,” he said, sounding much less calm than he had earlier.

  “Six,” she said between pants as she paddled her ass again. The protesting nerves sent prickles of excitement along her anus, sacrum, and sex. Her pussy was aflame and drenched. She was going to come . . . very soon. She landed the paddle again with an even louder cracking sound. A puff of air flew past her lips.

  “Seven.”

  Lucien was masturbating while he listened to her punishment; she suddenly just knew that for a fact. She imagined his fist moving up and down on his thick stalk in a rapid, powerful, pistonlike motion from just below his fleshy cockhead to his full balls, his facial muscles rigid, his eyes hot. She’d seen him do it enough to have the image burned into her brain for an eternity.

  She felt herself cresting at the erotic image and moaned out loud. She paddled her bottom briskly again, the flash of pain and the subsequent burn feeding her arousal. “Eight,” she grated out before popping her ass again in quick succession. “Nine . . . oh . . .”

  Orgasm loomed. She struggled to stave it off by paddling her smarting ass extra hard, but the burst of sensation only served to send her over the edge.

  “Ten,” she managed through a desperate, quaking voice before she groaned in delicious anticipation. She fell back onto the pillows and dropped the paddle heedlessly. Orgasm crashed into her. Her entire arm jerked back and forth as she pressed her hand between her thighs and pleasure swamped her consciousness.

  A moment later, she gasped to catch her breath and her sawing arm movements slowed. Distantly, she became aware of Lucien’s voice emanating from her phone.

  “Pick up the phone, damn it,” he bellowed.

  She followed his instructions dazedly, instinctively drawing the phone near her ear even though it was still on speaker. He must have heard her ragged breathing because he immediately began issuing orders.

  “Put the phone right next to your pussy. Quickly, Elise,” he hissed tersely, his breath sounding nearly as erratic as her own. She rolled onto her back and spread her thighs, then did what he’d said.

  “I heard you coming,” he said roughly. “Are you wet?”

  “I’m soaked,” she admitted starkly.

  “Run your fingers over your pussy. Play with yourself. Let me hear how wet you are.”

  She followed his orders. Sure enough, she was so intensely aroused a wet sound could be heard as she moved her fingers against her satiated, lubricated flesh.

  “I can hear you,” Lucien said, and Elise knew he was nearing orgasm by the ragged sound of his voice. She pictured his flexing muscles as he pounded his cock . . . straining. “God, I wish I was there to suck and swallow every drop of you,” he said so quietly but so fiercely that her eyes sprang wide.

  She went completely still and listened, enthralled. He grunted, as if he’d just been stabbed by a knife of pleasure. Slowly, she raised the phone to her ear as a taut second of silence was shattered by his sharp shout. Turning the speaker off—feeling closer to him with his voice directly in her ear—she absorbed his every gasp, his every groan as he climaxed.

  Every time she was with him, he introduced her to yet another height of pleasure and intimacy. He’d done it again, in spades. How did he do it so effortlessly? So precisely?

  She waited, completely satisfied listening to his pants as he recovered from what must have been a powerful orgasm.

  “Do you think you’ll sleep well now, Lucien?” she asked quietly when his breathing slowed.

  He gave a bark of laughter. “I expect I won’t have any other choice. You wore me out.”

  She smiled. “Who knew? I’ve heard of phone sex, but never thought it could be so . . . fulfilling.”

  “It never has been before. I suspect you set some kind of world record,” he replied thickly.

  “You did that. I was just an innocent victim,” she muttered, her pique just a limpid act. She felt supremely relaxed and satisfied.

  “You are about as much of a victim as Attila the Hun.”

  “I resent that,” she purred, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  “You had better improve on your lessons by tomorrow at eleven thirty.”

  “Or what?” she postured.

  “You know what. You’ve met your match. Even the Huns were conquered.”

  She heard the hint of steel in his sensual purr and swallowed thickly. His tone had gentled when he called her name again across countries and an ocean, and it felt to her as if his head were on the pillow next to her.

  “Elise?”

  “Yes?” she answered groggily.

  “Get under the covers. I don’t want you to catch a chill,” he said. “And Elise?”

  She paused in fumbling with the comforter and sheet, doing what he’d said.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll do better tomorrow with your self-discipline. I have faith in you.”

  A rush of feeling went through her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Good night, ma chère. Sleep well.”

  “Good night, Lucien.”

  A choking loneliness overcame her as she hit the disconnect button, set the alarm, and turned off the bedside lamp. She snuggled into Lucien’s bed, struck by how enormous it seemed . . . how empty without him.

  Despite the pang of loneliness, Lucien had trained her body well—not just for pleasure, but for health. She was asleep within three minutes of hanging up the phone.

  * * *

  Two days later, Sharon peeped through the kitchen door while Elise was stirring a thickening béarnaise sauce.

  “Francesca Arno stopped in. She was wondering if you had a moment to speak?”

  Elise winced. “I can’t right now. I can’t leave this—”

  “I’ve got it,” Evan said, coming up behind her and reaching for
the whisk. Elise glanced at Denise, who nodded to her with a distracted smile as she prepared a roast duck. She washed her hands and walked through the swinging door, looking for Francesca.

  “Hi,” Elise said, glad to see Francesca standing in the bar area, a glass of club soda and lime on the bar in front of her.

  “I’m sorry; I know how busy you must be. I promise I won’t take long. It’s a bit of an emergency.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh.” Francesca looked contrite when she noticed Elise’s anxiety. “I should have specified. Not a real emergency. A bride’s emergency.”

  Elise laughed. “My father used to say there’s no catastrophe in the universe larger than a bride’s, because she makes her panic everyone else’s.”

  Francesca joined her in laughter. “It’s so funny you mentioned him. He’s the reason I stopped by. Or one of them, anyway.

  Elise’s amusement vanished. “My father?” she asked, stunned.

  Francesca nodded. “Yes. Louis Martin.”

  Elise just stared, her mind racing. Lucien had specifically told her he didn’t want anyone here in Chicago to know of their former connection. She’d made a point of not talking about her family or her past because she didn’t want people to start to see the possible previous connections between Lucien and her. Lucien’s desire for anonymity coincided with her own desire to start a new life.

  How was she supposed to respond to Francesca?

  “Your father is Louis Martin, right? The famous fashion designer?” Francesca prompted.

  “I . . . he . . . How did you know that?” Elise sputtered.

  Francesca’s expression fell. “I’m sorry. Did you not want people to know?”

  I don’t know what I want, Elise thought anxiously. She wasn’t sure what secrets Lucien wanted her to keep and what he didn’t. Why was he always so infuriatingly vague about all that?

  “It’s just that I hadn’t told anyone here. I’m trying to start out fresh in a new place.”

  Regret went through her when she saw Francesca’s crestfallen expression. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up—”

  “It’s okay, really,” Elise assured. “I just don’t understand how you knew Louis Martin was my father.”

  “Ian told me,” Francesca admitted. “He knew that I was obsessing about the perfect dress for a beach wedding—casual but elegant, simple but classic—all the characteristics your father is known for. Ian suggested I speak to you about the possibility of contracting your father for a design.”

  “He did?” Elise asked numbly. Lucien was not going to like this. Plus, knowing Lucien, he’d think it was somehow her fault that Ian and Francesca knew about her family.

  “How could Ian have possibly known I was Louis Martin’s daughter? Is he that involved in French fashion?”

  Francesca studied her face anxiously. “Not specifically, but Ian is very aware of the goings-on in the European business community. He spends a lot of his time in Europe. And Ian just has a way of . . .” She blushed. “Finding out things about people,” she finished, an apology in her eyes.

  Of course. For a business mogul like Ian Noble, knowledge was power. She’d been admitted into the realms of his private penthouse. If he was smart—and Ian was reputedly brilliant—he wouldn’t have done that without having at least a minimal check done on her background to assure she wasn’t a thief or spy.

  She was processing all this when Francesca spoke again. “Again, I’m sorry, Elise. I didn’t realize you were trying to keep your background secret. I knew you didn’t offer a lot of information, but I just thought it was modesty on your part. Even at the engagement party, I heard Ian ask Lucien if you were Louis Martin’s daughter, and Lucien confirmed that you were.”

  Elise blinked, shocked anew. Lucien hadn’t made a secret of her past to Ian? She was bewildered. Precisely what was it he had been warning her to be circumspect about all this time? She thought he didn’t want her bringing up things that would create any suspicion on Ian’s part, but he clearly didn’t think her background or family or status qualified. Irritation flickered through her at his refusal to open up in regard to this Ian Noble business. If Elise did screw up, it was no one’s fault but Lucien’s for not being more specific about what he wanted kept secret. He was leaving her to walk around blindly in a landmine.

  She shrugged and smiled at Francesca, determined to do her part to keep the waters smooth for her and Lucien.

  “It’s not a big deal. I’d be happy to talk to my father about it. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to design something for a friend of mine. When he sees you, he’ll be inspired.”

  Francesca’s dark eyes went wide. “That’s so sweet of you,” she said quietly. “Are you sure, Elise? I really didn’t mean to be so tactless about a . . . a sensitive issue. I should have realized you want to be recognized on your own merits, that you’re trying to make a life for yourself outside of the shadow of your family. I’m forever sticking my foot in my mouth,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Elise said, stepping forward and touching Francesca’s elbow in reassurance. “I was just surprised you knew I was Louis Martin’s daughter, that’s all.”

  “I’ll explain to Ian how you feel about a fresh start, and we’ll be sure not to mention your family to anyone. He’ll understand,” Francesca assured. “But that’s not all—I also wanted to ask if you and Lucien would come over to Ian’s penthouse Monday night for dinner.”

  “That would be lovely, but I owe you an invitation first. You asked us last, for the engagement party. I’m sorry I haven’t reciprocated. Things have been so busy with work.”

  “Nonsense,” Francesca said, waving her hand. “There’s no reason to be so formal about a casual dinner, is there?”

  “Well, if you’re sure,” Elise said hesitantly.

  “Of course I’m sure. Please say you’ll come. Ian has been under a lot of stress lately. To be honest,” Francesca added quietly, “I’m concerned about him. He works so hard, and it’s been necessary for him to spend a lot of time away from home recently. It would do him good, to relax with friends, and Lucien always seems to have such a good effect on him.”

  “I’ll ask Lucien then,” Elise assured, seeing how much the dinner meant to Francesca and wanting to make that shadow of worry on her features fade. “I’m not sure if he’ll be back from Paris by Monday. I’ll call you when I know. And I promise to make you and Ian a special dinner very soon.”

  “You do every time we come to Fusion,” Francesca said wryly as she stood.

  “That hardly counts,” Elise said, giving a sunny smile. Inside, though, a storm was brewing. She was angry at Lucien for leaving her to feel so vulnerable and clueless. But she was infuriated that his refusal to prepare her might be the thing that betrayed him. She truly didn’t believe he was up to something criminal, but he was up to something that could land him in trouble. She just knew it.

  He had some explaining to do. And this time, some vague half-truths weren’t going to cut it.

  Read more of Elise and Lucien’s red-hot romance in

  Part VI of WHEN I’M WITH YOU

  WHEN YOU TRUST ME

  Available from InterMix on April 9, 2013

  Keep reading for a taste of Beth Kery’s sexy romance

  PARADISE RULES

  Available now from Berkley Heat

  Lana Rodriguez’s eyelids narrowed suspiciously as she watched the buxom blonde in the minuscule bikini follow their surf instructor to a back room. She thought she recognized the expression of sly excitement on the young woman’s face. Undoubtedly a man with their instructor’s looks—the annoyingly potent, flashing grin and abundant, gleaming muscles—had female tourists throwing themselves at him with the consistency of a perfect Oahu day. Irritation bubbled up to the surface, an irritation that went far beyond her presence in Waikiki and taking a stupid surfing lesson.

  Lana slammed the skin suit back into place, causing a br
isk clang of the hanger against the metal rack. Her personal assistant and longtime friend’s face fell at the evidence of her pique.

  “Jeez, you weren’t kidding when you said you hated Waikiki, were you?” Melanie pulled her skin suit’s top down over her bathing suit. “You really didn’t have to come, Lana. And you certainly didn’t have to agree to take these surf lessons with me. I’ve taken vacations by myself before, you know.”

  Regret immediately lanced through Lana’s flash of temper. Melanie was in the midst of a soul-scarring divorce that had already gone on for two years more than it should have. Sure, Melanie might have gone on a few vacations by herself before she married that sleazeball David Mason. Still, there was no way in hell Lana was going to allow her friend to be alone when she was still raw and hurting from her soon-to-be ex-husband’s latest underhanded courtroom maneuver to get full custody of their four-year-old daughter, Shawna.

  She gave Melanie an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go diva on you.”

  Melanie laughed. “Girl, if you ever showed a hint of the diva gene, I’d have abandoned you years ago.”

  “Your shirt is too loose, hon.” Lana chose a shirt that read Jason Koa Surf Schools, Waikiki over the left breast and handed it to Melanie before she picked one for herself. The tight long-sleeved shirt would partially protect them from the shearing Waikiki surf and the friction burn of surfboard against bare skin . . . as well as ensure that a woman’s bikini top would stay in place.

  Melanie shrugged out of the top and took the one that Lana handed her. “Why do you hate Waikiki so much?”

  “Too touristy.”

  Melanie eyed her. “You seem really tense. And on the plane— jeez, Lana, I thought a few times you were going to have a panic attack like you used to have before you went onstage, back when you were still a kid.”

  Lana waved her hand impatiently. “Flying to Hawaii is worse than flying to Europe. I should have asked my doctor for something to help me sleep.”

  For the whole damn trip, she added to herself.