Wicked Design (Wicked Brand)

by Tina Donahue

  Jasmina winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  He’d need more than protein and carbs to prepare for the threesome she had going with Noah and Kyle.

  “Wait.” Lauren glanced around him. “You forgot your backpack.”

  “I’ll grab it tomorrow. Night.”

  He ran down the walk toward his apartment. A block away, he circled back. Lauren and Jasmina were gone. Thankfully, he had a key to the parlor and knew the security code. Dim lights illuminated the front area. He groped down the inky black hall to Lauren’s office and checked the camera settings. Off. He ducked into his station and closed the door enough so light wouldn’t bleed out but he could still hear Clover’s knock.

  Eight minutes to showtime.

  He set up his space for their evening. It wasn’t the honeymoon suite at the Hilton but during the coming hours this place would belong to them. Eager to see her surprise and approval he double-checked everything.

  Raps sounded on the front door, beating out the opening strain of Beethoven’s 5th.

  Laughing, he bounded down the hall.

  Clover clapped like a kid at her own birthday bash.

  He pulled open the door. “You’re late.”

  “I’m early.”

  “Only by a minute. Are you trying to kill me?” He hauled her into his arms and kissed her hard.

  They tottered to the left and right, struggling to get closer to each other, and fell on the sofa. It creaked from their combined weight.

  She jerked his tank top up. He yanked her strap past her shoulder, exposing her breast. Her nipple tightened within his mouth, the tip harder than hell, the moment pure madness.

  Anyone passing by the front window might see them screwing around. What in the fuck was he thinking?

  Lauren may have claimed to love him like a brother, but having to pay his and Clover’s bail for public indecency wouldn’t go over too well.

  He pulled Clover off the sofa and to the front door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We can’t stay here.”

  “You mean at the parlor?”

  “No. Up front. We need to go in back.”

  She cupped his balls. “Since when?”

  He held back an aroused groan. “Someone might see what we’re doing.”

  “You don’t like voyeurism? Have you ever tried it? I haven’t. That could be our second goal.”

  He laughed too hard to answer, locked the door, and yanked her down the hall. “Go in. Now.”

  Worried someone on the street might see the light, he pushed her inside.

  Her feet tangled, arms windmilled.

  He shut the door and flung out his hands. “Voilà.”

  “I’ll say.” She dropped to her knees and pulled down his fly.

  He grabbed her wrists. “Wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Look.”

  “I’m trying to, but you keep stopping me.” She wrested free.

  He grabbed her again. “Look at the room.”

  “Why? What’s so—?” She stood and turned a slow circle.

  He’d displayed the sketches of her likeness he’d completed these past months. Most sheets showed her face in profile or a three-quarter pose, her expression pensive in some, neutral in others. Always beautiful.

  She touched the drawings with care, the way one would with something sacred.

  Humbled, he regretted not having enough talent to do her justice. “I wish I could have done better.”

  “What are you talking about? These are fantastic. You made me look good.” She glanced over. “Is this how you see me?”

  He’d never capture her real essence or what was in his heart when it came to her. “Almost as good as your image in my mind.” He picked up his best work. In it, a faceless crowd surrounded her, their forms blurred and gray, while she stood out Technicolor bright, her gaze direct. “I didn’t have time to tint each sketch like this one. Truth is, I’m not good with chalk or watercolors like Tor is. Oil’s my medium.”

  Van Gogh pulled out the painting he’d brought. Last spring he’d spotted her in a local park. A chance encounter he should have taken advantage of, but he hadn’t the nerve to make his move. In the oil painting she sat cross-legged beneath an enormous banyan tree, eyes bright, hand outstretched to a pigeon. Sun broke through heavy clouds, the rays creating a golden circle around her, buildings and passersby far less colorful, their representation similar to what the real Van Gogh would have done. Her facial detail was closer to da Vinci’s style. Somehow the differing techniques worked well together.

  For him.

  Clover’s silence concerned Van Gogh and couldn’t be good for someone so talkative. “I should have made your hair black. At the time I painted this I thought it was dark brown.”

  She touched the oil then dropped her hand.

  “It’s okay. You can’t hurt it. Fondle away.”

  Her eyes sparkled.

  He wanted to die. Her disapproval of him was far worse than anything shitty his parents might say about his work. “I shouldn’t have shown this to you. It’s not my best. I can do better.”

  “Than this? How would that be possible for any artist? Can I have it? I’ll pay you.”

  “No. It’s yours.” He offered her the oil, stunned she wanted it. “Are you sure you like it? Be honest. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  She stroked the edges. “I recognize where you saw me and remember that day. I should have gone grocery shopping but thought screw it. If the world ended tomorrow, I’d have crappy TV dinners but would have missed a nice afternoon. Thankfully, the clouds made it cooler, but that bird was a real piece of work. It kept chasing off the others to get my breadcrumbs and wouldn’t leave me alone even when I tried to shoo it away.

  “No, I don’t like your painting. I adore it. I didn’t see you back then sketching me, otherwise I would have gestured you over. Did you take a picture of me on your phone and do this later?”

  “I work from memory.”

  “Get out.” She bumped his arm. “And you don’t think this is good? It’s amazing. You should have said hi. I don’t bite.” She sank her teeth lightly into his biceps. “At least not much.”

  He cupped her face. “Behave.”

  “Make me.”

  “You don’t think I will? I brought cuffs.”

  “I want to see them.” Carefully she put the painting on his desk. “And the strap, paddle, gag—”

  “Whoa. I figured you were bringing that stuff.”

  “We’ll improvise. Let’s see my shackles.”

  He handed her the bag.

  She whistled at the cuffs. “I like the red ones best. They match my underwear. Soon as I wash my bra and thongs, I’ll show you.” She ripped off the plastic packaging on the cuffs and tossed it on a counter next to his other surprise. “Wow, you brought beer and pizza, too?”

  The pie was from his earlier meal. “We also have candy bars and potato chips. With the pizza and beer, that’s the four major food groups.” He chucked her chin. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  “Clearly.” The cuffs dangled from her thumb. “Put them on me. Make me pay for being such a bad girl.”

  “Strip first.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “Slowly.”

  “I need music. Can you whistle the theme from Burlesque or Magic Mike?”

  “Even better.” He tapped the music app on his smartphone, browsed, and found what he wanted. Beethoven’s 5th poured from the device. “No excuses now. Give me a show.”

  She bent over laughing. “Sure thing.”

  With each thunderous beat and frenzied trill, she shook her booty or pranced across the room, shoulders pulled back, chest thrust out, swinging her top over her head. Definitely not what poor Ludwig had envisioned for his opus.

  After throwing her top on a chair, she stopped in front of Van Gogh, pumped her hips and sucked her forefinger as she had his cock.

  His balls crawled
up into his belly. His rod pushed against his fly, wanting out.

  He caught her wrist and slapped on a cuff with more authority than he knew he owned. This was fucking great. Before she could react, he secured the other one, her hands in front, pulled her to the padded cushion, and bent her from the waist, ass high.

  “Time for you to behave.”

  Chapter Ten

  Clover was sure Van Gogh’s voice had dropped at least an octave as he stated his demand. Heat poured from him in waves, blanketing her. He smelled better than she recalled, clean and musky. All man.

  He wanted her. More than any other guy had. Hell, he’d actually seen her in a park where a dozen others had played and relaxed, yet he’d noticed her. Remembered her well enough to sketch from memory.

  Clover wanted to slug him. She’d spent too many lonely months without his warmth, smile, and lust, his big body trapping hers, anchoring her to his desire. He should have said something about his attraction to her, given her some hope. No way would she wait again for him to make the first move. “Do it, do it, do it. Now.”

  “Hey.” He used the silver handcuffs to secure the first ones to the convertible chair rail. “I’m the Dom. You’re the lowly sub.”

  “Who says I’m not submitting?” She wiggled her butt, enticing him. “I’m telling you to go for it.”

  “I thought it was my job to give orders.” He yanked down her shorts and whistled at her nudity. “Lift your ass.”

  Her skin tingled, and her breath caught. Damn, this was nice. “Yes, sir.”

  “Master.”

  “Yes sir, Master.”

  He laughed.

  His joyful sound was more beautiful than the most celebrated tune.

  He sobered fast and breathed hard. “Ready for your discipline?”

  More than he could have guessed. She felt more naked now than she ever had in her life, plus deliciously vulnerable to both their fantasies. She nodded meekly.

  “Not hard, though.” He kissed her butt. “I’d cut off my balls before I hurt you.”

  He wouldn’t. She trusted him fully with her safety and heart. Something she’d never done with another man. “I know.”

  He hugged her, straightened, then stepped away.

  Nothing else happened. No footfalls to indicate him edging close. No air rushing to signify his hand coming down hard to swat her ass. Curious, she glanced at the large wall mirror behind the convertible chair.

  Her shoulders and head blocked the view.

  She looked over.

  He stared at her ass and cleft.

  She got so wet she practically dripped and made a wanting sound.

  His gaze jerked up, but he didn’t blush. His eyes narrowed to hard slits. He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at her. “What was that?”

  She stilled at his command. Calling it a question wasn’t close to the truth. He’d gone into full Dom mode as easily as if he’d rehearsed this moment or had fantasized about it a lot. She liked that and mouthed “Nothing” in answer, keeping with her submissive role.

  He stalked to her, one slow step at a time, and gripped her ass.

  She flinched then stilled.

  “You deserve this, don’t you?” His voice scraped, it was that low. “You’ve been bad, haven’t you?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  Still gripping her butt, he stepped to the side and raised his hand.

  She stared at their reflections in the mirror.

  He shook his head. “Eyes down, like a good sub.”

  Fuck. Obeying, she squeezed her fists.

  He swatted her cheeks. The crack rang through the room.

  Nothing happened, and then the sting hit.

  Her mouth fell open.

  Instantly, he bent over her. “Was that too hard? Are you okay?”

  Liquid heat had already replaced the mild hurt. “Gawd, yeah. Do it again. Harder, though.”

  “You’re sure? My hand’s still tingling.”

  She nodded. “I’ll let you know if it’s too much. Go on. Please. This is frigging awesome.”

  His accelerated breathing said he agreed.

  He assumed his Dom persona and strode to the right, the left, viewing her naked ass while slapping his hand against his palm. A steady beat that broke the quiet and increased her tension.

  Next time they’d have to try a strap. She bet he’d be something wielding it.

  He stepped from behind her and grasped her cuffed wrists.

  She looked up.

  “No making fists.” He squeezed her fingers. “You’ll accept what I do…you’ll welcome it.”

  Her heart skipped several beats.

  “Understand?”

  She nodded. He was wasting his time as a tattoo artist. He should write erotic romances.

  She loosened her fingers.

  His arrogant smile made him seem bigger, more dangerous, all hers.

  It took everything within her to keep from squealing in delight.

  After fondling her breasts, he positioned himself at her side and smacked her ass several times in succession, each blow harder than the last.

  The increasing stings surprised, but intense warmth followed, similar to booze heating her throat and belly, leaving her relaxed and weightless. “Again. Harder. Please.”

  The sharp cracks and her gasps filled the room.

  If she could have pumped her arms in ecstasy, she would have. “Damn.”

  He stopped and snuggled his face to her neck. “Too much? You want me to stop? Keep going? Slower? Faster? Tell me.”

  She liked his Dom but loved his real personality the best. Not that his sweet, gentle nature would keep her from wanting more of their fantasies. “Do what you have to.” She panted. “I’m your willing slave. My body is yours to take, to use, and enjoy for as long as you want.”

  He made a noise more feral than human and stepped away.

  Condoms flew past her face, as did the lube, and fell to the padded cushion. His clothes landed in various locations. He ripped a packet with his teeth and rolled the rubber over his rigid cock, giving her a stellar performance. Excitement intensified their respective fragrances. The scent of sex thickened the air.

  He clasped her hip, his hand heavy and hot. “Spread your legs.”

  Her shorts trapped her ankles. She strained against the denim.

  Van Gogh didn’t offer to help or remove them. He settled behind her, ran his crown over her damp folds, and entered her deeply. Plundering. Conquering.

  She gripped the cushion.

  He thrust repeatedly, no tenderness in his actions, only raw male lust, proving he couldn’t control himself around her. Too much desire and animal need crackled between them, along with a growing bond she couldn’t resist. Clover suspected he couldn’t, either.

  She tightened her sheath.

  He growled and pumped harder, primitive sounds pouring from him. Her pussy grew tighter, his cock thicker, making the friction between them nearly unbearable but more enticing for her with each brutal stroke.

  She pushed into him, demanding he go deeper, get closer.

  He rubbed her clit ceaselessly.

  Clover wanted to shriek. She couldn’t surrender this soon. Wasn’t right. She squirmed, trying to get away from his touch. His size and strength precluded it. Trapped, she gritted her teeth, refusing to come.

  He thumbed her nub.

  “No, no, crap!” She hammered the cushion, rattling the cuffs, but couldn’t stop soaring and spinning. Her sheath pulsed around his cock, announcing her climax.

  He pumped slower.

  Blessed relaxation and heat flowed through her. She hauled in as much air as she could.

  He stroked her anus.

  She jerked.

  After smearing lube on the tight ring, he worked the cool jelly into her passage, his touch gentle now, careful. With her fully prepared, he kissed her shoulder. “Have you ever done this?”

  “Have you?”

  “Only in my fantasi
es.”

  They were both virgins at this. How amazing was that? “Same here.”

  “Really? Why? Were you afraid to go this far?”

  “No. I was waiting for you.”

  He suckled her neck and embraced her like a committed lover, not a guy doing a drive-by.

  “I’ll take it easy.” He brushed his lips over her cheek. “The second it hurts, holler. I’ll stop. We’ll never do it again.”

  “What if I want to?”

  “Then we will.”

  She laced her fingers through his and squeezed.

  He pulled out of her sheath and probed her anus, then worked his crown inside.

  Her breath caught at the intense pressure, more than she’d ever experienced. His thickness stunned, but his patience comforted. Each time she breathed hard, he waited and let her rest. He stroked her back, caressed her nipples, and captured another piece of her heart.

  At last he slid fully inside and they touched.

  He panted. “You okay?”

  “Filled.”

  He choked out a laugh. “Be honest. You want to keep going?”

  “All night.”

  “Hang on then.” He took her passionately and tenderly, seeing to her needs as well as his.

  They came together on explosive howls.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clover had to admit Van Gogh’s idea for designer handcuffs wasn’t half bad, though not completely unique. There were already furry sets available, along with ones sporting rhinestones, those in Valentine heart shapes, and even pairs where diamond-cut chains replaced steel to resemble bracelets. However, during her research she hadn’t found one pair that was totally uncommon yet BDSM sexy and easy on the eyes. After all, a sub had to look good for her Dom.

  She pushed her other projects aside and worked feverishly on her initial designs for Clover Cuffs. That meant barricading herself in her apartment and not letting anything distract her. Especially Van Gogh. When he was around, her brain couldn’t function normally. Too much adrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin ate away any thoughts not centered on him.

  He didn’t do cartwheels about her decision for temporary solitude, but he was mellow when they video-chatted. Him bare-chested. Her, too.

  Like tonight.

  He scratched his belly then dipped south to his fly and shrugged. “No need to keep apologizing. I isolate myself when I start something new. Comes with the territory. Do that again.”