“Yes.”
“And never gave me the courtesy of a real explanation.”
Goaded, her anger flared. “Could you make this any more difficult?”
“You want it easy? You want it easy? Baby, you must have me confused with someone else.”
Just then, temper spiked in his eyes. She saw how deep his own anger ran and how tightly he reined it in. “I think coming here was a mistake.”
“Probably was,” he agreed. “Feel free to run away. You always have.”
How the heck had this gotten so out of control, so quickly?
“You’ve got twenty seconds before I show you the door.”
“I’m tired of running.”
He raised a brow in that oh-so skeptical way of his.
“I’m tired of holding back,” she confessed. “I’m tired of being so afraid of being hurt that I do the hurting first.”
“You’re here to apologize?” he asked incredulously.
“No.” She wished he’d step back or at least drop his hand, but she couldn’t ask for either, not since she was resolved not to run.
“Forgive me for not being able to keep up.”
She took a breath. It was supposed to be a deep, steadying breath that she practiced in her yoga classes. Instead it ended up as a desperate, shallow-sounding pant. “I have no right to ask this. I fully expect you to kick me out. I’m grateful for the five minutes you’ve given me.”
“Go on.”
“I want to learn to let go.” At one time, she might have reached up and traced the line of his chiseled jaw, but two years ago, she’d given up that right. “I want you to teach me.”
“We were together eighteen months, married for five of them.”
“I always trusted you,” she said. “You never crossed any of my boundaries. But honestly, it was me I didn’t trust.” The evening air whispered over the skin he’d bared. “This time, I want you to push me. I want you to demand everything I never offered before.”
“Why in hell would I even consider this?”
“No good reason that I can think of,” Jessica admitted. “Maybe revenge?”
“Again, you’ve got the wrong man.”
His integrity had never been on the line, only hers. “Curiosity? Do I mean what I say? How far will I go?” She’d spent hours lying in bed, tossing and turning, trying to talk herself out of coming here, then just as many hours dreaming up ways she could talk him into it. “Maybe the challenge? Maybe because you haven’t had a good scene in a while and need the diversion?” At least she prayed that was true. If he had another sub, another woman, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. It had taken her weeks to gather the courage to face him; she hadn’t even allowed herself to think that he’d found someone to replace her.
His brows were no longer drawn as tightly.
He hadn’t sent her away. If he had someone else, surely he would have. Boldly she pushed forward. “And maybe because I’m asking?” Her voice dropped as she looked up at him. Was she getting through to him? Or did he still hate her? She wouldn’t blame him if he did, but he of all people would know how much this was costing her emotionally.
“Because I’m begging?” That was something she’d never been good at. She’d never let herself be vulnerable enough to beg for his touch, his lash. He’d said he’d been foolish enough to believe she’d be less resistant once they’d married, but she hadn’t. “I’m asking you to please do this for me, even though there’s no reason you should.”
He caught her chin and tipped it back, holding her captive.
A shudder, part fear, part arousal, went through her. She hadn’t completely forgotten how much his power affected her, but two years was a long time to keep the memory as vibrant as reality.
“I don’t think you can do it,” he said.
“Maybe not.” She had to admit that was a possibility. She’d been running her whole life. Changing wouldn’t be easy. “All I’m asking for is a weekend of your time. You can make me go away after that, and I promise never to bother you again.”
“Four days,” he countered. “Starting immediately.”
She blinked. It was Wednesday evening, and she’d been thinking they could spend the upcoming weekend together. She wanted to go to her yoga class tomorrow evening. God knew she needed the stress relief. She’d planned to use Thursday and part of Friday morning to tie up all the loose ends for her freelance work, leaving Friday afternoon free for a haircut and manicure and maybe some shopping. New shoes would improve her self-confidence dramatically.
“You’re still wanting to control things, Jessica, little wanna-be-a-submissive. First step is to do this on my terms.”
“I have work.”
“You may use my computer three hours a day.”
He knew as well as she did that she could shuffle her work. She didn’t punch a time clock, and the time he allotted was more than generous.
She was going to protest that she didn’t have her toiletries or clothes. But those were excuses. Under his roof, she’d have no need of anything except what he provided.
“You’ll be naked of course, but you’ll be allowed to do your work.”
Her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. What was she getting herself into? This was a man who showed no quarter, and she’d asked him to test her every emotional limit.
He took a step back. She’d been hoping he would, but now that he was no longer touching her, she missed the feel of them, skin to skin.
“I’ll ask you for the second time, is there a reason you’re not on your knees?”
Stephen wondered if she’d obey. Without actions to back them up, her words were meaningless.
He meant it when he told her he didn’t think she could do it. Jessica McNeil, his ex-wife, former lover and submissive, might realize she had a problem with emotional intimacy, but finding the courage to confront her fears again and again was another thing. Even when their marriage had been on the line and she couldn’t, wouldn’t stand and fight for it, for them, not even when he’d begged, cajoled, threatened, promised…
Stephen wasn’t the world’s most forgiving man. If he were, maybe he’d have seen the troubled waters their relationship had been steering toward and maybe he’d have behaved differently, giving her time to work through her concerns before heading down to the courthouse to file their divorce papers. But, damn it, even he had limits.
Without complaint or argument, she slowly she sank to her knees on the cool, uneven and uncomfortable slate. First point to her. He’d made her kneel often, but never on slate.
Her motions weren’t as seamless as they’d once been and her breathing was a bit ragged. He’d knocked her off balance with his counter to her outrageous request. He intended to keep her guessing.
Seeing her there, knees spread to shoulder-width, the way he liked, he questioned his sanity.
She might still be dressed in a skirt and a silk blouse, but he remembered what lay beneath. He was desperate to have his hands on her.
She looked up at him, and when he raised a brow, she quickly cast her gaze down. “Good girl.”
Slowly, without his coaching, she bent her head.
“You remember a few things.”
“A few.”
So did he; more than he wanted to remember. Like the way she smelled after a bath, of lavender and vanilla, the way she tasted, of femininity and surrender. “Remove your blouse.”
Her head still lowered, she unfastened the last couple of buttons. She parted the shirt then shrugged, allowing the silk to pool on the tiled floor.
“Now your brassiere.”
He noticed that her fingers shook slightly as she released the hook and eye, then drew the straps over her shoulder and dropped the scrap of red lace on the floor. Blood rushed to his cock at the sight of her breasts, tipped by erect brown nipples. “Pinch them.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
At first, she touched her nipples gently, making them harder, more al
luring. He wondered if her actions were calculated to torture him. Then she squeezed each of her nipples between a thumb and forefinger before tugging. Finally she pinched them tightly. She leaned back, like she did when facing exquisite pain. And she moaned.
Christ. His cock was throbbing. “Harder!”
She froze for a second, but she didn’t break position. He watched her torment those beautiful little nipples. “I said harder, Jessica.”
She gulped.
He imagined when she planned this little visit that she thought they’d have a polite conversation about her proposal, perhaps picturing them sitting politely in the Queen Anne chairs in front of the fireplace while Mrs Boxley brought in a pot of tea, all very civilized. Had she forgotten how uncivilized he could be? He had ideas for the Queen Anne chairs, all right, but they included punishment and her being bent over. “Shall I show you what I mean?”
He saw her sink her teeth into her bottom lip. She’d often complained his grip was worse than her most vicious clover clamps. She closed her eyes and ardently squeezed tighter on her nipples.
She gave a gentle moan that made his cock even harder.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to touch her.
Moving in closer, he said, “Offer me your breasts.”
“I…” She opened her eyes and looked up at him.
He waited, wondering if she’d protest or at least dally.
With only a moment’s hesitation, she released her grip on her nipples and cupped her breasts, pushing them up slightly, drawing them closer together.
He liked seeing her vulnerable like this. When she’d walked out two years ago he never imagined she’d come back, never conceived of the possibility she’d actually be on her knees in front of him after begging him to push her boundaries. “Ask me to squeeze your nipples.”
She swallowed deeply.
“Please… Please squeeze my nipples…”
They both waited then. He heard the tick of the clock in the parlor. At one time, she’d called him Stephen. Then she’d called him Sir. After he’d collared her, she’d called him Master.
Her leather collar hung from the tie rack in his closet, thrown away like their marriage vows.
She met his eyes, even though he preferred she keep her gaze downcast during a scene. Confusion swam in the depth of her golden eyes; wordlessly she asked him to guide her. This time, he refused. He wanted to see where she would go, how much intimacy she wanted. “Squeeze my nipples…” he prompted.
“Squeeze my nipples, Sir. Please.”
Sir. That worked for him. For now.
When he took that final step that brought him only inches from her, she lowered her gaze. “Perfect.” He took each of her nipples and gently rolled them between his thumbs and forefingers.
She moaned slightly then apologized breathlessly.
“No apologies,” he said. “I don’t care if everyone in the household hears your moans and screams.” He exerted a tiny bit more pressure.
“I…”
“You’re not thinking of climaxing, are you?”
“I’m getting wet,” she confessed. “Sir.”
That she was still so responsive ripped away his next breath. That had always been something he loved about her, the way she got so damp so quick, the way she orgasmed. It made it fun to punish her, draw out the climaxes until she squirmed. Once she’d even stamped her foot in frustration. “What happens to a sub who comes without permission?”
“It’s a very long time until she’s allowed another one.”
“Good girl.” He twisted her nipple then pinched and squeezed with deliberate, painful intent.
“Sir! Sir, sir, sir!” She gasped. She threw her body forward, trying to lean into the pain. She released her breasts, reaching for his wrists like she had earlier.
“Compose yourself.” He was relentless. “Back into position.” He saw what it cost her to steady her breaths as he continued to compress her nipples.
“It hurts!”
“Does it?”
She fought her way back into position, struggling to cup her breasts. At least he was some help there since he was tugging so hard on her nipples they were nearly next to each other.
He noticed the exact moment she regained control of her body’s reactions. Her breaths were still shallow, but she intentionally drew each breath. She forced her knees apart, and she leaned back slightly, even though it meant her nipples were more distended.
By degrees, he eased up on the pressure. When she totally surrendered, he released his grip and took a step back. God, he loved the sight of her, so responsive and beautiful, blonde hair, longer than it had been, cascading over her trembling shoulders.
He was undone.
He crouched in front of her. She still held her breasts for him. Although her head was tipped forward, he saw she was blinking rapidly, unsure of his next move. Gently he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth and laved away the hurt with his tongue. She moaned, a sound he recognized as pure pleasure. After soothing the tip of her other breast, he slowly stood. “If you wish to stay, strip. I will be in the parlor.” Then he said, “Look at me.” As she complied, he took the time to purposefully unfasten his belt and draw it from its loops.
Her gaze was fastened on his motions, not on his face, just as he’d intended.
“If you join me,” he said, “you’ll experience my punishment.”
“You said… You aren’t into revenge.”
“Revenge, no. Punishment that you richly deserve, absolutely. There’s a difference, and you know it.” He waited until she looked at his face. “If you choose to leave, you know where the door is. Your choice, Jessica.”
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About the Author
Born in northern England and raised in the Wild West, Sierra Cartwright pens books that are as untamed as the Rockies she calls home.
She’s an award-winning, multi-published writer who wrote her first book at age nine and hasn’t stopped since.
Sierra invites you to share the complex journey of love and desire, of surrender and commitment. Her own journey has taught her that trusting takes guts and courage, and her work is a celebration for everyone who is willing to take that risk.
Email: [email protected]
Sierra loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Sierra Cartwright
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Mastered: On His Terms
Mastered: Over the Line
Mastered: In His Cuffs
Mastered: For the Sub
Signed, Sealed and Delivered
Homecoming: Unbound Surrender
Night of the Senses: Voyeur
Bound Brits: S&M 101
Halloween Heart Throbs: Walk on the Wild Side
Naughty Nibbles: Fed Up
Totally Bound Publishing
In the Den Page 20