by M. Leighton
Or is this why I’m here? Because he’s the one man who can?
Pausing in his torture, Alec re-lathers his hands and turns his attention to my arms. He works the scented soap into the skin from my armpit to my fingers, even soaping in between them. The way he moves in and out of the webs of my fingers makes me struggle not to enjoy his ministrations.
Lathering up again, Alec leans toward me, circling my waist with his hands, moving them up and down my sides, his fingertips meeting at the center of my spine. Each long stroke brings his face closer, my back arching further and further. His eyes are trained steadily on mine, neither of us speaking as he strokes me, up and down, up and down.
On his last downward stroke, Alec lets his hands trail down to my hips. His fingers dig into my flesh, pulling me up off the bottom of the tub as he slips under me to massage each butt cheek. His fingertips fan inward, moving along the crease between them. They glide teasingly inward then playfully away.
When Alec stops to soap his hands again, I’m breathless and I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because of the way he’s watching me. Maybe it’s because I know where he’s going next. Either way, anticipation is curled in my stomach like a snake ready to strike.
Alec’s foamy hands disappear under the bubbles. My body is vibrating with tension as I await his touch. But it never comes. He just watches me, his hands floating somewhere beneath the bubbles.
I suck in a breath when I feel his palms settle on my lower abdomen. My muscles twitch reflexively.
Alec splays his fingers out wide, covering me from hip to hip, and moves them slowly downward. I’m completely focused on where they’re headed and, against everything he told me to do, I’m anxious for it. I want it. But then, at the last minute, he parts his hands and drags them down the outside of my thighs.
My frustration mounts until Alec stops just above my knees and pulls his hands inward, toward the inside of my legs, and begins to climb back to my center, his thumbs pressing in as he ascends.
Mere inches from my core, Alec stops, his expression knowing, as if he can see my fingers curling against the warm ceramic of the tub. And then he moves again, all the way up to my heated center.
His thumbs part my swollen lips, allowing warm water to rush over my sensitive flesh. I clench my teeth, trying to hold still and keep quiet. But when his thumb grazes my clitoris, a single pant of air escapes before I hold my breath in, repeating the mantra over and over again.
I won’t enjoy this. I won’t enjoy this.
Up and down, Alec’s thumb moves gently over me. My instinct is to writhe against him, to grind against his hand, but I remain perfectly still, not stirring or speaking or uttering a single sound.
One hand leaves my leg, turning over in the water to cup me. “I’ll be tasting this soon,” he whispers, teasing my entrance with one fingertip. “Bend your knees,” he commands.
I do as he asks, placing my feet flat against the bottom of the tub, opening myself to him. He slides one long finger deep inside me. “God, you’re tight,” he groans. His heavy-lidded green eyes are turned nearly black by his dilated pupils. “You’ll grip my cock like a glove.”
He slowly withdraws his one finger only to plunge it back inside with a second. My heart is racing as tension builds inside my stomach. I fight the urge to let my head fall back and my eyes drift shut, my body overcome with sensations that are totally foreign to me.
“I’ll be watching you when you come on me for the first time. And you will be coming on me. And after you do, I’ll roll you onto your stomach and I’ll come all over that perfect, round ass of yours. And there won’t be anything you can do about it. Because this weekend, you’re mine,” he declares, his fingers sliding in and out of me, winding me up like a pocket watch. “To do whatever I want with. Whatever. I. Want. Do you understand?”
Faster, his fingers move inside me as he awaits my answer. My brain is scrambled, nearly every thought and nerve centered on what he’s doing to me.
And then he stops, his fingers at rest deep within me.
“Say it,” he orders.
“Yes,” I say automatically, not really caring what I’m agreeing to.
“Yes what?”
I struggle to think. My breath is trapped behind my ribs. “Yes, I’m yours.”
“You will not tell me no.”
I pant as my body sucks at his fingers, a silent plea for him to continue. “I will not tell you no.”
Slowly, he eases his fingers out, leaving me with an empty feeling of frustration. “Good,” he says, bringing his hands out of the water to lather up again.
With expert attention, he treats my legs and feet to the same tender attentions he did to my arms and hands, never once acting as though he’s bothered by what just happened. Or nearly happened.
When he pulls the plug to let the water out, I’m forced to admit to myself that I failed miserably. Not only did I enjoy the bath, but I’m disappointed that it’s over, that he didn’t continue. And that’s a first for me.
Hope rises again, mingling with that frustrated feeling, leaving me achy and distracted as Alec pulls me to my feet. Reaching behind him to grab a towel, he begins to pat me dry as his eyes rove my body. He seems thoughtful when his gaze moves back to my face. “Leave your hair up for tonight,” he says of the sexy, messy pile of red tangles atop my head.
I nod absently as Alec helps me from the tub. He bends to brush his lips over mine before he walks toward the door and grabs my bag from the corner. He carries it back and sets it near the vanity that graces part of one wall in the bathroom. “I’ll see if your clothes are here while you get ready.”
He stares into my eyes for a few seconds before he turns casually around and exits the room, closing the door softly behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT- Alec
I glance over at Samantha, sitting primly in the passenger seat of the car. I brought the Mercedes tonight. I drive it so seldom, people are less likely to recognize it. Not that I’m well-known anyway, but still, I’m cautious. This kind of thing could ruin a man.
I wonder what Samantha is thinking. She hasn’t said a word since she came down the stairs wearing the dress I took up to her.
She’s quite the vision in the sheath. Every curve is perfectly delineated in nearly-sheer black silk. She didn’t mention the discreet zipper in the back of the dress that begins at her ankles and travels all the way to the base of her spine, just like I didn’t mention that I could see her hard nipples when she stepped into the light.
Her deep red hair is still up, albeit in a sleek twist now, and her lips are stained a rich crimson. I’d love to see that color smeared around my cock as I thrust it into her mouth while she’s bound and helpless on her knees in front of me. But I doubt that will happen tonight. In all likelihood, her hands will remain free for the remainder of the weekend. That is, unless she lets Laura Drake out of the bag. Then all bets are off.
The thought of that, of being with a woman like that again, makes me hard as a rock behind my zipper. It also makes me uneasy. I learned my lesson with Alyssa. Or at least I thought I had.
I shift in my seat. From the corner of my eye, I see Samantha glance at me. I turn to capture her gaze.
“Are you nervous?”
“Should I be?” she replies.
“A week ago, I would’ve said yes. But now…”
She doesn’t respond, just looks away. I see her fiddle nervously with the domino in her lap. I’m sure she’s curious about it. Or maybe she’s not. My estimation of her responses is skewed; she’s a bit more of a mystery than I’d originally thought. But there’s nothing I like more than unraveling a mystery. Except, of course, unraveling a tightly-wound woman.
When we arrive at the deceptively blasé building, I’m a little more sexually…jacked up than usual. For the last couple of years, I’ve come here only to watch, to feed my addiction just enough to keep it under control. I haven’t participated in a long time. But tonight…tonight is
different.
I’ve got the sweetly naive Samantha sitting beside me, dressed in something I could really take advantage of, something that gives me easy access should she decide she’d like to take a room of our own. But also in the seat next to me I’ve got Laura Drake. She writes about sexual exploits that fascinate me. And inflame me.
The question is: Who will accompany me inside tonight? Who will show up to dominate the beautiful redhead on my arm? Both excite me, just in totally different ways, and the anticipation is like rocket fuel to an already raging fire. It’s been too long.
After I park and cut the engine, I get out and walk around to let Samantha out of the car. I reach for the domino between her fingers. I put it into place. She adjusts it slightly and then looks up to meet my eyes. There’s anxiety in them, as well as in the smile she gives me. It tells me that Samantha Jansen is with me right now. Laura Drake is nowhere to be found. It makes me wonder if she’ll ever make an appearance or if she is more of a fictional person than I realize.
After I slide my own domino into place, I take Samantha’s hand and place it on the inside of my arm as we walk to the front of the building.
Like many others, this house, loaded with all the Southern architectural charm that Charleston is known for, was long ago converted into a business. Beyond the wide steps and charming veranda lie a restaurant and bar areas that occupy the entire lower level. It’s neither known to nor frequented by the general public. Only established and thoroughly vetted members are permitted through the subtly secured front doors. While it appears we are able to walk right in, I happen to know there are cameras on us, as well as the eyes of several seemingly casual observers who are actually high-end bouncers. They are in place to ensure that the “club” remains exclusive and discreet.
And largely undiscovered.
I lead Samantha to the bar and order both of us a martini, extra dirty. She doesn’t argue when I push the stem of the glass into her fingers. She merely eyes me over the rim as she takes a sip. I see her top lip curl slightly at the harsh bite of alcohol and I suppress a smile. She really is mostly Samantha.
We stand in front of the elegant bar, beneath the elegant chandelier, inside the elegant club until Samantha has looked around and I feel the tension leave her stiff spine. When the muscles relax beneath my palm, I speak.
“Let me show you around.”
She smiles another small smile, takes another sip of her drink, sets it down and then nods in agreement. I lead her toward the long, winding staircase with its rich mahogany railing and thick oriental runner, and we slowly ascend it. My pulse is already quickening with thoughts of what’s to come.
At the top of the stairs, there is a hallway to the left and right, as well as another set of steps that leads to the third floor. But for us, for tonight, I think this floor will suffice.
When I motion Samantha to the right, she turns slowly in that direction. I wonder if she’s noticing the subtle changes as we walk toward the hall—the dimmer lighting, the darker colors, the thick panels covering the walls, panels designed specifically to absorb sound.
At the mouth of the hall, there are three doors—one left, one right and one straight ahead. I happen to know the ones on the left and right are bathrooms. It’s the one directly in front of us that I’m most interested in.
I twist the knob and push open the door. I urge Samantha through into another hallway. When I close the insulated door behind us, the low tones of conversation, the delicate tinkle of glass and the soft music from the floor below are all immediately deadened.
I take Samantha’s hand and lead her slowly forward. Doors line the corridor ahead, the first of which is closed. Even though the soft moans assure me it’s occupied, the closed door signals their desire for privacy. No one in the club would dare violate that. The rules are strict and absolute.
“Tell me, Samantha,” I begin, leading her on, “have you ever been to a place where you can have anything you want? Where anything you desire is not only acceptable, but obtainable?”
She doesn’t answer me, but I feel her fingers tighten around mine. The next door we approach is open. I let Samantha move slightly ahead of me, sliding my hand over her hip to bring her to a stop and then moving in to stand behind her. Looking over her shoulder, I see the man and woman inside. I think to myself this is a good first look for her.
The room is windowless and dominated by an enormous mattress draped in black. There is a woman lying atop it, spread eagle. Around her wrists and ankles are black leather cuffs attached to chains which are anchored to the floor. There are candles dripping with thick rivulets of hot wax placed all around the bed. They’ve been used, as I can see by the streaks of dried, blood-red wax on her stomach, thighs and breasts. Kneeling on the bed, with his head between her legs, is a man.
“Some people like to be watched,” I whisper into Samantha’s ear before I press my lips to her neck. As if triggered by my words, the woman on the bed turns her head to look at us. I recognize her. Her mouth is open in a silent moan and her eyes are wide behind her domino. I hear Samantha’s soft gasp when Carla’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. Her moan becomes louder and she twists against her restraints. The man between her legs moves his arm, pushing something he’s holding in his hand deep inside her, in and out. Her next moan is partly a laugh as she arches her back and throws her head back in ecstasy.
I turn Samantha away from the room, back toward the hall and all its doorways, and we walk to the next one. Inside it is a woman, bound and gagged, on all fours in the center of a bare floor. Behind her is a man, gripping her hip with one hand and slapping her bright pink ass with the other as he thrusts into her. The woman moans and grunts behind her gag.
“Others like to be spanked,” I explain. I move Samantha on to the next door. “It’s impossible to know what you like until you try…everything.”
We pass three more doors, each one making me harder and harder, thinking of Samantha in the various positions, bound and completely under my control. And loving it. Giving me orgasm after orgasm as I work her body in ways she never dreamed.
When we reach the last set of rooms, two of them are empty. One has a bed with smooth, clean, black sheets that would be the perfect backdrop for Samantha’s pale skin and vibrant hair. The second is a smaller room with hooks on the wall and floor, as well as chains suspended from the ceiling. I can also easily picture Samantha here. Against the wall. Facing away. Chained and unable to move. Her dressed unzipped all the way to her delicious ass. Her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat. And me. Behind her. Pumping into her. My fingers biting into her flesh. Her moans filling the air. Her body squeezing around mine.
“Let me show you how good I can make you feel,” I say, moving around in front of her, tugging her with me as I back into the room.
A muffled scream echoes down the hall. I know no one is being hurt. Not really. Everyone here is consensual.
Samantha stops. I see her chest rise and fall quickly with her accelerated breathing. I see the unusual pallor of her skin. I see the look of terror in her eyes. I see the tremor of her lower lip. This is beyond the fear I wanted her to feel. A fear like this won’t allow pleasure to pass. And that’s not what I’m into at all.
“I won’t hurt you, Samantha,” I pledge quietly, stepping closer to her, reaching up to take her chin between my fingers. It trembles in my grasp. “This is all about pleasure, pleasure you’ve never known before, pleasure I want to introduce you to. A little fear can heighten the senses; a little pain can feel like ecstasy. Would you like me to show you?”
As I watch her in her silence, I see something surge to the surface, breaking through her upset. It’s something unwanted.
Emotional pain. And, with it, tears.
“What’s the m—”
“Get me out of here,” she says so softly I can hardly hear her.
“Samantha, I—”
“Please, Alec,” she pleads, her voice quivering with barely suppressed di
stress. “Take me home. Right. Now.”
“Okay,” I say immediately. “We’ll go home. There’s no reason for you to be upset. I—”
“No, not we. Me. I want to go to my house. Alone. I’ll get my car tomorrow.”
I feel the frown settle over my forehead. “Samantha, I—”
Before I can even really begin to apologize and explain, she’s turning and heading for the door. She practically runs down the hall toward the exit. I reach her before she can yank open the door.
“Samantha, stop!” I hiss quietly. “I’ll take you home. Just calm down. Don’t forget that we aren’t alone.”
I don’t want anyone thinking I’ve brought an unwilling person to the club and I don’t want to draw any undue attention to her. To either of us.
She won’t meet my eyes, but I hear her take a deep, shaky breath as she reaches for the door knob. More steadily. She turns it and steps through, pausing only long enough for me to close it behind us, and then she’s heading for the stairs.
She descends them calmly and makes her way toward the front door without appearing to be running for her life, which I get the feeling she thinks she is. But when we are outside, away from curious eyes, she takes off at a sprint toward the car.
I walk slowly in her wake, giving her the space she obviously needs. Meanwhile, all sorts of things are going through my head, all sorts of theories and unanswered questions. I’m already formulating new analyses to add to my Laura Drake file, and I’m mulling the new insights I’ve been given to Samantha Jansen. She’s quite the contradiction.
She seemed so ready, so open to me. How could I have been so wrong?
I hit the button to unlock the doors and Samantha ducks inside before I can reach the car to open the door for her. I don’t suppress my sigh.
After I slide in behind the wheel, I start the engine and get us back on the road to her place before I speak. I figure she needs distance from the club before she’ll feel any better.
“What happened back there?” I ask finally. When she says nothing, I continue. “You can tell me. I want to know your feelings about it.” Still she says nothing. “Samantha, I—”