Given that I have no intention of holding Allie for the long term, it must be the former, and despite the want that’s still sculpting his strong features, I deny him. Not without offering a recompense of a different kind, though, so much easier and simpler to give.
I hold the swiftly delivered flute aloft for him to clink with his glass of water. “Now drink up, because you’re far better than I ever was and I intend to enjoy you for the rest of the afternoon.”
Hart looks as if he can’t decide whether this is a threat or a promise, but offers me his glass nonetheless, letting the sound of the contact ring out over the table. A bit of both, Allie. A bit of both.
Chapter Twenty
‡
As soon as I shut the door behind us, I’m on. There’s a pleasant hum in my veins, the excitement of knowing I’ll have him under my thumb for the next several hours. I’m a connoisseur of pleasure, and this is the thing that gives me the most: a powerful person handing themselves over to me. Power and brawn are what Allie’s built out of.
“Clothes off.”
The muscles above his collar tighten but then relax almost as suddenly. He’s as ready for this as I am. Then he’s turning to face me while he strips off his shirt. It’s such a small thing, but the way most men do that with one hand whereas women unfailingly use two… I don’t know what it is about that small detail, but it arouses me.
As does the way he looks me in the eye as he reaches for his belt. Deliberately. I don’t mind if he wants to goad me with a strip tease. Be my guest, because we both know if I told him to knock it off, he’d be naked in five seconds flat. He slips the leather through the buckle and takes his time releasing it. When I hold out my hand, he doesn’t look surprised, just hands over the belt and watches me fold and then snap it in my hands.
His gaze no longer on my face but on the leather in my grip, he reaches for the button on his jeans. I snap my fingers and point to my face. “Eyes up here, Hart. Show some manners, please.”
His throat constricts in a visible swallow, and yeah, that makes more blood pump south. Then he’s unbuttoning and unzipping and shoving the denim over his narrow hips and rounded ass, down the thick, powerful thighs that make my mouth water, and onto the floor.
Those deliciously clingy boxer briefs follow, and he kicks them away, leaving his arms loose at his sides, head held high, and purposefully broadening his chest. He might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I take a mental snapshot of him as he is in this moment and stick it in my files to be pored over later, when he’s gone.
There’s a momentary beat of sadness at the thought, but I shrug it off because this is what I do. What I’ve always done. Though Hart’s wormed his way into a place few others have managed to reach, I’ll pass him off as surely as I have the rest. No use pretending otherwise and I should enjoy him while he’s mine.
I point to the floor, and he drops to his knees, spreading them and resting his hands on his thighs. Lovely, tractable man. He tracks me with his gaze as I move closer, belt still in my hands. If he thinks I’m going to start his hiding here, he’ll be disappointed. But not for long. Instead of striping the leather across his flesh, I dangle it in my grasp, the end nearly hitting the floor, and then I bend down.
“I’d like to put this around your neck. Use it as a lead. Is that okay?”
He blinks at me, his eyes going wide, chest puffing with a sudden inhale.
“No is always an option. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. If it’s too much, say the word or shake your head. Not an issue.”
He doesn’t. Doesn’t do anything for a full minute. Then quietly, oh so quietly, says, “Okay.”
I want to do a fist pump for having earned this from him, but won’t. There are more important things to do than celebrate. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
There’s a quick duck of his chin so I know he’s heard me, and then I use the leather to circle his neck, using the buckle to form a collar and leash. It’s less than ideal in that I can’t control the tightness well, but it’ll do for now. This is likely as close to a collar as I’ll get with him.
And isn’t that irritating as he lengthens the column of his throat for me, the better to take his impromptu collar. Makes me thirst for him, all of him. Don’t dwell on it, Walter. Nothing ever came from wanting.
I tug at the end of the belt I’ve wrapped around my fist and start down the hall. Without me telling him to do so, he follows on his knees. I can’t see him crawling down the hallway, but the picture is vivid in my mind. When we get to the stair landing, I guide him to go up instead of down, and he hesitates oh-so-briefly.
“Don’t worry, Hart. You’ll get yours.”
It’s true I don’t usually use my bedroom for kink, and I can’t entirely say why I’m doing so now. There’s a veritable treasure trove of toys in the dungeon and almost none up here, but I’m not planning to light him up with the violet wand, nor am I going to take my needle kit to him, though my fingers itch with the thought of laying him out and puncturing his skin. Later.
Today, it’s going to be a good old-fashioned beating with an ass-fucking to follow. He’s going to fucking love every single second of it, even when he isn’t liking it.
He slinks up the stairs, and I don’t hurry him, relishing the idea of his hands and knees meeting the fine carpet as he follows me. Down the hall to the bedroom, and when we get there, I leave the door wide open. Not that there’s anyone here and there won’t be—I texted Matthew while Hart was in the bathroom at brunch so he knows I’m not to be disturbed until I call for him—but Hart doesn’t know that and I catch his glance toward the door.
“Don’t trouble yourself.” I’m gratified by the slight darkening of his cheeks at my instruction, the undertones going warm instead of cool. And by his answer, since I haven’t told him why not. For all he knows, Matthew could be in the house already and waiting for my summons to stand in the doorway and watch whatever I’m going to do to him.
“Yes, sir.”
He kneels in the middle of the room, and I pull on the end of the belt, letting him feel it. I don’t miss the strain of his tendons against the leather.
“Do you like being collared, Hart? Having leather tight around your throat?”
He swallows again and my chest constricts. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you like being led through the house on a leash like my pet?”
His jaw tightens, and I’d like to run a hand over his head, feel the slight bristle on his scalp. So hard for him to say, yes, he enjoyed it. Despite the tension in his muscles and his reluctance, I know he did on some level. The way his erection is standing at attention gives him away. But what he says matters far more than the information his body gives to me, so I’ll listen to his words.
“Yes, sir.” The low rumble of his voice is such a goddamn turn-on I’d be a liar if I said I weren’t getting hard too.
I do pet his head then, as much because I want to as because it’ll humiliate him a little.
“Are you up for some pain, Hart?”
“Yes, sir.” As always. “I won’t be watching the kids for a few days.”
Good information to have, though I also know that means he’ll be sleeping in his truck some. My fingers curl into a fist because he’s such a stubborn fuck he hasn’t used the key I gave him yet. Ah. Leverage.
“If you’d like me to be hard on you, then I’d like your word you’ll sleep here when you’re not at Kendra’s house for the next three days.”
There’s a harsh breath of air through his nose, and he opens his mouth to protest.
“Entirely up to you, of course, but I’m not marking you if you’re going to be sleeping crunched up in the cab of your truck. Promise me. Here or your sister’s, I don’t care—” Newsflash, I totally do, but let me have this little lie. “—but you’ll be sleeping in a bed one way or another if you want me to work you over. Are we understood?”
His “yes, sir” is gritted throug
h his teeth, but I don’t call him on his attitude. I’m too thankful he’ll be sleeping in a bed for the next several days instead of out on the street where god knows what could happen to him.
“Excellent.”
I pull the belt tight before releasing it and using it to gesture toward the foot of the bed. He gives me a bit of a dirty look as he crawls over, but he can send all the eye-daggers he likes. I’m a happy man, as I usually am when I get my way.
There are restraints tucked under the bed, because of course there are, but I’ll maybe keep those for a surprise some other time. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to exercise some control.
“Kneel up, stomach against the bed, palms face down on the covers.”
He does as he’s told, though he’s a tad lazy about it so I grab his wrists and stretch them to where I’d like, a point that will provide a bit of strain. He’s stunning, the muscles of his back and torso shown off to their best advantage in this position. And his ass. Can’t possibly forget his ass. What a beautiful canvas to paint my masterpiece on.
Turning his head to the side, his breath deepens, and I can see him preparing, readying his mind for what’s about to befall his body, this thing he’s asked for and perhaps now regretting. He can stop it anytime he likes, and has.
I prepare myself, taking the buckle of his belt in my hand and wrapping the leather around to give a good grip. I could double it over, but I want the distance the length will afford.
While he’s stretched out and waiting, I pace behind him, making him wait because it makes him crazy. His fingers curl listlessly against the duvet, and I tsk at him. “Ah. Fingers spread and flat, Hart. You’re supposed to make this look easy.”
He stills and slowly extends his hands to their full breadth, taking a deep breath as he does. I’m such a fucking liar. I want to watch him suffer because he does it so prettily, but I like too the effort he exerts to make it look easy, to take the torture I visit upon his body. I like knowing exactly how strong he is and how much it takes to break him, because break him I will, and it’s no fun if all it takes is a few whacks of a cane or licks of a belt. The criers and the wailers are all well and good and I know some Dominants delight in the sounds, but not me. I’d much rather have silence until my victim can’t help themselves anymore. It feels more real to me, more authentic, not so much like the performance art some people seem to prefer.
That’s when I hit him for the first time, drawing my arm back and letting the belt slice through the air toward his ass. He hisses, and his fingers clench as the leather makes contact because I haven’t started out easily. I’m not warming him up because this is supposed to hurt.
I tut at him again, and without having to be told, he lays his hands back out and as soon as he does, I hit him again. His fingers twitch this time against the soft cotton, and he clenches his jaw. Classic and lovely. So I lay more stripes across his flesh, watching for every indication of pain and suffering, licking up each like a parched man finding dew drops on leaves. Every iota of his distress is delicious and sweet.
There’s a certain ignominy in his situation, being thrashed with his own possession, and I want to remind him of it. “Are you enjoying this? Being striped with your own belt?”
I hit him again, and he sucks air through his teeth because that must’ve hurt. I meant it to.
“It’s not mine anymore, sir. It’s yours. I’m yours.”
My arm freezes in its backswing but only for a fraction of a second. I find the ground under my feet and bring the belt down again and again, welt after livid welt rising up on his skin. His words, they…well, they enrage me, and my useless wrath gets channeled through my arm, extends into the leather. I want to flay him alive for provoking me like that.
I don’t ask him any more questions, afraid of the answers, and instead focus on strapping every single available inch of his bulk. Back and shoulders—but careful not to catch his neck. Those glorious buttocks and the backs of his thighs. I hit him again and again until I’m getting hot from exertion. That’s when I let my gaze wander to his face: eyes clenched shut with tears sliding over his cheek and onto the covers, jaw so tight I’m worried he might crack a tooth. Shit. And yet his hands…fingers still gloriously spread and flat out, though the tendons stand out and they’re shaking with tension…
God, he’s lovely. So goddamn tempting. I’ve got more self-control in my pinky nail than most people have in their entire bodies, but Allie makes me lose every ounce of it. I want him now, and for the love of all that is holy, I’m not going to wait anymore.
I drop to my knees behind him, pressing my pelvis into his ass that must be on fire, and it forces a strangled noise from his throat. So often domination feels like a weight, a responsibility. One I enjoy, very much, but it’s in moments like these that it gives me a high. Makes me feel powerful and elated. This is my definition of rapture.
Maybe it’s that Allie is so strong and it would take more than I’d ever inflict to truly break this man who’s been hardened by life, or maybe it’s because he’s my lover and not one of my clients, so I don’t suffer the same kind of obligation. This isn’t solely about him; I’m allowed to take my pleasure too. And I will.
Sliding my hands up the sides of his heaving ribcage, I let my fingers run over the welts I’ve left and scrape my nails over his arms. Not so hard I’ll leave marks for long because he wears T-shirts so often, but hard enough for him to feel, and then I thread my fingers through his own, lean down, and bite hard on his ear. He doesn’t release his hands from their strenuous position, but holds them still as I lick the trail of tears on his cheek.
“Let go, beautiful man. You’ve done well, and I’m pleased with you.”
His fingers crumple into fists, and he squeezes my hands as he shudders underneath me and lets out a ragged sob. “Fuck.”
It tears at my heart at the same time it gets me unbearably hard… What this man will do for me. Bear excruciating pain, let me mark his flesh that’s been marked so many times before. Though maybe handing it over willingly is reclaiming some of his own power instead of experiencing the loss of it anew. He enjoys this on some level, and he’s given me permission. God, I hope he realizes I’d never take it without him offering it up on a platter. Because I wouldn’t. The moment this becomes involuntary, it changes into something else entirely, something I don’t want to think about.
I press against him, letting him feel the aftermath of his hiding because he’ll like it, and I take the opportunity to kiss behind his ear and tell him how magnificent he is. In my head, where it’s marginally safe to think the most dangerous of thoughts, I have to admit he is in fact exceptional. Unrivaled in the pure emotion and sexual heat he manages to spur in me.
I am fucked. So totally, completely, and utterly fucked.
When he’s calmed to my satisfaction and is pressing his hips against my erection, I push back and up, coming to my feet in a swift movement and heading to the bedside table where I wrench open the drawer and throw a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms on the duvet and wave at the bed in a totally undignified way.
Jesus, Walter, get your shit together.
“On the bed,” I snap, because luckily Hart didn’t witness my indecorous flailing. He climbs up and flicks a glance over his shoulder. “You may decide if you want to look me in the face while I fuck your ass.”
Part of me wants him to collapse facedown in the pillows so I won’t have to watch him while I press inside his body and drive him crazy. The feel of being inside of him and the sounds he makes, the sight of the back of his neck I’ll undoubtedly bite—those will be about as much as I can handle. I’m not sure if I could…
But the damn man doesn’t give a crap about the lingering shreds of my self-control. He’s intent on destroying me. Or perhaps just doing what he’d like, flopping down on his back and raising his arms above his head, tucking his hands behind his neck. Looking almost arrogant as he stretches out on my bed.
I narrow my eyes
and cock my head. “You’d best wipe that conceited look off your face before I do the same thing to your front as I did your back.”
I heft the belt to make my point, and his face goes a little ashy. I wouldn’t, and I hope he knows that somewhere deep inside. Truth be told, I don’t mind the cocky look on his face. Mostly because I know, with a look, I can make it disappear. I want him to be proud, and god knows if anyone were to treat him with anything other than the utmost respect, I’d have their head on a stake. There’s something to be said about having a person like him under your control.
Dropping the belt, I reach for my own and leisurely unbuckle it. It feels as though it takes a ludicrous amount of time to glide the leather through the loops. Okay, not ludicrous, probably more like three seconds, but with how badly I’m aching to be inside of him it feels like a transatlantic flight. When it’s out, I drop it on the floor and untuck my shirt before unbuttoning it.
Allie’s staring at me like a starving man would eye a bloody steak. I have a decent body, though my physique doesn’t hold a candle to his. I tend toward lean and I’m more sleek than solid, nothing like his raw power, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like a very fine specimen indeed. So I take my time, stripping the rest of my clothes as he watches. The late-morning light is breaking through the shades and streaking over me.
Perhaps it’s excessive amounts of vanity and power run amok, but I feel like king of the world. Or, at least, my own bedroom. In my experience, those things aren’t so different. Shoving off my pants and my socks, I kick them to the side and stand before him.
“Are you going to stand there and pose like a Greek god, or are you going to fuck me already?”
I raise an eyebrow because I don’t want to encourage his impudent sass. “I may not be a god, but I’m sure as hell your god. So if you ever want me to fuck you, you’d best keep your pretty mouth shut. Knees up.”
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 20