The Lion of Frenchman Street

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  But what was life without taking chances? She wasn’t going to back out now, with every nerve in her body quivering for him.

  He switched on a huge ceiling fan and flung open the floor-to-ceiling shutters in the back, letting in damp night air and that floral scent she couldn’t identify. She was sure there was air conditioning somewhere, but these old buildings kept cool decently on their own. A breeze cut the night’s cloying stillness.

  “Undress for me.” His voice dropped deeper. She couldn’t have kept herself from obeying that voice, the command in his eyes, even if she’d wanted to.

  Not that she wanted to.

  She tried to make a dance of it, but she was too aware of his gaze and of her own eagerness to be naked. Naked for him. Naked for herself, because she wanted this so very much.

  Luckily she wasn’t wearing a lot.

  As she undressed, he circled her, a tight spiral in the space. A trumpet wailed from the stereo, supported lightly by other instruments. She felt the music on her skin, the same way she felt Peter’s intense gaze, an intimacy beyond caressing.

  He reached out and brushed one finger over her tattoo. “Why autumn leaves?”

  “When I left New England, I wanted to take a little piece of it with me to my new home.”

  “Good for you. It’s important to remember where you came from. Even if, in my not-so-humble opinion, you’re now in the best place on earth.”

  She was laughing about that when he moved in close, caught her in his arms again. Naked against his hard, suit-clad body, she felt vulnerable, open, exposed. Yet, strength surged through her. She’d chosen her vulnerability, and that was a kind of power.

  One hand tangled in her hair and pulled her head back. The other cupped her ass. His mouth didn’t ask questions as it claimed hers. It answered them.

  Yes, he was in charge.

  Yes, he’d take good care of her.

  No, he wasn’t going to harm her. He might hurt her, but in ways she’d enjoy.

  Yes, it might get scary, but the pleasure would be worth it.

  No, he wasn’t going to let her off the hook unless she used her safeword. But he wouldn’t let her down, or let her go until they were ready for the night to end.

  As the kiss continued, deepening and exploring, he raised the hand that rested on her ass. She braced herself, suspecting what was coming. Craving it at the same time she dreaded it.

  She was right. The hand smacked her butt.

  A jolt of bright pain shot through her, but it shimmered into heat and pleasure before her startled brain could catch up with her nerve endings.

  He broke off the kiss long enough to ask, “Good?”

  She made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a purr, then managed to articulate, “Yes.”

  “I’m going to put a rope corset on you, tie you down, then spank you until your ass is so red and hot you can’t decide if you want to cry or come. Maybe both. I bet you like that idea.” She admired the way he did that. He’d put just enough question in the tone to make it clear she could protest if she needed to, but the words were a matter-of-fact statement, and that heightened the sense that he was in charge and would do with her what he wished.

  Which was actually what they both wished—how this game was supposed to work.

  “Hell yeah that sounds good.”

  As he started to wrap hemp rope around her torso, Kelsey’s mind hopped all over the place. Fantasies. Images of what might happen. Images of Peter playing the sax at the bar, and of him playing the sax for her alone in the sultry night. But as the rope danced on her skin, her mind emptied. No room for anything except the moment, except for sensation and arousal, for Peter’s hands and rope embracing her. It was tight around her ribs, digging into her when she drew a deep breath, but at the same time, it felt like a hug. A very sexy hug.

  By the time he passed the rope between her legs to tease her pussy lips, she’d have had to think twice to remember her own name.

  She remembered his: Peter.

  She remembered her safeword: red.

  She remembered music and the night and the confining caress of rope.

  Nothing else mattered.

  When he made quick cuffs of rope at her wrists and ankles, she felt like she might float away if he didn’t tie her down soon.

  The platform bed had restraint points, but instead of positioning her on it, he pulled over the padded bench, unfolded a kneeler she hadn’t noticed earlier.

  She also hadn’t noticed the padding on the seat, like that on the kneeler, was black leather.

  A spanking bench.

  Her brain, intrigued, came back online to examine it. The only one she’d ever seen before had been in a vendor’s booth at a big fetish event in Providence. It wasn’t something she’d even considered buying on a grad-student budget and without a steady partner-in-kink, but that piece of furniture had taken a starring role in some of her fantasies. She couldn’t put a face on her imaginary Dom sometimes, but the spanking bench appeared in delicious detail.

  Hands burning against her naked, sweat-slicked skin, Peter positioned her over the bench. Even in the heat, the leather felt cool against her belly, yet almost alive.

  The ropes shifted as she knelt and bent forward, shifted more as Peter pushed her legs open wider. They pulled closer against her skin, making her even more aware of the bondage. They tugged on her labia, and the strategically placed knot teased at her clit. The hemp was coarse, not enough to be irritating on her most sensitive parts, yet enough to make her all too aware of its presence. She moaned as she squirmed to enjoy more contact.

  Peter smacked her ass again, a perfect, stinging strike at the curve where butt met thigh. “Settle down or you won’t get more,” he threatened jocularly.

  Since she wanted more, she forced herself into immobility and a semblance of calm as he secured the rope ankle and wrist cuffs to the bench.

  As soon as the last one was tied, a delicious lassitude overtook her. She didn’t want to struggle or test the bonds. It had been so long since she’d been restrained, and never like this, never over a leather-covered bench by a man in an epic suit. All she could do was breathe deeply, enjoy the hemp against her skin, and bask in a sensation both edgy and comforting.

  She could do nothing but wallow in pleasure. She’d forgotten how good that felt.

  Maybe she’d never known. She’d enjoyed her earlier BDSM experiments, but either her partner had also been learning as he went along or she’d been a demo bottom helping a practiced Dom teach a class in some kinky skill. Both experiences had been exciting in their own way, but the first led to embarrassed laughter as often as it did to orgasm and the second was impersonal and not intended to be sexual. Sexy, yes; sexual, no.

  This was different. This was as hot as the night and as exquisite as Peter’s music and it was definitely personal.

  He ran his hand over the curve of her ass. She shivered as sensation flooded her from that almost innocent touch. “You have a gorgeous ass,” he said, and it sounded like music and pralines and whiskey. “It’ll look better red, but it’s damn near perfect as it is.”

  Then he struck. The first blow was a love-tap to her keyed-up senses, but he hit in that exquisitely sensitive area where butt and thigh met, the place kinksters called the sweet spot. The sting and thud shuddered from there, echoes vibrating through her clit, her labia, deep into her sex. “Ooh,” she sighed. “Even better than I’d hoped…”

  It wasn’t the cleverest remark ever, but she figured it got the point across. In case it didn’t, she turned her head to smile at Peter, and wiggled her butt.

  “We’ll work on self-control later,” he said, his voice mock-stern but his face delighted and his crotch definitely tented, “but I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

  He kept up with the light spanking until she was lost in sensation, her mind almost as warm and tender as her ass.

  He paused briefly, his hand on her tender butt. “I want to go harder. You ready for that?�
� He chuckled. “In my fantasies, I’m already turning your ass red, without asking, and you’re loving it. Which you might, but I’m not a mind-reader or an asshole so I’m asking.”

  The question pulled her back to thought. She was still spacey and slow, but the question was important, so she pondered her answer through the fog of lust. She was already drunk on this light, sensuous spanking. But she sensed this was only the beginning of where she could go, directed by Peter’s talented hands. She was orbiting in the stratosphere now, but all of space waited for her. More skillfully applied pain might be the rocket fuel she needed to get there.

  Then there was the simple fact he wanted to do it. Knowing that, knowing she’d please him by saying yes, made the already sexy prospect even more enticing.

  And the non-asshole bit was important too. In her fantasies, he’d push her without checking in. That might be hot as hell with a Dom who already knew her likes and limits well. Considering they’d just met, though, the combination of lust and good sense was a turn-on in its own right.

  That combination, as much as anything, made up her mind. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice soft and dreamy. “Harder. Please.”

  Chapter Four

  When his hand cracked hard into her ass, she had an instant of regretting that decision. Then the pain morphed into something biting, yet complex and delicious, like a spicy Cajun feast that she couldn’t stop eating even though the peppery heat brought tears to her eyes.

  It turned into a sweet pattern. Each time his hand met her butt, it brought a bright pain that made her yelp, followed by even brighter pleasure that built a sweet ache of arousal between her legs.

  She tried to count at first. Peter hadn’t asked her to, but it kept her from getting too lost in sensation. She wanted to get lost, to let the power of the moment carry her away, but some small part of her brain insisted on holding on to sanity. The numbers acted as a trail of breadcrumbs back to a place she was less and less interested in finding again.

  She wanted to let go completely, leave the world and every vestige of a sane, sensible Kelsey behind for however long this adventure lasted. But it was all so new, and Peter was so new to her. She trusted him enough to play, but maybe not enough to guide her back to reality. She wasn’t sure she’d find her way back on her own.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Clinging to the numbers stopped helping when she started ignoring the stinging shock of each blow and going straight to arousal. She kept muttering numbers under her breath, a mantra in a language she didn’t understand. All that mattered was the heat and arousal, the swollen need in her cunt and the curious way she rode that need and the strong sensations building in both between her legs and the surface of her skin.

  Finally she muttered something and Peter laughed and asked, “What was that?” clearly enough that it cut through some of the fog.

  “Thirty…thirty-eight?” It came out as a question and she realized she had no clue what she was saying.

  “Close enough. More like sixty-something but I haven’t been keeping track myself.” With the same hand that had been savaging her butt, Peter stroked her hair. “You’re doing great.”

  The gentle touch buzzed against the last nerve ending that had been holding out.

  “I…I…Peter, I…” She took a deep, ragged breath, but it didn’t help. “I might…”

  “Oh, you will.” She could hear the evil smile in his tone.

  Fingers found her slick clit. “Come for me, Kelsey,” he crooned as he stroked. “Come for me now.”

  All the arousal pulsing through her body gathered at the single point under Peter’s finger and pitched even higher. She clenched at nothing, mewled, squirmed against her bonds. But the orgasm shimmered just out of reach.

  With his other hand, Peter spanked her again.

  The room swirled. The music faded in the distance, masked by the roar of her blood, the thumping of her heart. A Mardi Gras–worth of brilliance and sensation washed over her and she cried out as she came.

  Peter knelt down behind her, curled his body over hers and held her until the waves passed. She was drenched in sweat, but the heat of his body felt good, soothing after the storm of sensation, grounding her back to reality.

  The first sentence she managed to string together was, “I’m making your suit sticky.”

  He guffawed. “It already was before I’d made up my mind to take you home. It’s a hot night and music the way the Lions of Frenchman Street make it is physical labor. But it’s high time I got undressed.”

  “Could I…” She struggled for words, both because talking was still challenging and because she wanted to make it clear she was okay no matter what the answer was. Tonight, she was in his hands. “May I watch you?”

  This time the laugh was softer, throatier. Suggestive, with an edge of sexual cruelty. “No. Not this time.” He rocked back on his heels as he spoke, then stood. “I’m kind of in a hurry to get naked and fuck you.” The suit jacket flew toward the bed, followed quickly by his shirt. She kept looking ahead, longing to turn and see him, knowing how easy it would be, but resisting the temptation.

  She heard the soft burr of a zipper, the whisper of fabric hitting the floor. He took a step or two, rustled in a drawer again.

  A condom wrapper crinkled, then tore. Small sounds of flesh on flesh forced her to picture him rolling the condom down, carefully but quickly.

  He knelt behind her again. “You look so sexy like this. Wet and open for me, and your ass covered with my handprints. Gotta fuck you.” For the first time, his speech blurred, sounded rough-edged. Needy.

  Her cunt jumped.

  “Yes,” she breathed out. “Please.”

  He pressed the head of his cock against her. For a second he rested there, a hard, teasing pressure. She pressed back, using what leverage her position gave her to take a little of his head inside her.

  A thwack to her already tender ass. “My pace,” he insisted, drawing back.

  And then, “Oh hell. You feel too good.”

  He pushed in a few excruciating, delicious inches. Pulled out, swearing under his breath.

  He entered her fully then, one hard stroke that impaled her. She was wet enough he slid in easily, turned on enough that she swore she felt fireworks going off with each millimeter of her pussy he filled. “Now,” he ordered, “push back. Fuck me while I’m fucking you.”

  Kelsey didn’t need to be told. Her body had already taken over. The ropes and the way she was bent over the bench restricted her movements, but she used the strength of her thighs and hips to make up for it. Each movement tugged on the ropes, letting her know she was bound at his mercy and arousing her further. Her tender butt reminded her, each time she crashed against his body, of the spanking.

  His cock moved wildly inside her, and his fingers had found her clit again. He kept kissing and nipping at her: neck, shoulders, upper back, wherever he could reach. The pressure of the rope and the sweet ache of the spanking worked with everything else to create a maelstrom of sensation, building again, lifting her higher.

  She tried to find words. He’d never said she had to ask for permission to come, but the permission he’d given earlier had made her orgasm even more powerful, so she struggled to speak.

  What came out was more a keening cry, wordless, thoughtless, laden with want, a solo instrument playing in the night.

  He was a musician. He understood that music, said, “Yes, Kelsey. Come. Come if you’re ready.” She exploded into a bright riff of pleasure, clenching down tight on Peter’s cock.

  That seemed to be all he needed, because he followed after her on a wail. His weight slumped onto her. Then he muttered something that might have been a thank you, an apology, or something along the lines of wow—it was muffled and Kelsey wasn’t exactly thinking clearly— and rolled off to the side, leaving one hand on her calf for contact.

  In a few minutes—though Kelsey thought she might have dozed off despite the position, so it might
have been longer—he started to fumble with the ropes. He unfastened her easily from the spanking bench, then unwound the rope corset. Taking it off felt almost as sensual as putting it on but in a soothing way, as if she were a cat and he was petting her to a state of purring bonelessness. He left the cuffs in place. “Let’s go someplace comfortable,” he muttered as he helped her to her feet. “You’re fun, but you’ve worn me out and it’s 3 a.m.” They flopped onto the bed together and this time, Kelsey drifted off to sleep to the soft sounds of jazz.

  When she woke, she realized the cuffs were still in place. She was almost sad to find Peter hadn’t used them to tie her to the bed. Definitely sad to find she was alone.

  Then she smelled chicory coffee and heard the sweet, melancholy music of a saxophone that didn’t sound like a recording. She followed the scent and sound and found Peter in the kitchen, playing in a way that seemed both careless and intense. His hair stuck out in odd ways, but instead of looking like a particularly bad case of post-sex bed head, it reminded her of a lion’s mane.

  That might have been lust talking. After all, he was still naked and she was getting a good look at him for the first time: ivory skin over lean muscle, with a dusting of freckles on his shoulders.

  “I don’t know that music,” she said, suddenly shy.

  At the sound her voice, his cock stirred in its nest of red-gold hair, going from satisfied rest to half-erect. He set the sax down on the counter.

  “No one does, not even me. It’s going to be a song when it grows up, but right now it’s just a few bars that haven’t told me where they want to go next. Coffee? Or do you figure you might end up trying to sleep tonight?”

  “What are your plans?”

  A wicked laugh. “Talk a little, then take you back to bed and do more wicked things to your willing body.”

  “In that case,” she said, “coffee.”

  Chapter Five

  “I’ve always had fantasies,” Kelsey admitted in response to Peter’s questions, “about spanking and rope and being ordered to do things I’d have volunteered for if I’d thought of them first.”