Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

by Beck, Samanthe

  …

  Was praying for death a sin? It probably didn’t matter, because prayers or not, she was going to die. Soon. Sweating like a pig, while sitting spread-eagled on a godforsaken torture machine. The only hope Quinn clung to was that she wouldn’t beg for mercy first. With her eyes squeezed shut against the pain of that possibility, and the pain of her straining thigh muscles, she reinforced her hold on the grips by her sides and slowly pushed her knees together one more time…held for five seconds, and released…

  The clang of the weights slamming back to their stack covered the sound of her groan. More or less.

  “Keep your abductors engaged the entire time.” A strict finger drew a triangle high along the inside of her thigh while Luke’s cool voice issued instructions. “I don’t want to hear weights bang. I expect you to stay in control as you return to the starting position. Ten more. Proper form this time.”

  Ten more? Oh God. She couldn’t do it.

  You have to. He didn’t want to be there in the first place, wouldn’t be there except for the fact that he owed Eddie the favor, but if she didn’t hold up her end of their deal, would he call the contract void and leave?

  She definitely couldn’t let that happen. She needed him. She’d made progress, yes, but she wasn’t in top form yet, and she definitely couldn’t do this to herself. Which was why she’d been on her best behavior for the last two weeks—since he’d ordered her over a bench and doled out discipline so staggering, she still felt the aftershocks every time she thought about that afternoon. And she thought about it constantly. The real punishment hadn’t been the spanking, or his tough words in the face of her failure. No, it had been the way he deftly drove her need into the red zone and then left her there, aching and unsatisfied.

  The punishment continued, every second of the day, with every brush of his body against hers, every correction he made to the angle of her back, or the position of her hips, or even her breathing. She thought of him when she dressed, giving attention to whether he would approve of the clothes. She thought of him when she ate, knowing he’d chosen the food. She thought of him when she soaked in the bath at the end of the day, easing each sore muscle he’d worked to the limit with ruthless expertise, making her more aware of her own body than she’d ever been in her life. She dreamed of him when she slept, and in her dreams, he didn’t walk away after spanking her. He stayed and did other things. Domineering things. Soothing things. Things that made her wake up sweaty and on the edge of an orgasm she never quite managed to capture. He’d reduced her to an agonized state she couldn’t escape, and couldn’t relieve.

  Luke was in her head so deep, she worried she’d never get him out. Not just worried her, no, it scared her. Letting him get to her in such an unprecedented way was just plain dumb. At the end of this, they’d go their separate ways. Sooner, if she didn’t walk the line to his satisfaction.

  “Let’s go,” he said, cracking an invisible whip. Her skin tightened in response to his order.

  She gathered her strength for another rep, appalled by the inelegant grunt the effort provoked, but the strain of pushing her knees together against the resistance of the weights quickly burned any shame away. Struggling through the rep, performing the exercise exactly as he specified, sent her into a whole new sphere of agony.

  “Good. Perfect. Give me nine more just like that.”

  A glow of pride now accounted for some of the heat in her face. Okay, this struggle also gave her a whole new reality to confront. She wanted to meet his expectations not simply because she couldn’t afford to lose the role, or because she refused to give him the satisfaction of defeating her, but because she wanted to earn his praise. She wanted to please him.

  “Hey, you’re not on a break. Knock these out. We’ve got other things to do today.”

  She wanted to kill him. No, death was too easy. She wanted to torture him just like he was torturing her. Drawing on nothing but raw anger, she pumped out three more reps in rapid succession, but halfway through the fourth her muscles locked. She couldn’t push her knees together, but she didn’t have enough strength to let the weights down lightly, as he’d instructed. And if she didn’t follow instructions, she’d hand him the excuse he was waiting for. So she froze there, breathing heavy, unable to continue but afraid to admit she couldn’t.

  “Do we have a problem?”

  There was absolutely no compassion in his question. Only expectation. Expectation she had to meet, because falling short gave all his unfounded initial impressions of her the basis he needed to write her off as a lost cause.

  Her legs quivered. “No,” she lied. “I just need…” She bit her lip, because otherwise she really would beg.

  “Look at me.”

  She forced her eyes open and focused on him. He knelt in front of the abductor machine, his inscrutable gaze leveled on her. His smoothly shaved cheeks weren’t flushed from exertion. His finger-combed hair wasn’t dripping with sweat. The sadistic bastard looked cool, and inexcusably handsome. She tried to hold on to the resentment, use it for strength, but a slippery panic was too all-encompassing to leave room for anything else.

  “What do you need, Quinn?”

  “Nothing. I—” Fuck it, her legs were going to give out. The weights were going to fall. She was going to lose.

  “Six more,” Luke prompted.

  A combination of sweat and failure burned her eyes. Her vision blurred. “I—I can’t.” She coughed an oversize sob from her throat. “I can’t.”

  “Uh-uh.” His voice came from very nearby now. He’d leaned in close. “You don’t say those words to me. Ever. What do you say?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t.” Screaming muscles erased her ability to think. Everything was breaking down—mind, will, body. All she could do was sit there, panting and trembling, as tears scalded her cheeks and her world condensed into waves of pain…from overtaxed muscles, from falling short. From being reduced to begging. “Please?”

  She didn’t think the situation could get any more unbearable, but then Luke’s big hands settled between her legs. Long fingers grazed the abbreviated hem of her yoga shorts. A sudden bolt of need introduced new pain. Her breath hitched. Urgency gripped her, renewing her struggle to push her knees together so parts of her, ridiculously desperate for his touch, wouldn’t be so susceptible.

  “I appreciate the manners, but no. That’s not it. Try again. What do you want from me right now?”

  “Help?” Blind instinct pushed the word from her lips, and as it echoed around the room, some reinforcement inside her broke. She cried the word again—literally cried it—without the armor of a quick retort, or face-saving follow-up.

  “Finally.”

  The next thing she knew, he took the burden of the weight from her. Slowly and carefully, he guided her thighs apart, releasing her agonized muscles from the device. Relief had her slumped against him, face pressed to his chest while a brewing cauldron of emotion she’d pushed to some back burner bubbled over in incoherent sobs.

  Anger boiled hottest. Anger at Callum, for hurting himself, and then her. If she really wanted to, she could blame him for every aspect of her current predicament. But no, she reserved plenty of blame for herself. She should have called him out sooner—when he’d first started disappearing at odd hours, and cash started disappearing from her wallet—instead of floating along on the path of least resistance until it just wasn’t possible anymore. Guilt brewed, too, for giving in to the urge to hide her suspicions and pretend everything was all right simply because she wanted it to be. Hope could be a dangerous thing, and disappointment tasted very bitter.

  All the anger, disappointment, and bitterness tumbled out of her in a ragged, inarticulate torrent of desperation. “I’m sorry…I need help…please, don’t leave.”

  Luke held her to him with one hand at the nape of her neck. The other made long, slow sweeps along her thigh. “Be still. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She was clinging to him. Clinging, an
d bawling, and drenching his shirt. Jesus, she hadn’t broken down like this since…hopefully she’d never broken down like this, but now that the dam had burst, she couldn’t seem to stop the tears. The realization created its own kind of panic, but maybe Luke picked up on it, because even as she stiffened, he tightened his hold and kept her in place.

  His patience helped her get control of herself. Sort of. Her breaths still ended in pathetic little whimpers, but she started to notice other things—the solid cushion of his pec supporting her forehead, and the slow, steady drum of his heart. “You’re looking for an excuse to leave.” Even as she said the words, she snuggled into him, lifting her face to the underside of his jaw so she could inhale the scent of his aftershave.

  His hand stilled on her leg. “I’m not leaving you, Trouble.”

  The genuine surprise in his voice sent her heart into a reckless little spin, until he added, “I made a commitment.”

  “To Eddie,” she muttered, as disappointment shackled her chest.

  “To you, Quinn.” He tried to lift her chin, but she burrowed her face against his throat. “I made a commitment to you, and I’m not going to break it. Behave badly. Push all my buttons. Do your worst, because I can take it. There’s no way I’m leaving.”

  Chapter Eight

  Luke wasn’t sure what possessed him to admit that out loud. He blamed the soft caress of her breath on his neck, the weight of her breasts against his chest as she rested her weary frame against him, and the little quiver in her thigh…just under his fingers. His body immediately reacted with an involuntary response of its own.

  “You big bully,” she said against his throat. Her voice was still watery, but there was no malice in it. “You let me think that if I didn’t leap up the moment you said jump, you’d cancel the contract.”

  “I never said that.” He ran a palm along the back of her head and down her hair. “I told you if you weren’t prepared to follow my instructions, you were wasting your money and we might as well call it quits. I’m not going to quit on you, Trouble. I’m always going to do right by you, and I’m trying to make sure you do right by yourself.”

  It sounded proper, didn’t it? Like the promise of an invested professional. Nothing in the words revealed the fucked-up truth—he was getting far too invested in her, and there was absolutely nothing professional about it. But just in case, he forced some exasperation into his voice and added, “It took me three damn weeks to wear your stubborn ass down. We’re finally making real progress. There’s no way I’m giving up on you now.”

  “So these past weeks, while I’ve been running, jumping, and training like a bitch, you’ve been setting me up to…what? Cry uncle?”

  The indignant accusation helped bank his lust. Slightly. He smoothed his hand along her ponytail. “To know your limits, Trouble. I need to be able to trust you to tell me if you can’t take anymore, and you need to trust me, too.” Another spasm rippled through her tight abductor. He dug his thumb in and slowly circled. “Trust me to help you.”

  She moaned. The sound vibrated directly into his chest.

  He swallowed and eased off the muscle a fraction, but circled again. “Does it hurt right here?”

  “Everywhere. I hurt everywhere.” Her confession fanned his collarbone, but he detected relief in her voice as her muscle relaxed.

  “Huh. I thought I heard something.”

  “Me, complaining?”

  “That, I’m so used to, I block it out,” he teased. “I could have sworn it sounded like… No.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t be. I must have misheard.”

  “What?” She drew back and looked at him with huge, curious eyes.

  He stared right back at her, not bothering to restrain the brow he felt lifting. “Are you asking for my help?”

  Her response consisted of a quick hiss as another spasm tensed her thigh. “Ow. Ow…Jesus!” She clamped a hand to the pain point and groaned.

  “Breathe,” he said, and swatted her hand aside so he could squeeze the protesting muscle.

  She sagged against him again, her exhale unsteady as she fought the cramp. Keeping the pressure on her thigh, he eased his free hand down to tend to her other leg, to prevent more spasms before they started. After a few moments spent concentrating on the sound of her labored breaths as he carefully worked the tight abductors, he slowly became aware of other things. Things like the small, needy moans coming from her throat, and the tangle of her fists in his T-shirt.

  “Better?” He told himself to stop moving his hands over her thighs. “Or does it still hurt?” His question sounded inappropriately hopeful to his own ears.

  “Hurts,” she gasped and scooted closer, coming up against the constraints of the machine. “So bad.”

  “Where, exactly?” he countered, struggling to keep things clinical.

  “Higher.” She rubbed her upper body over his, like a cat.

  “Quinn…” But his hands were already gliding higher, while his self-discipline slid away. He was losing this battle.

  “Please, Luke. I’ve been hurting for weeks. It never lets up. It never goes away. You have no idea.”

  Oh, but he did. He knew the kind of pain she was talking about all too well, because he’d been living with it for weeks, too. Every time he let his mind off the leash, it wandered back to that moment when he’d had her draped over the hyperextension bench, bare-assed and breathless. Sometimes he imagined walking around the front, freeing his aching cock from his shorts and feeding it into her waiting mouth. He imagined her head bobbing, her body tensing and flexing as she drained him so thoroughly, he had to hold onto the pull-up bar overhead to keep from sinking to his knees. Other times, he stepped into position behind her, looped an arm around her waist, and thrust into her, balls deep, while she gripped the handles and arched up until he could watch her face in the mirror as she came.

  But all of that was normal. Relatively. Just looking at her constituted a sex act, and he appreciated sex as much as any other man with a pulse. Yes, he wanted her, but like everyone else, he occasionally wanted things he couldn’t have. Wanting her didn’t trouble him. What troubled him was how much he looked forward to seeing her every morning, or how hard it had been, lately, to dismiss her at the end of each day and walk away.

  That was not normal. That was dangerous, because she was a client. His role in her life was strictly temporary, and subject to limits. Hell, there was a guy at the other end of a phone with whom she traded phrases like, I miss you, too…

  “Please,” she repeated, her voice a broken whisper. “You told me to ask when I need help. Luke, I’m asking.”

  …and she could be manipulative as hell. Seducing him into breaking his own rules amounted to an attempt on her part to equalize the power in their relationship. He couldn’t allow her to succeed, but recognizing her motivation didn’t stop his hands from moving—didn’t even make them pause. One scooted her hips forward, forcing her thighs wider. The other untangled her fist from his shirt.

  A voice inside his head growled, Fuck the guy at the other end of the phone. She’s not with him right now. She’s with you. She’s not asking him for help. She’s asking you.

  How much of that enlightened sentiment accounted for his motivation?

  Doesn’t matter. You’ve already walked a fine line with her once. You can do it again.

  “I’m going to help you, Quinn.”

  His chest muffled her sigh. “Thank you,” she murmured, and the gratitude rang sincere. He had to remind himself she played roles for a living.

  But then she added, “I promise not to forget you don’t like me,” in a husky murmur that sounded a little too honest.

  “I like you,” he corrected, not bothering to mask the sincerity of his words as he wrapped his hand around her ponytail and eased her head back until their eyes met. “I like you so much, I’m going to help you help yourself.”

  “Help me…what…?” Her question hovered in the air like anticipation as he guided her hand b
etween her legs and pressed it there. Uncertainty flashed in her eyes.

  More theatrics, or did the idea of getting herself off while he watched actually trigger some self-consciousness? Either worked for him. “Help yourself.”

  Her lips firmed into a line—a tiny show of mutiny—before she shook her head. “That’s not the kind of help I’m asking you for. You know what I want.”

  He didn’t back off. She’d dragged them to this line, and by God, she was going to walk it. On his terms. “Oh no. I think you misunderstand how this works. You’re permitted to ask for my help, but you don’t get to specify my methods. You’re not in charge here.”

  One blond brow lifted. “I was kind of hoping you would take charge,” she argued, immediately shifting tactics. No wonder he hated leaving at the end of the day. It wasn’t easy walking away from someone who entertained him at the same time she challenged him on every level.

  “I already have. You just don’t realize it yet.”

  Her chin came up. “Your authority has its limits, even if your opinion of yourself doesn’t. Sorry, Luke. This isn’t going to work for me.”

  “Close your eyes, Trouble.”

  She released an exaggerated breath and slowly lowered her lids, somehow turning it into a small act of rebellion.

  He picked up the towel she’d slung over the back of the seat, folded it into a narrow length, and tied it over her eyes. Then he brought his mouth close to her ear. “You’re beautiful.”

  He could shift gears, too.

  She released another breath, slower this time. “You think that’s all it takes? Blindfold me, stroke my ego, and I’ll come in my panties?”

  “I’m simply stating a fact. You have all this beauty at your disposal, to enjoy anytime you please. Do you ever?”

  Her lips parted. Her cheeks went a delicate shade of pink. “Of course. Everyone does. Don’t you?”

  An honest response, if somewhat defensive. She needed him to give her an admission, too. “Yes. Want to know what I think about when I do it?”

  Her lungs expanded as she drew in air, and the tight nipples forming peaks beneath her white workout top nearly touched his chest. His lips pursed from the need to draw one into his mouth.