“Ah, she mouths the words, but she’s not truly obedient. How best to teach you a lesson?” His hand continued to stroke her, remorselessly, and the incipient orgasm bore down on her. “Shall I make you come anyway, right here on the terrace, so the neighbors will hear your cries of helpless pleasure?”
She pressed her lips together, as if to stifle those theoretical screams. Focused on not climaxing with every fiber of her being.
“I think we’ll make this private,” he said, as if deciding on the spot. “Go in the flat, take off the shirt and kneel on the floor, eyes closed, thighs spread nice and wide, and wait for me.”
In a haze of relief that the immediate trial had ended, a mix of anticipation and trepidation over what he’d do next and trembling with arousal, she fled into the condo. Whipping off the shirt, she scanned the large formal living area and realized he hadn’t said where in the flat. Dammit.
Knowing it didn’t really matter, as he’d decide whether to punish her for that or something else, she picked a spot and knelt. He hadn’t said what to do with her hands, so she clasped them behind her back. Waited.
And waited.
Funny how the mind-fuck worked. The semi-arbitrary rules, created more to increase her tension and anticipation than to satisfy him. He made her wait because he knew it would work on her as surely as his hands and words had. The threat of punishment kept her on edge, uncertain. Denial of orgasm and prolonging her arousal. She understood how it all operated and yet...
It still drove her out of her mind with need.
Crazy exciting.
Chapter Twenty
Making her wait a bit was calculated, of course, but it also let him settle himself. Leash the raging desire to simply plunge himself into her, to have the sweet clasp of her body over and over. She wanted a very specific ride from him. He had a responsibility to deliver that. Hopefully they’d manage it so it didn’t affect her career or reputation, but if it did, at least she’d have gotten exactly what she signed up for.
Not him mooning after her like a schoolboy with his first crush.
She got under his skin, with her probing questions and artless honesty. Where other women hid their secrets or gauged how best to play the relationship, she spoke her mind. Asking him if she’d annoyed him, brows raised in earnest concern, skin and hair glowing in the sun as if Venus had stepped off her seashell and into his life.
It had hit him hard, the stark knowledge that she was the first for these games since Tessa. Oh, he’d glossed it, made it sound as if he’d hit the scene recently, the kink, in a non-physical way. But he hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted to until he laid eyes on Amber. He’d known all along his attraction to her bordered on obsession, went over the top, even discounting the forbidden aspects. At least he’d said “selective” instead of the word that had sprung to mind—“monogamous.” Tessa had teased him relentlessly about his monogamous nature. You’re the straightest kinkster on the face of the earth.
But he’d surprised her, hadn’t he? Opening the marriage hadn’t only been the last thing she’d expected him to suggest—it had been in the realm of impossibility. Maybe Tessa had been right in her accusations. He’d told himself that he’d been trying to do the right thing by her, but she’d known what it meant.
He hadn’t offered to open the marriage so much as acknowledged that it no longer existed for him.
Not something he could think about right now. Particularly not with Amber being so bloody observant and insightful. Detail-oriented, Lily had called her. Understatement of the century. No, he’d keep his mind off his personal issues and his curious lover too occupied to pry further.
Fortunately, he had the perfect tools for that. Moving silently, he rose and halted in the open sliding-glass doors, soaking in the glory of her. She had her back to him, head bowed, and her pert bum showed just under the fall of her tumbling locks. So lovely and self-assured. Twenty-three lovers, indeed. No, he didn’t mind a bit—envied her that she embraced life so fully, in fact—but he’d had to choke back the demand that he be the last. All the possessiveness Tessa could have wished for and Amber, she for whom “the long-term relationship thing” hadn’t panned out. Ah, the irony.
Just another circle of hell.
She’d sensed his presence, lifting her head slightly, listening. So he walked around her, letting her hear the soft footsteps on the plush rug, anticipating his censure or pleasure. She trembled and he knew he had her, either way.
In every way. At least for a few more hours.
“Ms. Dolors,” he said very softly, voice as full of disapproval as he could make it, “when I tell you to kneel, I expect you to put your hands behind your neck, under your hair, tits out.”
She complied immediately, nipples taut as she thrust out her pretty breasts, a smile dancing on her full lips.
“Does something amuse you?”
He picked up a switch—a fairly light one in respect for her tender skin—and drew it along the underside of her arm, so she’d wonder what it was.
“No, Sir.” Her voice trembled. Repressed laughter? Arousal? Not fear, he thought.
“Don’t lie to me.” He flicked the switch against the outside of her thigh, a bit of sting that made her gasp in shock, eyes flying open. “Eyes closed!” He’d raised his voice, made it a little angry, and she whimpered, squinching them tight again.
He let her stew, then teased one hard nipple with the switch and she made a little sound of distress. “What were you thinking that made you smile?”
She licked her lips, moistening them in her nerves. “Only that, I figured since you didn’t tell me what to do with my hands, that whatever I picked would turn out to be wrong, so you could punish me for it.”
He drew the switch along the underside of her breast, a bare tickle, and she responded by arching her back more, raising her breasts higher. “Why would I set you up to fail?”
She hesitated and he flicked the switch against her vulnerable belly. She had to fight not to curl up defensively, but managed to resist the impulse.
“Hold your hair higher and answer the question.”
When she’d lifted the glorious waves out of the way, he traced her spine with the switch, drawing it from nape to tailbone as she spoke.
“Because you enjoy punishing me.”
“Do I?”
“I think so.” She rocked on her heels a little when he teased the cleft of her bum with the tip of the switch, then stilled herself, breathing harder.
“Is that the only reason?” He flicked the switch against one buttock, then the other in quick succession, before she could answer.
“No!” She sobbed a little, caught her breath. “I mean—because I enjoy it, too.”
“I wonder which of us enjoys it more.” He made his tone musing, moving around her and giving her little stinging flicks, watching her come apart a little at not knowing where they’d land, at not having them connected to a task. They wouldn’t hurt so much individually as the stimulation would accumulate, each building on the last. He let a pause draw out, while she caught her breath again, then brushed her nipple with it.
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Then moaned as he trailed it down over her uplifted rib cage, her soft belly, and tickled her nether mouth. He tapped her there lightly, not enough to sting, but to plant the seed in her mind of what that would feel like. She strained not to close her thighs.
“There is also the disturbing nature of your impertinence to me. I’d feel constrained to address such a problem, whether I enjoyed it or not.” He tapped her again and she nearly convulsed. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Sir.” She was close to begging. Would, if he allowed it, but he wouldn’t give her that outlet. She’d gone deep into the head trip. He wouldn’t get in the way of that.
“Let’s take
care of that little chore then. Hands and knees. Crawl forward. I’ll direct you. You may open your eyes, but keep them focused between your hands.”
She obeyed as soon as he tapped her hip with the switch. Moving ahead of him, she responded instantly to his guiding flicks of the switch, skin and supple muscle shivering at each touch. Her hair fell in a curtain around her head to the floor, so he needn’t have told her not to look up. Dependent on him to direct her, she moved with a gratifying lack of hesitation. Astounding how much trust she placed in him.
In the little den, he made her wait as she was while he retrieved the cuffs and her heels. When he returned and told her to stand, he very nearly pulled her luscious, lithe body into his arms, so he could kiss her sweet mouth and drown in her heat, her sensual hunger. But that would change the mood and he’d promised her punishment.
She bent over to put on the heels as he bade her, something he hadn’t exaggerated as being sexually fraught for him. Something in her grace, the fall of her hair, the way she pointed her toes to slide her foot into the stiletto. Going from barefoot girl to elegant woman in the space of a four-inch heel. Straightening, she tossed her hair back over her shoulders and—emerging from the zone a bit—gave him a sly smile. Oh, yes, she remembered what he’d said, and reveled in it.
“See that wall?” He pointed. “That’s where you’ll be in a moment.”
She studied it, bemused and intrigued. Couldn’t quite piece together how it would work, the series of hooks, recessed openings and threaded bolt holes set deep into the red velvet wallpaper. Some of the sexual gymnasium of the place was over the top. When he’d bought it, he’d succumbed to George’s exhortations that it would be the perfect place for a man on divorce-rebound with his preferred kink.
Neither of them had expected him to become a hermit. Or for his first partner here in these games to be so untouched.
Nevertheless, when he backed her against the wall, the lurid contrast it made to Amber’s wide-eyed innocence and lissome nakedness set the blood beating with hard urgency in his brain. As with the demon in the painting, he wanted to devour her. The cuffs he’d buckled onto her wrists might represent a symbolic captivity, but his darkest nature craved more than that.
Pulling her legs apart, he hooked the cuffs to the lower rings, then raised her wrists over her head, choosing the ideal height and spread for each. Her breathing accelerating and deepening, her full breasts rose and fell, hard nipples brushing his shirt, wondering gaze glued to his face.
“Afraid?” He brushed her cheek, unable to quite discern the emotion behind her turbulent blue.
“Of you? Never.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not sure. But don’t stop.”
“I wouldn’t.” He dropped his hand to her breast and pinched her taut nipple hard enough to make her wince. “I won’t stop until I’m satisfied, no matter how you cry or beg me. Understand?”
That did it. She spiraled up into that dazed, heightened state at his words. “Yes, Sir.”
Of course, it wasn’t true, but it made for a lovely conceit between them.
George had loved his mirrors, so when Alec moved away she saw herself reflected in the full-length one directly opposite. A device that worked nicely on her, kept her riveted and in the moment.
“Up on tiptoes,” he told her, holding up the crimson phallus. She transferred her fixed gaze to it and, with what little space she had to work with, raised more onto her toes. He’d figured it correctly and found the threaded hole perfectly aligned below her slick little cunt. She groaned, understanding now, as he screwed the phallus into the wall, carelessly brushing her sensitized and swollen tissues with his knuckles, pretending to ignore how the casual touches rocketed through her bound form.
When he stepped back, to let her see, the thing protruded obscenely between her pale thighs, sticking out horizontally and sitting just below her nether lips after she set her heels down. Close enough for her to feel. Not nearly enough to satisfy her.
She looked her fill and turned her gaze on him, wry intelligence back in a flash, acknowledging as clearly as if she’d said so that the punishment would be diabolical, indeed. Turning up the lights, positioned to spotlight her beauty, he selected some music. Mozart’s Masonic Funeral Music, with its suitably dark, passionate, sobbing strings.
“With the door closed, the room is soundproofed,” he said. “Feel free to make as much noise as you like. The music should work well as a backdrop.”
Whipping the switch so it whistled above the swelling notes, he laid it across the round of her thigh. Harder, with more of a sting. She cried out, startled, eyes glazing over and hips writhing to reach the phallus. Bound to the wall loosely enough to move that much, she didn’t have enough play for that, no matter how she tried. The blood roared in his ears along with Mozart’s torment and his surging need.
Settling into his rhythm, he began switching her in earnest.
Chapter Twenty-One
She’d thought the little switch didn’t hurt all that much. So slight in appearance. Nothing like the strap he’d used on her the night before. But, like the little den, what seemed innocuous held a deeper wealth of diabolical torment.
And Alec...he’d gone into some state she almost didn’t recognize. Face contorted, eyes catching the warm lights with what her scattered thoughts and raging emotions insisted on seeing as demonic. That ravenous gaze devoured her slightest twitch, flaring in pleasure when she lost all control and fought to reach that damnable phallus he’d placed just out of reach. Deep red and covered with gnarled bumps like a polished walking stick, it tantalized her, brushing her swollen labia as she reflexively cringed away from the switch, every once in a long while catching her clit.
She discovered she wept, mainly because the tears clogged her throat, making her wordless pleas even more broken and watery. If asked—if she or her tormentor even retained the ability for human speech—she couldn’t have said if she wept from the sting of the switch or from despair that climax, relief from the arousal that threatened to tear her limb from limb if not released, would remain equally as out of reach.
Worst, or most erotically excruciating of all, the entire scene reflected back to her from the immense mirror. Alec in his shirt and pants—more casual than his suits, but still with knife-sharp creases, moving between her and her reflection, her body stark against the dark red wall, almost unrecognizable to herself.
He caught her attention, moving in, sliding the switch under her breast as he’d done before. She figured that out, that he liked to trick her into thinking he’d strike her there, or between her legs as he’d teased before. Again, a supreme mind-fuck because, even though she knew and trusted he wouldn’t truly hurt her, an unreasoning emotional part of her didn’t understand that and kicked into a maelstrom of reaction. Fear, arousal, orgasm, pain.
Staring into her eyes, he looked half-wild. Breathing as heavily as she, sweat beading his forehead, he ran his free hand down the underside of her arm, fingers gliding on her slicked skin, tracing the line of her muscle and the hollow of her armpit. As best she could, she leaned into the caress, absurd as it might be to seek comfort from him. He nodded, as if she’d confirmed something, and cast the switch aside.
Kneeling, running his hands down her straining legs as he did, he repositioned her ankles, reattaching them to the wall so the phallus pressed tight between her closed thighs. He moved her wrists down a notch, his breath harsh in her ears, even over the moody requiem chorus, the scent of his sweat and desire heavy as cologne in the small space.
Then he paused for a long moment, hands holding her wrists against the wall, and turned, pressing a fervent kiss against her temple. She almost thought he’d say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he walked away, stripping off his shirt to reveal his gorgeously lean torso, and dropped into a leather chair where he could watch her
without obstructing the view of her bound and naked self.
“Lower yourself onto the phallus,” he ordered. “Fuck it for me, but don’t come.”
Feeling stunned, even stricken—and wildly naughty—she bent her knees so she made contact with the ugly thing. Made of some hard plastic, the rounded knobs bumped against her, stimulating without satisfying. More than enough, though, to send her out of her mind. She groaned at the impossibility of holding back the orgasm that boiled through her body with an enormous static charge.
“Don’t do it,” he warned, voice icy. “And eyes open, either on me or the mirror. Move or I’ll get out something that will really hurt.”
Fixing her eyes on him, so devastating in his stern handsomeness, she fought to obey, pumping her hips and sliding slickly along the phallus, concentrating on holding the climax she longed for at bay.
Smiling in that thin-lipped cruel way of his, he drew down the zipper of his pants, releasing his cock and stroking it slowly as he watched her, both of them moving to the insistent drive of the dark music.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, as if looking at a work of art. She trembled, grateful, starving, needing more. Then shuddered hard as the orgasm nearly broke through. “Don’t stop moving. You know how much I’d enjoy an excuse to punish you further.”
“Alec,” she pleaded, voice faltering.
“Are you asking permission?” He cocked his head, assessing her. “You understand this is mine to give or deny?”
“Yes.” She caught back a sob. “Yes, Sir!”
“You’ve been good.” He rose, leaving the pants open, cock thrusting out, which made him that much more animalistic, and stopped just in front of her, bracing his hands on either side of her head, not touching her, holding her gaze. “All right then. Come now.”
As if he’d in fact commanded her body, the orgasm crashed through her, shattering in its intensity. She would have screamed, but he had her mouth, drinking in the ferocity of her climax, ravaging her lips with his and holding her anchored to the world.
Under His Touch Page 18