by Lee, Roz
He repeated the slap, admonishing her, “Look at me.”
Her breasts burned from his attention, ached for him to soothe them with his lips and tongue.
“Do you like that?” he asked.
He didn’t have to ask, moisture leaked from her pussy, scenting the air with the unmistakable evidence of her arousal. “Yes, Sir,” she said, mortified at how much she liked it, craved it.
The crop traveled the length of her sternum, stopping to dry fuck her navel, then traveling lower, taunting her soft belly, setting off a firestorm of need in her pussy with each stinging slap against her flesh. She flinched, but didn’t look away as he coated the end of the crop with her juices, then wedged it between her folds to press against her swollen clit. She twisted against her restraints, straining to get closer to the delicious pressure. More. Please. He rubbed her hard there, promising the release she desperately needed.
“How much pain is too much?” he asked. “I wonder. Does Carrington like to have her clit spanked too? Or is that something only Carrie likes?”
The crop slapped against her clit, startling a gasp from her. Once. Twice. Three times—each swat harder than the one before. She bit her lower lip but couldn’t contain the moans or the way her body writhed, accepting and absorbing the pain.
His gaze held hers, and in that way he held her captive in mind and body. There was nothing of the kindness and love she’d dreamed of seeing there for the last few months—only cold, hard pain. Her gut clenched. She’d hurt him so badly. He’d worked so hard to get where he was, to earn the admiration and respect of his colleagues and fans, and she’d destroyed it all. She deserved his hatred, but he didn’t hate her. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. He didn’t hate her. He was hurt, wounded by what she’d done, but deep inside, he still harbored feelings for her. A tiny glimmer of hope kindled inside her.
He demanded her submission, and she gave it willingly. Opening the windows to her soul, she held nothing back, hoping her love for him would burn bright enough to banish the pain and disappointment she’d caused.
Chapter Sixteen
The musk of her arousal filled the air. He inhaled, absorbing the knowledge he could do this to her, that she wanted, needed, him to do these things to her. He’d never dreamed he would find a woman like her. Seeing her like this, needing, taking…submitting…. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever known. Her body was lush and responsive to his touch. He’d made her come so many times, and each time, he’d felt like a god watching her lose control, knowing her pleasure was his to command, that she would beg him, and no other, for it.
Her outer lips were ripe, swollen, inviting. His cock ached to feel her wet heat surrounding him, to pound into her softness, to take what he wanted. She wouldn’t deny him. She couldn’t, trussed up the way she was. Even if he removed the restraints, she would still spread her legs for him. She’d still take him in, give him her body, let him use her—because she loved it when he couldn’t control his need for her. She loved having that power over him.
How many times had he watched for the rosy blush to cover her body, a tell she couldn’t control? A few more taunting slaps and she would beg him to fuck her, to let her come. But tonight, she’d find out what it was like to have everything she wanted within her grasp, only to see it ripped away.
“This is the way you like it, isn’t it? You like it when you have no choice, don’t you?” He clamped a hand over her pussy, fingering her folds. A moan came from low in her throat. Her stomach muscles clenched. “You want it. I can tell. You want to be fucked. You want me to lose control and shove my cock in you. You like it hard and fast.” His hand slipped lower. “You want me to fuck you here, too.” He pressed a finger against her anus. “In fact, you’d like it if I filled both holes at the same time, wouldn’t you?”
She licked her lips. “Yes, Sir. Please.”
Her voice was breathless, weak with longing and desire. Time to show her who was on top, who was in charge, who was fucking who.
“Are you going to write about this, too, Carrington? Am I going to wake up tomorrow and find my sexual preferences are front-page news?”
“No, Sir. I’d never do that.”
“Why not, Carrington? You might just accidentally write another article, like you accidentally wrote this one.”
She cried out when he pinched her swollen clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“Please, Sir,” she whimpered. “You know I wouldn’t.”
He buried two fingers in her pussy. Her eyes closed, and he slapped her ass with the crop. “Don’t close your eyes again, Carrington.”
She met his gaze.
“See, I don’t know anything about you, Carrington Taylor. Nothing at all. I thought I did, but you aren’t the woman I thought you were. I trusted you with secrets I’ve never trusted anyone with.”
His fingers worked inside her while he spoke. Tears welled in her eyes—a weak attempt to break him.
“And what did I get in return? Betrayal. My heart for betrayal. Is that a fair trade, Carrington?”
A single teardrop slid down her cheek. She shook her head. He slapped her ass again. “Answer me! Is that a fair trade, Carrington?”
“No,” she sobbed. “No. No. No.”
She struggled against her restraints. He added another finger, controlling her movements easily from within.
“Your body betrays you, Carrington. Right now, your brain is telling you to make me stop. Your safe word is clanging inside your head, but your body won’t let it out, will it? Your body betrays you.” He pumped his fingers in and out in a merciless rhythm. “You’re wet, Carrington. Wet and hot, and while your brain wants me to stop, your pussy is so close. So damned close to having just what it wants. You think you’ll break me, that I won’t be able to resist this sweet pussy of yours. You think I’ll give in and fuck you, don’t you?”
He stilled. Tears spilled unchecked from her pleading eyes.
“Well, guess what?” He withdrew from her and stepped back. “You won’t break me, Carrington. No matter how hard you try to destroy me, you won’t succeed. You see,” he fisted his hand on his chest, “I know what it feels like to have my heart ripped out of my chest, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. I’m not a fucking dope head, and I never will be. Write whatever lies you want, but don’t even think about using what we’ve done here to bring me down, or I’ll bring you down with me. We’re through.”
He pulled a towel from his bag and wiped her juices from his hands, ignoring her sobs. “You won’t be telling anyone about what goes on here.” He took his cell phone from his trouser pocket and pointed it at her. “If you do, I’ll release these pictures.” Walking slowly around her, he snapped photos from every angle before pocketing the camera. He reached for his bag.
“Please, Master…Jason….”
He placed the riding crop inside and clasped the zipper pull.
“I…I love you. Please don’t do this.”
Her words were like a venomous bite, momentarily paralyzing him. He clenched his jaw tight and forced the zipper to move. He straightened, and without a backward glance, left her hanging there.
He stepped into the hallway and closed the door, sealing Carrington’s sobs safely inside.
“Done?” Todd asked.
“Yeah. She won’t be revealing anything to anyone,” he assured.
“Is she okay?”
Jason turned a cold stare on his friend. “I didn’t hurt her any more than she hurt me. You know me better than that. Give her a few minutes then let Brooke take care of her.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I know you wouldn’t really hurt her—you know…I heard her crying when you opened the door. That’s all.”
“She’ll get over it. Ten minutes, no more. Then Brooke can see to her.”
“Okay,” Todd said. “See you at the stadium tomorrow.”
Jason waved goodbye over his shoulder. Her sobs echoed in his brain, and he was deathly afra
id if he didn’t get out of there soon, he might turn back.
* * *
She couldn’t stay away. Not one to follow sports, Carrie had become a baseball convert over the last few weeks, following Jason’s progress toward a homerun record with the tenacity of a rabid fan. Her rational mind knew her relationship with him was over, but her heart wouldn’t listen to reason. He loved her once, and she loved him still. She wouldn’t give up on them easily.
Handing her ticket over to the gate attendant, she followed the early crowd through the concourse toward a square of daylight that promised a view of the field. She’d learned about batting practice via pregame interviews on the local TV station. A little research had yielded the information that a game ticket allowed you into the stadium early enough to watch, if one was so inclined. Judging from the number of people filing through the gates, this was a popular event.
She followed the line of fans through the tunnel, her pulse kicking up a notch with each step she took. She stopped short at her first glimpse inside a major league ballpark. Jason’s world. For a woman who made her living with words, she couldn’t find a single one that encompassed all she saw. The sheer size of the stadium overwhelmed her. Tens of thousands of blue seats sat mute, their silence deafening. Arriving fans seemed to respect the quiet, their voices conversational as they picked their way down steps toward the railing. Players trickled out of the dugout in practice gear, stretching and flexing while the grounds crew moved equipment into place. Fans settled into seats to watch their favorite players or lined up along the rail with cameras and autograph pens at the ready.
She slipped into a seat behind a large man, using him to shield her from view. Not that Jason would see her, but it was a chance she didn’t want to take. This close, and one among perhaps a hundred, if he looked closely….
He’d made it clear he didn’t want to see her again. She understood. Really she did, and she’d tried to quell the impulse, but today was special. One more homerun would break the team record, and perversely, she wanted to be there to support him when he reached a milestone in his career.
The media had continued to speculate on the validity of McCree’s accusations, and Jason, with the Mustangs organization beside him, had continued to deny them with quiet dignity while he slowly chipped away at the record. If kids needed a role model to emulate, they couldn’t do any better than Jason Holder. He exhibited character and honor, despite the efforts to undermine his career.
Watching him the past few weeks only confirmed what she had known in her heart. Jason wasn’t guilty. How she was going to prove it was the question.
He’d voluntarily taken every drug test known to medical science and released the findings to the press. Scandal hungry reporters had gone undercover to show how easy it was to cheat on a drug test, using the roundabout way to suggest that perhaps Jason had done the same.
Never in a million years.
Even at his angriest, he’d gone out of his way to care for her following their last scene together. He could easily have left her hanging there until someone had come to check on the room, but he’d calculated the time, knowing how long it would be before she realized he wasn’t coming back, then he’d sent Brooke in to take care of her.
Cheat on a drug test? No way. Besides, she knew the physical side effects of steroid use, and none of those applied to Jason. Sure, his body was solid muscle, but she’d bet her life it came from hours in the gym—not drugs. She’d even seen the ugly side of his temper, but he’d kept that on a tight rein, just like everything else in his life. She had no doubt, if she looked up control freak in the dictionary, she’d find a picture of Jason Holder.
He stepped from the dugout. Carrie sank lower in the seat and peered around the big guy in front of her. Jason paused, hands on his hips to survey the field. He inhaled deeply, his broad shoulders rising and falling. Then he turned to the stands and smiled at the fans. Her heart somersaulted. Lord have mercy, the man was devastating. Another player exited the dugout, hailing him.
Jason held up a finger toward the fans, signaling he’d be over to see them in a minute, and joined the other player. The two men put their heads together to confer. She held her breath. Watching him like this, without him knowing, felt wicked. It was only the second time she’d seen him in person. The first time, she’d had little opportunity to observe him. This was different. His movements weren’t calculated or planned. She felt like a peeping Tom looking through a window into his life. This was where he felt at home, relaxed. A place where he was among friends.
His conversation concluded, he turned to the fans, and right beside him stood—his twin. Two identical smiles greeted the onlookers. Together, they signed baseballs, caps, programs, T-shirts, and anything else handed over the railing to them.
The man in front of her spoke to his companion, “How do you tell them apart?”
“Beats me,” the other guy said. “If they didn’t have numbers on their jerseys, I’d have no idea.”
That was rubbish. “The one on the left is Jason,” she said.
Two heads craned to look at her.
“How can you tell,” the big guy asked.
“It’s easy. He’s better looking,” she said.
They laughed and turned around. She tuned out their further commentary involving the twins and idiot women in general, though she supposed they were referring to her specifically. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was that distinguished him from his brother, but she knew which one was which. Just then, a very pregnant woman stepped to the railing and both men smiled up at her. They carried on a conversation she wished she could hear then the woman leaned over. Jason planted a kiss on her cheek, after which Jeff kissed her full on the lips. A lover’s kiss.
“See, I told you,” she said to the guys in front. “That’s Jeff on the right—and that’s his wife.”
“It better be,” smaller guy said, “or he’s gonna be in hot water when he gets home.”
Jeff’s wife said her goodbyes and headed up the stairs toward the concourse. Carrie didn’t know why, but as the woman passed her row, she fell into step beside her. At the mouth of the tunnel beneath the upper deck, the woman stopped, leaning against the concrete wall to catch her breath.
She took a couple of steps and stopped. The same impulse that had brought her to the ballpark today took hold of her again, and she turned back. “Are you okay?”
Jason’s sister-in-law looked up. “I’m fine,” she said with a smile. “You try carrying an extra thirty pounds or so up those stairs and see how you do.”
She smiled. “I’ll take your word for it.” She offered her hand. “I’m Carrie Taylor,” she said, wondering if the name would mean anything to her.
“Oh!” Mrs. Holder straightened. “You’re her.”
Carrie rushed to explain herself, “It’s not what you think. I’m not stalking—”
Mrs. Holder shook her head. “You’re the woman who has Jason all tied up in knots,” she said and winked, “or vise-versa.”
Her laugh was spontaneous and infectious. Carrie laughed with her, and before she could protest, she was being led across the concourse.
“Mrs. Holder,” she protested. “Where are we going?”
They came to an abrupt stop, the other woman looking around as if she’d lost something. “Hmm. I don’t know,” she said. “Somewhere we can talk.”
“But—”
“I know! I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Clearly, one didn’t argue with Megan Holder. A moment later, Mrs. Holder identified herself to a security guard, who keyed them into an elevator. They stepped out into what had to be the offices of the Mustangs Baseball organization. They passed half a dozen men and women all wearing team polo shirts. Carrie averted her gaze. The last thing she needed was someone else recognizing her, especially since she’d brought a world of chaos to the team. Someone was likely to throw her out on her ass if they recognized her.
They stopped in an outer office occupied b
y a woman in her fifties, also wearing a team shirt. Mrs. Holder still had a death grip on her hand.
“Hi, Megan,” the woman behind the desk said.
“Hi, Cynthia. I need a moment to rest. Mind if we sit in Doyle’s office for a while?”
Doyle’s office? No. Please, God, not that Doyle.
“Not at all. Go on in,” she said. Concern tinted her voice. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, but thanks. I just want to put my feet up.” She waved away the secretary’s offer. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
Not wanting to cause a scene, Carrie smiled at Cynthia and allowed her kidnapper to steer her toward a massive set of wooden doors carved to represent the Mustangs logo. A brass plaque announced the office’s occupant. That Doyle. She almost bolted right then, but that would cause a scene, so she followed Mrs. Holder into the office of Doyle Walker, Manager. As soon as the door closed behind her, she grabbed the door handle and prepared to escape.
“Mrs. Holder, I shouldn’t be here.” She twisted the knob. “I have to go.”
“No! Don’t go. Please?”
“I’m sure Mr. Walker wouldn’t want me here.” She eyed the room, and Mrs. Holder’s hand pressed against the door to prevent her escape. She didn’t know pregnant women could move so fast.”
“Humph. That’s what you think.”
“Mrs. Holder—”
“Please, call me Megan,” she said. “Can’t we talk? Please. I promise you won’t miss the game.”
How could she say no? She released the doorknob. “I don’t know what we have to talk about, but please accept my apology. I know my actions have affected everyone in Jason’s life, and for that, I’m very sorry. I didn’t….” Carrie shook her head. “No. There’s no excuse for what I did. I’m sorry. I’d take it back if I could.”
She expected just about anything except the compassion in Megan’s eyes. “Apology accepted.” She crossed the room to a seating area that could have been in anyone’s living room. “Now that that’s out of the way, won’t you sit with me a while. I really wasn’t lying when I told Cynthia I needed to rest.”