How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3)

by Mina Vaughn

  I shook my head. “This trip is humbling you,” I said. “Homestyle? Not fancy beer-fed beef that’s been massaged its whole life, poached in wine that costs more than my first car?”

  Aston rolled his calico eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if you think I’m a complete asshole.”

  “You’re half-asshole,” I consoled him. “You’re down from three-quarters. Not too shabby.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he mumbled. I grabbed his face between my hands and planted a wet kiss on his mouth. “That’s better. Now let’s go get some grub.”

  We walked down the center aisle of the farmers’ market and the smells were intoxicating. Bakers’ muffins and pies fattened the air with their aromas, and rows upon rows of summer fruits blushed as we passed. I wondered at the scope of the place, the enormity. “How do you even pick anything here?”

  Aston paused by some ripe peaches, taking one in his hand and smiling at the vendor. “Well, sometimes you come with a rough meal in mind and see what they have that suits your needs. But sometimes, especially at a place like this that’s got such a great variety and incredibly fresh stuff, you just let yourself get inspired. Do a few laps, see what stands out. Picture what would go together. Let the food be your muse and the inspiration will come.” He sniffed the peach. “Right now, I’m pretty damn inspired by this peach. I may create an entire meal from it.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “From a peach?”

  He nodded. “Yup,” he said, then leaned over, grabbed a bag, and carefully selected a pound or so of luscious peaches. “Let’s let the peach guide us.” Aston held out the bag and pretended it was pulling him in the direction of the butcher’s stall.

  We walked over there—the smells weren’t as pleasant, I’ll be completely honest—but there was a huge selection of cuts. I had no idea what animals they were from, mind you, but obviously Aston knew. He quickly began chatting with the butcher, whose name was Al and whose family had been in the business for four generations.

  Aston pulled out a peach and showed it to Al, who whistled. “Almost as pretty as your girl,” he said, giving me a friendly wink. “I like your style.”

  I gave him an alligator smile, wide and open, and returned his wink. I was in full pinup glory today—hair in two victory rolls high atop my head, a black pencil skirt, espadrilles, and a cherry-dotted tube top. Aston put his arm around me approvingly.

  “Thinking of doing a pork loin to go with these peaches,” Aston said, gesturing to a particularly nice cut that the butcher had displayed in his case.

  Al nodded knowingly, “This one’s a beaut,” he said, pulling it out. “Real lean, but nicely marbled. Just a quick sear, a little bake time, and a good rest and you’ve got something special.”

  Aston pulled me close. “I’ve already got something pretty special, but yeah, the loin looks perfect.” I leaned over and gave Aston a long, public kiss on the lips as the butcher packed up the pork.

  Aston beamed as I pulled away.

  “Good boy,” I said, glancing at our groceries. “You may do the rest of your shopping now.” I giggled to myself—it was such a hoot to have Aston at my beck and call like this. Granted, half the time it was sarcastic, but I typically responded in kind. We were ordinary people who were suddenly calling love by a thousand different names—mistress, submissive, punish, please, safeword. So of course we tred lightly in this new world. We were exploring, testing boundaries, trying to feel comfortable in these roles that were so new to us and yet felt so right. It was like buying a pair of gorgeous shoes at a consignment store and finding they hug your foot’s every curve. They were broken in, well-loved, but now yours. I’d been a lover before, but being Aston’s Mistress was something that was new. And with the way Aston was sampling one of the peaches we’d picked, my mind was certainly veering toward the pleasures of the evening that didn’t involve dinner.

  “Just a couple more things,” he said, bringing me round to a mushroom cart. He gestured at a bunch with long, thin stalks. “Do you know what these are?”

  I shook my head. “Low-fat mushrooms?”

  He cocked his head, confused.

  “They’re skinny.”

  Aston laughed. “They’re enoki mushrooms. Really mild, sweet. Great in a stir fry.”

  I blinked and touched them. The only mushrooms I’d ever eaten were just button mushrooms that were often in salads. “They look like bean sprouts.”

  Aston broke off a small stalk and held it to my mouth. I opened it and let him place it on my tongue. I crushed the thin mushroom in my teeth and felt its earthy but light flavor.

  “Here’s another good one—a pink oyster mushroom. They’re also called flamingo oysters because of their color.”

  I picked it up, surprised by its appearance. “These must be pretty in dishes.”

  Aston wrinkled his nose. “Actually they turn grayish when they’re cooked, but they’re still delicious. Much chewier and softer than enoki mushrooms and seriously all you need is a little olive oil and salt to make these beauties a fantastic side dish. Want to try?”

  I nodded, surprised by my sudden interest in mushrooms. Then again, Aston could make anything sound appealing. These mushrooms were actually really beautiful and looked more like pink seashells than a fungus. He put a piece in my mouth and I chewed. Still earthy, more so than the enoki, and the supple texture was much less mushroomy than I’d imagined. It was really good.

  Aston picked up another. “The name of this one always cracks me up. It’s chicken of the woods.” This one looked almost like a flower and appeared to be blooming.

  “Chicken?” I asked. It certainly wasn’t named for its appearance.

  Aston nodded. “Honestly tastes just like chicken. Vegetarians love it. Can’t eat it raw, though, won’t taste as good. Want me to cook us up some with the pork tonight?”

  I eyed the thing with some some skepticism, as I’d never been a huge fan of mushrooms. “I trust you.”

  Aston put a bunch of mushrooms into a bag and then looked at me with the oddest expression. He reached over and ran his hand through my hair. “I trust you, too.” A sudden softness had taken hold of his face, and he swallowed hard. “I’m having a good time,” he said, throat tight.

  I smiled at him, happy but confused. “Me too. This place is really fun, and I’m learning a lot.”

  He shook his head and his eyes looked unfocused and skittish. “I’m . . . not myself with you.”

  I staggered back, hurt. “We’ve talked about things we want to change, I swear I’m not trying to control—”

  “It’s not that,” he answered, voice softer than it had been a moment ago. “We’re on the road, so there are no familiar places that make me behave as I used to. I’m, I don’t know, rewriting myself. I’m free to talk about the things I love, like food, because you’re not harping on the fact that I’ll never make it into a kitchen. I don’t know, it feels like this isn’t my life.”

  I leaned against an apple cart, stunned. “So, in a good way?” I asked. I didn’t know what to make of this confession. On one hand, I was thrilled that Aston was rebooting and rejecting his highfalutin self, but on the other, I didn’t want him to be someone he really wasn’t.

  Aston nodded and took my hand. “You’ve given me more than a car and a Mistress,” he confessed. “You’ve given me a chance to take the road I should have taken when I was in college. To discover myself, to travel, and to find out what it is I want to do with my life. If we hadn’t met, I’d be stuck in the family business forever.”

  I stood there, in the sunshine and amid the scent of apples, and felt profoundly humbled. My presence was changing someone for the better. The hard layers formed by years of Derek’s dickishness cracked and chipped off me, flaking away in the midwestern sun. “I’m glad we’re on the road together,” I said, taking Aston’s hand. “And I love the new you.”

  A
ston, with stormy eyes I could swim in and lips like ripe slices of a tangerine I wanted to bite and suck, pulled me into his arms. Once more his fingers were in my curls, and his lips found my ears. “I love you, Veronika Kane.”

  THE ANTICIPATION FOR Aston’s dinner was almost as enticing as the man himself. He had me sit in the hotel suite’s candlelit living room and sip wine while he cooked. The wine was totally necessary since his admission of love—I was a bundle of nerves and the wine certainly took the edge off. I faced him, feet up on a chair, as he slaved over a stove for me.

  I could get used to this.

  “Take your shirt off,” I ordered, watching him slice peaches and lick the juice off his fingers. He wanted to tempt me? He’d pay the price.

  Aston snickered and slid the tight tee over his head. “Yes, Mistress,” he said. “May I wear an apron so as to keep any kind of splattering hot oil off my chest?”

  I crossed and uncrossed my legs. “Are you trying to be cute? Now the pants have to go. But yes, an apron is fine.”

  Aston smiled at me and unbuttoned his pants. He was standing behind the suite’s island. “Ahem. Where I can see, Dirty Playboy. Let me get a look at those legs.” I loved objectifying him like this, it was such a change from getting whistles while I posed on cars. Aston stepped away from the island and gave a little shimmy as he pushed the dark-wash jeans off his toned thighs. He stood there in his black boxer briefs, looking positively delicious.

  “You may proceed,” I said and dismissed him.

  He returned to his station, where he took an onion and finely sliced it into paper-thin ribbons. He tossed the onions into a pan with butter and olive oil. He was going to caramelize them, he had said. I could tell Aston enjoyed teaching me these little terms. “At the very end, once the onions turn translucent and then brown, I’m going to toss the peach slices in with them. Then, after the pork I’ve seared is done resting, I’m going to put the peach and onion on top of it and sprinkle it all with a little pink sea salt.”

  I licked my lips. “I think you like narrating each step, Aston. I may have you do that later, in the bedroom.”

  His eyes flickered, full of fire far hotter than the gas stove he was cooking over. “Yes, indeed, Mistress.”

  The rest of his labor was silent as he melted chocolate over a double boiler, did something fancy with eggs that I was clueless about, and cut up some more basil for something or other. A hot, bubbling pot of risotto was sitting on an unlit back burner, and Aston would add a ladle full of hot liquid to it every few minutes and stir like mad. He kept smelling the chicken of the woods mushrooms that were bronzing in a fry pan. It all seemed like a very complicated dance he was doing. I was mesmerized by his skill with a knife, his ability to shift back and forth between dishes, and the way he managed to coordinate all the foods. Granted, I hadn’t tasted them yet, but the smells were absolutely entrancing.

  “I’ll be done in five minutes, Mistress,” he called as he began setting up plates, forks, and knives. “Tonight I’m pairing dinner with this Saint Clair Sauvignon Blanc. It’s got melon and tropical fruit notes, which will accent the dish nicely and accompany the flavors fantastically.”

  “How thoughtful,” I said, sipping the red he’d put out with herb-crusted goat cheese and crackers. “I know I like wine, but I don’t know wine the way you do. How do you pick?”

  He nodded. “Good question. A lot of the time you’ll see white wines with chicken and fish and reds with steak and pork, but not always. It really depends. If you’re eating something rich, oftentimes you want a light, tangy wine to cut through it. Other times, you’ll want something mellow that tastes rich in a different kind of way. It’s a science, but it’s also sort of mystical. There are flavors that come out when a wine is paired with the right food. When that happens, it’s magic.” He uncorked the Sauvignon Blanc and decanted some of it into a wineglass. “So, to really start learning wines, you should take notice of a few things. Swirl your glass. See if the wine coats it. Sniff the wine—what does it remind you of? Some wines have some absolutely crazy descriptors, like black Magic Marker or leather, but that’s okay. It helps you get a handle on how to think of pairing it. Then, once it’s in your mouth, try to taste it with many different parts of your tongue and taste buds. Once you swallow, think about it. Wine is a meditative kind of thing if you let it be. That’s part of why it’s so relaxing.”

  I shrugged. “But don’t you think it’s kind of stressful, having to think that much about a drink?”

  “Honestly, people should drink wine they like. If you want to know more, however, those are the things I’d point to if you want to get good at pairings or tasting where a wine is from. Remember, eating is a sensual experience. Why not go slow and think about everything you’re thinking, feeling, tasting?” A slow smile crept up the side of his cheek, and I felt my own face flush. His hazel eyes slid over me, and goose bumps ran up and down my chest as though his gaze were his touch. I loved how his muscular chest and arms looked with that apron on, so stark white against his sun-bronzed skin. This was so erotic—a half-naked chef detailing a slow, sensory experience was enough to make me hunger for much more than dinner. In fact, I’d rather go straight to dessert. Maybe I could incorporate Sarah’s lesson tonight. That girl had impeccable timing.

  “Come here, let me please your palate,” he said, finally plating the dishes. He’d just grated a ton of pecorino cheese into the risotto, and when he put it on the plate it flowed like lava. Then, he slid four round slices of pork loin across it, spooning the caramelized peaches and onions on top. I sat down and ogled the plate. “This looks incredible,” I breathed, so intoxicated by the night. His attention to detail, the way he wanted me to savor everything, was giving me the naughtiest ideas.

  Aston picked up his fork and was about to dig in, but I stopped him. “Put the fork down and put your hands behind your back,” I said, a plan quickly forming.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he said. His muscled chest heaved, but I could see a desire in his eyes that was both for me and for the food. I was denying him what he wanted—the delicious dinner he’d just cooked.

  “I’m going to feed you, Aston, but only if you’re very good.”

  He nodded.

  I stood and grabbed the thick fabric belt that kept my retro wrap dress closed. I walked over to Aston and tied it around his eyes. “Can you see?”

  “A little through the bottom,” he confessed.

  “Good boy,” I said, tightening.

  “Better.”

  I pulled a USB cord out of the wall and used it to tie his hands behind his back.

  “Are you hungry, Aston?” I asked, breath tickling his ear.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he said, voice low and tight.

  I pulled my plate to the other side of the table, sat on his lap, and began to cut into the perfectly seared pork. I made sure I had a little peach, a little onion, and some of the risotto, then put it in my mouth and chewed.

  I moaned. “Oh god, Aston. It’s so yummy.” He squirmed beneath me, hardening under my thighs. “I could eat it all night.”

  His head fell back and I nibbled at his neck. “Sounds like something I’d like,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Are you being cheeky?” I asked, filling my mouth again. “Because I’ll eat both our plates if you’re fresh.” Which was totally bluffing, by the way. I planned on eating a small portion, especially since I didn’t get around to those wall squats.

  He shook his head. “No, Mistress, but I confess your wording was making me think about something else.”

  I cut a piece for him. “Open wide,” I said suggestively. I waited a minute, torturing him. Was I going to feed him or slide a wet finger in his mouth. I placed the forkful on his tongue and his soft lips closed around it. A satisfied moan came from his throat and I pulled the fork away. He licked his mouth, getting a few more tastes of his creati
on.

  “You’re a talented cook, Aston,” I said, taking another bite for myself. “You’re clearly a pro at . . . loins.” I burst out laughing at the line—there was only so far you could take dirty food talk without chuckling.

  Aston chuckled too. “What can I say, I love the other white meat.”

  “Do you now?” I asked, tapping my chin. “Maybe you’ll get a little more than you bargained for. Open up again.” This time, I unhooked my front-close satin bra. Spinning around in his lap, I brought my nipple to his open mouth. Once Aston felt my silky skin instead of a hard fork, he closed his lips around my breast and sucked hard.

  “This tastes much better,” he said, tonguing my areola. I groaned as I ground into his lap, moistening his boxer briefs with my arousal.

  “Fuck, Aston,” I said as he gently bit at my nipple. I pulled away, needing to come but wanting to exercise my power over him. I sat back, took a few more bites myself, and watched him. His chest and neck were coated in the light sheen of sweat he’d produced while slaving over the hot oven. Aston’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, synched with his heaving breaths. His erection, trapped by his tight boxer briefs, twitched in anticipation of me.

  “I’ll let you eat if you answer some questions,” I purred.

  He nodded. “Ask me anything.”

  “When was the last time you touched yourself?” I asked, fork hovering right under his nose.

  Aston inhaled deeply. “In the shower,” he breathed.

  I slapped his leg. “And you didn’t invite me in?”

  He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”

  I placed the bite in his mouth. “Good boy for being so obedient, but next time you want to get off in the shower, do me a favor and call out to me.”

  He nodded.

  “What did you think about?” I asked, bringing a forkful of peach to his mouth and letting the warm, soft texture graze his lips.

  He licked the juice off and I watched his chest flex as his breath sped up. “I pictured you in a black vinyl bikini, Mistress.”