Playing Hard to Master

by Sparrow Beckett

  He flicked the bells again, one after the other, until she was writhing in place, her hoarse little cries making his dick pulse. “You want me to use your ass, pretty slave?”

  She mewled and shook her head.

  “Well, that’s what your Master would assume, since it was your ass you were grinding against him.”

  “I—I don’t think my ass could take you, Master.” Her eyes were wide. “You’re . . . big.”

  “You’d let me try.”

  Everly blushed brightly. “I would.”

  Motherfucker. A girl should not be able to make him so hot with such a short sentence.

  “Well, if it’s been that long since you were fucked there, we should probably prep you first.”

  Arousal, interest, horror, interest—all crossed her face in quick succession.

  “Prep me?” she squeaked.

  “Do you like buttplugs?”

  “I, uh, I don’t like them, no.”

  “But you’ll let me use them on you if you don’t want me to hurt your ass later?” He raised a brow.

  Her gaze lowered, but she nodded. “Now?”

  “My, aren’t you eager? I was thinking we could wait awhile, but if you’re that hot to have me in your ass, we could start tonight.” He chuckled, enjoying the way she hid her face in her hands. “Well?”

  “If it pleases you, Master,” she mumbled into her palms.

  He went to the sound system and found a melodic metal album that had hints of Middle Eastern musical influence, and set it to play.

  “Up.” He returned to her and pulled her to her feet. “Dance for me.”

  Her frown of distress was adorable. “What? No! I don’t know how.”

  When he’d placed her where he wanted her, he left her there and sat back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. “Everyone can dance. Move for me like you’re my slave girl.”

  “A slave girl trying to get her Sultan’s attention?”

  “Exactly.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

  “I need to remind you that I’m in charge somehow.” He let his gaze slide over her, then clapped his hands. “Dance. Now.”

  Everly shook her hair back, the arch of her neck and curve of her clavicle making him crazy. She huffed in exasperation. Her eyes closed, probably to help her forget she was being watched. The subtle movements, the shy sway of her hips, grew bolder when he didn’t interrupt. The cadence changed as one song shifted almost seamlessly to the next, and the beat got heavier and more sexual. Now the bells were ringing in time with her movement, the anklet keeping time with the movement of her feet.

  God, she was beautiful.

  She danced as though she were alone, and she’d forgotten he was there. Or maybe she’d taken a class? He watched, rapt, forgetting this was a game between them.

  She was his slave, dancing for his pleasure. The anklet was his mark of ownership, and she wore it, proud to be his. He could do anything to her—hurt her, fuck her, love her—and her dance was her silent way of begging him for any and all of it. The possessive tension in him grew until he could hardly bear it.

  This was his woman. If anyone tried to take her, he’d fight for her. He’d win her back. Maybe it was crazy, and too soon, but it was her fault for making him crazy.

  Silently, he got up and moved closer, until he was near enough to touch, but for a moment he only enjoyed the scent of her, and her radiant warmth. Unable to resist for long, he put his hand on her waist.

  She gave a start, gasped, and her eyes flew open. After a slight hesitation, she adjusted her movements to accommodate him as he started to dance with her. He pulled her close and kissed her. He nudged his thigh between her legs, and she pressed against him, her pussy hot. She reached between them and wrapped her small fingers along the hard outline of his cock, teasing him, kissing his jaw.

  Fuck, she made him crazy.

  He grabbed Everly’s arm and dragged her, surprised, over to the wall next to the window. He shoved her back against it. Her breath caught, and she whimpered, bowing her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not very good at dancing.”

  Ambrose groaned. “You’re too fucking perfect. I need to be inside you. Now. I can’t wait anymore.”

  “Yes, Master.” Her cheeks were pink, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

  He plunged two fingers into her mouth, then growled as she sucked them, the feeling of it just as sexy as watching her mouth work around him. So many things he wanted. He thought about shoving her down and coaxing her into giving him a blowjob, but he couldn’t wait that long to get into her pussy.

  He ground against her until she was jammed against the wall, then bit her neck. She yielded to him, making small, needy sounds that threatened to send his aggression into overdrive. Her mouth let go of his fingers, and he shoved her panties down out of his way and toggled her clit piercing, making her eyes roll back. She shifted, then kicked her panties off entirely, just as he yanked the nipple clamps off of her. She screamed, then trembled against him, as he leaned down and sucked her nipples, the pleading sounds she made feeding his adrenaline.

  He straightened, and his hand found its way to her throat. Holding her in place, he waited until she met his gaze. “I’m putting a condom on now, and you’re going to stand there and wait like a good girl, aren’t you?”

  Everly’s eyes were half-lidded, tame, waiting for his next command. He took a step back and grabbed a condom out of his pocket, trying to look suave and not fumble as he freed his aching cock from his pants and rolled the damn thing on. His heart hammered so hard his hands shook. He was at the end of his patience—he had to get his cock into her now, before he went completely mad.

  When he’d fought the condom on, he grabbed her ass and lifted her, bracing her back against the wall. She squeaked and started to struggle.

  “Put me down! I’m too—” Her words were cut off as the tip of his cock pressed against her entrance.

  Ignoring the halfhearted protest, he drove his cock up into her tight wetness, groaning as her body spasmed around his intrusion. She shrieked in his ear as gravity did its work, helping him get all the way inside her sweet body.

  “Oh God! Oh God, I can’t!” She clutched his shoulders, her eyes hazed and mouth open. She moaned long and low.

  Ambrose got a better grip on her thighs and pulled his dick halfway out, then plunged back in, reveling in the feel of having her at his mercy, completely helpless.

  He thrust into her like she was a ragdoll made for his lust—like he was going to fuck her through the wall. She recovered enough to brace her feet against his calves, and got a stronger grip on his shoulders, helping him move faster and harder. Her screams of pleasure were deafening, but it only spurred him on, loving every new mewl and squeak he won from her.

  The tight, clutching heat of her cunt was addictive, and he fought the orgasm that was approaching, making his balls tight and his body ache for release. He kissed her again, trying to distract himself. Her fingernails clawed into his shoulders and she shrieked into his mouth, her pussy clamping down as she came all over his cock.

  Unable to resist her, he let himself lose control, hammering into her as she struggled through another helpless orgasm, her muscles milking his dick until he spilled into her. For a moment his vision blurred and he was afraid he’d drop her, but she held to him, moaning and kissing his mouth, letting him take what he needed. All of it.

  When he withdrew, he lowered her to the floor then threw her over his shoulder. She screeched but didn’t fight as he carried her off to his bed.

  First, he’d cuddle her mercilessly. Then, he’d fuck her again.

  Chapter Seven

  He’d called her perfect.

  Maybe it was because he was carrying her through the house, but Everly felt like she was floating. He’d called her perfect and she’d called him Master.

  The Master part might have been premature, but in the moment, i
t fit. As long as he understood it wasn’t a permanent title. Just role-playing.

  Right?

  But, God, he was hot. The way he’d thrown her up against the wall, the desperate look in his eye, like he couldn’t wait another second to fuck her. Like she was the sexiest thing in the world.

  Nobody had ever made her feel like that—made her feel like submitting so fully, made her feel simultaneously like a fuck toy and something beautiful to be treasured.

  Something in her clicked—a deep longing satisfied. Ambrose could handle her. Even if she pushed and bratted more, he could take it. Probably with either a laugh or a stern look. Either way¸ it wouldn’t scare him away or exasperate him. The relief she felt in that shocked her. And for some reason, knowing he could handle the worst she could throw at him made her want to behave, to submit deeply to him.

  Weird.

  “Nonconsensual cuddling,” he announced as he entered a vast bedroom.

  She arched a brow at him. “Hmm. He fucks good and cuddles?”

  “It’s ‘fucks well.’”

  “And he has a basic understanding of grammar!”

  He tossed her on the bed, making her yelp. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

  She watched him stride toward the attached bathroom until he was out of sight. Suddenly tired, she leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It was vaulted, with a skylight. That had to be a bitch in the mornings. The room was enormous but looked empty, with only two stout, matching dressers, a mounted TV, and the bed. The latter was big enough to take up her entire bedroom at home.

  Again, the decor showed Ambrose’s friend had no class. A hodgepodge of styles and colors were broken up only by paintings—most likely from his friends Banner and Rook. What a strange friend group he had. Ambrose seemed to take the success of the others in stride—maybe he wasn’t the jealous type. Trepidation snuck in. If all his friends were rich, and they got serious, he’d want her to be friends with them too. How would that work?

  But not dating a guy just because he had rich friends was a bitch move too. It wasn’t like amazing sexual chemistry came along all the time. Plus, he was sweet and thoughtful and funny—maybe there was a way to stay together without getting too close to his snobby friends.

  Ambrose returned, smirking and wearing a pair of plaid boxers.

  She looked at them pointedly then pouted.

  Chuckling, he plopped down on the bed, making it dip under his weight. “What’s that look for?”

  “You covered up.”

  “You like my cock?”

  “I do, Sir.” She waggled her brows, and he laughed.

  “Naughty. Maybe later I’ll let you play with it again.” He leaned back, pulling her into his arms as he went, then tossed the blanket on top of them. “For now, we cuddle.”

  She let her head rest on his chest, her muscles gradually relaxing with each of his breaths. The last weeks had been a flurry of stress—between the protest and extra shifts at work. The warmth of his arms, and the steady breathing, and even the smell of sex, calmed her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “Is this your friend’s bedroom?” she asked, drowsy. “’Cause that’d be kind of creepy.”

  “No. It’s his guest room, but I’ve been house-sitting so much I’ve kind of taken over. We both kind of consider it my room now.”

  “So his room must be even bigger.” She sighed. “I can’t even imagine trying to fill a room that size. I’d need a lot of clothes or cats or something just so I didn’t feel so lonely.”

  His shoulders moved under her head like he was shrugging. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it.” Sadness leaked into his voice. He wasn’t fooling her. She’d bet anything he was lonely sometimes too. “So what’s your issue with rich people anyway?”

  Where to start? “They had an issue with me first.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was bullied.” It took a long time to relearn confidence and trust after those harsh years. “I had a single mom who did her best, but it was hard to make ends meet. She was young when she got pregnant with me. Her family deserted her. We were on our own and she had no education. She worked hard and went to night school for nursing, but we were poor.”

  “Wow.” He squeezed her tighter, as if trying to protect her from her own story. “Good for her.”

  “Kids at school were mean, especially girls. They made fun of me because I didn’t have the right clothing labels. And sometimes I wore the same clothes over and over because nothing else fit. Most of my clothes came from thrift stores, so I wasn’t exactly in fashion.”

  “I’d never have guessed.” He lifted a purple streak of her hair with his index finger and smiled.

  “Yeah.” She chuckled. “I kinda made up for it later on. But I don’t spend a lot of money on myself. I just got really good at making recycled things fashionable.” Staring down at the stark white sheet, she added, “But I’ve been doing what I can to help those living in poverty since.”

  “You’re like a sexy female Robin Hood.”

  Laughing, she grinned up at him, but his face sobered.

  “So based on some snotty kids a long time ago, you judge a whole population?”

  “And my extended family.” She probably should have felt guilty, but that’d never happen. The anger was too deeply rooted. “I know it sounds bad, but I just can’t stand them. They hurt me. When I was cold and afraid, sleeping on the shelter cots at seven years old, do you think anyone cared? No. People wanted the shelter shut down because it wasn’t aesthetically pleasing to the neighborhood.” Bitterness tainted her voice so she tried to lighten it up so she didn’t scare him completely. “It’s not that much of a generalization anyway. We get lots of wealthy people in the shop. They’re almost always snooty and talk down to us.”

  It was quiet a moment, and she hoped she hadn’t offended him. She kept forgetting all of his friends were rich. “There are exceptions though.” A picture of Konstantin formed in her mind—his kind eyes, the way he watched over her at the club when she’d almost played with that guy Troy. Sure, there were some nice rich people, but they were few and far between.

  She didn’t bother telling him her most humiliating memory. As an adult, she’d learned to love and accept her body, but high school had been hard. When a group of popular girls found out she had a crush on Zachary Baker, they took a picture of her changing after gym class and showed it to him and all his friends. And then they taped it on her locker with a note that read, You’re better off looking for a boyfriend on a farm. Moo.

  Back then there was no YouTube to put said videos on, no antibullying campaigns on Facebook, no regulations in the school—at least not any that people took seriously. She’d been alone in her misery, and the torture continued all the way until adulthood.

  “What if . . .” He cleared his throat. “What if you fell in love with someone who was rich?”

  She snorted. Was he serious? “Not gonna happen.”

  “How do you know? Maybe you wouldn’t know he’s rich at first . . .”

  “I can smell rich people a mile away in a rainstorm.” She gave him a cocky look. “Nothing slips by me.”

  A strangled laugh escaped him. She turned her head and bit his skin playfully.

  “Watch it, girl,” he rumbled, making a thrill rush through her.

  “Mmm.” She almost purred. Down, girl. “Anyway, I believe you choose who you love. It’s very controlled, very calculated.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why does everyone call it ‘falling’?”

  She froze, keeping her gaze carefully set on the ceiling. If she looked at him now, he’d see the doubt in her eyes. There was no way she was going to fall for him first. When this happened—if it happened—she would be in control. Maybe a Dom could master her orgasms, but no one could master her heart.

  * * *

  Frustration made her grind her teeth as she typed int
o her phone.

  Hello? You can’t just stop talking to me because you don’t have an answer.

  When nothing came back right away, she grunted and shoved the phone into her purse. She took a minute pretending to check her hair in the break room mirror just to give her time to calm down.

  “Everly!” Alison, the receptionist, shouted from the front. “Your next appointment is here.”

  “Be right there!” Slowly, she inhaled then exhaled a deep breath, watching the stress leave her face. Next, she put on a cheery smile, satisfied that it looked real.

  It’d been five days since she’d last seen Ambrose. Four days of texting. Three days of suspicion. He was stalling, which meant he was lying. But why would he lie about where he lived? Why wouldn’t he let her see his place? Something wasn’t adding up, and she was starting to worry he was hiding something. Was he seeing somebody else? Flashes of catching Scott with Mindy entered her mind, making her panic. The worst part wasn’t catching them together—it was how stupid she’d felt because she’d assumed they were exclusive.

  But Ambrose had seemed sincere about their relationship. He wouldn’t break their agreement already, would he? He wasn’t living with someone, or married?

  She had to clear those questions from her mind now, though, or she’d let her anger out while styling her client’s hair. That never turned out well.

  “Hi, Genevieve!” she crooned as she walked toward one of her regulars in the front. “How are you today?”

  “Fabulous.” They hugged, then Genevieve stepped back and looked her over. “You went back to pink?”

  Everly led her client to her chair. “Yeah. I got bored.” She’d gradually exchanged the purple streaks for pink panels throughout the week. Changing the purple to pink or pink to blue or brown to blonde or black to red was commonplace for her, and for most hairdressers. Coloring her hair was like playing dress-up, only it lasted a little longer.

  She’d never cared what anyone thought of her wild hair before, but since she’d done it, her stomach had been twisted into knots, worrying what Ambrose would think. Silly, because she still answered only to herself. She didn’t want a Master who controlled how she looked. But like any girl, she wanted him to be attracted to her. He’d passed a lot of tests so far—was he up for the hair challenge?