The King of Bourbon Street

by Thea de Salle

  “You’re very sure, kitten? I won’t be easy on you.” He rubbed her springiest flesh, his fingers digging into it and squeezing hard before releasing, only to do it again.

  She quivered and fixed her eyes on the wall. “I’m yours.”

  “Oh, you sweet, sweet fool.” It was a prayer, an oath, a reverently uttered promise, and his hand rose and clapped down, forcing a yelp from her lips. Immediately her flesh went hot, so he did it again. And again. His free hand fisted in her hair to pull as he paddled her, not heavy-handed strikes, but quick ones, all over, warming her from the small of her back to the tops of her thighs. “You’re mine. Mine. Do you understand, Arianna?”

  Not kitten. Arianna.

  “Y-yes. Yes, I understand,” she replied, breathless.

  “This is mine.”

  Smack to the center of her ass.

  “This is mine.”

  Tug to her hair, putting a strain on her scalp and making her flinch.

  “This is mine.”

  Slither into the crevice between her thick thighs, the hand that had rained punishment on her burning ass cupping her pussy. Long fingers delved deep to smear her wet up and down, left to right, and then across her thigh. He teased her clit, his free hand releasing her hair to glide along her spine, sending a thousand volts of pleasure exploding through her body. Her fingers curled over as he groped a handful of ass cheek before slapping it once more.

  “Isn’t that right, Arianna? Mine? All mine?”

  “Yes. Yours.” She somehow got it out, but it was impossible to think when he was manipulating her clit so expertly, with the exact right amount of pressure. It was pleasure that bordered on pain, riding that razor-fine edge as he worried the sloppy skin, his hand leveling another strike on her radiating bottom.

  It must be so pink. So red.

  “My holes. My girl’s holes are mine.”

  “Yes. Your holes.”

  “Are you my hole?” he asked, fingers abandoning their ministrations to twist right up into her cunt, diving into her tunnel and claiming it.

  “Anything. I’m your anything,” she warbled.

  “My hole.”

  “Yes. Your hole.” She shouted it and he rewarded her with a fast, hard frigging, pounding his fingers into her, the copious wet the perfect excuse to pummel her.

  Should I hate this?

  I don’t. I love it. I love it. I love it.

  “Th-thank you.”

  “Oh, oh darling.” His tone was affectionate as he tore the fingers from her and lifted them, holding them inches from her face, so close she could smell her own sweet and salty sex. He gripped her hair again, lifting her so she bowed up from his lap. “Do you see that? How glossy they are? How pretty?”

  They were covered in her juices, glinting like wet gossamer, and he presented them to her mouth. There was no hesitation; she opened and sucked them clean, and Sol growled in response, pleased with such an obsequious display.

  I taste nice.

  Oh God.

  “Up. Up, sweet thing.” She more flopped to her feet than anything else, robbed of any modicum of grace thanks to his various holds. Sol pulled his fingers from her mouth, but he never released her hair, not as he half guided, half dragged her to their bed. His grip only loosened when he threw her down, face first, onto the mattress. Hands on her hips. Hands gripping her panties and tearing them off her short legs. “Ass up. Knees spread. Hands back between your knees, reaching for the foot of the bed,” he snapped.

  She obliged because of course she would. He was in charge. She was not, and her chin rested on the bed, her eyes looking ahead as he’d instructed her in the past. Her nipples raked against the blankets, swollen and straining and as eager for attention as the rest of her. She wriggled to capitalize on the friction, biting back a lewd moan.

  His hole.

  His slut.

  His kitten.

  His anything.

  Her pussy ached for a fucking, and she squirmed, burying her face in the soft coverlet beneath her nose only to smell lilac-scented detergent. Sol crossed the room behind her. She heard rattling in the closet, a thud, and then another before he reemerged, holding a collection of miscellanea in his hands. She couldn’t make much out beyond what looked like a black leather baton with dangling strips. He threw his new prizes on the mattress beside her, something cold bumping against her outer knee, but she didn’t dare turn her head to look, afraid that doing anything beyond instruction would displease him.

  Jingling. Maneuvering. A cold, flexible binding around her left ankle, tightening. Click. Cold binding around one wrist, cinched. Click. Second wrist cuffed in place. Click. Right ankle positioned just so. Click.

  She was strapped in tight, her feet and hands tethered to the flat bar and forcing her ass up, leaving her exposed. She couldn’t close if she wanted to. Sol paced behind her, a caged lion stalking back and forth, and she could practically feel his eyes boring into her. Traveling from her ass down to her greedy slit dribbling with wantonness. She was helpless, and he liked that she was helpless. There was a hissing sound that she recognized as a belt yanked from its loops before he folded it in half and flicked it at her, just hard enough it snapped as it struck skin. There was a sting of pain, enough to make her cry out, her ass sensitive still from the vigorous spanking.

  My ass is so hot.

  “If I gag you, I won’t hear your sounds. You make such perfect sounds, Arianna,” he murmured. Another strike. Another. Three more hard smacks of leather on skin. Rain squawked, the belt finding the most sensitive part of her ass, the impact making her jolt within her bindings. Sol soothed her with a rub, not to her flaming bottom, but between her legs, smearing his palm over and through her juices. He dragged it up, from her pussy to her ass, transferring wet from one hole to the other. His finger stroked her there, teasing, but not yet inserting.

  “There’s a welt. I didn’t mean to mark you. It won’t happen again, kitten. Are you all right?”

  She nodded because speech was too difficult.

  I’ll worry about it later. I just need . . .

  I need.

  “Good girl.”

  The belt was cast aside.

  Rustling fabric.

  Unzipping.

  Oh God, please fuck me.

  She clenched her eyes shut and moaned, breath coming hard, her heart pounding like a timpani in her ears. The cold thing beside her knee was pulled away. She could hear a squirt that was followed by a wet drizzle over her ass, goop slithering down between her cheeks and dripping to the bed below.

  “Too soon,” he said, aloud but to himself. “But not for this.”

  His fingers toyed with her, lubed her, and then gently pried her open. She gritted her teeth at the invasion. There was no pain, but there was certainly pressure as he worked her ass, back and forth, drilling first a single finger into her and then, when she’d accommodated him well enough, a second. His free hand continued to stroke her swollen sex, focusing on her throbbing clit, until she panted, her whole world focused on her overstimulated body, the vulnerability of her position, and how much she wanted him.

  His hands pulled away.

  No, put them back!

  “Sol?” Questioning, but not demanding, because there was no doubt who was in charge. She was at his mercy, body and soul.

  And I love it.

  “Breathe.” One word, but she acquiesced seconds before she felt a hard, cold presence pushing at her ass. It was tapered at the end and at first slid in with ease, but then it swelled to as big around as his two fingers had been. A toy. She gasped as it filled her more than she was ready for, stretching her just shy of painful before popping into place, her body accepting it without too much strain.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do to you, Arianna?”

  “Noooo,” she whined, craning h
er head to the side and rubbing her cheek against the blanket. She felt so full, so dirty, so very owned as Sol massaged her pubic bone, his palm grazing over her sex-starved pussy.

  “I’m going to stuff your other hole now. Do you like that, sweetheart? Being double stuffed?” As if to demonstrate, he humped forward and she mewled as his hard cock slid across her thigh, taunting her.

  “Yes. Please. Yes.”

  “Good girl. Good girl.”

  Yes, I’m your good girl.

  Your best girl.

  “Pleeeease,” she practically keened, and he lifted himself, positioning, rubbing his tip against her weeping cunt before nestling inside. It wasn’t a hard single push, but a measured feed, him slowly sliding in to allow her overtaxed body to accommodate more than she ever thought possible: the toy in her ass, the thickness of Sol’s dick pressed against it, separated by a thin, straining piece of flesh. She didn’t think it was possible to feel so utterly possessed, and yet . . .

  And yet.

  And yet.

  With so much crammed inside her, shoving at her innermost walls, every movement Sol made rubbed against her sweet spot and put pressure on her sore ass. He pulled out and she practically bellowed, her hands making fists inside their cuffs on the bar. He shoved back in. She could feel him raking her clit not from the outside but from the inside, and it made it that much more intense. His hands settled on her hips and he let his cock slip free.

  Only to pump it back in again.

  “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.” It was a chant, a plea, and he answered with another smooth thrust followed by another. There were loud, slick slaps as his groin mashed against her flesh, every strike of his body meeting hers forcing the thing in her ass to jostle. Her pussy was so wet she felt like she was raining all over him, her thighs, the bed. She didn’t care. She was mindless of everything but Sol’s domination. Sol’s cock.

  Sweat rivulets started to stream down her temples as he pummeled her harder, abusing those tender, screaming nerves along the top of her canal.

  Louder.

  Wetter.

  More.

  She was a wild, needful thing, reduced to a fuckhole for the man behind her. He never spoke. It was past time for words, but she could hear his ragged breathing, could feel the way his grip tightened as he pumped her closer and closer to what would surely shatter her. Faster he fucked, louder she moaned, their bodies two halves of the same whole until his breath hitched and he climbed up onto the bed behind her so he could line her back with his front, his body cradling hers as his cock made fast, hard jabs up into her.

  “Come for me. Now. Come now,” he demanded right before he unloaded hot, creamy, sticky cum into her cunt. It was obscene—dirty and sexy and wonderful—and Rain howled her pleasure seconds after his own crest. Her body teetered at the mountaintop, quaking and tense as all her muscles furled, and then he jackhammered home one more time, forcing her over. Screams poured from her mouth like water spewing from a geyser. Every pulse forced her distended holes to bear down on the invading inches. She convulsed inside her bonds, the orgasm washing over her, each wave of pleasure ridding her of thought. Of speech. Of control.

  Her eyes rolled up in her head moments before she slumped forward, her world fading to black.

  TWENTY-NINE

  SOL PATTED THE welt on the curve of Rain’s ass with a warm, wet cloth. It wasn’t bleeding, but he’d hit her with the edge of the belt by accident and the skin blazed red, nearly split along the upper curve. He glanced at the jiggly pile of blond hugging his pillow to her chest, her profile angelic, mouth gently parted, curls fanned out behind her body. No snores this time, just deep, even sleep. He reached for the ointment, squirting a dollop on his fingertip and dabbing it on the angriest parts of the mark as a precaution.

  I can’t believe I did that.

  Look at her.

  Look at her!

  She was sweet and good and he’d damaged her. The evidence was there, crimson against soft peach, and he felt sick as he pulled the blanket up over her body, covering her to her chin. The spreader bar was on the floor beside the discarded bottle of lube. The plug was near the foot of the bed, teetering close to the edge.

  Freckles might mistake it for a chew toy.

  He went to the bathroom to wash it and his hands, catching a glimpse of his reflection as he reached for the hand towel. His face was flushed, his eyes pinched at the edges, his worry line in full attendance on his brow. Oh, how he loathed himself. He’d warned her, and she’d chosen to follow where he led, but he could have said no and he didn’t.

  She took her sweater off and I just . . .

  It doesn’t matter why. She’s marked. What if it scars?

  Fuck’s sake.

  He was the one in control. He was the one who was teaching her about limitations, and look how he’d behaved! The poor girl was practically a virgin the week before but he kept pushing and pushing, too fast for such a short acquaintance.

  A woman like that going from sweaty dorm fucks to spreader bars and ass play.

  Sol collected the sordid evidence, throwing the toys back into the drawer where they belonged. Where they should have stayed. It’d been easier with Maddy, or maybe it had just seemed easier because Maddy had been the teacher. She already knew all the rules of engagement. He did what she said, he told her when it was too much or not enough, they’d become symbiotic in short order. He felt like he was failing his go-round. Rain certainly hadn’t asked him to stop at any point, and he would have at the first sign of distress, but it was also possible—plausible, even—that she wasn’t at the point where she knew her boundaries. She trusted him so implicitly that it just . . .

  I should have slowed down.

  The desire to finish the whiskey overwhelmed, but he put it away, deciding its part in his transgression was reason enough to resist its siren song. He settled on the couch. He had no idea when Cylan had dropped off Freckles, but there he was in all his corginess, trotting over and wiggling before he hopped up on the couch cushion beside him. Sol stroked him until the dog rolled over and demanded belly rubs. Sol complied, accepting what solace petting a twentysomething-pound dog could offer, until his phone rang.

  All day with this shit.

  Why now?

  It was Cylan. He picked up.

  “Is it too much to ask for good news?”

  “In this instance, yes. The city wants to meet with you about the levee committee tomorrow. Brutus canceled both his Chicago and Dallas trips so he can be around. He’ll talk to Nash and Alex over the phone. Sol . . .” Cylan paused and let out a sigh. “They have a legal team, and one of them is a DC hotshot named Krazinski. I’m guessing Barrington pulled him in. We need more than one man to field this. Brutus is good, but him against a panel . . . We need at least another body, probably two.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Sol wanted to whip the phone across the room, or to bash his face against the wall, or scream until his lungs exploded, but none of those things would fix any of the wrongs. His hotels would still be under siege, he’d still have no idea how to take on someone of Elise Barrington’s status, and he’d still feel like a pig for what he’d put the sweet girl in his bed through.

  “Did you want me to make some calls?” Cylan offered.

  “Yes. No. No, I’ll . . . I don’t know.”

  “I’ll look into things. In the meanwhile, call Maddy,” he suggested gently. “You know she’ll help.”

  Yes, of course, run to your mommy. That won’t get old at any point.

  “I’m a pain in her ass.”

  “You always have been, but she won’t care and you know it. See what she has to say.”

  Cylan didn’t leave him with much of a choice. He hung up, and Sol was stuck holding a phone in one hand and a corgi in the other. He looked into Freckles’s adoring brown eyes, at a total loss. The dog didn’t care
; he squirmed forward to stretch across Sol’s lap.

  Sol dropped his head back onto the couch cushion. The problems weren’t going to fix themselves, and if anyone could push back at someone of Barrington’s ilk, it’d be another heavyweight. Maddy was one of the heaviest weights in the world. Her reach was significantly longer than his own, her resources unimaginable. Plus, she’d offered help. Only pride prevented him from accepting it.

  Yet again, because she’s always giving and you’re always taking.

  I’m a millionaire and I can’t bail out my own ass.

  That’s pretty pathetic.

  Sol hit Maddy’s speed dial.

  She picked up after the second ring. “Dove. How are you?”

  “You’re going to regret asking me that.”

  “Oh no! Tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me. What can Maddy do?”

  He outlined the entirety of his dilemma, how Elise had gone after every location within twenty-four hours of her departure, how Brutus would need legal help against the Washington lawyer, how ashamed he was of his treatment of Rain’s hapless body. Maddy listened, never saying a word, and by the time he’d relayed the last of it, the part about Rain’s mark, his breath hitched.

  Real men don’t cry.

  . . . oh fuck that real-men bullshit. But my head’s going to explode eventually with the whiskey and crying will only make it worse.

  “So, I’m in over my head. La-dee-da,” he concluded.

  “Mmm. Elise is horrid. Good news, though! Tempy’s back from the Riviera. She’s in the other room right now rolling around with Capulet.” The image of a six-foot-tall Amazonian specimen with arms as big as tree trunks wrestling a tiger planted itself in his brain. If Tempy hadn’t gone into busting courtroom balls, she could have been a wrestler. Or one of those American Gladiators women who snapped spines on television for a salary. But no, her spine snapping was reserved for corporate litigation. The only problem was she was notoriously choosy about her client list, and considering she tended to call Sol “Dickhead with a capital D,” he didn’t think she’d do him any favors.