Against the Ropes

by Sarah Castille

  “With you, baby, I can’t be anything else.”

  Riding on a private plane with naughty “Biker Chick” emblazoned un-

  derwear hidden under my clothes is enough to send me into a frenzy of

  excitement. “Look!” I shriek and bounce in my cushy leather seat. “I can

  see the Golden Gate Bridge…and the ocean.” I sip my champagne and

  smile at the flight attendant who must be wondering how she landed

  a job with a drop-dead gorgeous passenger and his overexcited puppy.

  “Santa Cruz…Monterey…Ventana…” I rattle off the names of the

  major cities and parks along the coast proudly demonstrating just why

  I got an A in geography.

  No, I chastise myself. Do not embarrass Max. Try to appear cul-

  tured and sophisticated. Classy.

  I take a chocolate covered strawberry from the plate and nibble

  at the tip. So delicious. The chocolate breaks off and falls on my new

  yoga pants. No problem. Biker-style polyester cleans easily. At least

  that’s what Angel told me this morning in her deep, gravelly voice as she

  detached her heavily muscled arms from around Max’s waist. For some

  reason, I didn’t feel jealous this time.

  I dab at the chocolate and check my stretchy, pink tank top for

  similar disasters. Safe. As is my Harley-Davidson hoodie. I am so glad

  Eve was out of town. The mean-looking Tweety Bird wearing a Harley-

  Davidson skull cap and leather vest printed on my bra and panties,

  would probably have given her a heart attack.

  “We’ll have some more champagne please, Linda,” Max says, his

  voice all smooth and mellow.

  Luscious Linda, the well-endowed flight attendant giggles. She

  manages to tear her eyes off my man and disappears into the tiny galley.

  “She has a last name. It’s on her nametag. You should really call

  her Miss Slutzsky. Linda is too familiar, unless you know her very well.

  Maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you used your sexy come hither voice

  when you were talking to her and gave her the ‘I’m going to devour you

  with my eyes’ look.”

  Max laughs and then hums a few bars of the Black Crows’

  “Jealous Again.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I ram the rest of the strawberry in

  my mouth.

  “Do you know why I sent her for more champagne?” Max tongues

  my earlobe and then nibbles around the shell until my body shivers with

  pure unadulterated lust.

  “You’re thirsty?” I push him away. “Or you like leading women on?”

  “Only one woman.” Max removes his napkin and tosses it over

  my lap.

  “Linda Slutzsky?”

  “You.” He slides his hand under the napkin and down the front of

  my yoga pants, not stopping until his fingers are secured behind Tweety

  Bird’s head.

  “Max,” I shriek. My legs jerk up, hitting the tray table. With the

  kind of coordination only seen in a circus, Max saves the tray with his

  free hand, while simultaneously stroking behind Tweety Bird’s fluffy

  bottom with the other. His fingers push aside the panties and slide

  between my folds.

  The curtain slides open with a loud rattle. Max continues to stroke.

  I draw in the deepest, most ragged breath and try to imagine I do not

  have a man’s hand down my pants in a ritzy private airplane.

  Ms. Slutzsky looks at Max. Then she looks at me. My cheeks flame.

  My lungs burn for air. How twisted is this?

  “I think we’ll pass on the champagne for now, Linda. Makayla is

  feeling a little lightheaded.” Max graces her with his award-winning

  smile. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

  Linda’s smile does not reach her eyes. “I’ll be in the galley.” She

  yanks the curtain closed.

  My breath leaves me with a whoosh. “She knew what you were

  doing. She’ll think I’m a—” I can’t say it. I can only call myself a slut in

  my head. “Minx,” I blurt out.

  Max chuckles. “You are a minx. My little minx. And the only thing

  she should be thinking about is whether we need more champagne.” He

  presses a finger inside me and groans. “You’re so wet, baby. I think my

  little minx likes a bit of danger served with her sex.”

  “Don’t talk like that. It does things to me.”

  “What things?” Max slides a second finger through my folds and

  my insides melt.

  “Naughty things.”

  “Tell me naughty things,” Max whispers in my ear.

  My hips rock in time to the gentle thrust of his fingers, rubbing

  my sensitive nub against the heel of his palm. The sensation is so deli-

  cious my head falls back on the seat, and I grip the armrests so hard my

  knuckles turn white.

  “I can’t…talk…when you are doing that.”

  “Then I’ll stop.”

  “Nooooooo. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

  Max withdraws his fingers and pushes back our table trays. “I

  have to stop. Hot, wet Makayla moaning and writhing with naughty

  things on the tip of her tongue is more than any man could bear.” He

  motions me out of my seat and I follow him down the aisle to a small,

  partially enclosed, seating area containing two leather loungers. Max

  settles himself on the lounger nearest the window and undoes his fly.

  His erection springs free—hard, heavy, and swiftly sheathed before I

  can even catch my breath.

  “Max.” I look at him aghast and check over my shoulder for

  Luscious Linda. “What are you doing?”

  “Guess.”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “Up here, minx,” Max pats his lap. “Come and whisper naughty

  things in my ear.”

  “But…Linda…and the pilot and copilot—”

  “Are busy flying the airplane.” Max reaches over and slides my yoga

  pants and Biker Chick panties over my hips, then eases them down to

  my ankles. “I’m going to fly you.”

  “Let me take them off.” I bend down to slide them over my shoes,

  but Max grabs my hand.

  “Leave them where they are.”

  “But I won’t be able to move very much.”

  Max tugs me onto his lap, positioning my knees on either side of

  his hips. “Good. I want to be able to last out the flight.” He slides the

  straps of my tank top over my shoulders and undoes the clasp of my bra,

  sliding them both down to my waist. Cool air brushes over my skin and

  my nipples harden.

  “I don’t feel very sophisticated right now,” I complain, while he

  palms my breasts. “Look how easy it was for you to get into my pants.”

  He trails kisses down my throat. “I don’t want sophisticated,” he

  murmurs. “I want minx.”

  “I want to be like the women I saw you with on the Internet—the

  models and society girls who know all the right things to say.”

  “I don’t want to hear the right things.” He lifts my hips and posi-

  tions me just over the tip of his erection. “I want to hear minx things.”

  He pulls me down and thrusts deep inside me. The dual sensations

  overload my brain.

  “Oh. My. God.” He fills me so completely, so deliciously, I don’t

  want to move.
/>   “That’s a start.” Drawing me up, he laves my nipple and yanks me

  back down again. My tongue hits the back of my throat and I choke out

  an elegant, “Gah.”

  “Tell me what you want and I’ll give you a present.”

  “I thought you just gave me the present.” I wiggle on top of him,

  delighted when he groans.

  Max tucks his hand into his pocket and pulls out a shiny, silver box.

  “This is almost as good.”

  I stop wiggling. “Open it.”

  His lips curve into a sinister smile and he taps his ear. “Naughty things.”

  I lick my lips and then rattle off a few of the French phrases Giselle

  taught me on my way out of the spa. The look of shock on Max’s face is

  almost worth the hefty tip I gave her.

  “Well, if that’s what you want, baby.”

  My eyes widen. “What? What do I want?”

  “These.” He flicks the lid off the box and pulls out two tweezer-like

  silver objects with silver chains and beads attached.

  I frown. “What are they?”

  “Nipple clamps.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. Some things are not meant to be

  squeezed too hard.”

  Max bends down to draw my nipple in his mouth, licking and

  sucking it into a hard peak. He slides the tweezers over my nipple and

  tightens them with a little ring.

  Mind numbing, burning, searing pain shoots through me. I cry out

  and Max covers my mouth in a soft kiss.

  “Take it off. Take it off.” I pull away and reach for the dangly chain.

  Max grasps my wrists and restrains them behind me with one hand.

  “Give it a chance, baby. It won’t hurt for long.” He sucks and teases

  my other nipple and releases my wrists to slide the other clip over the

  hardened peak. Another zing. Another burn.

  “No Max.” I shake my breasts, trying to dislodge his torture devices,

  and the little chains tug gently. The pain blurs into searing, fiery plea-

  sure. My sex clenches around Max’s erection, and he groans.

  A bell rings. The seatbelt sign flashes on. Ms. Slutzsky addresses us

  by name over the PA system and requests that we return to our seats and

  fasten our seat belts because of minor turbulence.

  Max pulls out his seat belt and fastens it around both of us. He lifts

  my hips and slides deeper inside me. Although slightly constrained by

  my Tweety Bird thong foot restraints, and the seat belt around my back,

  I manage to gain some leverage and move up and down. Max hisses in a

  breath. The plane shakes and veers slightly to the left. So do my breasts.

  The nipple clamps tug as I sway, sending jolts of erotic pleasure straight

  to my core. My heart pounds. My hands fist Max’s thick, soft hair. So

  dangerous. So exciting. So arousing.

  “You are one goddamned hot little minx,” Max rasps. He tugs the

  little chains and fire zings through my veins—a confusing mix of plea-

  sure and almost pain. He slides my moisture up and around my sweet

  spot over and over until I am hovering over the edge of a cliff so high I

  can’t see the ground. My nipples throb, my sex aches, and my body is

  coiled tight.

  “What are you doing to me?” I moan.

  “Go, baby. Fly for me,” he whispers. He swipes his finger over my

  swollen nub. And I fly apart. My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal

  wave. Max stiffens and groans, and I take him with me in a blaze of

  slutty glory.

  Chapter 22

  I Wasn't Afraid

  A limo drops us off at the Speedaway Exotic Car Racetrack, located

  at an abandoned airfield about an hour outside Fontana. We are greeted

  by the owners, Crash and Dirty Dan, both allegedly bikers. However,

  with their short, cropped brown hair, matching blue and white cover-

  alls, mirrored aviator sunglasses, and perfect smiles, they look more like

  male models. Maybe I should tell Amanda to join a motorcycle club.

  They walk us over to a tall, chain-link fence and show us the track.

  The runways have been resurfaced and joined to form a giant oval. At

  various points, straight stretches of pavement run for miles into the

  horizon, marked only by hay bales and orange netting. Skid marks in-

  dicate where drivers have gone off the track and spun out into the grass.

  At least there are no trees or buildings for anyone to hit.

  We tour through massive warehouses filled with a mouthwatering

  array of exotic cars, from Lamborghinis to Porsches, and Ferraris to

  Audis. I walk around the Aston Martin, James Bond’s vehicle of choice,

  and imagine myself behind the wheel.

  “What are you driving today?” Dirty Dan asks, coming up

  behind me.

  “If I had a choice, it would be this.” I stroke the hood of the Aston

  Martin. “But I don’t think Max will agree.

  Dirty Dan gives me a wink. “I’ve always wanted to see a pretty girl

  behind the wheel. How about I get you prepped and ready to go? Max’s

  clients aren’t due for another half hour, which gives us plenty of time to

  run through the short course we inflict on all our drivers for insurance

  purposes. With that face and your training and safety certificates in your

  hand, he won’t be able to say no.”

  He holds out a hand, and his cheeky grin is all the encouragement

  I need to follow him to the main clubhouse.

  By the time we’re done, an hour later, Max’s clients have arrived

  and are in the process of setting up their equipment. Max explains they

  have developed a system to remotely control the vehicles so racetracks

  and driving schools can operate without an instructor in the vehicle. I

  join everyone on a shady viewing platform overlooking the track while

  Crash suits up and climbs into an Audi R8.

  At a signal from one of the clients, Crash hits the gas and the Audi

  roars around the track. The clients stop and start his vehicle, and then

  make it perform a dizzying array of tricks. When Crash pulls up in front

  of us, everyone cheers.

  “Might be worth the investment they are seeking after all,”

  Max muses.

  We spend the rest of the afternoon watching Crash and Dirty Dan

  test the system on different vehicles. Max’s eyes light up when it passes

  the final test in my Aston Martin. He excuses himself to talk to his

  clients, and Dirty Dan climbs up to the viewing platform and tosses me

  the keys, a helmet, and a pair of coveralls.

  “Try it out,” he says with a wink.

  My mouth waters. Me…in an Aston Martin going as fast as I want.

  The temptation is almost too much, but I’ve learned my lesson about

  Max’s overprotectiveness. “I’d better ask Max. He has strong views on

  things he thinks might be dangerous.” I say the right words. I will do the

  right thing. But in the end, if he says no, I’m going anyway.

  I catch Max between conversations. “Is it okay if I take the Aston

  Martin for a spin? Dirty Dan gave me the safety lecture. I have my

  certificate.” I hold up the white and gold embossed paper with my name

  printed neatly in the center. To my dismay, Max doesn’t even glance

  at it.

  “No.”

  “I’m a good driver. Ste
ve had me take the same driving course as the

  police cadets. I promise I’ll be careful.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a new technology. I came here because

  Crash and Dirty Dan are experts. They can handle any emergency.”

  “But it worked perfectly on every test,” I complain.

  “No.”

  “I’ll go with her,” Dirty Dan interjects. “If the system fails, I’ll be

  there to take over. It will be no different from any member of the public

  going out on the track.”

  I throw my arms around Max, tilt back my head and bat my eyelashes.

  I am not above all-out begging to get behind the wheel. “Pleeeeeeeeeease.”

  A smile ghosts his lips. He looks from Dirty Dan to me and back

  to Dirty Dan. His jaw tightens. “One hundred miles an hour. Tops.”

  “Come on, Max! It has a top speed of two twenty. You can’t expect

  me to get in a car like that and not—”

  “One hundred or nothing.”

  “Fine,” I sulk. He won’t be able to do anything once I get behind

  the wheel.

  Max grunts and looks at Dirty Dan. “No risky maneuvers. Just a

  few laps around the oval, and keep an eye on her. She’s hard to control.”

  “She’s standing right here.” I wave my hands in his face. “You don’t

  have to talk about her as if she doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

  Dirty Dan snorts a laugh and leads me down to the vehicle. A thrill

  runs through me when I slide into the form-fitting bucket seat and

  breathe in the new car smell of polish and leather. The gray interior is

  all curved lines and soft angles. The high-tech dash looks like something

  out of a spaceship. Dirty Dan helps me adjust the seat and runs through

  the instrument panel, but all I really care about is the speedometer.

  We pull on our helmets and Dirty Dan points out a few more features.

  “It will do zero to sixty in 4.7 seconds, and we’ve put in paddle shifters

  because most people don’t know how to operate a manual transmission.”

  “I do.”

  Dirty Dan grins. “Why am I not surprised?”

  My hands shake as I turn the key and start the engine; I glance at

  the window and wave to Max. Even from here I can see the tension in

  his body. Poor Max. He thinks he is tense now. In sixty seconds, I’ll

  show him tense.

  “Ready to go?”

  I nod and hit the accelerator. The vehicle roars to life and I am