by BETH KERY
“I can’t believe you came to London,” he said, his voice vibrating with anger.
“I’d have gone farther to find you.”
He paused, his expression stiffening when he heard the quiver in her voice.
“Are you crying?” he asked sharply, studying the back of her head.
“No.”
“Are you in undue pain?”
“No.”
He tightened his hold on the paddle and swatted her ass twice. “This is the first time I’ve punished you without the clitoral stimulant. Perhaps the discomfort is trumping the pleasure,” he said, swinging the paddle back and landing it, snarling at the erotic sight of the blow reverberating through her firm, plump flesh. He grabbed his aching cock through his pants, wincing.
“No, it’s not that,” he heard her say in a muffled voice. She jumped slightly in her kneeling position when he paddled her again.
Curious as to what she meant, he pushed his fingers into the tight crevice of her thighs just above the binding restraint. Warm wetness coated his forefinger. Without making a remark, he withdrew his hand and whacked her ass several more times.
He would never truly control her, because she slayed him every time he tried.
Her ass was red and hot to the touch by the time he’d finished with her. She panted softly, and her cheeks were stained pink when he lifted her from the chest and placed her on her feet. He knelt before her, peeling the black elastic binder off her thighs and then down over her feet.
He unfastened the cuffs. She made a sound of surprise when he looped the elastic binder around her neck and began to work the wide strap down over her breasts. It wasn’t easy, but by the time he’d finished, her beautiful flushed breasts were plumped and displayed just as erotically over the top of the thick binder as her ass had been. He grunted in approval and cuffed her wrists again at her back.
“What are you going to do?” she asked him uncertainly when he picked up a black leather flogger. It was a supple one, meant more to enliven and sting the flesh than whip and cause pain. He understood the flicker of fear in her tone. He’d never used a flogger on her before.
“Your punishment isn’t finished yet. This is a flogger.” He held it up for her to examine the thin, foot-long, supple straps attached to a leather-bound handle. “Don’t look so fearful . . . it looks more ominous than it is. It’s safe enough, in my hand. It will cause a nice sting and awaken your nerves.”
Her eyes went huge when he lifted it, but she didn’t protest when he brought the leather straps down on the side of a pale breast. “There. Is that too much?” he asked gruffly, pausing to caress and gently squeeze the firm globe. When she didn’t answer, he looked into her face. Her expression was a little helpless, but her eyes glowed with arousal. She shook her head, apparently speechless.
He hid his grim smile and brought down the flogger on her other breast, then back to the other, watching in fascination as the pale globes deepened in color to a pale pink and the nipples grew tight and hard, making his mouth water.
“Do they sting?” he asked her a moment later after he set down the flogger and massaged her breasts in his hands.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. You deserve it,” he murmured. He pinched gently at both of her nipples and she shuddered in pleasure. “If I weren’t so careful of you, I’d be giving you much worse right now for what you dared.”
“For falling in love with you?”
He paused in his lewd squeezing of her breasts and met her stare. She was panting heavier now, causing her flesh to rise and fall subtly in his molding palms.
“No. For nosing into my business and prying into my life.”
For seeing my mother at her most vulnerable . . . for seeing my pain.
“I told you I was sorry, Ian,” she said through flushed pink lips.
“I don’t think you are,” he said, suddenly furious again. He leaned over and seized her lush mouth in a ravaging kiss. All he could think about was burying his cock in her tight, wet pussy and losing himself to the forgetfulness of pure, slamming pleasure. Her breath was warm and sweet as she panted against his lips a moment later.
“You aren’t going to change my mind,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes as if to prevent the rush of feeling that went through him. His desperation mounted.
“We’ll see,” he said, turning her so that he could unfasten her cuffs, his gaze lingering on her still-red ass. He’d paddled her harder than he ever had before, he realized with a stab of regret, but she hadn’t complained, even when he’d given her the chance. And the abundant moisture he’d felt between her thighs had told him loud and clear her arousal was greater than her discomfort.
“Turn around and bend over at the end of the bed. Put your hands on the footboard to brace yourself.”
She followed his instructions without hesitation, leaning over the bed, bent over while standing. She didn’t look around when he approached her from behind, although he sensed her focused curiosity and anxiety.
Sweet, trusting Francesca.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “This time I will see you submit to pleasure, not pain.”
He turned on the Rabbit vibrator to a low setting, peeled back her buttocks, exposing the entrance to her pussy. His cock jumped, throbbing furiously when he saw how slick the tiny hole was, how glistening her sex lips and entire perineum were from her arousal.
He pushed the vibrator into her vagina all the way. She gasped, and then jumped when he turned on the rabbit ears and they wiggled energetically over her clitoris.
“Oh!”
“Nice?” he asked as he drew the vibrator out of her slit and pushed it back in. Her pussy clung around the silicone like a little sucking mouth. God, he couldn’t wait to get into her . . .
. . . but he would wait. He’d see Francesca submit first . . . beg him. Why he needed that like he did his next breath of air remained a puzzle to him, but he couldn’t dampen the potent desire.
He manipulated her with the vibrator, stroking her pussy, letting the rabbit ears do their work on her clit, listening all the while to the sound of her gasps and whimpers and cries . . . gauging. When her breathing became ragged, he turned off the clitoral vibrators and just pleasured her pussy lips and vagina with the sex toy.
“Oh, please,” she moaned after a moment. He knew she’d been about to climax before, and that while the vibrator in her pussy was pleasurable, she wanted the rabbit ears on her clit.
“Your clit is too sensitive. You’ll make things end too quickly.”
“Please, Ian,” she repeated, sounding mindless as she firmed her hold on the footboard and began to pump her hips, riding the vibrator.
He smacked her bottom hard enough to sting. She paused in the frantic grinding of her hips.
“Who is in charge here?” he asked quietly.
“You,” she whispered after a pregnant pause.
“Then hold your ass still,” he ordered, before he began to slide the vibrator in and out of her again, letting the rotating beads and ribbed shaft do their work. Her moan a moment later sounded harsh and desperate. He relented and turned the motor to a higher vibration.
“Ohhhh,” she mewled. “Oh, Ian . . . let me move.”
“Stay still,” he ordered, plunging the vibrator deep into her until he felt her heat and moisture against the ridge of his forefinger where he held the handle. His vision narrowed to the intensely erotic image of the silicone shaft sliding in and out of her tight slit. Her moans and aroused, frustrated whimpers filled his ears. He tormented her, keeping her right on the edge, relishing in his power.
“Please . . . let me come,” she begged, her plea bursting out of her throat. He paused in his thrusting motion when he heard the strain in her breaking voice. He yearned to deny her. He longed to give her everything she ever asked for . . . and more.
The conflict warring inside him was too much. He removed the vibrator and tossed it onto the bed.
“If you want to come, show me,” he demanded.
She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with intense arousal, but he saw her confusion.
“You may come against my hand, but you have to show me you want it. I’m not moving.”
She bit at a trembling lower lip, and he almost gave in. Almost.
“Go on,” he prompted.
She shut her eyes, as if to protect herself from his gaze, and began to thrust her hips against his finger. A moan fell past her lips. He watched, enthralled, keeping his hand, finger, and arm firm, but not stroking her, making her work for it.
“That’s right. Show me that you have no shame. Show me that you can submit to desire,” he rasped. She bobbed her hips more stringently, hopping up and down against his hand . . . so desperate for her pleasure. When a small, frustrated cry popped from her throat, he almost relented.
Almost.
“Open your eyes, Francesca. Look at me,” he demanded, his voice breaking through her wild quest for relief.
She opened her eyelids sluggishly as she continued to ride his stationary hand. He saw her desperation, her utter helplessness, her fear that her need was greater than even her pride.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “You’re more beautiful to me right now than you’ve ever been. Now come against my hand.”
He flexed his biceps, applying pressure, giving her the relief she so desperately needed and deserved. He shut his eyes briefly at the delicious sensation of her warm juices anointing his fingers as she climaxed.
A moment later, he spun her and managed to get out a couple words from his lust-dazed brain, telling her to bend over and brace herself against the footboard again. When he finally drove his cock into her clinging liquid heat, his eyes sprang wide. It was like entering a woman his first time—no, immeasurably better—a whole new arena of life, a fresh, intimidatingly powerful experience.
He lost himself in her, everything seeming to go black for a period of time as pleasure and need swamped him, pummeling at his consciousness. He bucked against her like a wild man, his lungs burning, cock aching, muscles clenching . . . soul tearing.
“Francesca,” he grated out, sounding angry, even though he wasn’t anymore. He opened his hands around her delicate ribcage and pulled her up so that she stood before him, her upper body slightly bent forward. He continued to fuck her, feeling her heart beating rapidly in his hands, the shudders quaking her flesh as she climaxed, the muscular walls of her pussy clamping and convulsing around his pillaging cock.
Without thinking, he pushed her upper body down again, his hands falling to her hips, fucking her with short, hard thrusts, his teeth bared in a rictus of blinding pleasure. He jerked her against him, his muscles clenching so tight he lifted her feet off the floor.
Orgasm ripped through him with the power of a lightning strike. He groaned in agonized bliss as he began to come at Francesca’s farthest reaches. A sharp, primal need overwhelmed him, even in the midst of his crisis—a need to mark her, to utterly posses her . . . make her his.
He jerked his steaming, glistening cock out of the heaven of her pussy and pumped, ejaculating on her ass and her back, until his essence pooled on her skin.
He just stood there for a full minute after the cyclonic storm had passed, his cock gripped tight in his hand, gasping for air, and staring down at the powerful image of her nude body dripping with his semen. He thought of how ruthlessly he’d punished her, of how he’d forced her to swallow her pride and bring herself off on his hand, of how he’d fucked her like a madman.
Regret flickered into his awareness. Then it roared.
He helped her to stand, then went to the bathroom to retrieve a towel. He gently dried her, then unbuttoned his dress shirt and draped it over her nakedness. It’d been wrong of him to expose her so greatly.
He met her solemn stare with supreme effort as he buttoned up the shirt, covering soft skin that he wanted to linger over . . . to cherish. He opened his mouth to speak, but what could he say? His actions had been harsh and selfish and probably unforgivable.
He’d intended to prove her foolishness for believing she’d fallen in love, but now that he’d likely succeeded, he felt nothing but a bone-deep regret.
Unable to stand her dark-eyed gaze a moment longer, he turned and walked out of the bedroom.
* * *
Ten days later, Davie stood in her closet wearing a tuxedo and whisking hangers along the rack while Francesca looked on listlessly from where she sat at the edge of her bed.
“What about this?” Davie asked, coming out of the closet holding a dress.
She blinked when she saw that he held the boho dress she’d so foolishly worn to her celebratory dinner at Fusion several months ago—the night she’d first met Ian. It seemed impossible that her life had changed so drastically in such a short span of time. It seemed unlikely that she’d fallen so profoundly in love, and then lost at it with Francesca-like expertise. But then when she considered everything, it made depressing sense.
Davie noticed her less-than-enthusiastic appraisal of the dress. He held it up and examined it. “What? It’s cute.”
“I’m not going, Davie,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse from not being used.
“Yes, you are,” Davie said, giving her an uncharacteristic fierce glance. “You’re not going to hole up in your room for your entire Thanksgiving vacation.”
“Why not? It’s my vacation,” she said dully, picking up a decorative pillow and picking at the tassel. “I haven’t bailed on anything I was supposed to do. Don’t I get a chance to veg out in my room, if I want to?”
“So . . . the truth finally comes out. Francesca Arno is the very type of girl that she used to despise, who sulked and refused to eat after breaking up with a guy.”
“Ian and I didn’t break up. We just haven’t spoken in a week a half.” And we’re likely never going to speak again. She thought of the way he’d looked before he’d left her standing in the plane’s bedroom suite—his regret, his bewilderment . . . his hopelessness. She believed he had something to offer her beyond sex, but he didn’t. And wasn’t it a two-way venture? What did it matter if she had all the faith in the world, yet he doubted? “Besides,” she continued, “breaking up implies that we were together to begin with, and we weren’t. Not in any traditional sense of the word.”
“Have you even tried to contact him?” Davie said, hanging the dress in her bathroom.
“No. I can still feel his fury. It’s like it’s emanating all the way from the Chicago River to our house.”
“It’s not fury,” she thought she heard her friend mutter under his breath.
“What?” she asked, puzzled.
“It’s your imagination, ’Ces. Why don’t you call him?”
“No. It wouldn’t matter.”
Davie sighed. “Both of you are so stubborn. You can’t engage in a standoff forever.”
“I’m not in a standoff.”
“Oh, I see. You’ve given up entirely, then.”
For the first time in days, anger flickered into her hopelessness at Davie’s words. She shot him an irritated glance and he grinned, holding out his hand.
“Come on. Justin and Caden are waiting. Plus, we have a surprise for you.”
She exhaled in frustration, but stood. “I don’t want to be cheered up. And even if I did want to be, why would you guys drag me to a stupid singles meet-up—a black-tie event, no less—in order to do it? You knew I didn’t have anything good to wear. I hate these events. You used to, as well.”
“I’ve changed my mind. This is for a good cause,” he said as she passed him on the way to the bathroo
m.
“What, saving my ravaged heart?”
“I’d settle for getting you out of this house,” Davie replied, unaffected by her dripping sarcasm.
* * *
The singles black-tie event was at a new, trendy club on North Wabash, downtown. Caden and Justin were in rare form in the car on the way to it, Friday-night buoyant and brashly handsome in their newly purchased tuxes. Francesca, on the other hand, was already ready to leave, and they hadn’t even gotten there yet. Horrible, wonderful memories had started to barrage her when she put on the boho dress and recalled in vivid detail the last time she’d worn it.
The woman wears the clothes, Francesca. Not the other way around. That’s the first lesson I’ll teach you.
She shivered at the memory of Ian’s rough, quiet voice. How she missed him. It was like an open wound deep inside her, a place she couldn’t reach in order to soothe.
Davie was having trouble finding parking near their destination, and they’d been circling around for a while now. She looked out of the car window as they crossed the Chicago River and saw the Noble Enterprises building towering a few blocks away.
Was she really the same naive young woman who had attended her celebratory cocktail party there, she who’d been so brittle, so uncertain . . . so defiant lest anyone would notice? And was it really she who had first entered Ian’s penthouse, her enthrallment associated more with the enigmatic man who stood beside her than the sight of his magnificent penthouse and display of art . . . the stunning view.
“They’re alive, the buildings . . . some more than others. I mean they seem like it. I’ve always thought so. Each one of them has a soul. At night, especially . . . I can feel it.”
“I know you can. That’s why I chose your painting.”
“Not because of perfectly straight lines and precise reproductions?”
“No. Not because of that.”
Her eyes burned at the potent memory. He had seen her so well, even then, seen things in her she hadn’t. He’d cherished those things, cultivated her strengths until . . .
. . . no. The answer was no. She was no longer that same young woman.