Ultra Strokes

by Delilah Devlin

  Instead, I moved to make sure the computer screen, filled with a smutty love scene, was hidden behind me. “Do you like this room, Grant?”

  He arched a brow, wariness entering his expression until his neutral mask fell into place. “Is there something that doesn’t please you? Do you need a lamp at your desk?”

  Pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes, I stared. It had been a while since I’d been engaged in another of his manipulations over furnishings. The thought of engaging in one now made my nipples prickle. “There are too many books,” I said, and then grinned. I couldn’t help it. An edgy horniness was willing me to misbehave.

  “It is a library, ma’am,” he said, his tone dry.

  “Kendall, Grant. We share a house. You can use my name.”

  “I’m in your service, ma’am.”

  I blew out a breath and wished instantly that I’d bothered to slick my lips with something more dramatic than a pale gloss.

  His head tilted to the side, those intelligent green eyes narrowing. “Ma’am, are you bored?”

  “And if I am?”

  “There are horses in the stable…”

  I gave a long dramatic sigh. “It’s cold outside.”

  “I could build you a fire in the hearth, bring you a brandy.”

  A warm fire, brandy, him naked on a soft, sheepskin rug… I straightened and shook my head to clear the image. I didn’t dare let my thoughts stray any further. “A fire and a glass of brandy would be nice. Maybe you could choose something for me to read,” I murmured. “Something without too many big words.”

  His lips pressed together, but then he chuckled. “All right then, a fire, a brandy, and a good book…without too many big words. Ma’am.”

  I grinned back at him, feeling comfortable with his amusement and attention for the first time. “This house was too much for me, wasn’t it? I don’t know why I bought it.”

  “You have good taste,” he said, rubbing his hands together and entering the room. He strode for the fireplace, set three logs in the stand at the center of the large hearth, and placed kindling beneath it. Minutes later flame licked at the bottoms of the logs.

  Moving toward a walnut sideboard, he poured a snifter of brandy, swirling it as he cupped the base to warm the liquid. “Would you like to move to the couch?”

  I stood, my body feeling fluid, my hips swaying as I approached him. Our gazes locked, and then his flicked downward to the glass he held.

  “Why not pour one for yourself?” I said softly. “Join me.”

  Again, his gaze narrowed, but he gave a slow nod. “If it pleases you.”

  “It does.”

  Together, we settled on the dark leather, on opposite ends, me with my knees drawn up and sitting sideways to stare at him, while Grant sat, one arm draped on the back, the other holding his glass, his gaze studying me.

  Suddenly, I was uncomfortable. Didn’t the man know how to make polite conversation? Or did he really want to be somewhere else? Irritated, I said, “You should ask me how the writing is going?”

  He arched a brow. “How is the writing going?”

  I nodded my approval. “Slowly. I thought I’d be able to write with the peace and quiet in the country.”

  “But you’re bored.”

  “Not precisely…”

  “Not precisely bored…?”

  “I keep thinking about your butler’s buttons,” I blurted, letting my gaze drift away as a blush warmed my cheeks.

  “As a clue or a thread in your story?”

  I shook my head. “I guess the problem is that for the most part we’re alone in this house. You off in your quarters. Me, alone, in mine.”

  His head rose then slowly dipped. “I see.”

  Did he really?

  “You haven’t used the buttons. Not once.”

  Why, oh why, had I mentioned the damn buttons? It was as though I’d released the floodgate holding back my words. The next sentence escaped before I could hit the edit button. “Because I’m afraid I’ll be tempted to use them for more than the…customary services.”

  “As you’ve said,” he murmured. “We’re alone in this house. And I am here to serve…” His gaze met mine squarely.

  I wasn’t sure he’d understood the subtext. But my heart didn’t seem to care. It began to throb, a heavy pounding I could hear in my own ears. I cleared my throat. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, taking a quick sip of my brandy.

  “For my former employer, she was much older than you, I provided massage therapy. I prepared her baths. She enjoyed the intimacy of my care. You’ve only to ask.”

  Asking would be impossible. For me. I was adept at putting words to paper, but speaking my needs… I nodded. “Thank you, Grant.”

  He gave me his butler’s smile and rose. “If there’s nothing else you’d like to discuss, I’ll see to preparations for dinner.”

  I nodded, and he faded away, leaving me with my mind whirling over all the tantalizing, personal services I should never ever request. I set my glass aside and pushed up from my seat. A shower was in order. The handheld nozzle with its dozen pulsating settings might help me with my current, very personal need.

  *

  “Was the steak not to your taste?”

  I glanced at my uneaten food. “Tell cook everything was perfect.” I cleared my throat. “I’d like more of the wine, served in the salon.” I had to curb the urge to say please. Something Grant had said wasn’t expected.

  Alone, I headed to the salon, a beautifully appointed space. The room was large enough that furniture could be moved toward the walls for a dance, but it was still an intimate space. It must have been all the plush velvet upholstery, something an owner without Grant’s more conservative tastes had done during the Victorian era. Rich reds and purples, an ornate wooden mantel, heavy curtains, and a lush Persian carpet atop the oak flooring. I wondered what he’d say if I suggested changing out the Persian for black shag…

  I sat on a high-backed chaise and slid my legs onto the cushion. I’d dressed for dinner, wanting his attention, but he hadn’t blinked at my thigh-high, navy silk sheath. His gaze hadn’t lingered over my long legs or the four-inch heels that were killing my feet now.

  I wriggled my toes and let the heels drop to the carpet. Grant would pick them up.

  “You should have worn your bunny slippers,” he said from the doorway.

  “They are blue,” I said, smoothing a hand over the silk. Then I saw that he held two glasses in one hand, the bottle of French burgundy I hadn’t finished in the other. “You’re joining me?”

  “It’s a large room. I didn’t want you feeling lonely.”

  The most intimate thing he’d ever said to me. I held out my hand for the glass and waited while he poured.

  He settled on the chaise beside my feet. “I know that you’re accustomed to isolation, due to your work, but you needn’t feel lonely here.”

  “Well, don’t give me a list of guests to invite like you did for the housewarming. I don’t like throwing parties for people I don’t know.”

  “I understand. If I overstep, you’ll let me know. But I wasn’t going to suggest another dinner party.” He set his glass on a side table and angled his body toward mine. Then with slow precision, he placed his hands on my knees.

  His palms were hot, as though he’d warmed them before a fire before coming to me. “Would you like me to massage your feet, or would you prefer my touch elsewhere?”

  A choice. Simply stated. No room for misinterpretation. “Elsewhere,” I said, suddenly breathless, my gaze locking with his. Good Lord, was this part of his service? Did he even desire me?

  “You’re younger than I’d thought you’d be,” he murmured while his hands moved to grip my feet. He smoothed his thumbs over my insteps, pressing firmly against what ached. “I was surprised when we first met. Most authors Photoshop their pictures. You’re very attractive.”

  “Thank you,” I said, biting back a moan because the pressure felt s
o good. “So are you. I didn’t notice at first. Everything was so new.” I was babbling, but his small smile said he didn’t mind. His hands moved to caress my ankles, then glided upward again, over the tops of my thighs. His thumbs tucked under the hem of my skirt and pushed it upward.

  I didn’t even think to demur. Leaning on one hand, I lifted my bottom, allowing him to push it farther up. I’d worn thigh-top hose and small, sheer bikini panties.

  He scooted closer and placed his hand between my legs to cup my sex.

  I don’t know what I’d expected. Hell, that was a lie. I’d hoped he’d come over me, that he’d kiss me, and then fuck me senseless. I was wet, ready. Instead, he slowly worked two fingers beneath my panties and straight inside me, and then pressed his thumb against my clit.

  Sitting quietly, my body tense, I allowed it, but anger began to flush my face, my neck. This was his service? Clinical, passionless touches to bring me orgasms whenever I ordered one up? Or was this a lesson? He’d never refuse my requests, but was this tiny rebellion meant to quell any future urge I might have to play with the help?

  I reached down to push his hand away, but his unengaged hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around mine, holding me carefully, but firmly away. Grant wasn’t permitting me to stop this.

  My arousal surged. Something he couldn’t miss, because I squeezed around the fingers thrusting steadily inside me. I tried to keep my expression every bit as neutral as his, but his thumb pressed harder against my clit, and my eyelids fluttered and closed. I stopped caring what he might see, what I might give away. I raised my legs, knees bending and spreading, and surrendered to the pleasure of his service.

  When three thick digits thrust inside, I gasped and lifted my hips, pumping in opposition to his gentle thrusts while my excitement wet his hand. One last firm flick of his thumb, and I exploded, crying out.

  When I opened my eyes, he took the wine glass I’d very nearly spilled and set it on the table. He rose and extended a hand, helping me up and pulling down my dress. When he let go of my hand, he straightened, his expression still set, but his green eyes gleaming. “I’ll clear the table, ma’am.”

  My jaw dropped as he walked away. But I quickly clamped it closed. A slow smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I understood this game now.

  I made my way upstairs, tossing clothing as I went. I was naked by the time I’d reached my bedroom. After securing my hair in a clip, I showered, using the lovely floral soaps he’d provided. When I shut the tap, I reached out to the small plate with the metal-rimmed button…and pressed it.

  Moments later, Grant tapped at my door then let himself in. I exited the shower, dripping water on the baseboards. “I need a towel,” I said, pointing toward the cabinet, three feet away.

  Grant retrieved one then quietly rubbed my body down, drying away the water, and lingering only slightly as he rubbed the soft Turkish linen between my legs and over my bottom.

  When he straightened, his expression was that neutral mask I despised, but seemed to goad me into doing naughty things, just to wipe it away. I’d already ensured he’d seen and touched me while I was nude. Now, my brain was locked. There were too many choices, too many things I wanted…

  “Will that be all, ma’am?”

  I swallowed. “Would you turn down the covers?”

  “Of course,” he murmured, moving away toward the bed. I followed closely, stepping lightly, but by the slight turn of his head, he knew I was on his heels.

  At the bed, he pulled down the covers, displaying an inviting triangle of comfort in the soft embroidered duvet, matellase blanket, and crisp cotton sheets.

  Standing on tiptoe to lean against his back, I whispered in his ear, “I need my bed warmed.” I pulled at the back of his soft sweater. “You won’t need this.”

  Grant turned slowly, his eyes narrowing on me, as he removed his sweater.

  His chest was cloaked in a light smattering of dark brown fur, stretching nipple to nipple. His chest was surprisingly well-developed with small, flat nipples. A trail of darker hair disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. “You won’t need those either,” I said, licking my lips.

  Without speaking, he toed off his shoes and socks, unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. When he pushed them down, I held my breath. He was nude beneath them. His cock long and thick. Not a curve or a kink, it stood straight from a ruff of dark hair covering his groin.

  Without saying a word, he lifted the covers and moved to the center of the bed, placing both of his hands beneath his head as he watched me, a muscle flexing at the side of his jaw the only other indication of his tension.

  He was really here. In my bed. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact he’d followed my suggestion without hesitating. And again, I wondered whether this was something he wanted, or just something he had to do, like sending out the dry-cleaning.

  I walked to the night table and pulled open a drawer. I selected a condom from the tray where they were neatly stacked. When I sat on the edge of the bed, I placed the condom beside the pillow and drew a deep breath. “Here, inside this room, you aren’t my servant. In fact, I’d prefer if you’d try to see me as a companion rather than an employer. We share this big house. It’s more than enough room for us both. If this is something you want, I’m willing.”

  Grant’s face eased. His eyes glittered in the lamplight. “Are you changing my contract?”

  I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t help it. “Fuck the contract. I pay for your services, but I don’t consider this one of them.”

  “And if I tell you I like caring for you…” he said, his deep voice edged with something I couldn’t define.

  “Then feel free to see to my comfort.”

  His gaze narrowed a fraction. “If I want more?”

  I took a deep breath. “Then take it.”

  He sat, leaning toward me, and brushed a kiss atop my shoulder. “What about your preferences, Kendall?”

  “You’ll discover them, I’m sure. You’re very intuitive,” I murmured, tilting my head to invite the slide of his lips along my neck.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to say?” he asked, his voice deeper, sexier than ever.

  I shook my head. My nipples were tight and dimpling, the tips extending. A shiver of anticipation crept across my belly.

  Grant tossed aside the covers and pulled me toward him. I crawled over him, straddled him, and groaned when he fisted his hand in my hair and pulled me close for a kiss.

  There was nothing conservative or tentative about that kiss. He devoured my mouth, lips pressing hard, his tongue sliding inside, tasting, teasing mine. The hand that wasn’t forcefully controlling my head, roamed my back then cupped my bottom, gripping it.

  When he forced my head back, he was breathing hard. “I find I’m out of patience.”

  Before I could think of how to respond, he moved me, gently but firmly arranging me face down, over his lap.

  I gave a little laugh. The long hard column of his cock prodded my stomach, so I did know he wasn’t uninterested. Still, faced away, I couldn’t see his expression, which left me feeling a little nervous. “Not what I expected.”

  “Outside of this room, I see to your comfort.”

  What was he telling me? “You spoil me. You give me what I need before I even ask.”

  “I see to your needs. Here,” he said, smoothing a hand over my ass, “here, I will do what pleases me.”

  One hand dove between my legs, fingering my folds, gliding in my moisture, but then sliding away. Fingers spread over one buttock, warming my skin then lifting.

  The slap he gave my cheek caused me to shout. It wasn’t gentle. Shocked, I wriggled, but another slap landed, and despite the fact I wasn’t sure I liked this game, the feel of his cock beneath me, so rigid and hard, digging into my skin, made me crave more. More heat. More violence—no, more passion.

  Again and again, he smacked me, choosing different spots, carefully aiming, I realized, to move closer and c
loser to my center. Without thought, I opened my thighs, begging silently for a slap against my swollen pussy.

  When it came, I moaned, buttocks lifting, breasts rubbing against the sheets. How had Grant known I’d love this? I certainly hadn’t.

  Another wet slap, and then his fingers entered me, swirling inside me, thrusting deep. I fisted my hands in the bedding and writhed like a cat, rubbing his cock, lifting my ass.

  When he pulled free, I whimpered. He rolled me off his lap, then moved me again with his strong hands, arranging me so that my head fell off the end of the bed and my legs were spread wide. Again, I couldn’t see him. When his breath brushed my stomach, I tightened. He lifted my thighs and placed them over his shoulders, and then with his thumbs spreading my folds, he speared his tongue inside me, lapping in circles, thirsty swallows and groans coming from him as he pleasured me with his tongue. And then his thumb tapped my clit. I clamped my thighs tightly around his head, holding him there, demanding he end my torment.

  A thumb pressed against my asshole, and I jerked. I’d never been touched there. But I couldn’t get out the words to issue a complaint. I was panting too hard, gasping, my breaths coming so fast and the blood rushing to my lowered head making me dizzy.

  When his tongue touched my rosette, I gave another harsher whimper and sank my fingers into his thick hair, pulling to move him away. Beyond embarrassed, I was also incredibly aroused. Grant had no inhibitions. In a single act, he’d told me without saying a word there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for my pleasure. Or his.

  He licked his way back up to my pussy, spread my folds again and settled in, licking and sucking, nibbling now and then at my clit until I throbbed, there between my legs, feeling my pussy thicken, my clit harden and enlarge. When his tongue stroked around and around my swollen, bared clit, I hissed between my teeth because the sensation was too much. His lips latched around it and sucked, pulling at it. My toes curled. My entire body bowed. Then I screamed as an orgasm rolled through me.

  I was shaking when I came down. Crying. I’d never felt anything so powerful, never come undone like that.

  Grant gathered me up and pulled me fully onto the bed, his arms cradling me against his chest as he kissed my cheek, my ear, then nuzzled into the corner of my neck.