At His Mercy

by Shelly Bell

  Isabella inhaled sharply, her abdominals clenching. She looked away, both equally turned on and uncomfortable at witnessing her cousin in such a public display of passion.

  Tristan leaned down to speak into her ear, his warm breath heating her from the outside in. “Perhaps you weren’t doing it with the right partner.”

  Rather than take her downstairs, he led her out a screen door onto the backyard patio. The night was silent but for the crickets’ chirping, and once again, she was surprised that this kind of party occurred in middle-class suburbia. A tall wooden fence surrounded the yard, so that she could only see the roofs of the homes next door. She had to imagine that whoever owned this house would value his privacy.

  She folded her arms across her chest, trying to ignore her makeshift dress riding up her legs. Of course, Tristan didn’t miss it at all, his gaze dropping without apology to her bared thighs. “And I suppose you’re the right partner? Awfully cocky, aren’t you?”

  He moved closer, invading what little space he’d permitted her, until she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “I am and with good reason, but my being the right partner for you has nothing to do with my cockiness.” Not a part of them touched, and yet she felt his heat on her skin like a brand. At some point, and she had no idea when, she’d dropped her arms to her sides, so that there was no barrier between them other than mere inches and a layer of clothing. His lips hovered over hers as a delicious scent she couldn’t identify permeated from him, wrapping around her like a warm blanket on a winter’s day. “I know you feel it too.”

  She swallowed hard. “Feel what?”

  The air pulsed with excitement.

  Arousal.

  Danger.

  She should run now, but the spell he’d woven held her in its grasp. The ease in which he dominated her equally thrilled and terrified her, her heart knocking against her breastbone and her panties dampening from his power over her. This is what she’d wanted. What she’d craved. And yet, she couldn’t have prepared for it, the reality far more powerful than she could’ve ever imagined.

  He glided a finger down her neck and across her collarbone, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. “That energy buzzing through your body like a live current. You can’t manufacture that, Angel.” He dragged his finger lower, his eyes on hers as it descended between her breasts, and she held her breath, waiting to see where it would go next. “That’s what makes me the right partner.”

  He took a step back, depriving her of his touch.

  Bastard.

  Like dangling bait on a hook, he’d given her a brief taste only to snatch it away before she could sink her teeth into it.

  “So what happens now?” she asked, eager to feel his hands on her again.

  A smile tugged at his lips. The man knew damned well what he was doing to her. “First thing’s first. I need to ensure that you’re capable of giving consent. You’re clearly over the age of consent or your cousin wouldn’t have brought you here.”

  Just barely, and she was clearly the youngest at this party. Searching his face for markers of his age, she found no signs of wrinkles hiding behind the light brown scruff framing his face or gray hair in that lion’s mane of his. If she had to guess, she’d wager he was in his late twenties to early thirties. Would he change his mind if he knew she was only nineteen?

  “How do you know I’m over the age of consent?” she asked.

  “Because Dreama is an active part of the local BDSM scene and knows we take the rules about ‘safe, sane, consensual’ very seriously. If she knowingly broke one of those rules and brought you even though you were unable to give consent, she wouldn’t be welcome back to any of the local organized play parties until she went through a thorough retraining and made amends to the community. And even then she might never be accepted.”

  That sounded terrible. While her cousin had a tendency to flit from one obsession to the next, it seemed she had committed herself completely to the BDSM lifestyle. Isabella would hate to ruin it for her. “So if someone makes a mistake, they’re ostracized from the community forever?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Plenty of subs and Doms make mistakes. Let’s say you’re my sub, and contrary to my demand that you not wear any panties when I take you out to dinner, I discover a satin barrier when I go to finger you under the table. Not only would you lose out on an orgasm, I’d deny you one for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “I could go twenty-four hours without an…” Ugh, she couldn’t help blushing as she said the word. “…orgasm. I do it all the time.”

  He snaked his arm around her waist and yanked her to him, causing her to gasp in surprise. “But not around me you haven’t.” With one hand at the small of her back and the other cradling the back of her head, he held her hostage in his grasp, allowing her to feel every hard inch of him. As if the evidence pressing against her lower abdomen wasn’t enough, his voice grew husky, thick with his desire for her. “Imagine having a vibrator inside of you for hours. The remote control in my possession so that I could bring you to the brink of climax before turning down the setting and denying you that pleasure. Imagine my hands all over your body, my tongue on your nipples, on your clit. Your pussy pulses with need, only I refuse to allow you release. Then I remove the vibrator and replace it with my cock, sliding deep and using your body to give me the sweet release you so desperately crave.”

  He paused, the vivid imagery he’d been painting just hanging there, frozen in animation.

  “And then what?” she asked breathlessly.

  Releasing his grasp on her, he shrugged. “Then I’d go to sleep.”

  Her mouth fell open. “That’s…that’s…”

  “Punishment.” His victorious smile told her all she needed to know. He’d played her, showing her firsthand what it would be like to be punished by him.

  “I was thinking diabolical.”

  He laughed. “That’s BDSM. At least, my version of it. It’s called edging. And it’s effective.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Judging by the enlargement of your pupils, I’d say it would work extremely well on you.”

  Yeah, well, too bad she’d never get the chance to find out. “What else do you do for punishment?”

  “I don’t need all the bells and whistles that some of my friends in the lifestyle prefer. It’s much more intimate to use the palm of my hand on your bare skin than a flogger or paddle.” He skated both hands down her spine, drawing her close. “But there’s a time and place for it all, and tonight, I’m itching to make that creamy skin of yours as pink as your T-shirt. That is, if you consent.”

  “Yes, I consent,” she said quietly, heat gathering in her core as his fingers glided over her panty-clad behind. She didn’t think she could take more of his teasing. Is this what it would be like to be his? If so, she wasn’t sure she could handle a man like Tristan for more than one night.

  “It’s your first play party. Does that mean you’ve never been flogged?” he asked.

  “I took the intro class given by Metro Leather and tried out a bunch of impact toys.” She shuddered. “Well, not the cane or a single tail. I’m not that much of a masochist.”

  His eyebrows raised in question. “But you are one?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t think so, but I don’t mind a little pain.”

  Leaving one hand on her butt, he buried the other in her hair and twisted it around his fingers. “So if I pull you hair like this…?” In contrast to his previous soft, teasing caresses, he yanked her hair so hard, it wrenched her head back and brought tears to her eyes. “Yes or no, Angel.”

  “Yes,” she said automatically, surprising herself with the swiftness of her answer and the way it sent delicious tingles throughout her core.

  “And if I bite you like this…” He bent his head and sunk his teeth into her neck, lighting up every nerve in her body from that small bite of pain.

  Her eyes fluttered shut, hot bliss flowing through her. “Oh, yes.”<
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  “If I pinch you like this…” The hand on her butt snaked its way around her torso, coming to her breast. Tristan squeezed her nipple between his fingers, pressing harder and harder until she groaned and tried to escape it, forgetting about his hold on her hair until the pain on her scalp increased.

  “Mm.” She’d momentarily lost the ability to speak, too many sensations bombarding her at once. The tingles between her legs morphed into an almost unbearable throbbing.

  “We need to talk more about consent. Can I touch your pussy?”

  At this point, she’d die if he didn’t. She tried to nod, but his hand in her hair wouldn’t allow for it. “Yes,” she said on a whimper.

  Her sore nipple pulsed as he let go of it and cupped her…pussy over her panties. He ground his palm against her, his fingers easily sliding back and forth between her covered labia, the exquisite pressure not enough to make her come. She tried to shift closer, to get more friction on her clitoris, but his hold made it impossible. He was torturing her again, playing a game in which she didn’t know the rules.

  Removing his hand from between her legs, he made a sound low in his chest that sounded like a growl. She whimpered in protest, growing tired of his teasing, and her eyes flew open just in time to witness him bring his fingers to his nose and deeply inhale before blatantly licking her arousal off them.

  So.

  Damn.

  Hot.

  “You’re so responsive,” he said as if it was the best thing ever. “And you’re fun to torment.” He chuckled at her frown, way too happy about her suffering. “What about bondage? Do you like being restrained? Bound by rope?”

  Her chest constricted, black dots swimming in her vision. Suddenly, she was back there with Tony, frozen in her body and unable to scream for help while he carved into her wrists. She’d been helpless, her life force bleeding out of her, as the sun set and plunged the cabin into black. Her only companion had been the boy who, after cutting her, had slit his own wrists and then curled up beside her like a lover, waiting for death to take them both.

  She sucked in a harsh breath and forced the nightmares to retreat back into the shadows.

  No, she wouldn’t allow the past to ruin this for her.

  Tristan gently cupped her chin, concern in his eyes. He positioned his thumb over the side of her neck. “Angel. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m okay.” Because tonight was different. She had the power to say no. “But, restraints are a hard limit for me.”

  His inquiring gaze burned straight through her. “Your pulse is racing. It’s more than a hard limit for you,” he said softly. “Something happened.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it. It’s in the past.”

  “It may be in your past, but I don’t want to do anything that would cause you to panic. If I grab your wrists like this, will it trigger you?” He gently pinned her back against the brick of the home and grabbed her wrists, lifting them above her head.

  She waited for the panic to set in, but with Tristan’s crisp scent invading her senses and the care in which he handled her, the only thing she felt was aroused. Again. “No, I don’t think so. I like it.”

  “Good to know.” Heat flashed in his eyes as if he was planning how to use it to his advantage, and then his expression turned serious. “Have you had alcohol or done any drugs tonight?”

  Would he believe that she’d never drunk or tried drugs? “No. I don’t do either.”

  He smiled until his gaze fell upon her wrists. She tried to yank them back, but it was too late. The damage was done. “The scars on your wrists—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She hated having people make assumptions about the scars, but she also didn’t feel the need to broadcast that someone else had tried to kill her. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not suicidal.”

  She waited for him to change his mind. To turn around and walk away. Or worse, to press the matter.

  His thumb stroked the pink scars. “You said you came from work. Have you eaten?”

  She blinked at the change in topic and looked at the door to the house. That was it? He wasn’t going to push for the details on how she’d gotten those scars? “I ate a sandwich on the way over. Why?”

  “Just want to make sure you don’t crash and pass out on me.”

  “I don’t faint.”

  His grip on her tightened, every part of him pressing against every part of her. “That tells me you’ve never been properly fucked before.”

  As if proving him right, she wobbled, her legs a bit unsteady. Sweat trickled between her breasts. “Because I haven’t fainted? Who the hell faints from sex?”

  “Not sex. No one faints from sex.” He relinquished his hold on one of her wrists and swept his thumb across her bottom lip. “I said properly fucked. Have you ever been properly fucked, Angel?” he asked, his voice like a caress she felt all over her body. “Has any man ever made you so crazy you thought you’d die if you didn’t get his cock inside of you? If you couldn’t feel his fingers digging into your thighs as he spread you open and devoured you whole? Have you ever come over and over, so hard and so many times you couldn’t be sure where one ended and the other began?” His thumb plunged into her mouth, sliding over her tongue, before retreating. “Not. Properly. Fucked.”

  Her heart pounded in time with the beat between her legs. No, she’d never been properly fucked. She’d never been fucked at all. That was part of the reason she was here. Of course, Dreama had smashed that fantasy into a hundred jagged pieces when she’d informed her earlier that penetrative sex wasn’t allowed.

  She coughed to clear the arousal that clogged her throat and glanced at the door again. “Well, I ate, so don’t worry, I won’t faint.”

  He cupped her chin and forced her to look at him. “The fact that you won’t look me in the eyes tells me you’re hiding something. Did you really have a sandwich for dinner?”

  “I did.” Sort of. “It was a salted caramel cookie sandwich stuffed with vanilla frosting.”

  He didn’t smile, but she could tell he wanted to, the corners of his mouth twitching and the skin around his eyes crinkling. “If I were your Dom, there would be consequences for lying…but that’s not what tonight is about. This is a play party after all.” He took a giant step back from her and held out his hand. “Are you ready to play?”

  Three

  Tristan wanted to devour his Angel whole.

  With her delicate hand in his, he led her down the stairs to the basement dungeon. Ryder had designed it for these play parties, but rarely used it. His friend enjoyed meaningless kinky sex, but didn’t get into the formalities of it.

  Not like Tristan did.

  The negotiation with Angel had been the hottest of his life. She’d had no idea how hard she’d made him, her quiet little sighs and the blushes from his dirty talk as intoxicating as a drug. Inexperience radiated off her.

  And fuck if that didn’t make him want to dirty her up.

  Never had he experienced such overwhelming lust. Without even knowing it, this woman had managed to challenge his tightly reined control, her innocence like waving a red flag at a bull. He wanted to strip her bare, first of her clothing and then of her defenses. He wanted to show her pleasures beyond her wildest dreams and lick her senseless until she shouted his name as she climaxed on his tongue, knowing she’d taste as sweet as she smelled.

  If it weren’t for that damned rule against penetrative sex, he’d teach her exactly what it was like to be properly fucked.

  But their timing couldn’t be worse.

  Tomorrow, he’d leave for Edison, and he had no definite plans for returning to the city in the near future.

  That meant he had only one night with her.

  He’d definitely make it a night she’d never forget.

  For a moment earlier, he’d almost considered calling off the negotiation, troubled by the scars on her wrists. They were classic marks of an attempted suicide with the scars fa
ded to a dull pink, telling him the injury hadn’t been recent. It wasn’t unheard of for people to find solace in BDSM after enduring a mental illness like depression. While there would always be some like Ryder who indulged in bondage and the occasional spanking, some, like Tristan, practiced it for the emotional release. Sure, like Ryder, he got off on raw, dirty, and uninhibited fucking, but for him, it was so much more. The power exchange eased his tension and made him whole, completing a puzzle with a piece he hadn’t known was missing. Perhaps it was the same for Angel. He only hoped that whatever had haunted her in the past had been laid to rest, because now that he knew she was out there, he couldn’t imagine living in a world where she didn’t exist.

  He pulled Angel toward a small cove to the right of the staircase and tucked her against his chest, resting his chin on top of her head and facing her toward the room. The erotic scents of leather and sandalwood mixed with her vanilla one to create an aphrodisiac that went straight to his cock. With his arms encircling her waist, he tried to see the room through her eyes, as if he were experiencing it all for the first time.

  And in a way he was, because he’d never experienced this with her.

  Sex had always been an enjoyable act, but the rush he got from dominating his partner elevated it to another level—like comparing a spring shower to a hurricane. He had a feeling that dominating Angel would make those hurricanes seem like plain old thunderstorms.

  She’d told him she’d attended the training workshops, so he’d wager she was familiar with most of the room’s implements. Ryder had bought a few basic pieces from a local artist who’d hand carved the spanking benches, bondage tables, and Saint Andrew’s crosses herself. No one outside of the lifestyle would ever guess that the famous woman who painted bucolic scenes of farmhouses and horses had a kinky side.

  Light chatter mixed with intermittent soft cries and moans of those in ecstasy sent sparks racing down his spine. Any other time, he would’ve already had a submissive under his whip, but for some reason, he hesitated with Angel. While he definitely had an exhibitionist streak, a huge part of him wanted to shield her from the others’ eyes. He could tell himself it was to protect her, this being her first real experience with BDSM.