by Eden Bradley
She blasted music to get herself home, to keep her mind off her evening with Duff. Not that it did much good. The longer she had to wait to get home and find some relief for her aching, needy body, the worse the need became. Lust was like a flame, licking at her, scalding her, setting her body on fire. By the time she parked in the driveway next to her small cottage, she couldn’t wait. She hadn’t turned her porch light on, and the night was dark. The main house was on the other side of her cottage, and apparently her neighbors either weren’t home or hadn’t turned on any outside lights. But as she undid the button on her jeans and slid the zipper down, letting her fingers brush the top of her bare mound, she felt a small thrill at the possibility that someone could catch her.
Biting her lip as she shimmied out of her jeans, she pushed them down past her knees so she could open her shaking thighs. She slid her fingers beneath the lace thong she wore, tracing her swollen lips with teasing fingers while pleasure shivered through her system.
Duff.
In her mind’s eye she saw him, his impossibly broad shoulders, the gleam in his eye as he moved toward her. The heat of his touch as he slid his hands up under her shirt, finding her braless. Finding her hardening nipples and smoothing his palms over them, then squeezing until it hurt just a little.
“Oh, yes.”
Her hips arched, but she wouldn’t allow her searching fingers to touch her clitoris. Not yet.
Closing her eyes, she imagined him slipping his shirt over his head, revealing a tight six-pack and a chest carved from granite. And the beautiful tattoos she’d seen on him when he’d worn a white wifebeater at The Bastille, marking his skin in a way that made her wet simply thinking about the hurting little needle working the ink into his skin.
She gasped, arched, let her fingers press on either side of her needy clit.
Not yet.
“Not yet,” he would tell her. “Not until I say you can.”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered into the dark, her body trembling, on the edge already. If only he would let her come.
• • •
DUFF PARKED THE bike in front of Jamie’s place, swung his leg over and ripped the helmet off his head as he moved toward the front door. He fumbled with his key, found the lock, opened the door and slipped through, slamming it behind him. Standing at the bottom of the old wood stairwell, he leaned a hand against one wall, dropping his head, trying to get it to clear. But all he could see was her. Lust burned through him, leaving rage in its place. The raging need to have her. Kneeling at his feet. Sucking his cock with that gorgeous, plush mouth.
His dick pulsed, swelled, pressing against his zipper.
“Fuck . . .”
Reaching down, he dropped his helmet on the floor, unzipped his jeans, pulled his rock-hard erection out and closed a fist over the throbbing head.
He could see it—Layla’s dark hair shining in the dim light from the streetlamps through the dormer window above the door as she sank to her knees right here.
He’d tear her top off, freeing her succulent breasts—oh, yes, he knew they’d be succulent, that lovely skin, that full swell of flesh.
He ran his hand down the length of his hard shaft, moaning quietly.
“Take it now,” he whispered in the darkness of the stairwell, with no one to hear him but the old building. Or maybe the neighbors who lived downstairs, but he didn’t care. Layla was too much in his head. In his blood. In his hard, aching cock. No—not in it. Surrounding his swollen flesh with her mouth.
“Suck it hard,” he ordered, making a ring of his fingers and teasing the head of his dick.
He paused, sucking his fingers into his mouth, wetting them, then going back to work on his cock.
“Suck me hard, lovely. Take as much of it as you can. Ah, yeah.”
He straightened up, falling back against the wall and using it to support his shaking legs as he began to stroke.
“That’s a girl. Harder now. Deeper. Suck me . . . Yeah . . .”
His hips arched into his fisted hand, pleasure roaring through him, making him so damn hard it hurt. He would ravage the girl if he had her there with him. And why didn’t he? He was a man who took what he wanted—and he wanted Layla. So badly it was painful, if his poor throbbing dick was any testament.
Layla.
He looked down at his stroking hand and imagined it was her hand grasping the base of his cock, her tongue teasing the head, then sliding down on him as she swallowed him.
“Fuck, yeah.”
His balls went tight, sensation causing goose bumps to run up his spine. He gritted his teeth, trying to hold back.
• • •
LAYLA’S BREATH CAME out on a long sigh as she slid two fingers into her wet sex.
Duff . . .
“Fuck me, Duff,” she murmured, imagining his naked body held over hers, how he would wrap one arm around her waist and hold her down, helpless while he impaled her.
“Oh!”
She thrust her fingers in hard, her sex clenching around them. Wishing it were him, she began a hard, pounding motion. With her other hand she touched the tip of her clit, and had to swallow a scream as her climax tore through her, a blaze of pleasure that rippled through her entire body, wave after wave. And all the time with his face behind her closed eyes.
“Yes, Duff. Yes, Sir.”
• • •
“LAYLA . . . THAT’S IT, lovely. Take it deep. I need to fuck your mouth. God, I need to fuck you.”
He gripped his cock, stroking savagely—it was the only way to satisfy this burning lust. And with her face, her beautiful mouth, in his mind, he came into his hand, so damn hard he could barely hold himself up as his body shook. Pleasure was a deep rumble in his cock, in his balls, in his belly. It was her mouth, her sweeping tongue, her beautiful body just out of reach, and fuck, he had to have her.
Have to.
“Fuck.”
He arched into his fist, over and over, milking it for the last dregs of exquisite pleasure. Finally he was left shivering, his still-hard cock in his hand, a stupid half-smile on his face. But he felt little relief, and knew he wouldn’t until he could get his hands on her. His mouth. His cock inside her while he spanked that delectable, fine ass. While he took a cane to her fine flesh, nipple clamps on her sweet nipples. While he grazed her skin with his violet wand, the light arcing, ozone crackling in the air.
Oh, yeah, electrical play with Layla . . .
He was going hard again.
“Goddamn it.”
He slammed his free hand against the front door, the pain helping to center him. Shaking his head, he tore his T-shirt over his head and used it to wipe up. He didn’t bother to tuck his dick back into his jeans as he took the stairs two at a time.
If he needed to spend the rest of his evening wanking into his palm with Layla on his mind, then so be it. But he would damn well have the girl.
• • •
LAYLA SAT PANTING in her car, her fingers still deep inside her, her tight clit still pulsing. She could not believe she’d called him—called anyone!—“Sir,” even if it had only been a stroke fantasy. But she had to admit Duff brought something out in her. Something that scared her and turned her on like crazy.
She was still trembling as she slipped her fingers from her body and zipped up her jeans. Letting her head fall back against the headrest, she bit her lip. This kind of thing could not go on. Not that it wasn’t hot as hell to bring herself to a shattering orgasm in her driveway. But if this was what the man could do to her by simply talking over dinner, with a good-night kiss, a brush of his hand on her naked skin . . .
As she groaned, her body lit up with need once more. And knew she could barely wait to get in her house and pull out every damn sex toy she owned so she could stroke and fuck her way into satiation. Until she worked Duff Stewart out of her system.
But even as she got out of her car, let herself into the house and made her way to her bedroom in the dark, she knew her toys would only do so much. No, it was Duff she wanted—Duff she needed—for some reason she couldn’t begin to understand. This kind of chemistry was electric. Impossible. Undeniable. And she was in big, big trouble, with this big, big man.
She flopped down on her stomach on the bed and opened the antique sea chest on the floor next to it that held her vibrators and dildos, her lube and condoms. And one pair of shining nipple clamps. She tossed them aside and went for the biggest dildo she owned, a large pink phallus made of fleshlike silicone.
“I’ll bet this isn’t even half your size, Duff Stewart,” she said quietly, her hand curling around the wide girth of the toy.
With a moan she kicked her way out of her jeans and tore her thong down over her legs. Leaning back against the pile of white lace-edged pillows, she spread her thighs, her knees bent, and reached down to find herself wet and ready. She pulled her knees up and worked the tip of the enormous dildo into the entrance to her sex, her body clenching at it already.
“Fuck me, Duff,” she murmured, sliding it in farther.
It was big enough to hurt a little, but she welcomed the pain, and the pain itself made her wetter, allowing her body to open more. She spread her legs wider, pulling her knees higher, and slid the big toy in deep, then pulled it out slowly.
“But you would make it fast and hard,” she murmured.
She thrust it inside her, desire a hungry animal demanding to be fed—as demanding as he would be. She pulled the dildo most of the way out, then rammed it in deep. Did it again, and again and again, her body bowing to take it all. To take the size of the toy. To take the pleasure rippling over her skin, making her clit swell with the need to be touched, but she wanted to come from the inside. She wanted to come the way she knew she would with him.
“Harder, Sir,” she begged, fucking herself with the phallus, deep and fast.
She was panting, writhing, arching up to meet the plunging toy, on the edge of climax in moments.
But Duff would give her pain with her pleasure.
She reached under her top and pinched her nipple as hard as she could. Her back arched, her body rising off the bed, and she cried out as sensation shot through her—pain and pleasure melding in her hard nipple as she let her nails dig in, through her needy pussy as she thrust the giant phallus viciously. Pleasure layered on pleasure, shafting deep inside her. She shivered with it, her body rocking, writhing on the bed. She was coming and coming, the spasms rocketing through her system, making her cry out.
“Duff! Yes!”
When her mind came down from the lofty, spiraling ecstasy of orgasm, she slipped the big dildo from her sex. Her legs splayed on the bed, limp and weak. Her breath still came in rasping pants. And in her head spun images of Duff Stewart. His sharp hazel eyes. His strong, broad shoulders. What she imagined his cock would look like. And just like that, even though her body was too spent to move, desire was like a flare going off in her system, her sex clenching. Wanting.
Her cell phone rang, and she saw it had spilled from her purse when she’d dropped it on the bed. Reaching for it, she saw Duff’s name on the screen.
CHAPTER
Three
WITHOUT THINKING, SHE touched the screen. “Hello?”
“Layla, you sound breathless, pretty girl. What did I catch you in the middle of?”
Fuck. Really?
“Nothing.” But even the sound of his baritone voice was making her toes curl.
His tone lowered even more. “It doesn’t sound like ‘nothing.’ Perhaps you’re doing some heavy lifting? I know I have been, ever since we said good night. Oh, yes, I know that’s more than most people want to know. But we’re not ‘most people,’ are we? Especially not together. No, together we could make a fucking bonfire with the chemistry between us. Tell me it’s not true and I’ll stop.”
Fuck.
Just do it. Or don’t.
She bit her lip. Goddamn it—why had she picked up the phone? Why was he saying these things to her now, when her body was still thrumming with climax? When she felt helpless to say no to him? But maybe it was time she stopped running scared. Maybe it was time she said yes to the one man—he’d been right about that—she couldn’t say no to.
She blew out a long breath, trying to center herself. It didn’t help much. “Okay. But, Duff . . . Look, I am telling you again I’m not one of your little slave girls who’ll come kneeling at your feet and following your directives without question.”
“I understand that. I don’t expect you to be a slave, mine or anyone else’s. But if we move forward, you will follow my directives without question during play, unless I violate our negotiated terms or you come up against an unexpected trigger or you need to safe-word. You know you would expect the same from anyone who submitted to you.”
“Yes. True.”
“Yes, you agree to what I just said, or yes, you agree to my earlier proposal?”
She had to grin. “It’s more a proposition than a proposal.”
He chuckled. “Excellent point, my lovely. So, which is it? Or do we need to talk more?”
She took her lower lip between her teeth once more, then released it—and released some of the tight control she always held over every aspect of her life, and none more than kink. “You promise to stay within any negotiated boundaries?”
“If you don’t trust me to do so, then we really don’t have any more to discuss here.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not used to being on this end of things anymore. It’s been a very long time.”
“You can tell me about that when you’re ready, other than as it pertains to any triggers. What is your answer, then? You know I need to hear it in plain words.”
A small, nervous laugh slipped out. “I’m probably a little crazy for saying this, but yes. Let’s do this. I will bottom for you. Submit to you, as much as I’m able. I think . . . I think it’s time I worked through some of my issues, and maybe this is the time. Maybe you’re the man to do this with.”
“Oh, darlin’, I can guarantee I am the man to do this with. Now—when can we meet to go over negotiations? Are you available one evening this week?”
God, she was really doing this! She had to buy some time, a minute to breathe.
“How about Friday after you’re done with work?”
“Good,” he agreed. “Let’s meet for coffee at six thirty. You name the place.”
She nodded to the empty room. “There’s a little place in my neighborhood called Swamp Water. I’ll text you the address.”
“Excellent. And, Layla? Just in case you had any doubt, I’m very, very glad you’ve agreed to this.”
“To be honest, I’m not entirely certain I am.”
“Ah, sure you are, lovely. You’re far too strong and decisive a woman to have it any other way.”
She found her cheeks heating in a blush, and not because she was still lying half naked, spread-eagled and postorgasm on her bed. She was pleased to know he thought of her that way. Pleased and flattered.
You are behaving like an infatuated teenager.
She cleared her throat. “I’m glad you see me for who I am.”
“Oh, trust me—I do.”
“Why does everything you say sound suggestive?”
“Probably because beneath everything I say, I’m suggesting something. And you know exactly what it is.”
Laughing, she let one hand trail over her breast. Her nipple hardened. “At least you’re honest.”
“I am that. Until Friday, then. Sweet dreams, Layla. I know mine will be.”
Before she could say anything, he’d hung up.
She shook her head. If it had been anyone else talking to her this way she’d have been totally pissed off.
But she understood quite well that this was a power play. And she liked it.
Tossing her cell phone on the bed, she sat up and ran a hand through her hair.
“What. The. Fuck am I doing?”
Flopping back onto the bed, she pressed her fisted hands against her eyes, but it did nothing but bring the image of Duff’s too-handsome face to mind.
“Ugh!”
She almost wanted to call Kitty, but she was still too breathless from coming so damn hard. And a part of her wanted to keep this bit of information all to herself for the moment. Which meant there was nothing else to do but work.
Getting up from the bed, she grabbed from her closet the old faded black sundress she wore when she was working and slipped into it, then her beat-up steel-toed work boots. She gathered her hair and put it up in a clip as she moved into the living room. There she took her studio key from the old lamp it hung on by a long leather cord and stepped outside, crossing the driveway to the big garage she rented from her landlords.
Unlocking the door, she flipped on the lights and took a breath, inhaling the scents of clay and dust, her body already relaxing. Pulling her heavy canvas apron from a row of hooks on the wall, she slid it over her head and tied it in the back, then flexed her hands.
Her converted studio space was a bit primitive, but it suited her. The walls were the old plaster and lath original to the main house, without the benefit of drywall, but she loved the rawness of it. The ceilings were high, with a loft area around three sides and a wide staircase leading up. Colorful Chinese lanterns hung from the rafters, and at one end of the studio was a tattered chaise longue from the 1920s she hadn’t had the heart to reupholster. Instead she’d laid embroidered shawls over it and piled it with pillows for her comfort when she needed a place to recline and dream. Since she usually did figurative pieces—people, animals—she had photographs hung everywhere with images of her subjects, as well as images that inspired her work: dogs and cheetahs, house cats and elephants, hawks and alligators. Beautiful photos of human faces from all over the world. Graceful nude figures. And tucked in here and there were bits of vintage fabrics and ribbons, especially the old silk she used for her metal-and-textile insects. They were wildly different from her usual work, from the pieces she’d made a career out of. These small pieces were what had inspired her to learn to weld. But she hadn’t shown them to anyone yet. They weren’t ready. Or she wasn’t ready.