by Virna DePaul
“Tell me, Bella,” I say as I straighten and lean back. “Do you want to come?”
She makes a small sound, a half-whimper, half-sigh. “If it pleases you,” she breathes heavily.
I let out a low, rumbling laugh. “Oh, Bella. I hope you know by now that this isn’t just about pleasing me. It’s about pleasing you too.”
For a moment, her mouth tenses like she’s confused or frustrated. Then the lines smooth out. It’s okay if she doesn’t understand. I’ll show her. I run my fingers between her breasts, tracing under the soft curve of the left one.
Then I pick up the blindfold.
I gaze at her a second longer before gently lifting her head and slipping the blindfold on. Her lips part as she slides into darkness. She tugs lightly on the restraints. I keep my hand behind her head for a moment, feeling the softness of her hair, then set her back on the pillow. I play with her body for a few minutes, running my hands across her collarbones, down her chest, over her stomach.
Her belly tenses under my touch, and I can feel how much she desires me to go lower. Just like last night, she’s trying to be stoic. But her body responds beautifully to my touch, softening, moving with me. I run my palms down her thighs and then up again, pausing with my fingertips nearly touching the lips of her pussy.
She takes in another deep breath, chest rising, and turns her knees out just a little, exposing herself even more. I imagine my cock inside her, in that tight hole that’s never been claimed before. Imagine her panting as I thrust inside her. I imagine giving her as many orgasms as she wants, letting her direct me, teach me how to make her come.
God, Bella. Why did it take us so long to find ourselves here?
I abruptly lean back again, my breathing shallower, my dick harder. I rub the front of my jeans, then undo my fly, letting the denim fall to the floor. I step out of jeans and boxers, remove my socks, then strip off my shirt. I stand there naked, my erection huge and flushed . . . and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known is bound to the bed before me.
I pick up the crop.
It’s made of hand-woven leather, and the heavy, solid weight surprises me. It’s a genuine rider’s crop, not a cheap or shoddy replica. On a whim, I tried it out on my thigh yesterday, and it stings like a bitch.
Leaning forward over her, I use it to trace the same path my hands mapped out only moments before. I run it over each perfect collarbone, then slide it up momentarily so that the long leather popper rests against her throat. Between her shallow breaths, I see the slightest curve of her lips. She’s smiling.
I smile, too. I run the crop down between her breasts and watch her writhe. I use the popper to circle her left nipple. I can imagine how it feels, the slightly rough edge of the leather scraping against that sensitive bud. I move the popper across to her right nipple so that the nylon handle of the crop rests against both breasts.
She moans softly, squirming against the bed.
“Uh-uh,” I say softly. “That won’t do.”
I raise the popper and use it to smack her erect right nipple lightly, just enough to sting. She lets out a vocalized gasp and stays still, lips still parted, her cuffed restraints pulled tight. I circle the left nipple, then pop it, just as hard. The light swats flush her pink nipples a deeper red. She doesn’t move.
Good. I run the crop down her flat belly and start a series of gentle taps around her navel. The muscles tense, and she lets out more of those barely audible whimpers as I move lower, tapping the crop just above her mons, a little harder each time.
Without warning, I slide the popper between her legs. It comes away slick and wet. She pants, her thighs flexing. I wait until she relaxes, and then land a light but stinging blow to the inside of one thigh. Her head tips back, and part of me wants to whip the blindfold off, to see her eyes, to make sure they’re filled with all the pulsing pleasure I want to give her.
I run the popper up and down the creamy skin of her inner thigh, watching her stomach muscles contract each time I scrape the leather over the light pink welt I’ve left. I begin tapping the popper up and down her thigh, then move to the other.
She stays still. Now, her breathing is deep and measured, like she’s drifting off to sleep. Oh, but she’s definitely awake. Her legs quiver each time I land a particularly sharp swat to the soft, sensitive flesh on the inside of each thigh. I stop and move the crop between her legs again, rubbing the flat of the popper over her pussy, making her gasp. Back and forth, sometimes concentrating on her clit, sometimes sliding it back so the edge of the leather teases her opening.
Then I turn the popper on its side and use the edge to part her lips. She’s so wet, so aroused, her pussy is as flushed as my cock. I pull the edge back so that the loop of the popper makes a little frame around her clit. Then I jiggle the crop, stimulating her clit.
Her throat works silently for a moment, and then her head tips all the way back, and she lets out a cry. I flip the crop back to the flat side and lightly smack her pussy and her clit. Not hard enough to really hurt. She makes a strained sound, and I do it again, creating a sting over her clit that’s maddening, since the way she writhes is a clear indication.
Her legs pull hard against the restraints as she tries to close them, to protect herself. But there’s nothing she can do. I slide the popper back further, between her cheeks, stimulating her asshole.
“One of these days,” I say conversationally, “I’m going to take your ass. Fill you with my cock. Right here.”
I tap her hole. She pants, her hips rocking.
“Oh, God. Davis . . .”
“What’s that?”
“Please,” she whispers.
“Please what?” I desperately need to hear what she wants. What I can do for her.
“Please take me,” she breathes, settling back against the comforter. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Seven
Bella
I can’t believe I’ve said it. I’m angry at myself for letting him know how much I want this. At my wanton reactions to his touch. What if he can tell this has been a fantasy of mine? This submission, this relinquishing of control.
The insides of my thighs prickle pleasantly from the crop, and my pussy is still clenching in time with imagined blows, the lips stinging, my clit so sensitive that one touch will make me burst, I’m sure of it.
But I am ready. Ready to have him inside me, to give myself to him, the way I promised I would. Because damn it, if I’m gonna play this game, I’ll play it right.
Except . . . why is it starting to feel less and less like a game?
“You sure?” His voice is quiet and deep. A little rough, but with this sweet note of concern that sets me soaring.
I let myself smile within the blessed darkness provided by the blindfold. With the blindfold on, I can surrender to these desires and feel as if it isn’t really me. Like I’m floating somewhere far away. Then as soon as he steps closer, I realize that’s not true. He climbs onto the bed next to me, and I’m here. Intensely, inescapably here, breathing in the masculine scent of his aftershave. Bound, not just by the silk around my wrists and ankles, but by the knowledge that my body is at his mercy.
I hear him unwrap a condom, and I tremble, desperate for release.
He straddles my hips and cups my breasts, massaging them. His thumbs graze my nipples, which are drawn so tight with arousal that they ache. Then he shifts, moving between my spread legs, his bare chest just touching mine as he kisses me.
The effect is electric. His naked skin feels so good, and I long to see it, to run my hands over those hard ridges of muscle. But for now, I sink into the bliss of his nipples grazing mine, the hardness of his cock as it presses against my pubic hair. The feel of his lips claiming me. I’m hazy now with arousal, longing to feel him inside me.
He begins to rub his hard cock back and forth between my legs, spreading my wetness. I arch my back, wishing my hands were free so I could guide him in. But he seems determined to tease me until I go cra
zy.
I concentrate on making my kisses as fierce as possible, and finally, finally, his cock nudges my entrance. I’m expecting a little pain, not like being fingered, but Davis is big, and I’m a little nervous. He’s both confident and careful, pressing inexorably into my pussy, filling me. The pressure is simultaneously maddening and intensely pleasurable. I know he’s probably feeling that ridiculous male sense of triumph at “claiming” uncharted territory, but in this moment, I don’t begrudge him the fantasy. Because I’m glad he’s the first man to put his cock inside me. Glad that I, too, am claiming him. Letting him in when I’ve never let anyone else in before.
He begins to thrust, still kissing me, occasionally sucking on the side of my neck at the juncture of my shoulder. I’m soon panting, clenching around him. I wish I could move my hips more, get him to find my sweet spot, but the restraints don’t allow me enough leeway. So, I have to wait for him to find it, to angle his thrusts in a way that draws gasps from me. At first, I’m still trying to control myself and stay quiet, but soon I can’t help the sounds I’m making, whimpering and moaning because this feels so good.
Suddenly, he moves a hand down to stroke my clit. At the same time, he whips off the blindfold, and I get a glimpse of his face, bathed in dim golden lamp light, his eyes lit with ecstasy just before I come.
There’s nothing I can do to control my reaction. The way my body strains against the silk, my pussy clenching convulsively around him. I cry out over and over, the pleasure too intense. His finger still circles my clit, and no matter how I arch my back, his weight holds me down, keeping me in place while he brings me to a second orgasm. He groans, thrusting hard into me. His breath catches, and he gives two more sharp bucks and goes limp, his chest rising against mine.
I glance down at his dark head of hair below my chin. He’s breathing hard, his breath warm against my skin. His cock slides out of me. I struggle to get my breathing back to normal. He lifts his body slightly, and I get a glimpse of that heaving muscular chest as he leans to the side. He unclasps one wrist cuff, and then the other.
I lie there for a few seconds, breathing heavily, then place one hand on his head, guiding it back to my chest. For a moment, I gently stroke his hair, too exhausted and blissed out to do much more. I study the broad muscles of his back, noticing a couple of tattoos. I’m too tired to see them clearly in the dim light, but I’m a little surprised. Davis Young? Tattoos? A pang of unexpected sadness strikes me. This man grew up and changed and I wasn’t there to grow up with him. I was too busy running from my problems to stay and help him.
Not that I hadn’t tried. Every text I sent was unanswered. Every call went to voicemail. Every visit to Thornbridge, I was told Davis was busy. Studying. Each one was a small assault on my dignity. My sense of control. So after awhile, I’d stopped trying. Stopped humiliating myself and moved on. Or so I thought.
Eventually he gets up and releases my ankles. Then he crawls onto the bed beside me.
It’s like a curtain drops, and we’re strangers again. The tenderness I felt moments ago turns to an understanding that I can’t get too involved. I have to accept that I’m dying. What I’m doing here with Davis is just to help ease my transition from this world to the next. To make sure I can go peacefully, knowing all my affairs are in order.
He glances down at me, frowning slightly. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
I try to smile. “Not at all. That was good.”
At first, I think he’s going to press the matter. Instead, he clears his throat, suddenly awkward. Different from the man who wielded the riding crop with precision, spread me wide, and told me he wanted to take my ass. He’s more like my dorky but beautiful friend Davis, getting all excited the way he used to when I understood something computer-related.
“I think . . .” He leans over and kisses me softly. His voice is quiet and gravelly. “I think we should sleep in this bed tonight. Since you were so eager to try it out.”
“Sure,” I say, even as I tense.
I want him to gather me in his arms, but at the same time, I silently plead for him to give me space. In the end, he pulls back the covers and lies down beside me. I listen to him breathing in the dark until eventually I fall asleep.
* * *
The next morning, Davis makes me breakfast. It’s pancakes, as if he’s trying to give me the appearance of being an attentive boyfriend. Or, whatever we are. Him being my boyfriend sounds weird.
“These are very good,” I praise after I’m done chewing my first forkful.
The maple syrup tastes like it was pipelined directly from the tree, and there’s some kind of vanilla bean whipped butter. I could get used to this.
“I’m glad you like them.”
We’re sitting across from each other, polite strangers. Not boyfriend and girlfriend.
Until he looks directly at me and asks, “So how do you plan to convince your dad to go straight?”
The question steals my breath. The truth is, I have no idea. Just that I believe my father still loves me.
“I need a bit more time rehearsing what I need to say. Then, some night, I’ll have dinner with him, and I’ll bring it up.”
When I was there the other day, I didn’t lay the guilt on thick. Not yet. I played it cool. Let my father see that his decisions hadn’t affected my life and certainly hadn’t stopped me from becoming a success. Next time, though, I’ll play the guilt card. The I just want us to be a family again card. I glance up at Davis.
He doesn’t respond for a long time, and when he does, he merely says, “I have work to do today.”
I take another bite. Chew and swallow. “Dad said you run a mechanic shop?”
“Jericho runs Nailed Garage. I just help out sometimes.” He hesitates, fork poised over his plate. “Street and Axel and Slate and me, we had a motorcycle club for a while.”
A genuine laugh bursts out of me. “You? In a motorcycle club? When I knew you, you were—”
“Asthmatic? Wimpy?” His voice is harsh. “Barely able to go outside in case the sun fucking melted me?”
I stop smiling, a little surprised.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“You were never as weak as you imagined people thought you were,” I snap.
Silence.
“Let’s not argue,” he mutters finally.
“Let’s not. So, what happened to the motorcycle club?”
He shrugs. “Everything fell apart when Street went to jail. Things have never been the same since.” He stands up and gestures around. “Feel free to make yourself at home while I’m gone. Eat whatever you want. If you tell me what foods you like, I’ll make sure to keep them stocked.”
How foreign to me, to wish for something and then it just appears? I’d made a good living in Paris, which was uncommon for an artist. But I’d still lived something of a Bohemian life, in a flat that was old and full of character, but a little rough around the edges. The opposite of this sleek, modern penthouse.
“Thank you,” I say. “I think I’ll explore the neighborhood today. I haven’t spent much time in this area.”
Suddenly, a large warm hand gently clasps the back of my neck. It startles me. His fingers stroke my throat, then tilt my head up.
“Just be back at six. I’m taking you to dinner at eight, and I’d like some time for us both to . . . get ready.”
I swallow, the movement making my throat press against his fingers.
“Of course,” I say, as he strokes along my jaw. I close my eyes. “Whatever you wish.”
His fingertips skim down to my nape and underneath my hair, which I’ve pinned up in a tight twist. One by one, he plucks the pins out until my hair falls around my shoulders. He runs his fingers through it.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispers.
I don’t say anything. I’m in danger of slipping back into that submissive trance from last night.
As he l
eans down to brush my temple, and I sit there with my heart pounding and my pussy throbbing from the memory of his cock, I realize being Davis’s submissive is the least of my worries.
What I really need to safeguard is my heart.
Chapter Eight
Davis
I’m losing my mind.
Bella makes me crazy. Makes me forget who I am and what I want. What I thought I wanted was to use her the way I thought she’d used me. To play a game of cat and mouse, where for once in my life, I was the goddamn cat. And then, when I saw her for the first time in eight years and realized what she’d become—closed off, guarded, removed from her old life and her old self—I’d wanted to bring her back.
Now, I don’t know what I want. I keep getting glimpses of the old Bella. Of her sweetness and warmth, her playful sense of humor—even if it’s at my expense. Each time it fills me with joy, to see that the girl I knew is still there. But it scares me too. Because the girl I’d known . . . I’d loved that girl. With all my foolish, teenage heart, I’d loved her.
Can I care for, maybe even love again, the woman Bella’s become? The one who stirs up all the darkness of my past? The one who represents a tie to a man I want to destroy?
And more importantly, could she ever care, maybe even love, me?
How could she, when I’m nothing but a means to an end for her.
Ten minutes later, I’m on my bike and heading to Nailed. When I get there, Jericho and Axel are working in the garage, repairing a smashed to hell Suzuki. I shoot the shit with them for a few minutes and then go inside to find Slate. He’s in the club room, and, as soon as he sees me, his eyes narrow.
“You going to tell me what the hell’s up with our plan?”
“We need to reassess,” I say. “I have reason to believe that our way isn’t the best way to stop King.”