Tossing my head back, I almost wish I had a gag to swallow my responses. He’s barely started, and I already want to scream out my frustration.
“Shh,” he whispers against the shell of my ear. “We’re just getting started.”
There’s a click and a buzzing fills the air. I jerk, trying to get away from the unrelenting pressure, but with my legs and arms restrained and barely any give in the line, there’s nowhere for me to hide.
Which is, no doubt, exactly what he has in mind.
A hand wraps around my throat, arching my back against his chest. His voice is a gentle threat above the hum of vibrations. “You may not come until I say so, girl.”
That’s an impossibility.
Already, the first sparks of an orgasm bloom low in my abdomen. My legs are shaking with the effort to hide from the non-stop stimulation, but no matter how far I strain, I can’t get away. I’m so distracted by the sensations and concentration on not coming, that when a whoosh splits the air and a stinging slices across the cheeks of my ass, a scream tears from my throat.
It’s a never-ending cycle of pleasure and pain.
He releases a stream of alternating soft and hard strikes, first across the meat of my ass and then at the crease where my ass meets my legs. The shock sends me arching into the vibrating bullet and then the cycle starts all over again.
The rising crescendo of pleasure is punctuated by his gruff commands and the ever looming threat of the audience watching just on the other side of the glass wall. I hover on the edge for an interminable amount of time, struggling to obey his command, but wanting to give in, wanting to give in so bad, tears leak from the corners of my eyes.
His hands soothe, even as the flogger’s sting turns my backside nearly numb. He alternates directions, amount of pressure, massaging away the bite only to strike again just when sensation returns.
I hear a thud, then feel the flogger roll to a stop by my bare feet. By now, I’ve given up trying to control my breathing, my sobs, and my chest is heaving, stomach contracting. His hands dance along my backside, then climb up my ribs and up to cup and lift my bared breasts. He scissors my nipples between his fingers, tweaking and tugging until I’m mindless with it. I hear a woman sobbing and it gives me pause until I realize the woman….is me.
“Please, please, please, sir. Can I come? I need to come.”
He tweaks my nipples again, and I’m afraid I nearly come undone. I hover there on the precipice until he nibbles my shoulder and says, ever so softly, “Come, girl.”
“When can I see you again?” he asks.
The audience is gone, no doubt having left after a subtle signal from my companion as I was coming down from my orgasm-induced high. He immediately clicked off the bullet and carefully released my feet and arms from the restraints. Now he holds me in his arms, still blindfolded, as he gives me a thorough rubdown that’s as much to return circulation to my limbs as it is to ground me.
“I don’t know,” I say carefully. “I’ve got some things going on in my personal life and I’m not sure if it will leave much time for me in the next few weeks.”
“Shame,” he murmurs.
Leaning against his firm chest with drowsiness creeping around the edges, I yawn, feeling warm, and safe, and right at home. “What’s a shame?” I slur.
“I haven’t been to The Club in a long time. It’s just a shame we won’t get to spend more time together. Unless I’m mistaken and you didn’t enjoy tonight.”
“No, I did,” I rush to correct him. “Very much. In case you didn’t notice.”
He chuckles, and I snuggle closer to his warmth as his hand caresses the length of my spine. “No, I did,” he assures me. “Your face was a sight everyone will be talking about for weeks. They’ll no doubt be sad to hear there won’t be a repeat performance for some time.”
Doubt creeps into the haze of the afterglow and I sit up, the air suddenly stifling. “I’m not ruling it out. This is just new for me.”
He brushes a hand over my hair, presses a kiss to my temple. “I know. No strings remember? Now lay here on this bench for a few minutes and let me tend to you. Then, I’ll let you go.”
As he rubs me down with a soothing cooling gel and tends to my tender ass and legs, I know I’m going to have to think long and hard about whether or not I want to let him go.
But not just him.
I’ll have to think long and hard about whether or not I’m going to let this newfound side of me go, too.
Chapter 7
He leaves first, closing the door silently behind him.
After a few seconds, when I’m sure he’s gone, I pull down the blindfold and heave deep breaths. Aftershocks are long gone, but my sensitized skin still prickles with awareness. At some point, he must have dressed me in a robe, because it’s warm softness is quite possibly the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn.
I’m almost tempted to take it home with me as I pad down the empty hallway back to the lockers. With a look of regret, I stuff it in the laundry bin full of identical robes and redress in my regular clothes. My limbs are still trembling as I tug on my shoes and shoulder my purse.
By the time I get back down to the parking garage, I manage to regain control over myself—for the most part. My muscles are languid and my breathing now slow and steady. I practically pour myself into the front seat of my car.
Out of habit, I check my phone, hoping to see a callback from one of the art programs I applied to at nearby colleges and troupes, with no luck. There is, however, a text from Mikhail.
Mikhail: I’m afraid this is becoming a habit, but I’ll have to cancel on the date with my grandpa. He passed away this morning.
All good feelings from my session drain away. I’d been looking forward to meeting him, seeing them together. The way Mikhail talks about him, the way his face looked when he described his childhood, I knew they had a close relationship.
Me: Is there anything I can do? Do you need anything?
I don’t know what else to say. I’ve always been extremely awkward when people experience loss, having never really experienced any of my own. It’s always just been my mother and I against the world.
When I pull up to my mom’s house, my phone buzzes in my lap. I glance at the text as I unfold from the car and head inside.
Mikhail: No, but thank you. I’m sorry to bail for a second time, but I have to meet with the funeral home to make arrangements.
Heart aching, I call, because this isn’t something he should have to do over text.
He answers and it almost brings tears to my own eyes when his voice comes over the line, thick with emotion, “Hello?”
“You don’t need to apologize, Mikhail,” I say.
Clearing his throat, he says, “I think you can call me Misha now.”
“Misha,” I say softly. “There is nothing for you to apologize for. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? I can put together a mean casserole or something.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind. I’ve got a meeting with him in about an hour and after that I—” he pauses for a second, then says, “You know what? I would like for you to do something with me tonight, after. If you don’t already have something planned.”
I kick off my shoes as I enter the living room. “Anything. Name it.”
“My grandpa always had a tattoo of a pin up girl—something he got when he joined the military after he immigrated to the U.S. I always thought I’d get one when he passed. Just to remember him. Would you go with me? Kind of an odd request, but I’d rather not be alone tonight. If you can’t, it’s—”
Hearing the aching loss reflected in his voice, I blurt, “Of course I will.”
“Thanks for coming,” Mikhail—Misha—says as he opens the door for me to get out of his car. A bright storefront is in front of us with the parlors name emblazoned in neon. The drive over was quiet, both of us lost to our own thoughts.
“Of course. I’ve always wanted to go to a tattoo parlor and a
nything to take your mind off of it.”
He takes my hand as he leads me over puddles of murky water. “I’m pretty sure your smile took care of most of it.” I squeeze his hand and follow him inside.
The smell hits me as soon as we cross the threshold—cleaning products, air freshener, and a metallic tang that I also taste in the back of my throat. It’s also ridiculously cold, the huge A/C unit in the back, furiously pumping cold air. To our right is a glass counter piled high with various three-ringed binders. Inside the display cases are a multitude of piercing accessories and after-care products.
Misha greets the man behind the counter, a scruffy beast of a guy with colorful ink on both of his arms and a full beard, though his head is completely shaved. “Jake, good to see you.”
“Misha, man. I’d like to say it’s good to see you, except I know why you’re here.” Jake grabs Misha’s hand and pulls him into a one-armed, back-slapping hug. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Misha grabs my hand. “Jake, this is my friend Stella. Stella, this is Jake. He’ll be torturing me today.”
I give Jake an easy smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Glad you could come with our boy here,” Jake says. “I guess we’ll see how he does under the gun.”
Nodding and looking around at the artwork on the walls, I say, “You’ve got a nice place here. I may have to come back.”
“You got any ink?” Jake asks as he leads us back to his immaculate station.
“No, not yet. I’ve always been interested, though. Just haven’t found anything that speaks to me yet.”
“Misha, take a seat right here, buddy.” Jake wiggles his eyebrows. “You’ll have to lose the shirt for me, though.”
That makes Misha smile, and any reservations I had about bringing him here when he’s so obviously hurting wash away. Maybe taking ink into his body, memorializing his grandfather’s memory permanently, is his way of carrying that memory on with him forever.
Misha crosses his arms in front of his chest and peels off his shirt. My mouth goes dry and I nearly miss the chair I’m aiming for and fall ass first onto the sparkling white linoleum. Thankfully, I only fumble a bit and manage to sit without looking like a total idiot.
I shouldn’t be staring at his bare chest when he’s mourning this way. I absolutely shouldn’t. When a quick glance turns into ogling, I force myself to pull away and study what Jake is doing—anything to take my mind off his powerful shoulders and tapered abdomen.
He gathers up what looks like little paint caps full of brilliant color, a tattoo gun, sterilizing materials and paper towels. Around us, a couple other artists are working on other people at their stations. The atmosphere pulses with music blasting from an ancient boom box and the chatter as people try to yell over the volume.
“How did you meet Misha?” I ask as he buzzes the tattoo gun a couple times, then sets it on his stainless steel tray. They share a look, and I realize that must be a personal topic. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just making conversation. Totally looks like I put my foot in my mouth.”
“No,” Misha says, putting a warm hand on my knee. “Not at all.”
“Not a secret,” Jake adds. “Misha here was my daughters doctor.”
“Oh,” I say. “What happened?”
Jake takes an outline of the tattoo and applies it on Misha’s shoulder. He holds it there while he finishes the story. “She was six when she got into an accident, semi driver fell asleep at the wheel and slammed into her mother’s car when they were coming home from a friend’s birthday party. Misha was working the ER when she came in.”
I’m almost afraid to hear the end.
“She didn’t make it,” Jake says gently, and I realize, stunned, that his soft tone is more to comfort me than himself. “Misha, though. He didn’t give up for hours. He worked on her until the end. He never gave up. I told him, when I was able to think straight enough, that his first tattoo was on me.” Jake shrugs out of his button up shirt to show me a shockingly realistic portrait of his daughter.
“He pestered me until I agreed,” Misha corrects.
Jake waves that away as he changes into a fresh pair of gloves. “Now I can pay him back for everything he did for my girl.”
Misha keeps his eyes on his lap, but not before I see the sorrow painting his face. I don’t say anything, but I take his hand in my own as Jake goes to work on his tattoo. We don’t talk much as Jake works, aside from me asking questions about what Jake’s doing or Misha griping to bust Jake’s balls.
But the connection is there. Real.
Because he doesn’t let go of my hand the whole time.
Chapter 8
By the time I get back to Mom’s house, it’s nearly midnight and I can barely see straight. It takes three tries before I’m able to fit my key into the lock, and even then I have to focus to put one foot in front of the other to get over the threshold. The place in my chest where my heart is supposed to be is numb from overwork, from bleeding for Misha, from being torn in two directions.
I know what it’s like to be without a father figure. To wonder and worry and be hyperaware of the empty place at the dinner table, at soccer games and graduations. If I’d actually known my father and lost him after having a full life of those memories, that emptiness would be unbearable.
Closing the door behind me, I face plant into the comfy sofa, hoping to wring some small amount of comfort from it’s familiar surface. Exhaustion turns my vision gray and just as I’m starting to eek off into slumber, a sound pulls me from the edge of unconsciousness.
My ears strain and it comes again.
A giggle.
From my mom’s room.
I press my face into the couch cushions. Dear God, please no.
She giggles again, followed by the low tones of a man’s voice.
Jesus Christ she has to be nearing fifty, how is she still going strong?
And how in the hell am I supposed to sneak back to my room without alerting the happy couple? Do I even want to spend the rest of the night sharing a bedroom wall with them?
Coming home was supposed to be the easy part.
Maybe the couch is a better choice.
Mom’s squeal carries down the hallway.
Yep, a much better choice.
I’m just drifting over the edge when her door opens. Wincing into the pillows, I try to feign sleep. Her tiptoes inch down the hallway and toward the kitchen. They pause in the entryway.
Then, “Stella?”
I swallow the groan, but she’s always been able to read me.
“Stella, I know you’re awake. What are you doing on the couch? I thought you were staying with Dr. Alexandrov?”
Kissing my sweet dreams goodbye, I sit up, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “It wasn’t that kind of date, Mom.”
I can see her twinkling eyes all the way across the room. She glances back at her room and then at me. “Honey, it’s always that kind of date.”
She chuckles all the way into the kitchen, and I follow her because I’m already up and my stomach is making the lack of dinner known. “What do you mean?”
Flashing me a puzzled frown, she says, “You lived in New York. I’m sure you dated around. I thought for sure Dr. A was going to be your type.”
Settling at the little dinette with an orange and a cup of tea, I say, “I didn’t say he isn’t my type.”
Mom grins impishly. “See! I knew it!”
I roll my eyes. “His grandpa just died. It’s not exactly the time to jump anyone’s bones.”
“You’re too serious, sometimes, Stel. That’s why I wanted to hook the both of you up. After his—” she cuts herself off, her eyes wide. “I’m just saying.”
Licking the juice off my fingers, I study her. “Yes. What were you saying?”
“Nothing sweetheart. I’m just happy you found someone you get along with,” she answers a little too brightly. “I better get back.”
She kisses me on the brow and
saunters down the hallway to a welcoming cat call from her gentlemen friend.
The next evening, after a hard night’s sleep I spend the after lunch hours submitting applications to a couple of other prospective jobs and internships—none of which seem like they’ll bear any fruit, but they’re worth the effort. Especially a grad program at a neighboring college. One that has connections to people in the theatre world.
Pretty much the type of thing I’d kill for right now, especially since I can’t imagine doing anything other than being on stage.
I haven’t gotten any texts from the man I’ve been meeting at The Club and I don’t know whether or not I’m grateful. For a moment, I’m glad I don’t have to push the issue. A time will come when I have to pick between Misha, the man I’m quickly falling for, and the man who seems to know every inch of my body better than I do.
As I’m leaving a café with a cappuccino and a scone after my job hunt, I do, however, get a text from Misha inviting me to his office for his lunch break. Apparently, not even a death in the family will keep the man from going into work.
Knowing he has no other relatives and knowing he probably won’t accept the sympathy from anyone else, I get in my bucket of rust and head to the hospital. Of course, I forget that my mom is also working the evening shift, so color us both stunned when I run smack into her in the emergency room hallway.
“Stella. How nice of you to come by and see me at work! Why didn’t you say you were coming? I could have given you a ride.”
“Uh, hi, mom!”
“Hi, sweetie.” Her brows furrow. She pauses and says, “What are you doing here?”
“Um, I came to see you!” I improvise.
“You just saw me last night…and this morning.” Realization dawns, her brows now up near her hairline. “Ohmygoodness. You’re here to see Dr. A, aren’t you?” Her squeal draws the eyes of every patient in the waiting room. At my scowl, she drags me around the corner and out of their view. “He’s just in his office. Go around the corner, then the first office on the left. His name is on the door there. You can’t miss it. Make sure he doesn’t stay here too long, okay? He’d work himself to the bone if we didn’t kick him out every now and again.”
Darkest Desires (The Club #14) Page 5