“I know it was probably more complicated than that, but at the time it didn’t feel that way. I still have to talk myself into believing it. It helps, actually, when we do this. When we do this, I feel like you’re sharing with me. And even when you’re telling me I’m a disappointment and other things, deep down it makes me feel good. Especially because, to the extent you even believe in your heart what you’re saying, you like those things about me and it has nothing to do with advancing your career. If anything, what we do would be a threat to your success.”
She shrugs and shakes her head, her hair falling around her shoulders, over her breasts. I want to hold her close and tell her it wasn’t complicated. I felt like I was a black hole of stomach-churning desires and I didn’t want to pull my star of a wife in and destroy her. But she’s talking and I won’t interrupt.
“It’s hard to reconcile sometimes, though. I’ve been lucky to play with more experienced people who could talk me through it afterward.”
There’s a small spike of jealousy for those who came before me, but more a sinking of my stomach. Aftercare. That is something I’m maybe not so great at. I hadn’t said a word to her, partly because we were both so exhausted, but I should have.
“Press, I’m so sorry. I should’ve—”
“Don’t be sorry. I think because of our…history it’s easier with you. I’m already comfortable with you. I already trust you. So some words of kindness wouldn’t have gone amiss, but I wanted them, I didn’t need them. There’s a big difference. If I needed them, I would’ve asked. Besides, I’m the more experienced person here. If anyone should’ve—”
I shush her because maybe that’s technically true, but at the end of the day, I’m responsible for her. That’s enough with the should’ves for either of us. I reach for a lock of her hair, twirl the corn-silk softness around my finger, and tug. “Tell me what you need. Tell me what you want.” I can at least get this right.
She smiles and tips her head, pulling against the grip I have on her. Oh, there will be more hair-pulling in the future.
“Well, the holding is a good start.”
I sacrifice the view I have to wrestle her next to me. Wrestle is too strong a word. She comes willingly and snuggles into me. No problem. I like the holding too.
“You could tell me…tell me I’m pretty.”
I can do better than that. “You’re beautiful.”
“Kiss me?”
I tip up her chin and run my nose alongside hers before kissing her gently. It’s sweet. So sweet it makes my teeth hurt and makes me ache for her. Why can I not do this every night? Why can we not do this in our bed? I break the kiss reluctantly, and when I do, her eyes are still half-closed, her pale lids nearly translucent.
“Tell me you l—”
Her eyes snap open, and her throat works like she’s swallowing the words that were going to come out of her mouth.
“Press?”
“Tell me you like this too.”
“I do. Don’t worry about that ever. It’s my own shit I’m working through. It has nothing to do with you. Ever. Understand?”
“Okay.”
“So is that it?”
“Pretty much. You could change it up. You know, kiss me first and then with the holding and the telling-me-I’m-pretty.”
“That would be acceptable, would it?”
“Yes, I do believe it would,” she says in that prissy Southern belle way that used to have me on my knees. It’s a good thing I didn’t know her when she was a debutante because I would’ve been under those skirts quicker than she could’ve said, “Why I do declare!”
“And don’t forget the part about me saying I like this too.”
“Yes, of course. Couldn’t leave that out.”
Her tone is approaching despondent, but that doesn’t make any sense. Tired. She’s probably tired. God knows I am. This whole talking thing maybe wasn’t the stupidest idea. And I only resent Rey Walter a little for suggesting it.
Chapter Seventeen
‡
“I’ve got a favor to ask you, Hale.”
At least I know what kind of favor he’s going to ask for. I’m totally expecting at some point for Rey to ring me for a professional or personal favor, though what I might possibly do for him in that arena, I have no idea. I’m sure he’ll think of something and eventually he’ll come to collect. But this call is about kink, and I can’t deny there’s a smirk of satisfaction on my face—Rey Walter needs something from me?—when I say the words: “What can I do for you, Rey?”
“I’ve got a client who’s looking for a very specific scenario. I thought you might be a good fit.”
My insides crash like cymbals, pride, fear, all kinds of things jangling around, and it takes me so long to arrange my thoughts that Rey doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“Interested?”
“I’ll need more information, obviously.”
“Of course, but I wasn’t going to bother if you weren’t interested at all. Need-to-know and all.”
“Yeah. Of course.” Thoughts are racing through my head, and clearest among them is Pressly. How would she feel if I did this with someone else? I’ve played a little with a few other people at the club, but that’s more…instructional than anything else. No hint of involvement. But regardless of what it would mean, I suspect the answer would be that she’d feel fine. Is that a relief or not?
“If it makes a difference, I strongly suspect you’ll be amenable to this proposal.”
His words make me strongly suspect a certain blonde is involved, and if so, I’m definitely his man.
“Well, then, I think I need to know.”
And here we are, a week later.
The gloves on my hands feel strange and comforting at the same time. Softest leather I’ve ever felt, but unless it’s winter, I don’t wear gloves. Even when it’s cold enough out, I’m more likely to shove my hands in my pockets because who the hell knows where I’m heading and the chance of also needing gloves there is half-and-half. Seems stupid to prepare for odds so small. These aren’t winter gloves, no—more like driving gloves. If there’s anything more pretentious than driving gloves, I can’t think of what it might be. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead doing such a thing, but I’m wearing them now. As a favor. A favor I’m willing and able to do.
Gloves clinging to my hands, I push open the door, not bothering to knock. I’m supposed to be the master of this house, and I wouldn’t knock on my own goddamn door. So I stroll in and try not to pay attention to the woman on her knees by the door, thighs spread, rucking her short black skirt so high it almost makes her indecent, and her hands resting palms down at the tops of her fishnet stockings.
I take a turn about the room, studying it, because I’ve only been in here once before. The purple damask wallpaper and massive gilt mirrors are the same, and I feel sturdier, more stable. Perhaps actually capable of pulling this off. Comfortable-ish, I strip off one of the gloves. It peels away like a second skin and leaves my hand feeling cold, empty. So I snap my bared fingers and the woman starts toward me at a crawl.
That alone has me suppressing a groan as she slinks across the floor, the movement of her hips enough to make me think incredibly filthy thoughts, fantasies I might get to make reality tonight.
When she’s settled at my feet, I snap again and she lifts her gaze, blinking those big blue eyes at me. So open and eager, she’s absolutely drool-worthy. I have to back myself up a bit so I don’t slobber all over her. That’s not the scenario we’ve agreed on.
I reach for the snap at my other wrist, and it gives me a little jolt how her lips part when I break the bond. How she can’t tear her eyes away from where I’m stripping the leather from my skin.
After I’ve peeled the glove off, I reach for her chin, take the delicate point between my fingers, and raise her face. Anticipation crackles between us through the small point of contact, and then I do it.
Grip the cuff of my glove in a fist and u
se the finely stitched fingers and palm to slap her. Her mouth falls open as she makes a sound that reads as shock, arousal, and pain all braided together. I want to take the rope of sensation and tie her all up in it, have her helpless and begging for me.
Her eyes water and she rolls her lips between her teeth, but still she’s looking at me with lust. A knot of tension in me unfurls, gives me more material to weave a spell around her. I did it right. I’d practiced whenever I’d had a spare minute, slapping that damn glove against my hand, my thigh, my forearm to get the right force. To make her feel it without really hurting her. Pink up her peachy skin without leaving a mark that she’d have to explain in her office. And for once in my life, I got it right on the first try.
“I thought I asked you to have the wine breathing when I got home.”
She blinks because I’ve done nothing of the sort. It’s part of the game.
“I-I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do it—”
She reaches out her hands to crawl away, but I don’t let go of my grip on her chin. Instead I tighten it and shake my head.
“A glass of wine isn’t going to cut it anymore. I need something stronger than that to take this edge off.”
“Of course, sir. Anything you’d like.”
And she means anything. I’ve been given permission for just about anything, and the things on her hard limits list weren’t things I’d want from her anyhow. The mere thought of blood play makes me queasy, and I don’t even pretend to know enough about how to handle a singletail to be comfortable using it on anyone.
“What I’d like is to use you hard.”
Her delicate throat pulses as she swallows, and suddenly I want to choke her. Only a little. But I don’t know how to do that. Yet. Maybe I could ask Rey because breath play’s not on her hard limits list. In the meantime, I have plenty of other ways to enjoy her.
“Over to the coffee table.”
She trails me on hands and knees as I walk over and settle myself on the couch. It’s comfortable but not too soft. There’s a pitcher of water and two glasses waiting, so I pour myself a drink and then lean back, letting the tension of the day leak out of me.
“Sit,” I command and gesture to the table.
She does, keeping her knees primly closed and sitting up straight, the black corset she’s wearing pressing her breasts up into flesh so eager it’s practically spilling out of the brocade.
“I don’t think so.”
Instead of voicing my commands, though, I set my glass down and use my hands to position her as if she’s nothing but a doll to be arranged according to my whims. I tug at the top of her corset, and her breasts spill out, pushed high by the unforgiving fabric, her nipples already tightened into rosy points. I pinch them, hard enough to make her squeak, and roll them between my fingers. It’s so satisfying how such a small motion can affect her breath, changing it from mindfully even to insensible panting.
“You little slut,” I mutter, continuing to work at her, letting go of her nipples to squeeze her breasts. “Not good for anything but your parts, are you? Can’t even follow very simple instructions. It’s a good thing I like your holes.”
The vulgar words stir the bile in my stomach, but it’s completely overwhelmed by wanting. I want this, she wants this. It’s okay. I try to hear Rey in my head, let him make this all right. And between the way she’s looking at me, his ghostly reassurances, and my own overpowering hunger, I find a way to move forward, to keep spinning this cord.
Pushing her shoulders until she’s forced to lean back and brace herself on her hands, I grip her knees and spread them wide apart until I see that she may have on a garter belt to hold up those sexy fishnet stockings, but there aren’t any panties underneath that short skirt. Just her, spread wide open and waiting for me, glistening with want even in the low light.
Now that she looks wanton as fuck, I sit back again and grab a newspaper from the side table. I make her wait while I flip through the pages, not reading the words but using the thin paper as a shield, a decoy, because what I’m actually doing is staring at her exposed core and her heaving chest. Making her wait is getting her hot, and I have to pretend to be disgusted when she can’t help but squirm, her butt grinding into the smooth surface of the table. I roll up the paper and swat the inside of her thigh, like she’s a badly behaved animal.
“You can’t even sit still long enough for me to have a glass of water? You filthy little thing. Never happy unless you’re being used, are you?”
Her lower lip pushes out slightly, making me want to take it between my teeth. Instead I sigh and put my glass down.
“Fine, fine. But don’t think you’re going to get away with your poor manners. Over my lap.”
She practically vaults off the table in her rush to drape herself over my thighs, and when she’s there, I swing one of my legs out from under her to trap her between my legs. Thank god for my gym time with Jenkins and my runs along the Mall, because I can tighten around her like a vise and hold her there while I flip up her sorry excuse for a skirt and bare her perfectly round ass.
And then I spank her how I was taught, softer at first, increasing to harder strikes, and then I use whatever’s at my disposal because I can. I make her squirm under the thwap of my glove—something you wouldn’t think would hurt much on the thicker flesh of her bottom, but once the skin’s been sensitized, it’s easy to make it feel like more than it is. Also gives my stinging palm a rest. And then I pick up the paper and hit her with it, over and over.
Perhaps it’s because of what I’m beating her with, because I know it can’t hurt as much as my hand, but she starts to sniffle and shudder in that way that means she’s holding back tears. I want them. I want to make her cry, I want to see her face turn bright red from sobbing and embarrassment. So I hit her harder and start to talk.
“This is what you’re good for, isn’t it, you filthy little girl? Don’t have enough brains in your head to fill a thimble, but you’re awfully fun to spank.”
I put down the newspaper long enough to slip my fingers between her legs, and what I find…wetness. She’s so wet my fingers glide right through, right inside of her. I frig her a few times, relishing how hot and slick she is around me. When I know my fingers are good and coated, I take them out and she squeaks in protest. Which gives me a reason—not that I need one—to smack her butt again. The feeling of her own arousal making the slap wet and a little squelchy must ratchet her embarrassment and her excitement higher because she makes the most delicious sound, a cross between a mortified yelp and a moan. It makes the blood flow to my dick and harden painfully.
“You like this? Feeling how turned on you get by filthy words and a beating? That’s…revolting. That’s the word for it. You disgust me.”
She starts to cry then but also rocks her hips as well as she can, practically humping the thigh that’s trapping her.
I laugh, cruelty coloring the sound, and hit her again. And again.
“You’re not getting off like this, foolish girl. I’ve got other plans for you.”
I push my fingers between her legs again, trying not to frot against her when I hit that slick tightness of hers again. And instead of finger-fucking her to orgasm, I drag my drenched fingers to her asshole and circle it gently at first and then with more pressure.
“I’m going to fuck your ass tonight whether you like it or not.”
Not true. Not at all true. I’ve been taught how to make this good for her and goddammit I will, but the threat will make her melt. A plaintive, supplicating moan confirms.
I use a grip in her hair to lever her up and widen my legs so she sinks to the floor on her knees. Her face is red and splotchy, tears rolling over her mottled cheeks, eyelashes coated with more weeping to come.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I’ve fantasized about this so often, for so long, that finally having it in front of me is bewildering, but in the most fabulous way I could’ve possibly concocted. She is perfection. Gratitude hits me square in
the chest—to her, to Rey, to India, to everyone I’ve met at the club who hasn’t shrank back from me but welcomed me with open arms. If this is what acceptance feels like, no wonder everyone wants it. And more than that, fulfillment.
If I look at her anymore, I’m going to sink to my own knees and kiss her silly, make love to her, to my wife, and that’s not what we’re here for. If I’m very lucky, if I play every single card right, I might get to have that again. But for now, I use my grip in her hair to thrust her over toward the four-poster.
“On your back, on the bed.”
She scrambles up, clumsy in her desperation. Leaning against the pillows, she looks at me, her lips parted like she’s thirsting for more. So I’ll give it to her. I want her to feel as strung out and thrilled as I do.
I’m not smooth as I grab a towel and some lube from the basket slipped into the bedside stand. I shove the soft terry under her ass and flick open the tube on the cap, squeezing some out onto my fingers before shoving her thighs apart and rubbing my slick fingers over her hole.
Then I get ahold of myself and slow my movements so I can coax her to open for me. She breathes deep and even and gazes at me like I’m the center of her universe. I want to be. So I ease a finger inside of her, almost coming in my pants because this forbidden part of her feels so tight and hot, gripping even the slim girth of my finger so hard it makes me want to moan.
Despite my threat, I work my way inside her slowly, carefully, studying her for any sign that this hurts, that she’s not enjoying it, that I’m doing something wrong. What I get is breathy gasps, her eyes closing, her fingers tightening in the bedcovers.
When I think she’s ready from taking two fingers easily, I grab a hand towel and wipe off the lube on my fingers. I might be desperate, but I don’t want to ruin this suit. I’m not sure how well a drycleaner can get lube out of wool.
I’m an idiot to be thinking about this with Press spread out like a feast in front of me, but it’s an impulse I can’t help. This is what growing up with a scarcity mentality will do to a person.
True North (Compass series Book 4) Page 17