by Lynda Aicher
She spun around, tool in hand. His erection had softened some and the sight made her pause. “Are you sure?” she asked, her conscience invading. This wasn’t something she’d ever desired to do. By nature, she was the receiver, not the giver in this world.
“Yes, Mistress.” His even, controlled voice spoke of his lie. There was no pleasure or even willingness portrayed. Only resolve, a commitment to continue even if he didn’t want to.
“Damn you,” she growled, stepping forward and swinging at the same time. The square end of the crop smacked him right below his ribcage. The slap as it hit his skin vibrated up the tool and resonated under her palm at the same time the sharp sound reached her ears. He winced, but only slightly. “I’m not your Mistress.”
She hit him again, lower, just below his bellybutton. She knew from experience that the licks of stinging pain would shoot straight south. If he liked this, she would know. Shoving her hair out of her eyes, she watched his cock harden once again. He might not want to do this, but there was a part of him that liked it.
Raising the crop, she brought it down on his erection. The organ bobbed under the strike, his hips jutting forward as he bit back a sound. His face was screwed up in a grimace, but he kept silent despite the pain that had to be screaming through him.
“Let it go,” she demanded, frustrated at his restraint. She needed to hear his pain. Wanted his agony to match her own. “You wanted this.” She struck another blow on his groin area. “Let me hear you.” A smack on each thigh. He hissed. “Will you scream for me?” And the kill stroke, an upward strike against the underside of his cock.
“Fuck,” he roared, back arching, arms pulled tight against their restrictions.
Satisfaction curled through her, the little red squares from the crop standing out on his skin. But it was chased by a niggling thread of disgust. No. He asked for this.
There was a part of her mind that grasped she wasn’t acting rationally. That the events of the day had piled up to this point where there was no way for her to process it all. But she wasn’t backing down. She was done running away.
She threw down the crop, grabbed a flogger and struck. The tassels smacked over his abdomen before she brought them down on his chest. Over and over again she hit him, his skin coloring with pink stripes before flushing to a deep red. Vaguely she noticed the ache in her arm, the drop of sweat that ran down her temple, the strands of hair caught on her lower lip. But her own torments were nothing compared to the ones she’d wanted him to feel. For reasons she couldn’t process, she needed him to experience the hurt and pain that clawed within her.
She paused, panting from the exertion, her fingers clenching the leather handle of the flogger until they ached. His skin was red where she’d struck him and based on the coloring, there weren’t many places she’d missed in her frenzy. From the undersides of his arms down to his calves, he was marked in varying shades of red and pink, the stripes taunting her with her deed.
She’d done that to him. Her blood roared in her head, her pulse racing with adrenaline. Her eyes flashed to his face and she froze. He was staring back at her, his breathing as heavy as her own. His eyes were dilated but focused and what she saw there almost made her crumble.
Devotion.
She shook, refusing to see it. Refusing to understand what she saw. “No,” she snapped. “You can’t look at me like that.”
“How?” he demanded. “What do you see?”
She struck him again, the leather strands whipping across his nipples. He sucked in a breath but didn’t look away. “Don’t,” she cried.
“Don’t what? Care about you? Want you? Love you? Which is it, Kendra?”
“Damn you. You have no right.” To what, she didn’t care or even know. He just didn’t.
But he didn’t back down. It didn’t matter that he was at her mercy. He came at her with his words. “Why not? Because you don’t want me to? What do I have to do to prove myself to you? This is me. Here. For you.”
“But I didn’t ask you to be.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No! I don’t need you.”
“But you do need this,” he snarled, his arms jerking in their hold. “You told me that, and I listened.”
She reeled back, his verbal blow like a punch to her gut. Rejecting everything, she clung to her anger like the shield it was. Ass. Oh my God, he was as much of an ass as Eric. How could she have been so blind? Twice.
She spun away, unable to look at him anymore. More importantly, she didn’t want him to see how much his words hurt. How true his strike hit.
Grabbing the other flogger—the one made with hard leather and knots at the end of the tassels—she stalked around to his back. The new tool quivered against her calf where it hung from her hand, the strips of leather teasing her skin as if it couldn’t wait to be put to use.
He was as muscled and perfect from the back as the front. She swung the leather strips to smack over his rounded ass. No preamble, no warning. He didn’t deserve the courtesy. When he didn’t react or move an inch, she hit him again. And again until his butt muscles clenched and tensed, betraying his resolve.
“You going to safe word?” she taunted, almost wanting him to give in. But even before he responded, she knew his answer.
“No, Kendra.” He reply was flat. Emotionless after the passionate exchange just moments ago, making her anger simmer and boil over. He made her feel irrational when she didn’t want to be. Damn him. It didn’t matter that a part of her knew that’s exactly what she was. Instead of facing that fact she took aim at him.
“What are these?” She cracked the flogger over the list of names that reached from the crease of his butt down the back of his leg, stopping halfway down his calf. “Huh, Deklan? Why the names? Are they your victims? A list of kills?” She knew he’d been in the military. Were these the names of the people he’d taken out? The thought of that sickened her more. She really didn’t know him at all.
“No,” he gritted out, the anger back in his voice. His head hung between his raised arms, but he didn’t try to turn around or look at her.
Sensing she’d struck a nerve, Kendra honed in, needing to see him break. “I don’t believe you.” She flung the flogger over his leg again and again, wanting to scratch out every name on the limb. “Jessie McCall, Alex Stover, Juan Veracruz,” she read off, striking him after each name. “They mean nothing to you?”
“No, damn it.”
“Then who are they? Past lovers?” She laughed at the thought. All of the names except the very last one were male. But then maybe that explained why he’d rejected all of her offers for release.
“Drop it, Kendra.” His muscles were pulled tight, every one bulging under his skin down the length of his arms, shoulders and back.
“Answer me.” Her voice sounded shrill, the resounding echo scraping off the walls, making her wince. This wasn’t her. What was she doing? She thrust back the doubt and hit again. The back of his leg was bright red from the repeated strikes, the black ink of each name appearing even starker. “Did you kill these men?”
“Yes,” he roared. “Is that what you want to hear?”
Struck numb by his answer, she couldn’t move. Their labored breathing competing for air was the only sound in the large room. “No,” she whispered, not wanting to believe him.
His limbs went slack, as if the admission had sucked the strength from him. “They’re the ones I couldn’t save,” he said so quietly she almost missed it. His guilt was intertwined with each word and reached out to choke her.
“Couldn’t save? How?” There was something there that grated against her and she grabbed at that. Who was he saving?
“They all died under my watch.” He took a deep breath but said nothing more.
“Is that what I am?”
His head snapped up, the tension returning. “What do you mean?”
“Someone to save? A project to make you feel better?”
“No,” he denied,
venom strengthening his words.
But she didn’t believe him. Maybe she didn’t want to believe him. She didn’t want to feel for him. Couldn’t let herself feel anything for him except the anger that kept her distant. Separated. “Is this just another sacrifice you’re willing to endure to appease your guilt?” she snarled, grinding up the bitterness and beating it into him. “Well, consider me a failed project.”
“You’re not a project.”
“Wrong.” She struck him between the shoulder blades, his back arching away from the bite of the tassels. “Every client is a project for you.”
He gasped for air, his words pushing out between the breaths. “You’re more than a project. Isn’t that what this is all about?”
“No, damn you.”
“Then what is this?”
“You asked for it.”
She streaked around his side to see his face, needing to see his expression. He stared back at her, his eyes dark and fierce with emotion. A vein bulged at his temple, pulsing with the beat of his heart. Another snaked down his arm, the blue-purple trail contrasting with the red blush of his skin. He reminded her of a savage warrior, defiant even in defeat.
“You demanded a Scene. I gave it to you.” The hoarse tenor of his voice was the trigger that finally broke her.
“I am not a project,” she screamed, losing it completely. She didn’t want to see the concern in his eyes or hear the conviction in his voice.
Launching forward, she beat at his chest with her fists, the flogger dropped in her need to release her anger on him. Her pain. “I’m not a project,” she insisted, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
In one leap she was up him, scaling his body until her legs wrapped around his waist, her hand gripping the longer lengths of hair at the top of his head. She hugged him tight with her thighs, the hot span of his erection taunting beneath her wet pussy. He clenched his teeth and watched her, his pupils consuming his eyes, leaving only a thin circle of blue around the black.
“I am not a project.” Her voice was rough with emotion, her breath hitching with her struggle.
“I told you that.”
“I’m not broken,” she croaked, her hips moving to rub his cock over her spread and aching sex. “I don’t need to be fixed.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t,” he agreed. “You’re perfect as you are.”
He was lying, had to be. She was so far from perfect it was funny. This had to be another one of his games. He wasn’t going to win.
“Is this what you want?” She wiggled her bottom and was rewarded with a grimace and stifled moan. “What you’ve been waiting so patiently for this whole time?”
“No, Kendra.” The fire was back in his eyes, the tendons popping along the sides of his neck. “This was never about sex.”
His cock was rigid against her aching pussy. She rocked her hips, riding his hardness, letting it tease her clit. “But you want it.”
“No,” he gritted out, shaking his head in denial. “Not like this.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she demanded. All men wanted it. Her muscles were shaking with the strain of holding herself to him and she shifted her grip, lifting herself higher. His stiff dick followed her slight rise until the tip was resting so very close to her entrance.
“God, Kendra,” he groaned, his head dropping back to hang limp. He swallowed, the point of his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. “I want you so fucking badly. But don’t do this. Not here. Not like this.”
“Why not?” Her voice broke and she squeezed her eyes closed against the show of weakness. He was denying her. But he wasn’t in control here. She was. “It doesn’t matter,” she countered quickly. “This is my show.”
His head snapped up, his eyes pleading with her. “Don’t do this, Kendra. Stop and think for a second. Who is in control here?”
“Me,” she fired back, her point proven.
“Right,” he said, conviction flashing in his eyes. “So whose show is this?”
Slowly understanding dawned, clearing her fog of denial and forced resistance. She was in charge, but it wasn’t her show. It was his. She was supposed to care for him. Listen to him.
Be there for him.
The small keening sound that leaked from her mouth was pulled from the depths of her humiliation. She had the power and by ignoring him, she was abusing it.
She was abusing him.
Oh, God. She shoved away from him, the horror of what she’d done, of what she was about to do ripped at her heart and tore out her soul. Her feet hit the cold floor, dumping her back into reality. Her hand shook against her lips as she edged away. “I’m so sorry...so sorry. Oh, God...” The tears flowed freely, leaving wet trails of her shame on her cheeks. How could she have done that? What kind of monster was she?
“It’s okay,” he soothed. “Baby, it’s fine. It’s okay.”
“No,” she whimpered, shaking her head, refusing to be forgiven. “I...what did I do?” She was no better than Eric. Her actions were appalling. Disgusting. She’d become everything she despised. Worse. “I almost,” she choked, bending in half, her arms wrapped around her waist as a sob escaped. “I almost forced you...” She couldn’t finish. She couldn’t say it out loud.
Her knees hit the floor as she crumbled under the weight of her actions. What had she done? She curled into a fetal position in an attempt to hide. He’d said no and she almost forced herself on Deklan anyway.
“I’m so sorry,” she moaned into her arms. “So sorry.” The words repeating over and over around the tears that refused to stop. She shook with it all. The fatigue, pain, shame, shock—it was all there in every sob and tear that fell.
After years of running, hiding and dodging, she’d finally hit rock bottom. And she’d done it to herself.
Chapter Twenty
The low, mournful cries filled the Dungeon, flaying Deklan raw with their tortured echo. He jerked at the bonds, not caring if he ripped his fucking arm off. He needed to get to Kendra. Her pain flayed at him worse than the flogging she’d given him. She was huddled in a ball, her face hidden behind her hands and hair, her whole body shaking with each gasping sob she expelled.
He didn’t know what he’d expected to happen when he’d started this Scene, but it wasn’t this. Hurting her like this was never his intention. Now he couldn’t even comfort her. He was such a shit. Growling, he gave another yank on the bonds, knowing it was useless.
Never in his life had he felt so helpless and exposed. And he was the one who’d caused this.
The creak of a door opening had his head snapping around. He met Seth’s cool stare as the other man strode toward him. Deklan looked away, unable to deal with the judgment he saw there. Not now.
Not with Kendra’s pain-filled cries fueling his guilt.
Seth undid his wrists cuffs without saying a word. The second his hands were free, Deklan bent and went to work on his ankle bonds, but his fingers were numb and fumbling, his hands shaking. Pushing away his bumbling efforts, Seth completed what Deklan couldn’t seem to manage.
He growled, accepting the help with grudging reluctance, and waited for the last cuff to be undone. Even before the leather was completely freed, he was moving. His knees slammed against the hard floor and she was in his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Kendra,” he whispered against her temple. He clenched her to his chest and she didn’t resist him, wonder of wonders. Threading his fingers through her hair, he cupped the back of her head and tucked it into the crook of his neck. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
His heart cracked with each tear that hit his skin. She placed her hand over his shoulder and he almost broke when she tugged him closer. Skin to skin, she pressed against him, completely naked for the very first time and in more than the physical sense. She’d bared everything to him and in turn stripped him raw.
At that moment he knew with certainty he was never letting her go.
He lifted her up and carried her out of the Dungeon.
The long trek back to Jake’s loft was made in complete isolation. He didn’t know if everyone was truly gone or just smart enough to stay out of sight.
The light from the kitchen showed his way as he moved through the silent loft to the guest room, where he sometimes crashed. He worked at the covers one-handed until he could crawl under them, Kendra still tucked safely in his arms.
His heart pounded out the significance of the moment. This was the first time he’d ever allowed himself to just hold a woman in bed. His Scenes took place in the Dungeon, his aftercare on a chair or a couch. Beds were intimate. Personal. Then again, everything with Kendra was personal. It had been since the very beginning. Seth had been right about that. Tonight hadn’t crossed the line because he’d trampled that boundary long ago.
She eventually stretched out, wrapping herself tightly to his side, one leg wedged between his. The sting and bite where she rubbed against his skin still tender from her flogging were fit reminders of how he’d failed her. Her cries slowed until they became soft sniffles and finally deep, breathy sighs. And still he held her, rubbing his palms over her soft skin in motions meant to soothe.
Outside the wind continued to hammer at the windows, making them rattle in their frames and declaring that the storm was still going strong. She swiped at her cheek with her fingers then tugged up the edge of the sheet to dry the rest of her face. Her breath hitched a few more times as she settled back into his arms, never once looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her lips fluttering against the hollow of his collarbone. “Please forgive me.”
The vulnerability in her voice had him pulling her closer. If he could he swore he’d take her right inside of him, where he could always keep her safe. “Already done,” he told her. “If you’ll forgive me.”
“But...I’m the one who hurt you.”
“And I hurt you.” He ran his fingers down the line of her jaw, feeling what he couldn’t see. “Sleep now. We’ll talk more later.” Neither one of them was in the right frame of mind for the discussion they needed to have.