by Nia Farrell
Chapter Seven
“So how’s it going?”
The Replay limo had picked up Marcus, who was oddly quiet, then her, then Gini. Rowena knew the little librarian wouldn’t give up, and she filled them both in on what had happened.
“We watched the scene and left early. Got coffee. Talked in the car. He took me home and made a trip out today to see my gardens. We fed the goldfish. He went back to the resort. We have another date tonight, after the scene.”
Last night had been surprisingly uneventful in some ways. Soul-wrenching and cathartic in others. After she’d invited him back to see Ginger Owens’s writing space, he had kissed her forehead and bid her good night. He didn’t spank her. Didn’t even mention it. And yet thoughts of his promised discipline were hanging over her head like Damocles’s sword. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.
Before leaving today, he’d ordered her to bring a change of clothes and come prepared to spend the night.
She was already wet, thinking about it.
Thoughts of submitting to Micheil MacDonald almost made up for the hour she’d spent on the phone with Nathan Roth, listening to his excuses as to why she didn’t know about the offer for The Brave Little Pony. By the end of their conversation, he was dancing to a new tune and more than willing to represent Ginger Owens. It was sure to be a learning curve for them both, but he had it easy this time. He didn’t have to shop the manuscript around. There was already a buyer.
Marcus emerged from wardrobe first, dressed in pin stripes and spats, wearing a black leather glove over the hardware of his hand. Gini’s short hair didn’t need much done for her flapper impression. The two women spent more time in makeup, dressed only in seamed hosiery below their corselets, with chunky-heeled, leather-and-rhinestone shoes strapped on their feet. Finished, they shimmied into their beaded flapper dresses and descended on Marcus.
One look at flapper Gini, and he didn’t have a chance.
As promised, Sir Piers had reserved them a table in a private alcove where they could listen to music and dance. The main scene was on the opposite end of the space, stage-dressed like a 1920s Chicago speakeasy.
Prohibition wasn’t a problem here. Marcus and Gini split a bottle of champagne. Red-haired Regina Wright stuck with her customary fruited water. They’d brought in a band and stocked the bar with period-appropriate libations. The kitchen was open for standard fare and special orders, including a vegan platter for Gini—fresh vegetables, fruits, chocolates, and nuts.
The only thing missing was Micheil MacDonald.
Disappointed but hating to be a spoil sport, she conversed with Marcus and Gini and encouraged them to dance. Micheil would be here, eventually. At the very least, he’d collect her from wardrobe and take her to his suite.
The MacDonald brothers made their entrance fashionably late. Decked out like a pair of high-rolling gangsters, they commanded a table close to the action. Once things got more interesting, Xander decided he’d like to play, too, and joined one of the staff Doms and a gun moll submissive in a threesome.
Rowena looked away, uncomfortable with watching. That was regrettable, since it meant that she couldn’t watch Micheil either.
She glanced at him, from time to time, surreptitiously, over the rim of her goblet as she drank. Gini teased that she’d never seen her so thirsty. For that, Rowena made Gini dance a tango with Marcus. As soon as they went onto the floor, she headed off set for the ladies’ room.
When she came out, Micheil was waiting in the hall.
“Hello.” She barely got it out when his mouth came crashing down on hers, as if the restraint he’d shown last night and earlier today was shattered, smashed in a half million pieces and offered on the altar of desire. He wanted her. His touch, his taste, his body told her so.
She wanted him, too—and not for just tonight. One night would never be enough with him. It wouldn’t be enough for either of them.
“I had yer things sent ahead,” he growled against the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his breath like dragon’s fire on her skin. She trembled when he slid a hand to the small of her back and pulled her against him, letting her feel his desire. “St. Leger and Vos know we’re leaving.”
As if she had a choice. He was right. She knew where this was headed, that she would give him whatever he wanted, yield whatever he would take, submit to his will without questions or doubts.
They went to his suite. “Safe word?” he asked as he slipped off her dress. While he hung it in the coat closet by the door, she glanced around the room and into the bedroom beyond. Except for the spanking bench, the St. Andrew’s cross in the corner, and an entertainment center that held an assortment of ropes, whips, paddles, and floggers as well as the obligatory flat screen TV, it looked like any other upscale hotel suite.
“Crimson.”
He smiled. Nothing as ordinary as red for her. “And tae slow the pace?”
“Jonquil.”
He walked a full circle around her, taking in the corselet that covered her from above her breasts to her upper thigh. Suspenders stretching from the bottom gripped the tops of her silk stockings. She’d checked her seams in the restroom to make certain they were straight.
“That stays on for now. Shoes off.”
She slipped out of her heels and set them neatly inside the closet below her dress. Returning to Micheil, she dropped to her knees in a perfect submissive’s pose.
He took off his gangster suit coat and matching vest and hung them in the closet. He looked sexy as sin in navy suspenders worn with his crisp white shirt and slacks.
Micheil was quiet for a long moment. “Nae, the wig’s coming off, too. Follow me.”
They went to the bedroom’s en suite. He directed her to sit on the vanity stool, facing the mirror, and stood behind her. She met his gaze in their shared reflection, watched him unpin and remove her wig, peel off the net underneath, and take down her hair. He left long enough to fetch her hairbrush from her overnight bag and plied it in increasingly longer strokes, working from the ends up, until he could go from her crown to her waist in one smooth pass.
“Tell me,” he said while he worked. “How old were ye when ye understood it wasnae yer fault?”
Biting her lip, she met his eyes in the glass, then dropped her gaze to her lap. “Twenty-two,” she whispered, sad and embarrassed and angry to admit it had taken so long. “After the Viking raid, I went into therapy. It took eight weeks of sessions to come out. Trust issues.”
“Do ye trust me, lass?”
She looked at him in the mirror, brushing her hair, gently, knowing that at any time he could fist it and bend her to his will, take her mouth hard and deep enough to choke her, and she would let him. “Yes,” she said, her voice grown hoarse. She couldn’t explain it, but she did.
He traced the neckline of her corselet with his finger. “As much as I like this, it’s in the way.”
She unhooked her stockings and peeled them down. Took off her corselet, leaving only her vintage brassiere and panties.
“The first of four,” he told her. “On my lap. With my hand. Count of twenty. There’s an armless leather chair out there. Go kneel by it.”
She didn’t know what to expect when he came back, other than a count of twenty strikes with his bare hand, but Micheil had gone from 1920s gangster pinstripes to Scottish Dom billionaire black. When she saw the painted-on hi tech tee, the low-riding double buckled leather kilt that hung from his lean hips to his bare knees, and Jimmy Choo biker boots, she nearly orgasmed on sight.
He sat on the chair and patted his thigh. “Taenight you’ll ride my knee, instead of my Ducati.”
She crawled the half-step to him and gratefully draped herself across his lap, inhaling the earthy scents of leather and primeval forest and male musk. She turned her head, and her hair spilled over, tumbling down his leg. He put his large hands on her silk panties and rubbed her backside through them. His fingers followed the crevice and dipped between her legs.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ye want this?”
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.”
He pulled her panties down to her thighs, baring her buttocks, then his hands were back, touching her skin, feeling her form, judging her muscle tone to see just how much she could take.
“Count,” he said, and the first blow rained down with a sharp crack. Pain bloomed, and she rocked with the force of it.
“One, Sir,” she gasped, surprised to feel tears so soon.
He rubbed at the hurt, soothing her flesh. Then, smack!
“Two, Sir,” she wheezed, her cheeks already wet and her nose starting to get stuffy. Micheil MacDonald was just that good. He alternated sides, spanking, rubbing, while she struggled to count the strokes and stay with him rather than slide off into subspace. He hadn’t given her permission to go there, and she knew better than to climax without his consent. It was all she could do to hold back. By the time they reached twenty, she was ready to beg him for an orgasm.
He undid her bra in the back and slid it off her shoulders, tossing it aside along with her panties.
“Present yerself,” he ordered, and she knelt at his feet, eyeing the tented front of his leather kilt. Leaning forward, he smoothed back her hair, then fisted it with one hand, while the other lifted the leather kilt, exposing his turgid length.
He was huge. Incredibly thick and impressively long. He fisted himself, and she wet her lips, hungry to taste the drop of pre-cum in the slit of the large plum head. He’d read her blog. If he had seen the viral post on blow jobs, he knew how she liked it. Knew what she could do. Knew he wouldn’t scare the crap out of her by going deep. His cock was large enough, it was going to scrape against her teeth and become intimately acquainted with her tonsils.
He was so aroused, the skin of his massive erection looked wet even before he shoved it in her mouth. He pushed it down her throat, cutting off her air and holding it there. When he felt her struggling, he slid back just enough to let her breathe again. Then he was back, fucking her mouth with a feral growl and a single-minded fierceness that thrilled her to the core.
She loved the way he tasted, the way he used her, hunger tempered with mercy. He didn’t put on a condom. She knew better than to ask, not with him. Each of them knew the other was clean. They’d had to provide tests beforehand. He knew she hadn’t been with anyone recently, and unless she was much mistaken, he hadn’t either.
She teased him with her tongue as much as he’d let her, which wasn’t nearly enough. She slid her hands up his thighs and cradled his balls, cupping, weighing, playing with them while he fucked her mouth and her pussy grew as wet as waterweed.
Rowena felt the change in him, the subtle shift in tempo, the snap at the end of each stroke, his breath growing harsher, his balls drawing up tight and his cock swelling. “Take it,” he ordered, and poured himself into her mouth.
She moaned around him, vibrating his pulsing length as he emptied himself on her tongue. She swallowed spurt after spurt of thick, slightly sweet, salty cum until she’d sucked him dry. Micheil MacDonald tasted as good as he looked.
He chuckled when she told him that. “Aye? Ye wouldnae say that just tae get out of the next one? We’ve three more tae go, although it’s likely I’ll only get the second done taenight.”
Which meant there were other things he wanted to do with her. Sleep wasn’t what came to mind, although at some point, they’d surely need to do that, too.
They took a break between sets. Micheil had her sit on his lap while he fed her strawberries and chocolate and tried to get her to drink champagne.
“No. Sir,” she added, kissing his hand that was holding the flute. “Addiction is a problem that runs in my family. With my father and two of my brothers, it’s alcohol. That’s why forced drinking is a hard limit for me.”
“Would ye rather I dinnae drink?” he asked.
“Only if it pleases you not to, Sir. I won’t pretend to like how it smells, or to like how your mouth tastes when you kiss me, but I won’t deny you, Sir.”
He lifted her chin, and she was stunned by the intensity in his gaze. “Playing innocent is what earned you the next set, remember? Never pretend with me,” he ordered. “Anything less than the truth will be swiftly and severely punished, do ye understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Second set. St. Andrew’s Cross. It’s going tae hurt, but if ye’ve been good, when ye beg me, I’ll let ye go intae subspace. After that, I’m going tae hae ye. I’ve waited long enough.”
He allowed her time in the bathroom and helped her put up her hair before he fastened her to the cross, wrists first, then ankles, the whole of her back exposed to him. Her bottom was tender and red from his spanking, but he wanted to lay beautiful stripes on her flesh.
He started with a soft leather flogger, then moved to a single tail. He wielded it with an expertise that had her hovering on the edge of subspace. At the first stroke of the cane, she begged him to let her go. By the second stroke, she was there.
When Rowena came back to awareness, she was lying in bed, wrapped in Micheil’s arms. Both of them were naked. He had rubbed lotion on her tender skin and continued to massage her, praising her, encouraging her to return to awareness, bringing her back to him so that he could finish what they’d begun.
Looking over her shoulder, she met his electric blue eyes. In that moment, she was shameless. She would do anything he wanted, and he knew it. “Please, Sir,” she whispered. “I need you. I want you inside me. Please…”
He shoved one digit, then two into her slit, driving in deep. When her pussy was so wet, she was dripping onto the bed, he slid his thumb into the puckered ring of flesh and fingerfucked the two holes at once, pounding into her, bringing her to the edge time and again. “Not yet,” he ordered when she angled her hips, hoping he’d hit her clit.
“Please,” she begged him. “Please, Sir. It hurts.”
“If it hurts, use yer safe word and this ends,” he grated, quickening his pace, deepening his strokes.
Oh God oh God oh God. She didn’t know how much more she could take, but she couldn’t let him stop. She needed him, needed to feel him inside her. She’d take his cock, any way she could get it.
“Dinnae move,” he ordered, and slipped his fingers free. He washed his hands in the bathroom and returned with toys he’d selected for her.
“I know from yer blog what ye like. Oral. Anal. Double and triple penetration. I willnae share ye, but I’ll make certain ye dinnae miss it.”
He adorned her nipples with a pretty pair of clamps, tugging the chain and making her buck off the bed. “Hands and knees,” he ordered gruffly. Slipping a condom on a hefty-sized dildo, he lubed it up, parted her cheeks, and pressed it against her backdoor, working it past the tight ring of muscle, slipping it in an inch, then out a half inch, until it was seated to the base. He fucked her ass with it, and she whimpered, needing to feel him inside her too.
He turned her onto her back and wedged her thighs apart with his knees. Hooking her legs over his forearms, he reached between them to guide the tip of his cock into her pussy. Once the head was seated, he surged inside and rammed deep, making her cry out when he hit bottom.
He more than filled her, and the dildo made her tighter yet. He pulled out and slammed back in, his balls slapping against the base, setting her nerve endings on fire and sending tidal waves of sensation up her rectum. He moved like a well-oiled machine, with an effortless strength that told her he could likely go all night, far beyond what her tender flesh could take.
He was relentless. Tireless. Determined. Time ceased as he kept her on the edge, refusing to let her go over. Finally, he slipped a hand between them and pressed his thumb against her clit. “Come for me, lass,” he ordered, and she exploded beneath him, her body stiffening, toes curling, as her waves crashed against him, pussy walls clamping and milking his turgid length.
“Fuck, ye’re tig
ht,” he grated. “Let’s do that again.” He circled her clit and brought her to the brink, but this time he was there with her, his balls tightening, his cock swelling. The fit was so snug, with his impressive size and the toy, she swore she could feel the cum moving in his shaft. When he was ready to let go, he tapped her clamped nipple to send her hurtling over the edge at the same time he exploded inside her, his body jerking as he emptied himself, pumping jets of cum that filled her pussy to overflowing.
He put her legs down but kept their bodies joined, lowering her hips to the bed while he braced himself on straightened arms and stayed suspended above her. She shouldn’t have been surprised when he started getting hard again. He rocked his hips, a slow tease at first, keeping his weight off of her, but the brush of his chest against her nipples made her cry out in pain.
Micheil slipped free of her and removed the clamps, sucking each nipple in his mouth as it was freed to help ease the ache. He took the dildo out of her ass, peeled off the condom that helped keep it clean, and threw the latex away in the bathroom. He returned with a fistful of foil packets and tossed them on the nightstand by the lubricant.
The heat in his eye, the look on his face, made her tremble. “Ye’re beautiful,” he told her. “Lying in my bed, marked with my seed. Mine.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said. “I am yours, and you, Sir,” she said, “I believe, are the exception to my rule.”
That earned her a smile, which lingered for a moment before he grew serious again. “Lass,” he said, “ye ken what happens next. I cannae promise I’ll be gentle, so fierce is the wanting.”
“I have safe words, Sir. I’ll say jonquil if I need you to slow down. How would you like me, Sir? What would please you?”
That earned her a kiss on the forehead. “Face down,” he said. “Wrists and ankles bound tae the bed.”
“Thank you, Sir,” she told him, smiling that he’d read her blog.
He secured her outstretched hands to the top of the bed in fleece lined leather manacles and her ankles to the bottom, adjusting the tension until she was stretched tight. He admired his work, then put on a condom, the first that he’d worn with her.