Now Nora laughed.
“I don’t scream, Sir. I make others scream. In fact, that’s how I ended up at the police station this morning.”
“You don’t scream? You say that like it’s a fact,” he said, unstrapping her from the cross, “when we both know I’ll just take it as a challenge.”
He dragged her from the cross to a small bed piled high with silk sheets and pillows. Pulling a pillow to the center of the bed, he pushed Nora down onto it, positioning it under her hips as she lay face down on the bed. She waited while he moved about the room gathering supplies. He was cute, Brad was, Nora thought. Scream? Her? During sex?
Brad came back to the bed and took both her wrists in one hand. First he looped black silk rope around them before tying them to one bedpost. She heard metal and felt Brad forcing her legs even wider open. He clamped cuffs around her booted ankles and hooked them to the ends of a spreader bar. Nora breathed deep and let her hips open up and relax into the three-foot spread. Brad must be in the mood to go deep.
“Are you trying to make me scream from pleasure or pain?” Nora taunted. With her ankles so far apart, she’d probably feel Brad all the way against her bottom ribs. Fine. Let him fuck her like that. She could take and would take it … all the way to Europe for a month.
“Doesn’t matter as long as you’re screaming.” She heard the dark amusement in his voice. Typical sadist–arrogant, superior, and casually brutal. They really were her favorite men.
Brad straddled her hips and Nora took a few slow, calming breaths. No one had been inside her for two months. And at this angle in this position … this wasn’t going to be easy.
Close your eyes and think of England … Nora repeated Queen Victoria’s famous wedding-night advice to herself. England. France. Europe. Castles … dungeons … men who didn’t speak English … the canals of Venice … water lapping at the sides of her boat … the wheels of trains passing through the Alps … the sounds of buzzing …
Buzzing?
Brad pushed a hand under Nora’s hips and lifted them an inch off the pillow. She flinched with pleasure as he pressed a butterfly-style vibrator against her clitoris. A hand on her back guided her back down into the pillow, the vibrator firmly nestled against her, sending waves of bliss reverberating through her hips and stomach and thighs. Over the buzzing she heard the unmistakable sound of foil tearing.
Nora turned her face into the burgundy silk as Brad pressed his knees against hers. As wet as she was and as open, Nora took his full length into her easily. She groaned as he filled her inch by inch.
“That’s a good start,” he whispered in her ear. “I think we can turn the volume up a little though.”
He punctuated the suggestion with a thrust, hard and deep. Nora gasped and pushed into the vibrator. Her clitoris pulsated with sensation. She pulled against the ropes that tied her to the bedpost.
“You can’t get away …” Brad trailed kisses across her shoulders. He moved slowly inside her, pulling himself out to the tip before pushing back in. Nora’s gasps turned to moans and back to gasps again. Brad set a steady pace and didn’t deviate from it no matter how Nora moved underneath him. He kept her perched on the edge of ecstasy but didn’t push hard enough to send her over. Instead he continued to thrust with precision and control. It seemed to go on forever. Nora felt herself rising off the bed as she fell into the rhythm of the sex. God, she missed this. And not only the penetration, the physical sensation, she missed being underneath a man, missed being dominated, being used. She shouldn’t like this feeling so much. It put terrible thoughts in her head. Thoughts of him … the man who’d found her, made her, changed her, and loved her. The man she left and would never go back to.
Brad slipped his hands over her ribcage and cupped her breasts, holding them as he began to thrust harder into her. With such force she should have been moaning with pain, but the vibrator pulsed into her clitoris and the harder he pushed the more she wanted. Her breathing grew louder, more ragged, more desperate and hungry. She heard Brad’s own grunts of pleasure in her ear. She let out a moan, deep and throaty, and Brad started to pound into her with brutal force. The pleasure slammed against pain and pushed back into pleasure. Brad reached under her and forced the vibrator even harder into her.
Nora buried her face in the sheets. Brad dug his teeth into the back of her shoulder. When she came, she came with a scream even the bed could not muffle. But not even her scream could cover the sound of Brad’s groan as he flinched and shuddered with his own powerful orgasm.
Passively Nora lay beneath Brad as he caught his breath before pulling slowly out of her raw body. He untied her wrists from the bedpost, unstrapped her ankles from the spreader bar. Nora rolled onto her back, looked his naked form up and down, and laughed.
“Yes, laughing at me while I’m naked,” Brad said, as he looped the rope and knotted it neatly. Nora saw the amusement in his eyes. “That is sure to get you into my good graces.”
“I’m only laughing because your nickname is so appropriate … Mr. Big Brad Wolfe,” Nora said with nothing but appreciation for his big-bradness. “Is Wolfe really your last name?”
Brad gave her a wink.
“Is Nora Sutherlin really your name?”
“Touché. So it’s been an hour. And you made me scream, you bastard. Do I win? Do I get my five minutes with the Dame?”
Brad sighed heavily.
“Talking about your one motivation for letting me beat you and fuck you won’t really get you on my good side either.”
This time, Nora couldn’t see the smile.
“Brad … you knew I was here to see The Dame. One hour with you, five minutes with her. That was the deal.” Nora raised up on her elbows, wincing at the soreness between her legs.
“The deal. Right.”
“You and me … we’re supposed to be professionals here,” she reminded him.
“I don’t fuck my clients.” Brad pulled on his pants with brisk efficiency. “Neither do you, I hear. What happened here wasn’t business.”
“Yeah … but it was a lot of fucking fun.” She winked at him and Brad finally cracked a smile.
“I can’t argue with that. Okay, get dressed. The Dame’s office is opposite this one in the other hall–black door, red knob. Don’t bother knocking. Just go in.”
“Will she be nice to me?”
“Depends on her mood. I’ll see you out.”
Brad left without even kissing her goodbye. Then Nora realized how odd it was she even wanted him to. Just sex. Just a trade. Just business.
Careful of her flogged back, Nora dressed in her skirt and corset and pulled on her red cloak once more. She took her time for reasons she didn’t want to consider. She needed to get this over with so she could get out of town and forget about Kingsley, about the Black Forest, and especially about the Big Brad Wolfe. She’d lay down her little red riding crop for a few weeks and come back to New York more vicious than ever.
Nora strode down the hall to the black door with red knob. After one quick breath, she turned the knob, stepped inside and felt her jaw hitting the floor.
When she finally picked it up again, she could only manage one single sentence.
“My goodness,” Nora said to The Dame, “what a big … crop you have.”
Brad escorted Nora to the door of the Black Forest.
“So what are you going to tell Kingsley?” he asked, running a hand up and down Nora’s arm.
“I’ll tell him the truth. I met The Dame. I talked to The Dame. The Dame promised to stop poaching King’s people if King promises he’ll stop sending spies into Black Forest.”
“Very good. What if Kingsley asks what The Dame is like?”
Nora grinned up at Brad, up at the mysterious Dame who no one ever saw but everyone had heard of.
“Like I said, I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll tell him The Dame is amazing in bed.”
“You can also tell Kingsley The Dame will send Hunt back to him if Kingsle
y’s willing to give the poor boy two days off a week.”
Nora nearly sagged with relief.
“You’re giving Hunt back? I’m a better lay than I thought I was.”
“Top five of my life. Definitely.”
“Thank you, Sir. You’re not so bad yourself.”
With a final grin thrown over her shoulder, Nora left the club and headed back to the real world, to the streets of Manhattan, the streets she couldn’t wait to leave behind. All the way back to her house in Connecticut, Nora thought of Brad and the brilliant ruse of The Dame–the club-owner no one ever saw but who ruled her dark little world from behind the sheer curtains of Black Forest. She’d somehow earned Brad’s trust, earned a glimpse behind that curtain. And more importantly, had earned her month off, her month in Europe.
She barely slept that night while trying to decide where she’d go, what she would do with all her time off. The next morning she packed fast, grabbed her passport and decided to book a ticket at the airport. Fate would decide her next move. She’d pick a destination based on the next flight out when she got there.
At Kingsley’s townhouse, she picked up her last paycheck for four weeks and parked her car in his garage. In the cab, she told the driver to take her to JFK and drop her at any gate she wanted. Nora leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. Freedom … she’d earned a month of freedom. No boss to tell her what to do, where to go, what things to do, what people to beat. Exactly what she wanted, right? So why did she feel so uneasy?
The cab jolted as it hit a bump and Nora opened her eyes.
“What happened?”
“Sorry, Miss. Construction. Had to take a detour,” the driver said.
Nora nodded and looked out the window. To her right she saw none other than the entrance to Black Forest. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as memories of Brad inside her body caused desire to well up inside her hips and stomach.
The cab started to inch forward and Nora let out a “Stop!”, saying the word before she even knew why.
The driver slammed on the brakes. Nora grabbed her suitcase and threw a hundred through the window.
“I’m getting out here. Thanks.”
Nora half walked, half ran to the door of Black Forest and knocked until her knuckles turned red.
The door flew open.
Brad stood staring at her. The stare turned into a smile that turned into a laugh that filled the Black Forest.
“My … what a big smile you have,” Nora said, trying to rein in her own idiotic grin.
Brad grabbed her by the arm, pulled her into the club, and slipped his hand under her skirt.
One kiss on the lips turned into another and another.
“Why …” he whispered, as his mouth trailed down her body, “all the better to eat you with.”
If you enjoyed Little Red Riding Crop, then you’ll love
The Siren
The first book in The Original Sinners trilogy by Tiffany Reisz
is available now - turn the page to start reading …
Some love stories you never forget.
Some books will change your world.
Be prepared … this is one of them.
She tore herself from the man she adored, who transformed her, who possessed her … who would have destroyed her.
Now she is adored by a man she must not have.
She thinks she knows what it means to be pushed to her limits.
She’s wrong.
Turn the page to begin a love story you will never forget
Numbing.
As an editor Zach often forced his writers to dig deep, cast aside the obvious and find the perfect word for every sentence. And the perfect word to describe this book release party he’d been forced to attend? Numbing. Zach stalked through the party saying little more than the occasional hello to various colleagues. He’d only come because once again J.P. had twisted his arm, and Rose Evely—the guest of honor—had been a Royal House writer for thirty years now. What a ludicrous party anyway—someone dimmed the lights to create a nightclub sort of atmosphere but no amount of ambience could turn the banal hotel banquet hall into anything other than a beige box. He wandered toward a spiral staircase in the corner of the room to surreptitiously check his watch. If he could survive two hours at this party, maybe it would be long enough to placate his social butterfly of a boss.
Scanning the crowd, he saw his twenty-eight-year-old assistant, Mary, trying to talk her new husband into dancing with her. J.P. stood with Rose Evely. Both J.P. and Evely had been happily married to their respective spouses for decades but nothing stopped J.P. from chivalrously flirting with any woman who had the patience to listen to his literary rambles. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves at this miserable party. Why wasn’t he?
Once more he glanced down at his watch.
“I can save you, if you want,” came a voice from above him. Zach spun around and looked up. Smiling down at him from over the top of the staircase was Nora Sutherlin.
“Save me?” He narrowed his eyes at her.
“From this party.” She crooked her index finger at him. Zach’s better judgment warned him that climbing that staircase could be a very bad idea indeed. Yet his feet overruled his reason, and he mounted the steps and joined her on the platform at the top. He raised his eyebrow as he cast a disapproving gaze over her clothes. That morning at her house, she’d worn shapeless pajamas that concealed every part of her but her abundant personality. Now he saw on full display what his mind had before only imagined.
She wore red, of course. Scarlet red and not much of it. The dress stopped at the top of her thighs and started at the edge of her breasts. She had miraculous curves that the dramatic floor-length red jacket she wore over her dress did nothing to hide. Even worse, she wore black leather boots that laced all the way above her knees. Pirate boots and a roguish grin on a beautiful black-haired woman … for the first time in a long time Zach felt something other than numb.
“How do you know I want to be saved from this party, Miss Sutherlin?” Zach leaned back against the railing and crossed his arms.
“I’ve been watching you from my little crow’s nest here since the second you walked in. You’ve said maybe five words to four people, you’ve checked your watch three times in as many minutes, and you whispered something to J.P., which, guessing from the look on his face, was a death threat. You’re here against your will. I can get you out.”
Zach cocked a self-deprecating smile at her. “Unfortunately, you’re right. I am here against my will. I have to wonder, however, why you’re here at all. Didn’t I give you homework?” he asked, remembering his rash decision this morning to give her one chance to impress him.
“You did. And I was a good girl and finished it. See?” He tried and failed to look away as she reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. The paper was still warm from her skin. “This is it?” he asked, seeing only three paragraphs on the page.
“Don’t judge a book by its mother. Just read.” Zach glanced at her once more and wished he hadn’t. Every time he looked at her, he found something else to attract him. Her jacket had slipped down her arm and her pale sculpted shoulder peeked out. Sculpted? His petite little writer had some muscle to go along with her impressive curves. Tougher than she looked.
Remembering himself, Zach turned from her, tilted the page into a patch of light and read.
First she noticed his hips. The eyes might be the windows to the soul, but a man’s hips were his seat of power. She doubted he’d chosen those perfectly fitted jeans and that black T-shirt that belied the tautness of his stomach for the purpose of flattering his lower body, but he had and now she lost herself in the thought of caressing with her lips that exquisite hollow that lay between smooth skin and elegantly jutting hip bone.
She had to meet his eyes eventually. With reluctance she dragged her gaze to his face, as dignified and angular as the rest of him. Pale skin and
dark Brutus-cut hair contrasted with eyes the color of ice. Glacial, she decided his eyes were—they spoke of hidden depths. A stark beauty, he was a man made to be admired by intelligent women. Lean and tall but with the substantial mass of an athlete, he was utterly masculine. The world had fallen away in his presence and now that he was gone, she was left in the equally potent presence of his absence.
Zach read the words one more time trying all the while to ignore the annoyingly pleasant image of Nora Sutherlin caressing his naked hips with her mouth.
“I’ve noticed you usually shy away from long descriptive passages in your books?” he said.
“I know people think erotica is just a romance novel with rougher sex. It’s not. If it’s a subgenre of anything, it’s horror.”
“Horror? Really?”
“Romance is sex plus love. Erotica is sex plus fear. You’re terrified of me, aren’t you?”
“Slightly,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
“A smart horror writer will never put too much detail in about the monster. The readers’ imaginations can conjure their own demons. In erotica you never want your main characters to be too physically specific. That way your readers can insert their own fantasies, their own fears. Erotica is a joint effort between writer and reader.”
“How so?” Zach asked, intrigued that Nora Sutherlin would have her own literary theories.
“Writing erotica is like fucking someone for the first time. You aren’t sure exactly what he wants yet so you try to give him everything he could possibly want. Everything and anything …” She enunciated the words like a cat stretching in sunlight. “You hit every nerve and eventually you’ll hit the nerve. Have I hit any nerves yet?”
Zach clenched his jaw. “Not any of them you were aiming for.”
“You don’t know what I was aiming for. So what do you think of the writing?”
“Could be better.” He refolded the page. “You use ‘was’ too much.”
“Rough draft,” she said unapologetically. She stared at him with dark, waiting eyes.
Little Red Riding Crop (Spice) (Prequel to The Siren: Book 1 in The Original Sinners series) Page 3