by Joey W. Hill
Abruptly, he released her from the footboard but left her hands bound until he pushed her down on her stomach on the bed. He unstrapped the wrists only to stretch her arms out across the mattress until her hands were clutching the corner seam. He retied and anchored her to the side rail. On the large bed, her feet just went over the edge. When he put a knee on the mattress between her spread legs, there was a quiet, still moment where he simply stood over her, and she felt him looking at her. Her body vibrated, hips moving in alluring, wanton invitation. Then he destroyed her.
Bending over her, he placed his lips on the cigarette scar at the lowest part of her back, his jaw touching her buttocks. He traced the scar with his tongue, kissed and nibbled it, then moved up to the next one, on the opposite side of the valley formed by her spinal cord.
“There’s only me, angel,” he muttered. “Now and forever. Say it. Mine.”
“Mine.”
He paused, his lips on her back, and she strained against her bonds, moving against him. “Mine,” she repeated.
He bit down not so gently, making her moan. “Yes, angel. I’m all yours. Yours.”
He understood. She was grateful because she was beyond the irritating complexity of words. She knew she was already his, had known it deep inside the moment he first came into Tea Leaves and she felt undone by the flash of those amber eyes. But to believe he was something she could keep, not a fleeting fantasy or a dream…
“All yours,” he breathed as he went up her back, his fingers following, tracing her buttocks, his knee moving forward, pressing against her pussy. She arched up, rubbing against him, making tiny mewls of pleasure and need.
“Please, Tyler… I need you inside me.”
He put his arm under her waist, bringing her up higher, her hips into the air, increasing the strain on the restraints on her arms. When his cock slid in deep, his testicles soft against her inner thighs, a secret, intimate caress of contact, he did not even pause in his thorough attention to her scars. Her breath left her on a moan as he worked his way up her spine. The power of the sensation created by his slow swirling of tongue and the brief presence of teeth was matched by each stroke and withdrawal that dragged fire along her slick channel. Her belly clenched for a climax held just out of reach.
“Oh…” She said it softly, trembling on each stroke, each kiss as if her body were frozen, held in the near state of rapture, her skin cognizant of everywhere it was being touched by his. The muscles of his stomach along her buttocks. His hand braced on the bed so close his thumb brushed her side, the outer curve of her breast, increasing the friction of the spread against her nipples, her desire to have him touch her there. His arm around her waist, holding her secure.
Then he withdrew from her despite her cry of protest and turned her over, twisting the belt. She felt him lie down upon her, his chest pressing down on her aching breasts, his cock finding her again and sliding back in, his body pinning her, holding her so their movements became a dance, her undulation against the relentless, steady and slow rhythm of his penetration. He put his hands up on either side of her face, elbows on the bed, forearms pressed against the underside of her arms where she had them stretched above her head.
“My angel,” he said in a soft, almost reverent voice. She could imagine his tiger’s eyes glowing in the dim light just above her.
She knew he’d chosen this position to seal the intimacy between them. There would be no excuse or rationalizations as escape hatches later. She wished the scarf was gone so that she could meet his gaze, give him that.
“Say it,” he said. She felt his body gathering, the power ready to be unleashed with his release. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yours.” The words tumbled from her lips. “I’m yours.”
“Sweet angel. Sweet Mistress.” He nuzzled her ear. Her body was on fire, aching as he drew her higher and higher, both sweating, trembling, him holding back, keeping the pace to deny her release until she made it to a height she’d never known she could reach.
“Beg me, angel. I want to hear you.”
She sank her teeth into his shoulder, a growl his answer. Catching her hair in his hand, he wrapped his fingers in it, tightening his hold on her. His strokes became more powerful, demanding. “Making love, fucking you, holding you, it makes no difference. You’re mine, angel. I want you in all ways, forever.”
She bucked beneath him, violent need taking over, a raging want that she needed him to sate. “Please.” She almost screamed it against his skin. “Please let me come for you.” The darkness contained him, only him.
“Soon…” He changed his angle again. Gripping him with her inner muscles, she tried to stroke him past the point of control. She strained to lock her legs around him, take him deeper, but he was stronger and kept the pace he wanted.
“Please…Master. Please…” She arched up and he captured one of her nipples, biting down hard on it, even as he surged forward, pounding now, holding her tight.
“Go over, Marguerite. Scream.”
The music of it broke from her lips before he finished the thought. She arched beneath him, her cunt sucking on him wildly, her body convulsing from the strength of the orgasm. His own roared through him and he used it, thrusting into her again and again, letting the hot streams bring her own climax to new heights, watching her face as much as he could, every nuance of expression, those beautiful lips that had called him Master, the only woman he wanted to do so again.
Her body was damp and strong beneath him yet he felt her fragility, a woman afraid to call herself his. Even more afraid to claim him as her own, because she’d never had anything she’d loved endure, anything she could keep.
In that brief moment of understanding, he grasped why she’d needed to see his vulnerability, a woman’s odd way of knowing a man truly needed her.
If she only knew. He couldn’t imagine breathing without her.
He let her hear him as well, giving his release hard and deep in her, wanting to leave no question in her mind, no part of her untouched by himself.
He loved Marguerite Perruquet. All he needed to do was convince her she could love him back and not lose him.
She strained up in the dim light. “Please. Let me see you. Touch you.”
He removed the scarf, freed her hands. She touched every feature of his face, light, wondrous touches. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asked. “Mistress or Master…slave.”
“No. If it’s like this, it doesn’t matter.” He bowed his head down next to her cheek, felt her arms wrap around his damp shoulders. Inhaled the silk of her hair, inhaled her into all of himself.
And remembering Komal, he thanked God for miracles.
* * * * *
Marguerite made her way out to the Aphrodite garden, her cup of tea in hand. The statue gleamed in the morning sun, the bronze tresses of hair wound around the manacles on her wrists, face turned up in ecstasy. Freedom found inside the binding of love and pleasure. Trust, commitment. Friendship. They’d always been words belonging to other people, something she watched like television programs about experiences she could never have.
But the way Tyler had left her this morning… With a soft kiss and regret in his eyes that he had to conduct some business in his home office. He’d promised to join her within an hour. Consideration. The desire to spend time with her.
The grass around the statue was soft. Taking off the slippers he’d provided, she sank her toes in the springy mattress and at the same time set her mug of steaming Earl Grey like an offering at the feet of the Goddess. Next to her sandals from last night, she noted with amusement. After a moment of contemplation, she slipped the belt of the robe and began to slide it off her shoulders.
A discreet cough arrested the motion. She looked over and found the statue was not the only aesthetically pleasing thing in the garden. Josh leaned back on the bench, wearing his jeans of the prior night and an open shirt, carelessly thrown on. His hair was still tousled, the wire rims of hi
s glasses unable to disguise the beauty of his gray eyes.
“I don’t wish to stop you in any way, because I’m poised to sketch.” He waved the blank pad. “But I find my models usually prefer to have a choice in the matter.”
She nodded, her fingers on the lapels of the robe, fingering the silky fabric. The skin beneath still felt sensitized from Tyler’s frequent touches throughout the night. “Your wife doesn’t mind you sketching a naked woman?”
“It’s sort of like the foot on the floor rule.” He smiled. “As long as I keep ten feet between us, it’s fine.”
She noted there was about twelve feet, the bench hugged by the hedge of fragrant honeysuckle behind him. He nodded. “I’m an erotic artist, so of course she knows what my work requires. I’d love to sketch you.” A shadow crossed his eyes. “With her gone, it’s hard to find inspiration.” He lifted a shoulder. “Elements of you remind me of her, so I’m asking you for the honor. Mistress.” He gave a little half bow from the waist.
It warmed her like the sun soaking into her shoulders, which was making her drowsy, reminding her of her long night and how little sleep she’d had. Or wanted, at the time. “If I can see the rest of the tattoo work. Fair is fair. And we’ll maintain that ten feet.”
Josh chuckled. “While we’ve discussed women getting naked in front of me, I’m afraid we haven’t really covered vice versa. However, I’ll show her the sketch when I’m done and see if she thinks it was worth it.” His gaze gleamed. “If it wasn’t, then it means I didn’t do a good enough job of capturing the subject matter and I deserve whatever punishment she deems fitting.”
The Mistress who’d snapped up the heart of this beautiful and interesting man had to be quite something. Marguerite thought he’d better make it a very good sketch.
She dropped the tie of the robe, let the garment fall into a pool of satin around her ankles.
Josh was certain she wasn’t aware of the correlation between her and the statue behind her, the proud stance, the graceful lines of the body, the smooth, pale skin against the bronze.
“Whatever you were about to do before you knew I was here…” He spoke quietly, too moved by the sheer beauty of the picture to raise his voice above a murmur. “…go ahead and do.”
She hesitated, then turned on the ball of one foot, bent her knees. With elegant sensuality, she lay down on her side, her back facing him, her arm curled as a pillow under her head, the other arm lying loosely before her. Her knees drew up, a loose fetal position, the silk of her clipped-back hair spilling perfectly onto the robe’s folds. The orchids near the fountain wall flickered shadows over her skin.
The hesitation had startled him, for she’d not struck him as modest in her manner, but when he saw her back, he understood. As she settled, getting comfortable, the air grew still, telling him she was aware he was studying her.
“Will they be there? In your picture?”
Her voice was quiet, smooth, no inflection to betray her thoughts.
“I’m a sculptor, Mistress. The sketch is to help me remember. But…” He paused, starting to move his pencil rapidly over his page, inspiration overtaking him, making it hard to focus on a response. “No,” he said at last. “They won’t be. They helped make you who you are but they didn’t make it all the way to your soul and that’s what I try to sculpt.”
Her hand curled into the well-tended grass. “Josh, that may be the most lovely lie anyone has ever told me. Thank you. What will you do with it, if it becomes a sculpture?”
“Not if. When.” His fingers were already itching to begin, could feel the way she would evolve under his hands. He could visualize how he would handle the different shapes of the orchids in bronze, the contrasting smooth expanses of her skin.
“I’ll show it to my art dealer, Marcus. He’ll set an exorbitant price on it which Tyler will pay three times over to make sure it becomes part of his private collection and never sees the inside of a gallery. If I wanted to be really terrible, I’d let Marcus know that. Tyler would have to mortgage this palace to acquire it.”
Josh assumed a grass blade must have tickled her calf when she lifted a leg to rub at the offending itch. A few moments later her silence and the easing of her shoulders, the rhythmic rise and fall of her upper torso, told him she’d drifted off.
Over the next half hour, he sketched. Rising once or twice to circle her, squat by the base of the Aphrodite and study all the angles. He saw the evidence of her night with Tyler. Faint bruises from passion unleashed in two strong people, the flesh abraded along her fair-skinned breast from a man’s rough jaw, even the light impression of teeth on her neck. His nostrils told him she’d not yet showered. He could smell the mesh of their two scents as he chose an angle near her feet to better fill in the slope of her thighs. For Josh, immersion in the sensual elements of his subject matter was all-consuming, so his pencil picked up pace, his eyes flickering quickly, the ideas, the concept forming.
As he moved around her, he kept his bare feet quiet on the grass, but she was sleeping the sleep of the well content, her body relaxed. Not until the sun rose over the statue did she move, shifting so she could lie on her back and turn her face away. When Josh moved so he blocked the light from disturbing her slumber, her brow eased and she returned to her side again.
The loneliness in the pit of his belly, the ache for Lauren that could become unbearable if she was away for too long, became somewhat more manageable as he performed this small act of service for this lovely Mistress. His art reached out to comfort him, a manifestation of the peace he found in Lauren’s arms, something so much like it that he knew both were miracles. As he studied the scars, he wondered if Marguerite often slept this deeply, or if she too had finally found her port in a storm. Based on his high regard for Tyler and what he’d seen of her, he hoped so.
He turned to retrieve his sharpener and found Tyler sitting and watching them, his arms stretched out over the back of the bench. His eyes were nearly gold in the full light of the sun. Josh extended the pad and Tyler took it, looked down at it. His finger followed the sketched line of her shoulder down to her waist, over her hip, the shadowing.
After a long moment, he looked back at her. “I held her in my arms last night,” he said quietly. “And when I felt her every response, I thought, ‘There’s nothing else I could ever want.’ Whether there’s a heaven or not, it doesn’t matter. This… Those moments when she gave me everything were more than I ever hoped Heaven could be.”
“It’s love.” Josh nodded. “Once you find her, she’s the only way to fill the emptiness. Welcome to the club.” He looked over at the sleeping woman. “Will she run?”
“She’s been through a lot. She doesn’t believe she’s capable of feeling the same way, of being brave enough to accept it.” Tyler’s voice conveyed his conflict over that. “She’s braver than any man I’ve ever met. I just hope I can convince her she can trust me.”
Josh tucked the pad under his arm. “I need to call Lauren. Badly. Can you…” He looked over.
“I won’t leave her alone.”
As Josh stepped past her, Marguerite turned to her back, unselfconscious in her nudity. “Don’t you owe me a tattoo viewing?” she asked sleepily.
Josh stopped, glanced over at Tyler. Though his jaw flexed, Tyler imperceptibly nodded his head.
Marguerite lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and saw him there. Warmth flooded her, but then she shifted her attention back to Josh.
He set the sketchbook aside, slipped the shirt off his shoulders as she sat up. Celtic designs manacled his biceps as well as his wrists. There was a dragon pattern on his flat belly just above his navel. He turned so she could see the life-sized sword etched in graphic color down the center of his back, starting at the base of his neck. The hilt was simple, the blade polished silver gray, but from hilt to tip the weapon was wrapped in a barbed vine. Here and there a rose bloomed, perfect in detail, but mostly there were thorns and barbs, stenciled as if pricking
his skin in many places, with tiny black drops of blood. In one place, the drop had fallen upon one of the roses, spreading and staining the pure crimson petals. His jeans tightened briefly over his backside as he worked them open. When he dropped them, shoving them down his hips and letting them fall to his ankles, she could see the sword point stopped at the top cleft of his buttocks. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, so the loose fit of the jeans had left no skin impressions to mar the artwork.
When he turned, she saw his right calf had a serpent dragon coiled from ankle to knee. From the tender joining crease of pelvis to mid-thigh, another tattoo of a sword had been stenciled. The jeweled hilt was drawn just below his hipbone. A latticework of ivy and pale gold flowers twined around this blade. At its point the greenery wove into a tight vee that curled up into a dime-sized upright pentacle. A symbol of the elements and protection, it anchored the work on the inside of the thigh just below his testicles.
She rose, moved behind him, passing her fingers over the blade where it narrowed to the small of his back, stopping at the tip end, her fingers resting on the upper curve of his buttocks.
“It’s beautiful.” She looked at his face as he turned his head to look at her, her fingers still on him. “And horrible. They’re the same as mine in a way, aren’t they?”
His gray eyes warmed, the shadows of past pain still there, still remembered, but without the same power over him anymore. “Yes,” he said. “There was never a better tattoo artist than she was.”
“And your flesh was a canvas that inspired her like no other,” she said softly. “Every needle mark was precise, had to be just so…”
“And you had to be absolutely still, so nothing would ruin its placement.” Josh’s eyes darkened to storm clouds as he nodded at her shoulder, at what he knew lay behind it. “At least I had a choice.”
She stepped back, withdrawing. “We both know sometimes that’s not as apparent as it seems in hindsight. Thank you, Josh. For the honor of being your model.”