He positioned me as if I was a living doll, putting me in the top left corner of the bed so that I was diagonal on it, and binding my arms again above my head so that my still uncomfortably stretched and full ass was in the middle of the bed, my legs kept bound and frightfully parted as they had been, somehow. And then he got on the bed and inched his head beneath me, pulling me down to him by my hips so that my arms were out taut and I couldn't move in any way.
I was sitting on his face, essentially, held in place as his hair tickled my belly and that mouth—dear God, that mouth—covered every bit of me, just as I had him, moments ago. Two massive fingers worked their way into my cunny, which was just that much tighter because of the presence in my bottom, and as he crooked his fingers to set them on my G-spot—I could feel them pressing against where the plug lay inside me.
"You may come, Tawna, my girl, but not for five minutes. I set the timer on phone. I'm going to do everything I can to make you come before then, because if you do, I'm going to give you that other set with the cane—I loved watching you dance to its tune. I adored all the sounds you made and you pleading for me to stop, begging me." He cleared his throat. "Five minutes. When you hear the bell, you know you have my permission."
And then he began to move everything, all at once—his lips, his tongue and his fingers and I thought I was going to die, it felt so amazing. All of that stimulation—the pulsing of the blood, not only to my clit and cunt, where his fingers took up almost as much space as his cock did, my thoroughly violated bottom and—to my complete amazement, even the rushing of it through the atrocious soreness of my backside. Even that added considerably to my pleasure. Almost too much.
That five minutes seemed to last forever and I wondered if he'd really set it for ten! At some point, very soon, my body was going to take the choice away from me, but I couldn't have that! I couldn't imagine living through that, frankly. I just couldn't face the idea of another caning so soon, even though I knew that he could do that to me whether he had a reason to or not.
Finally, I heard the chimes.
"You are amazing to have held out so long," he breathed against me. "Now relax and give me your pleasure."
It was much longer coming than it might have been because I'd spent so long chasing it away from me—and when it did, I fainted dead away.
I'd never done that before, and I was frightened because it kind of happened in slow motion. I knew I was close, I knew it was coming, and the closer it got, the further away I felt from it, somehow. I felt that first, thunderous clench, and then everything went black.
When I awoke, I was being cradled in his arms, completely unbound, the plug gone, a cool, damp cloth on my forehead.
"There you are, pretty girl. Are you all right?" he asked, the look of real concern on his face quite touching.
I tried to move and his arms contracted around me.
"No, I want you to stay put for a while." He brought a cold glass of water to my lips. "Drink a bit for me, sweetie."
I took a swallow, but I wasn't thirsty. I could feel my body was still humming and thrumming in the aftermath. "What happened?" I remembered suddenly, my hands going to my face. "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry—I fainted, didn't I? I'm so embarrassed!"
His smile was genuine as he brushed the hair away from my face. "Please, don't be. This is the first time I've ever made a woman faint." He sounded quite proud, and I supposed he should be. "Do you faint easily? Have you before?"
I shook my head vehemently. "No, in fact I've come close but always fought it off." I blushed for some reason that I couldn't put my finger on. "I don't like the feeling of losing control."
That drew a soft chuckle from him as he used his index finger to lift my chin so that I had to look him in the eye. "Oh, yes, you do, young lady. Don't try to fib to me."
Why I suddenly felt shy with him, I'll never know, but I did.
He scooched me down a bit onto the pillows from a more upright position, thoughtfully lifting me so that my butt wasn't rubbed against anything, and keeping his arms tight around me. "You checked out at the best part and missed the majority of it." One big hand moved down me and I almost cringed away from him for some reason, but he didn't get angry at my foolish reaction.
Instead, he pressed his lips gently to my temple, murmuring, "I think I owe you a bit of pleasure, Tawna, my l—darling."
With that, the tip of his middle finger found me still aching and throbbing—much like the rest of me. He was easily bathed in my juices and made me groan and squirm as I felt my embarrassment subside and my passion come to the forefront. He began to swirl the big pad of that finger around me, working it side to side, as I would have done to myself.
But he hadn't seen me masturbate, had he?
"Quint?"
"Hmmm?" he rumbled against the ear that was pressed to his chest as he touched me intimately.
"Did I—did you watch me—that night?" I was no prude—why was I so often tongue tied by this man?
As if he understood perfectly how I was feeling, he squeezed his arms a bit closer around me. "I most certainly did. That's how I learned to do this," he said, rocking his finger back and forth over me. "I loved it. You were very uninhibited because of the alcohol, of course, and—" He cleared his throat and paused for a moment, saying something I never expected to hear from him, but he said it clear as a bell as he continued to play with me, bringing me very, very close. "I think I fell a little bit in love with you that night."
I didn't know what to say to that, how to think about it, so I didn't. I concentrated on what his hand was doing and let it guide me higher and higher.
But I was smart enough to ask before I really let myself go, "May I come?"
Another throaty chuckle. "Good girl. And, yes, you may."
I don't think it was even a minute later before I was arching and writhing and groaning in such a guttural manner that I didn't even recognize my own voice. And it went on forever, especially since he kept his fingers there—three of them, eventually, and brought me to peak after peak until I very nearly fainted again.
When he finally eased off and wrapped his other arm securely around me, and I began to worry that he was going to want to revisit what he'd said before I'd come, but he didn't. Instead, he said, "I want you to take a nap for a little while, and I'll get dinner cooked. When you're here on Saturdays, with me, I don't want you to worry about a thing. Just let me take care of you, in every way."
On a yawn I couldn't suppress, I asked, "But shouldn't I contribute towards dinner—at least money?"
His hand came to rest on my haunch, fingers touching the ridges he'd left on my cheek. "What did I just say, Tawna?"
My eyes were wide open and staring at his. "That when I'm here with you on Saturdays, I'm not to worry about anything."
His chin practically hit his chest. "And I mean anything—not money, not food, not anything. I'll take care of you completely."
It sounded too good to be true, but then, so did he, in theory and practice. But I didn't have the energy to argue with him, because my eyelids were already beginning to close. "Yes, Sir."
"That's my girl." He stood, then reached down to cup my cheek, and I drifted off while he was still touching me tenderly.
AS UNUSUAL AS our relationship was, it settled into a very nice routine. We went out a couple of times during the week—as long as his work didn't interfere, which it did, sometimes. I totally understood, although he always insisted on making up the dates, even if it meant doing something other than what we usually did on a Saturday afternoon, and I found his insistence quite gentlemanly. He might have been very strict and stern with me, but he also never hesitated to show—in other overt and subtle ways—that he cared. Although he never brought up the subject of his little confession about being in love with me again, for which I was incredibly grateful.
He'd been quiet this week, though, completely out of touch, which was unusual. I wondered if perhaps he had to travel for work and was incommuni
cado. I'd sent him an email on Tuesday that had gone unanswered and a text on Thursday that was the same. I had always done my best not to be considered high maintenance, but I didn't think it was too much to ask for some form of communication between us during the week.
So, I left him a call that Friday morning before I went to work that I wished I hadn't, that I thought sounded pathetic and lame and needy and everything I so did not want him to think of me as.
He weighed on my mind as I walked across the parking lot, and even that late in the week, when I reached my office, I could still feel my body sizzling in the aftermath—in several ways, one of which still had me sitting in my chair rather gingerly.
Seconds later, Carla literally ran into my office and shut the door, leaning back against it and panting. Carla—like me—wasn't one to run, so I knew that, whatever it was, it was something big.
She came to lean her hands on my desk, getting her face very close to mine. "You can't breathe a word of this to anyone."
I raised three fingers. "Scout's honor."
She glared at me dubiously. "That's the Boy Scouts' salute."
I frowned. "I think they're the same—"
"Doesn't matter. Remember that rumor that we were being taken over by DMQ?"
It was one of the largest software firms in the country, and we had just about grown big enough to be of interest to it and others. But DMQ's offer was rumored to be the best and the most likely candidate for a buyout, which had everyone on edge, worried they were going to lose their jobs at some point in the near future.
"Yeah?"
"Well, there's going to be an announcement this afternoon at three, and it's going to be them—DMQ."
"Well, then, it's been nice working here, I guess," I sighed.
Carla frowned. "Don't say that—you could be kept on."
I snorted. "In what capacity? Janitor? Mail room? They already have a Human Resources Director. I looked it up online. He graduated from Harvard. My degree is from a college in a strip mall. I might as well grab a box and start packing." I looked at Carla. "What about you? Do you get to stay?" I hoped with all my heart that she did. Work was pretty much all Carla had.
"Yeah, they're keeping Darryl on, so they're keeping his secretary, too."
I smiled. "Good, I'm glad." And I genuinely was.
"I'd better go—tons of meetings and crap before the big announcement."
She gave me a rare hug. "Don't anticipate the worst. Things might yet work out. And even if you have to leave—which would kill me—you'll get a better job elsewhere."
We both knew there weren't any better jobs elsewhere. Sympatech was the largest employer in the region. If I got canned, the chances were that I'd have to move somewhere where they were hiring. Like Canada.
The announcement was being made in the boardroom, which wasn't nearly big enough to accommodate everyone who worked there, so people were crammed in like cattle. But I wasn't one of them. I hung around outside, with just enough of a view to see the podium—barely. Joseph Brady, who was the CEO of Sympatech was there, along with his vice presidents and some members of the board whom no one recognized.
Brady spoke first and droned on for about fifteen minutes about how the change they were announcing was going to help propel Sympatech into the future and blah blah blah, and then he announced that the company's partner in all of this lovely progress was going to be DMQ.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the head of DMQ."
Titters of excitement ran through the crowd. Dart McQueen was a well-known recluse—a billionaire who eschewed the trappings of such and was almost never seen. It was going to be like spotting a panda in China or a tiger in India—a rare sighting indeed!
About which, I couldn't have cared less—until the side door opened and the man I knew as Quinton Palmer entered the room.
Well, now I knew why he'd been so uncommunicative all week—I couldn't even begin to imagine all of the meetings and lawyers and other things I knew nothing about that were involved in taking over a company. My company.
I was thunderstruck. I didn't know what to do, except that I had a distinct feeling that I needed to do something that involved self-preservation. I walked blindly to my desk, luckily not encountering anyone because everyone was so interested in what was being said in the meeting—that much more so because he was there—gathered my purse and left.
I didn't want to go home. He knew where I lived.
Why I felt such a need to hide myself from him, I'll never know, but I did.
Perhaps it was the pain of having been out and out lied to—which was much worse, much more real, much more devastating than anything he'd subjected me to.
What else was he hiding or withholding from me, as if being a billionaire recluse wasn't enough. Was he a druggie? A compulsive gambler? What?
No wonder he'd always insisted on paying for everything. I'd chalked it up to him being quaint and old fashioned—which he definitely was, when it came to me—and probably every other woman he'd ever been with. If I'd known he was loaded, I would have—
Done what? Gotten him to pay off my mortgage? My car? My credit cards? Bought me a new designer wardrobe?
Nah. None of the above.
That wasn't what I wanted from him.
But what I wanted—what—if I was honest with myself—I had been coming around to feeling for him—was all based on a lie.
And I wasn't sure I could forgive a computer geek or a billionaire.
CHAPTER 6
I contemplated taking a hotel room, but it was too much of a waste of money for me to talk myself into. Why? Just to sit in a room and watch the same crap I'd watch at home for free? Besides, I didn't want to hide out from him.
Well, I definitely did, but I decided that was a stupid idea. What, was I never going to go home again because a man done me wrong?
So, I drove home, took a long bubble bath with a shitload of Lily of the Valley candles around me, the biggest bottle of chardonnay I could find, and an entire one-pound box of cream and caramel centered chocolates, the last two of which both disappeared in the space of about twenty minutes. And when I went to get out of the tub, I thought I was going to be sick, and, of course, at the same time, someone was pounding on the door.
I was beginning to get a distinct feeling of déjà vu as I stood in front of the door—only, this time, it was almost four months later.
"Go 'way!" I enunciated as carefully as I could.
I could see his eyebrow go up in my mind as he answered, "Yeah, because you're quite certain that that's going to work on me, are you?"
"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Mr. Mc-McQueen."
I saw the door knob turn violently back and forth. "That's because I don't usually need sarcasm. I usually just tip you over my lap and spank you, instead of getting sarcastic or angry."
"Well, that sure ain't gonna to happen."
It was soft and husky, and even in my half in the bag state, I didn't miss it. "Then you don't know me as well as you should by now, little girl."
A shiver ran up my back, and that, along with a seething anger that flooded through me, suddenly sobered me just a touch.
"I think I know Quinton Palmer pretty well. Unfortunately, he's a figment of your money-addled mind. Apparently, you like to toy with the affections of ordinary mortals. You like to convince women to trust you, to give you their—"
Recognizing that my mouth was going to run away with me, I clamped it shut, and just in time, because all of that wine and all of that chocolate decided to make a return appearance, and I dashed for the bathroom but didn't really make it until all was said and done. By the time I got to the toilet, it was all over but the dry heaving.
Suddenly, I wasn't alone as I hung over the toilet. Someone's surprisingly gentle, huge assed hands were holding my hair. "Let me keep this gorgeous hair of yours back for you," he crooned gently while wiping my face with a cool cloth.
"Feel better?" he asked, putting a cup
of cool water to my lips. "Drink this. It'll help settle your stomach and prevent a hangover."
I ignored him and just took a small sip, but he caught on and held it to my lips again.
Bastard.
"I could call the p'lice, you know." I glared up at him threateningly.
He took out his phone and looked at me. "Want me to dial them for you?" he asked helpfully. "I'm sure they'll be here quickly, with lots of paperwork for you to fill out, questions, interviews, statements."
It sounded like entirely too much work to me, so I did the only thing I could and ignored him.
When I'd finished the entire cup, he began looking around him at the remnants of my pity-fest—candles dripping everywhere, those little crinkly cups for the candies sprinkled all over—even in the tub and the sink—and the empty bottle of wine kicking around on the floor.
"I thought you said you didn't drink much? This is the second—no, the third time in four months that you've gotten plastered."
A little belatedly and nowhere near as vehemently as I wanted to, I pointed vaguely at the door and said, "Get out of my housh." How I ended up drunker after I'd thrown up all of that alcohol, I'd never know. Then I thought about it for a minute and asked, "And how did you get into my housh in the firss place, anyway? I know I locked that door."
He was checking the candles to make sure they were all out and picking up little candy wrappers and the wine bottle, so I was able to stumb—walk out to the living room to see that my front door was off its hinges and noting that he'd already cleaned up the mess I'd made.
"Don't worry about the door—there'll be a replacement here in about a half hour—a better door overall—steel core." He reached up to brush my hair back with his hand, smiling wryly. "It'll even keep me out, for a while."
"Good. When it gets here and is installed, please make sure that you are on the tother side of it once it's closed." I had said about all I could and still remain upright, and having made that pronouncement, I was already tottering towards my bedroom.
Unfortunately, he decided to follow me.
Hidden Desires Page 6