The_Submissive - Tara Sue Me

by Erotic Romance

  A kiss of desire on the lips.

  I looked up at Martha. “I think I’m going to visit the poetry section. Check out some more O’Reilly.”

  I’d had a crazy fantasy about being Nathaniel West’s submissive. Submitting to his control, being under his will. I’d come to terms with the fact that I’d fallen for him, but what about how he felt about me?

  Was it possible he had fallen, too?

  I thought Friday night would never come. The minutes dragged by and the hours trudged on forever. Yoga. Work. Walking, instead of jogging.

  But Friday did come. I arrived at Nathaniel’s house at ten to six and heard Apollo barking inside the house when I got out of the car.

  Nathaniel opened the front door. Damn, he looked good in his long-sleeved button-down shirt and black dress pants. My legs felt wobbly just looking at him. His eyes followed me up the stairs.

  “Happy Friday, Abigail,” he said, his voice so smooth I nearly swooned.

  It is now.

  “Come inside.” He stepped back and let me pass. “Dinner’s ready.”

  And what a dinner it was. Coq au vin served at the kitchen table. Delicate chicken breasts in a savory wine sauce. Every bite was scrumptious. While we ate it hit me that Nathaniel and I shared a passion for cooking. What would it be like to work in the kitchen with him?

  Chopping and dicing. The steamy heat of a simmering pot. Tiny sips to test spiciness. Subtle touches here and there. Brushing against him as I moved around the counter. Reaching over his head to grab something.

  A replay of the library table, but this time on the kitchen countertop.

  Yours. Yours. Yours.

  “How are you feeling today?” Nathaniel asked, bringing me back to reality as we finished eating.

  I remembered his words from Wednesday: You’ll still be feeling it Friday night.

  I smiled. “Sore in all the right places.”

  “Abigail,” he chided. “Have you been a naughty girl this week?”

  I blanked.

  He, very precisely and intentionally, sat his fork by his plate. “You do know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  “They get spanked.”

  Ah, hell no!

  “But I did the yoga and I got my sleep and did the walking instead of jogging, just like you said.” This couldn’t be happening. I broke the rules last time. I got that. But this week—this week—I’d done nothing wrong. Damned if I’d be splayed out on that whipping bench again. I’d have to use my safe word.

  Damn it.

  “Abigail.” Nathaniel was calm and collected. He didn’t look angry or disappointed. Not at all like last time. “How many types of spankings are there?”

  What? Who cared how many there were, they all hurt.

  “Three,” he said, answering his own question. “What was the first one?”

  I was missing something, what was it? My brain frantically ran back to that night. What had he said? Warm-up, chastisement, and erotic.

  Erotic.

  Oh.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Get your ass upstairs.”

  I pushed back from the table and ran up the stairs. To be honest, I actually expected the whipping bench to be out. I let out a sigh of relief that it wasn’t—there was just a stack of pillows in the middle of Nathaniel’s bed.

  Nathaniel’s bed.

  Fear has no place in my bed. I believed him. Tonight would be about pleasure. He would see to it. Excitement ignited in my belly.

  I stripped off my clothes and waited. Nathaniel came into the room seconds later. He nodded toward the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt. “On your stomach over the pillows.”

  I crawled on top of the bed and positioned myself over the pillows so my butt was high in the air. Nathaniel walked to the head of the bed and pulled out a tie-down.

  “We can’t have you trying to cover yourself, can we?” he asked, tying my hands together and pulling them so I rested on my elbows.

  The bed shifted as he moved behind me. I felt his hands run over me. “Have you been using your plug, Abigail?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He pushed my legs apart. “I want you open for me.” His finger skimmed my throbbing entrance. “Look at this, Abigail. So slick already. Does the thought of me turning your backside red excite you?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek.

  He rubbed me and then gave me three smacks in quick succession. They stung, but it was the tingly yes-sir-may-I-please-have-another type of sting.

  “The good people of New York pay your salary so you will work in the library, not sneak off into the Rare Books Collection.” He smacked me again and again, his hand landing on a different area each time.

  But instead of pain, I felt a growing pleasure. Instead of hurt, I felt a warmth that spread from his hand and throbbed through my lower body. I needed him. Needed him to touch me. Needed him inside me.

  “You’re so wet.” He dipped a finger into me briefly and then spanked me right where I was slick and aching.

  I moaned.

  “Do you like that, Abigail?” He struck me again.

  There. Yes, please. There.

  Smack.

  I shifted my hips back toward him. He started smacking my backside again.

  “Your ass is a beautiful shade of pink.” I felt his cock press up against me and I held my breath. “Soon, I’ll do more than spank it. Soon, I’ll fuck it.”

  A wrapper ripped open and he shifted to slide right into where I was wet and ready.

  I couldn’t help groaning.

  He pulled out. “No noise tonight or you can’t have my cock.” He smacked me again. “Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He plunged inside me forcefully and I pushed back to meet him. “Greedy tonight, aren’t you? Well, that makes two of us.”

  He started thrusting long and hard and deep, and I squeezed my inner muscles around him each time he entered. Over and over he pushed. And I answered each thrust by pushing back onto him, drawing him deeper.

  Deeper.

  Deeper.

  He reached to where we were joined and rubbed my clit. And he’d never done that before. My body exploded with pleasure and he jerked against me, joining me in my release.

  Afterward, I rolled off the pillows and Nathaniel lay beside me, catching his breath.

  His hand skirted up my side and over my breast to cup my shoulder, still pulled above my head.

  “I don’t believe I saw everything I wanted to on Wednesday,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to set up an appointment for me to visit the Rare Books Collection again this coming Wednesday?”

  Yes and Sir.

  Late that night, I crept out of my bedroom and walked down the hall to the steps. The half-moon’s golden light illuminated my path, giving everything a surreal glow. The door to Nathaniel’s room was closed as I sneaked past. He’d never told me I couldn’t explore in the middle of the night, but I didn’t want to be caught.

  Down the steps I went, quiet as a mouse. Into the library. My library.

  I walked over to the shelves that held Nathaniel’s poetry collection. My fingers danced across spine after spine.

  It has to be here. It has to be. Please be here.

  My fingers stopped.

  The Collected Works of John Boyle O’Reilly.

  With nervous hands I pulled the book from the shelf and walked to stand closer to the window. The book fell open naturally at a spot three-quarters in, right at the page containing ‘A White Rose’.

  Something fluttered to the floor. I bent to pick it up—a cream-colored rose petal, just a hint of pink on the tip.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  I slipped the rose petal into the book and shoved them both back on the shelf right as footsteps echoed in the hallway. It sounded like someone was headed straight to the library.

  I was caught.

 
Nathaniel strolled into the room. He was shirtless and wore only a pair of tan drawstring pants. If he was surprised to see me, it didn’t show. He turned a small lamp on.

  “Abigail,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world that I’d be in the library at two o’clock in the morning.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Decided poetry would knock you right out?” he asked, noting where I was standing. “Let’s play a game, shall we?

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes…”

  Nathaniel smiled at me. “Name the poet.”

  “Lord Byron.” I crossed my arms. “Your turn.

  “I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,

  And yet thou are not there;

  I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,

  And press the common air.”

  Amusement lit his eyes. “I should have known better than to suggest such a contest with a librarian and English major. I don’t know that one.”

  “John Clare. One point for me.”

  A wicked grin lit his face. “Try this one,” he said.

  “Let not thy divining heart

  Forethink me any ill;

  Destiny may take thy part,

  And may thy fears fulfill.’”

  Well, that was cryptic. I narrowed my eyes. “John Donne.”

  He nodded. “Your turn.”

  I took a deep breath and thought of the poem I’d read Wednesday night, the one that would give me away. Would he recognize it?

  “You gave me the key of your heart, my love;

  Then why do you make me knock?”

  I know, I told him with my eyes, I know. I want this. I want you.

  No surprise from Nathaniel, just the grin that warmed my heart. “John Boyle O’Reilly,” he said. “I give myself a point for knowing the next line:

  “O, that was yesterday, Saints above!

  And last night—I changed the lock!’”

  This is new for me, his expression warned. Let me do it my way.

  I could do that.

  “A tie, then.” I walked away from the shelf, trailing a finger along the leather couch. “So, why are you visiting my library this time of the morning?”

  He nodded toward the piano. “I came to play.”

  “May I listen?”

  “Of course.” He sat down at the bench and started playing.

  My breath caught.

  It was the song from my dream. It was real.

  It was Nathaniel.

  I listened in shock to the song I’d tried so hard to find in my dreams. I’m not sure how much time passed as I sat and listened. Maybe time ceased.

  And Nathaniel…

  I could have sat forever and watched Nathaniel. It was as if he were making love. His face became a portrait of utter concentration, his fingers were soft and gentle, caressing the keys. I think I forgot to breathe at times. The melody echoed in the night, adding a touch of melancholy to the moonlight. Finally, the song came to a haunting crescendo and softly faded to nothing.

  For a long while, we sat in the silence. Nathaniel broke it first.

  “Come to me,” he whispered.

  I crossed the floor. “It’s my library.”

  “It’s my piano.”

  I approached the bench. Not sure if I should sit or stand. Nathaniel took charge by putting his arms around my waist and pulling me into his lap to straddle him. I faced his chest, with the piano at my back.

  He ran his hands through my hair, across my shoulders and down my back to my waist. His head fell forward between my breasts and he sighed. I lifted my hands to his head, burying my fingers in his thick hair.

  Please, please, please kiss me, I wanted to beg. Wanted to pull his head to mine and kiss him myself. It was my library, after all. But I wanted him to kiss me.

  Otherwise, it wouldn’t be the same.

  Otherwise, it wouldn’t mean as much.

  He kissed my right breast through the flimsy material of my gown. Pulled my nipple into his mouth and sucked it.

  Okay, I decided, maybe I wouldn’t think. I’d just feel.

  “I want you,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes. “I want you here. On my piano. In the middle of your library.”

  And again, he was giving me an option. It was my library—I could turn him down.

  I would sooner stop breathing.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  We both stood. He ran his hands down to my waist and pulled my gown up and over my head.

  “My pocket,” he whispered as I worked his pants down.

  Oh, yes. The condom.

  “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I asked, ripping the package open.

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  He was already erect and I worked the condom on, teasing him with a rough squeeze as I did so. He sat down on the piano bench and I wrapped my legs around his waist, facing him once more.

  “Play for me,” I whispered, putting my arms around him, running my fingers down his back.

  He couldn’t reach many of the keys with me sitting in his lap, but he tried and the song he played was one I’d never heard before. It started slowly and sensuously. Delicate. Taunting.

  I lifted my hips and lowered myself onto him. He skipped a note or two—even I could tell.

  “Keep going,” I whispered, lifting up and pushing myself back down on him. He kept playing.

  I held my hips still, leaned down and nibbled his ear. “I love the way you feel inside me.” He missed more notes. “During the week, I fantasize about your cock—how it tastes.” I squeezed my inner muscles. “How it feels.” His arms shook. “I count the hours until I see you.” I rode him slowly. “Until I can be with you like this.” His hands fell from the keyboard to grip my ass, trying to push me harder, but I held still. “Keep playing.”

  The song got faster, more intense, and I worked myself up and down while he played.

  “I’ve never felt this way before,” I said. “Only you. Only you can do this to me.”

  His playing was chaotic now; it didn’t even sound like a song at all, just disjointed notes. Sweat formed on his body and I knew he was fighting. Fighting to retain the control he valued so much. Fighting to keep the music going.

  Fighting and losing.

  The music stopped and with one swift move, he grabbed my waist and thrust up into me with all he had.

  “You think it’s different for me?” he ground out in a husky voice. He hooked his arms around my shoulders, forcing himself deeper. “What makes you think it’s different for me?”

  We moved faster, each trying to hold out for the other, as if climaxing first would be giving in. I bit my lip in concentration, willing him to let go first. He dropped a hand between us and rubbed circles around my clit.

  Damn it.

  I grabbed handfuls of his hair and pulled. He moaned against my shoulder and rubbed harder.

  Finally, it became too much. He was the master, after all. He could do what he wanted with my body. I had no weapons to use against him. I gave up and allowed my climax to overwhelm me. He followed seconds later.

  As our hearts and breathing slowed, I felt him putting the wall back up. Brick by brick. Closing himself off. Becoming distant once more.

  “Breakfast at eight in the dining room, Abigail.” He lifted me from his lap and placed me on the floor. The control was back.

  “French toast?” I asked, slipping my gown on, wanting to see if any of the Nathaniel I’d just glimpsed remained.

  “Whatever you prefer.”

  No, he was gone.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  It took longer than usual to make breakfast the next morning. I prolonged each step, dreading what I would find waiting for me in the dining room. How far removed would Nathaniel be this morning from the feve
red lover of the night before?

  I set a plate for myself on the counter after I made Nathaniel’s plate. I wasn’t sure where I’d be eating this morning. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to eat. No. That wasn’t true. I knew where I wanted to eat—at the kitchen table with Nathaniel.

  What was it Elaina told me at lunch right before the accident? You have to handle Nathaniel carefully.

  I could be careful. I would handle him with kid gloves, draw him out so slowly he wouldn’t know what hit him. Handle him carefully, indeed.

  And bring the wall down, brick by brick.

  I placed the French toast in front of him. Was it my imagination, or did the corner of his lip lift ever so slightly?

  Do you think it’s any different for me? What makes you think it’s any different for me?

  He might as well have said it out loud again. The words rang through my head and I knew it didn’t matter he was eating in the dining room. I’d made a small crack in his exterior last night. I just needed time to make it bigger.

  “Make a plate and join me,” he said, picking up his fork and spearing a piece of toast.

  I joined him minutes later.

  “Last night doesn’t change anything,” he said as I sat down. “I am your dom and you are my sub.”

  Keep telling yourself that, Nathaniel. Maybe you’ll convince yourself eventually. Last night changed everything.

  “I do care for you,” he continued. “It is not unheard of. It’s to be expected, actually.”

  I started eating.

  “But sex is not the same thing as love.” He put a banana slice in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Although I suppose many people confuse the two.”

  He didn’t look at me while he ate, almost as if he felt it easier to speak that way. I felt certain I’d seen glimpses of his true feelings the night before. But his actions at the table made it seem as if he was preparing for a mighty big battle. I wondered if it was with himself or me. Himself, I decided. Definitely his own self.