by Joey W. Hill
"I didn't die, because you ordered me not to. You don't get more 'yours' than that. I wear your collar." He raised his arm, showed the bracelet to her. "Because I want you more than I've ever wanted any fucking thing on earth. So don't deny me any part of yourself, and goddamn it, accept me again. Let me please you, Mistress. Tell me what you want."
Her throat worked, but he didn't see tears. He saw a glimmer of something, something he had hoped to see for nine of the longest months of his life.
"I love you, Mackenzie," she said at last.
"I know that."
She smiled, a tentative gesture, but genuine. "Arrogant jerk."
His hand slid down her shoulder, grazed the side of her breast. During the summer, she always changed out of her uniform before she came home from work, so she wore thin cotton drawstring trousers and a cropped halter top. He placed his palm on the bare expanse of her stomach and moved up, taking up the hem of her loose shirt, sliding it until her left breast was uncovered, displaying the lace of her bra cup. His fingers traced the nipple beneath, and then he pushed the cup down and lowered his head to suckle her. His hand came around to her ribcage, to hold her firmly to his mouth, and she laid her hand on his head, tugging on those curls as his head moved.
"Mackenzie..." she murmured, her thighs loosening, wanting him, aching for what she felt going on beneath her squirming buttocks. She wanted him so much, she was just so afraid...
"Damn it, Violet. I'm yours. I'm yours, sugar." And in his frustration, he scored her with his teeth, caught the side of her breast, goading her.
Something cracked within her, something that was pain and joy both, a bright, excruciating light, merciless in its heat and power. It felt like a granite wall breaking up inside her body, pummeling the softest, most vulnerable parts of her.
She caught his face, pulled it away from her, met flashing silver with her own determined gaze. "Then fuck me, Mackenzie. Take me. Make me as much yours as you are mine. Leave your mark on me, be as rough as you've wanted to be all these months. Let me feel the animal in you I've always known is in there."
They stared at each other for a long moment. The sun was melting on the horizon, a flood of orange fire that glinted off the light in his eyes and matched what was rolling through her blood, flame hot as the purifying depths of hell.
There was a moment of hesitation, but only a moment. Abruptly he was out of the chair, taking her with him, and he spun her, shoving her down onto her belly on the mosaic table. "Spread open for me then, sugar," he whispered. She gasped as he ripped the seam of her loose sweat pants and the panties beneath in one tear, exposing her to the humid air, relieved only by the lazy turns of the ceiling fan above them. She had a moment to adjust her knees before his foot was against her instep, knocking her feet out wider, a cop move that made her instantly, gloriously wet. His arm snaked around her waist and he yanked her back against him, her hips in the air, her feet leaving the floor, toes not even brushing. She caught hold of the rough grooves in the table surface, the pads of her finger holding on, looking for an anchor, but there was none but him.
He sheathed himself in her. Hard, brutal, shoving home into her like the slamming of a magazine into the stock of an automatic. She screamed at the combination of pain and pleasure, and knew how much she had missed this, the desperate urgency of a powerful man. Her powerful man. He pulled all the way out, stroking her clit with his broad head, then slammed into her again, jerking her body forward on the table.
"That's your cock, Mistress," he gasped. "Take every goddamned inch of it and scream for mercy, because I'm not feeling merciful. All I want is to feel that sweet pussy of yours sucking on me until eternity crashes down on us."
It was absolution. Because she felt it from him, all of a sudden she understood it, understood why she hadn't been able to let go, embrace him again as she'd wanted to do. It was so absurdly obvious.
She'd blamed herself. She thought she should have been faster, better. She was supposed to keep him safe. He was giving her the punishment she wanted, stroking away the pain while offering her the gift of himself, a complex give and take she was helpless to explain. With every stroke, she knew he was telling her that, come hell or high water, she was his Mistress.
His hands cupped her breasts, gripped them in his long palms, used that grip to increase the impact of each hard thrust into her, squeezing her nipples between the fingers of both hands.
"You've got a beautiful ass, Mistress," he muttered. He lifted her up higher so it was arched high in the air as his cock continued to pound into her relentlessly, her feet dangling. She was leaving nail marks on the table.
"You'd rather sink those little claws into me, I know," his breath was hot over his ear. "And you will. Again and again, until I carry your scars on my back and I'll be proud as hell of them. But tonight you'll wear my mark."
She sucked in a gasp as his teeth sank into her shoulder, quick, precise, deep, and the pain surged through her blood like a sweet drug. He held on, like a stallion holding a mare in place with his strength. God, she couldn't believe how much she'd missed his strength, that strength that could mesmerize her, but was also all hers to command.
The climax built higher and hotter than the hottest Florida sun, and she was whimpering with each stroke, unable to get a purchase on the table, not wanting one, but feeling out of control, rushing at breakneck speed to where they were going. All her fear and guilt were being swept away before physical response, and her breath was harsh and loud as the slap of his thighs against the backs of hers. His fingers dipped, caught her clit and began to manipulate it.
"Oh, no..." She went over the crest like a rocket, her hand clinging to his other arm, now anchored firmly just above her breasts, so her body strained forward, unable to do anything but convulse in the throes of the strong climax as he brought her down on him again and again, until his thighs quivered, his breath rasped, and she cried out with him again. He shouted out his release, his cock working inside her like the power of life itself, virile and potent, creating mysteries beyond the desire for knowledge, taking them into the realm of blind faith.
She clung to him, let him make her serve his cock until he chose to slow, until her cries became soft, mewling whimpers. At length, he eased her forward so she was flat on the table, his knuckles rubbing a soft caress between her shoulder blades as her deep pants slowed into soft sobs, quiet hitching breaths.
He leaned down and placed a soft kiss in the center of her back, dwelling there, a tender, rubbing caress.
"My Mistress is generous, and kind," he said softly. "But she's done nothing to deserve a punishment from her slave."
"It's not a rational thing," she whispered. "I just needed to know...I needed to give you that."
"As I said, my Mistress is generous," he responded simply. She was limp in his arms as he turned her, lifted her into a sitting position so they were facing each other. His cock was glistening with her come and his, and the beauty of his slightly damp, living breathing body overwhelmed her. He fastened his jeans and then lifted her in his arms.
"Should you--"
"Ssshh..." He took her inside, to the bathroom, set her down on the lid of the commode. "You worry too much."
"What are you doing?" He took out a bottle of peroxide, several cotton balls.
"I want to make sure I don't cause you any infection."
She turned her glance to the teethmarks. "I wasn't expecting that."
He went to one knee, dabbed the cotton at her shoulder.
"You wanted the animal. You can call him when you want him." Something in his voice turned her to him, made her lift his chin so she could see his face.
Mac closed his hand over hers, held her gaze. "I've seen it enough to know it lives in all of us, and it's not always a bad thing. You bring it out in me, and only you can harness it. Don't stop being my Mistress."
"It's not a choice I have," she smiled. She placed her forehead against his, closed her eyes. "Oh, Mac."
/> "I know, sugar." His hand cupped the back of her head. "We made it, and you did it. I love you with all I've got. Let me take care of you again, as I've wanted to, for nine fucking months. Don't be afraid."
Everything inside her loosened inside at his low, fervent tone. "I want to spend my life being your Mistress," she raised her head, looked at him kneeling at her feet. "I want to make you beg for my pussy, see your fine ass every day and know it's mine to do with as I wish."
He arched a brow. "Pretty unorthodox marital vows."
"Is that a marriage proposal?" she teased, though her voice shook a little. "I guess it might be. What do I get, if it is?"
He put down the cotton balls, took both her hands in his. "I'll make you feel so loved and desired, sugar, you won't know where one ends and the other begins. What's more, it won't matter. You won't need to separate them."
"Okay," she said, only a little terrified. "So, how will this go, then? You promise to love, cherish and..."
"Obey," he murmured, a whisper from her lips.
The kiss was hungry and powerful, and she gave herself over to it. To have his tongue inside of her mouth, her own curling deliciously into its grasp, feeling his flesh give way under the not-so-gentle bite of her teeth. To be as rough as she wished, to hear him growl against her with need. When she pulled back, she saw he was fully erect again against the crotch of the jeans.
"I think you have a little trouble with that last vow," she gasped. "We'll have to work on it. In fact, I'm thinking I might need to take you to bed and remind you who your Mistress is. Right now."
Lord, please, now.
"There's no one I'd rather have set me straight. Though I expect it will take a lifetime." He smiled that smile that melted her heart, started to get to his feet.
"We'll see," she sniffed. "I'm giving you sixty or seventy years to shape up, Mackenzie Nighthorse. After that, I'm dumping your ass."
He grinned, caught her lips in a kiss again, swung her up in his arms. "Try it, sugar. Just try it."
About the author:
Joey W. Hill lives on the Carolina coast with her wonderful husband, a houseful of animals, and their dauntless sailboat, Shadowfax. She is published in two genres, contemporary/epic fantasy and women's erotica, and has won awards for both.
Joey welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora's Cave Publishing at P.O. Box 787, Hudson, Ohio 44236-0787.
Also by Joey W. Hill:
Enchained
Forgotten Wishes
Holding The Cards
If Wishes Were Horses
Make Her Dreams Come True
Snow Angel