by Delta James
“You will, or you’ll get your first taste of leather. Does Daddy need to add a set of stripes to your very red bottom?”
Daddy? Where was he getting this? Didn’t he know she didn’t write Daddy Dom books? She wrote straight-up erotic romantic suspense with a heavy dose of action and adventure. How did this clown get off calling her little girl and insisting she call him Daddy? That was so not happening… but it was, leaving in its aftermath a surge of arousal that pulsed and quivered throughout her being.
Sage couldn’t quell the trembling that originated in her nether region, ran up her spine, and branched off along her nervous system. Her toes curled, and her body tensed in anticipation. She wanted and needed him in a way she couldn’t comprehend. She wanted to feel his hands exploring and touching her body, not with tender caresses, but with tugging and pinching. More than that, she wanted to feel the sizeable bulge trapped in his pants.
She wanted him to shove it inside her, powerfully thrusting in and out until she came again. His cock pushed and strained hard against his fly. She wanted to see it set free so he could part her thighs with his own and ram it to the end of her sheath. As bad as the realization was that she craved his less than gentle touch, she feared this first spanking was much like the first taste of cocaine—igniting a need for more, which would be hard to resist.
She tried to remind herself she was the victim. William, if that was even his name, had tried to garrote her. Why? What happened when she blacked out? Who was this guy, and why did he think he had a right to spank her? Why did it feel so right that he had?
Sage had taken care of herself for a long time. With the exception of putting up with Gail, she never backed down, ever, and she wasn’t about to start now. Why then, couldn’t she hold his steely gaze? Her emotional and physical responses were all over the place. One minute her stomach was so tied up in knots, she thought she might throw up. The next, it danced all over the place in gleeful relief that at last, someone had figured her out, seen through her façade. Sage knew to hold his gaze was to offer him the proverbial window to her soul. He would be able to read all her thoughts and emotions, all her needs and secrets.
She watched him reach to unbuckle his belt. The pulse between her legs increased, beating so hard, she was surprised he couldn’t hear it.
“Now, Sage, or your first kiss won’t be from Daddy’s lips but from his belt.”
He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the corner, gently nudging her in the direction of the fireplace. When she hesitated, he patted her backside gently, but the unvoiced threat was palpable. She winced but went where he directed her.
“Who are you?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Chapter 7
Who was he? How could she not know that? She had given him life, although she might be regretting that right now, but she hadn’t given him agency—that and his freedom, he’d taken for himself.
He was used to watching Sage’s train wreck of a life play out as she wrote her novels. Granted, he could only see what was right in front of the laptop when it was open, but it was enough. He only had glimpses of the events that influenced her life but was able to see the effects and aftermaths. He had tried repeatedly to get her to let him deal with the heroines of her novels in a more meaningful way. Sage had consistently written them as silly shills for herself. He’d wanted to keep them safe and help them to flourish and grow. Instead, she’d made each one a self-contained story that never allowed her hero or heroine to evolve.
In each novel, a woman found herself in peril. Roark would come in, at the behest of some person who professed to care for her, then become annoyed with the heroine so he could justify spanking and fucking her. The result had become predictable; the lady in question always fell in love with him. Then inexplicably, she would escape his watchful eye, and he’d have to save her before spanking and fucking her again. Then instead of letting the relationship expand to any kind of meaningful conclusion, Sage would have him merely drop her off with her father, fiancé, or dreary little life before he returned to his suite in the Savoy. Nice touch. The way she wrote Roark, he really was a bastard.
What Sage failed to realize was there was so much more to him… there could be so much more between them. Sage needed a loving dominant, someone who could see to all her needs—structure and support for boundaries and consequences, as well as those for pleasure and pain. Sage would be quick to tell anyone she wasn’t into pain for pain’s sake. She had just enough of a touch of masochism that pain freed her from her self-imposed limitations and rigidity. What she needed was to know there was someone who cared enough about her to hold her accountable and see that she behaved in the best ways possible to achieve her goals and dreams.
And pleasure… he smiled, his cock growing hard. There was a deep well of pleasure in Sage no one had guessed existed. He meant to explore her hedonistic need for erotic and sensual stimulation and satisfaction. His little girl was a proverbial alley cat in heat when it came to sex. She’d almost let her assassin fuck her before he killed her. He might be her tomcat, and he might well fuck her under a bridge sometime, but by Christ, it would mean something to her, and she would stay safe.
It was difficult to see only the parts of her life visible from the laptop or the pages of her manuscript—either on the printed page or from her screen. In the past, all he could do was observe what was directly in front of him or hear what was going on in the same room, occasionally eluding the bonds she had created to invade her dreams. He could touch her and have sex with her, but had never found a way to pull her over his knee to administer a spanking when she needed one. He hadn’t been able to escape his prison on the written page for any length of time.
Last night had been different…
As usual, he’d been imprisoned in Sage’s laptop. He felt uneasy when she hadn’t returned before dark. He’d begun casting about—sifting through emails, linking up with the Savoy’s vast computer network—anything that might reveal her whereabouts.
He’d all but given up when he felt her presence, stronger than he ever had in the past, and looked up, expecting only darkness. She had closed the computer before she’d taken a shower. Pity that… he did enjoy seeing her naked—voluptuous curves, beautiful auburn hair, and eyes the color of a soft, summer sea. Instead, he saw Sage’s room, which meant someone had been in her room and opened her laptop.
Someone had tried to access the system but failed. All he could see was the room and couldn’t hear anything. He started to turn away when the room began fading into a shimmering soft focus, and he wondered if the battery was dying. Roark tried looking through what appeared to be gathering fog.
Suddenly, two figures came into sharp relief—Sage with her leggings and panties pulled down past her knees, pressed up against the wall of a bridge support, and some guy fondling her. Who was this guy, and why was Sage allowing him to have what should have always been his? What was he getting from his jacket pocket? If Roark had her half-naked and willing, he damn sure would not have been fumbling in his pocket. What the bloody hell! The man had a garrote!
“Sage! Pay attention! That wanker is going to kill you!” he’d shouted as he began to test the strength of the barrier that divided them.
She didn’t hear his warning. The would-be assassin now had a handle in each hand and was pulling the noose tight. She brought her hands up to try to ward off her own strangulation, but appeared to be too late. He could feel her life ebb away, then heard her desperate plea for a hero of her own. Who better than the one she had created?
No sooner had the words formed in his mind, than he felt the barrier begin to soften. His resolve to get to her hardening, he’d shouldered his way through. The veil had given way, and he charged through, tumbling in a void until he’d been transported to the walkway not far from Sage and her assailant. He’d rushed toward the dueling couple, reaching into his pocket and finding his favorite SIG Sauer, his silencer already attached. Taking aim, he fired t
wice, hitting the man once in the temple and once between the eyes when the force of the first bullet spun him away from Sage to face Roark. Putting on an extra burst of speed and sliding under her like an American ballplayer at third base, he was able to keep her from hitting the ground. He disposed of the body before bringing her back to the Savoy.
Surprised to find she had the keycard to his fictional suite, he took her inside, ostensibly to ensure she hadn’t been hurt, but even Sage wouldn’t have written such a silly scene. It was a setup for a sex and punishment scene if ever there had been one—one he intended to take full advantage of.
Roark had no intention of passing up the opportunity to get his hands on her naked flesh. God’s teeth, she felt good, her skin smooth and delicate to the touch. He caressed her beautiful bottom and thought again how good it would look stained with his handprints, but to give her the spanking she needed, he had to wait until she was awake. He wanted her to know she was being spanked and why.
Then he remembered a scene she’d added to the third Roark Samuels novels. Roark liked anal sex, especially with arrogant women who needed a comeuppance. He chuckled when he opened the nightstand drawer to find his kit containing a set of graduated butt plugs as well as two kinds of lubricant—one a straight lube, the other with peppermint extract that could give a little girl’s bottom hole something extra to think about. He opted for the first and had very gently worked the smallest of the plugs past the ring of muscle guarding her dark entrance.
Now here they were—Sage’s nose pressed to the corner and her question hanging in the air between them.
“Who am I? As I said previously, naughty little girls are not the ones who ask the questions, and you, Pet, have yet to answer mine. The two most pressing ones are, first—what were you thinking, getting drunk and wandering the streets of London with someone you didn’t know? And second—who would want to kill you?”
Sage turned around to face him.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Roark closed on her, pressing his hand against her breastbone, gently but firmly forcing her into the corner with her back against the wall, his fingers wrapping around the back of her neck as his thumb caressed her throat.
“Such a willful, wild kitten. Do you have any idea how much Daddy is going to enjoy taking you and teaching you to purr just for him? Mine will be the only cream you lick from your lips.”
He watched her struggle to remain standing, much less find words to respond in her normally cheeky manner as her breathing became shallow and erratic. He glanced down between them—her nipples were as hard as diamonds, their pebbled texture begging to be suckled. Then there was the bulge in the front of his jeans that wasn’t getting any smaller. He’d wanted her from the moment he became sentient. There was no way of knowing if or when he’d be relegated back to the pages of her books, but he was beginning to believe he had escaped for good.
Before she could find her voice, he whirled her around so once again, she was facing the corner. He wrapped one arm around her waist, trailing his fingers from her belly button to the small bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, stopping when he found her engorged clit. Inhaling sharply, he caught the sweet fragrance of her arousal. His fingers danced through the soft, silky, damp curls surrounding the tender bud, rolling it between finger and thumb. He might have to rethink keeping her bare. He rather liked the feel of her most intimate hair.
Sage moaned and braced herself against the fireplace. He’d never heard a more seductive sound, even when she was pleasuring herself. It called to the deepest part of him, the place where desire met libido, colliding until all that was left was pure lust. Thank God she hadn’t written him as a pasty-faced pantywaist, who was all about political correctness and getting a permission form signed in triplicate before proceeding to the next stage of intimacy.
He’d never wanted any woman the way he wanted Sage. Everything about her called to him. Couldn’t she see she needed him, not a one-night stand with no prayer of going anywhere? What she needed was what he wanted to be to her—partner, lover, and the one she answered to—in short, a Daddy Dom. She had written him with a strong, healthy sex drive and an overly endowed package to see to her needs. He had watched her pleasure herself often and had managed to seek her out in her dreams to satisfy her, but he knew that would pale in comparison to the pleasures of the real flesh he intended to indulge in.
He longed to have her naked, either on her knees or her belly—nothing but submissive sexual positions for his little kitten. He might occasionally allow her to be fucked on her back, but only if she’d been a very good girl. She needed to know who was in charge in all things—sexual and other. His cock had been straining against his fly since he’d picked her up off the ground by the Thames. None of the women she’d written for him had been anything other than a quick, hard fuck, but Sage was something altogether different. He wanted her in a way he had wanted no other. His cock throbbed all along his length, sending pulses down to his rock-hard balls—balls he meant to empty into her wet heat.
Wildfire followed his fingers as they trailed down her body through the neat patch covering her mons. The instant he touched her clit, it felt as though fireworks were released within her system, feeling the heat and seeing their colors dancing before her eyes. He circled her clit, teasing, then brought his hand back to give it a hard pinch. She gasped, not sure if she felt pleasure or pain.
The knuckles of his other hand rasped against her backside as he unbuttoned his jeans.
Who wore button-fly jeans in the twenty-first century? No one she knew. No, whispered a little voice. Not no one… Roark—but he was a character in her book. This guy looked exactly like she had always seen him in her head and had described him, and he acted like Roark, except for the whole Daddy thing—but that wasn’t possible. Roark was someone she had created… a figment of her imagination. Or was he? the voice whispered again. Shut up! No one knew Roark was actually every hope, every dream, every fantasy she’d ever had rolled into one.
Not true. Like yourself, you hide Roark’s true nature behind a strong, arrogant façade, but in your heart of hearts, you know the truth. You long for a man who will take you in hand, bend you to his will, yet cherish your heart and want to take care of you.
But no one knows, she argued with the voice.
He does, it said, drifting away.
Feeling him open his fly, freeing his cock and nudging it between her painful butt cheeks, she caught her breath and bit her lip. He shifted his hips, slipping his enormous cock between her legs, angling it toward the opening to her core. She tried clenching her thighs, but his sharp slap to her backside surprised her and she widened her stance. The smooth, uncut head of his cock slid along her soaked slit until he found her entrance.
“You’re going to come when Daddy mounts you, aren’t you? Do you understand me, little girl?” he said in a voice part growl, part purr, and completely seductive.
Sage could do nothing more than nod, moan, and lean more heavily against the wall as she felt him poised and ready to strike. His cock slid along the petals of her sex, gliding into the wetness he bared when he spread her labia. She groaned when she felt that first nudge that lodged him against her heated core. Shuddering, her entire body focused on what was about to occur—something that shouldn’t happen, that couldn’t be happening… yet it was.
Every nerve ending, every synapse, fired at an accelerated rate, and she worried the flames of desire would consume her, but she didn’t care. She was strung as tightly as a bow readied to fire an arrow targeted for her molten hub. She wanted him to surge forward, to impale her on his shaft. She needed him to fuck her. Didn’t he understand that? Couldn’t he sense that?
He swatted her again.
“I asked if you understood me.”
She nodded. Another painful strike to her backside. She inhaled deeply, trying to keep from crying. God, she needed him—she needed him to fuck her. Why didn’t he know that?
“Answer me, little girl,” he said, tugging her clit and rubbing the end of his cock all around her slick labia.
“I understand,” she mewled, hating the sound of her own voice.
“Better. Now say ‘Daddy’s going to make me come when he mounts me.’”
Before he could spank her again, she said in a rush, the words tumbling out in a jumble, “Daddy’s going to make me come when he mounts me.” She didn’t think that was possible and was still having trouble processing everything that was taking place, but he knew and did… better than any scene she’d ever written.
Without another word, Roark—she now knew, inexplicably, it was him—drove into her, surging forward in a single, powerful thrust that filled her to capacity and beyond. His length and girth stretched her in a way she’d never known before. She hadn’t believed it was possible to orgasm just from the act of being mounted and possessed by a dominant man. Sage screamed and collapsed against the mantle, barely able to stand.
Roark stroked so deep and hard, every inch of her sheath felt his commanding presence as he hammered her pussy and ravaged her inner walls. She felt torn apart by his mounting and her resulting orgasm. He tightened his hold, and instinctively, she knew it wasn’t to help her. He wanted to hold her in place while he fucked her. The pressure from his shaft pummeling her was overwhelming, and she climaxed again.
Sage tried to catch her breath to re-establish her equilibrium, but he wouldn’t have it. He was in complete control, and she knew he was making that point. She barely had time to recover from her second orgasm before he ramped up his plunging and pushed her toward the abyss of a third. He fucked her relentlessly through another climax, never once slowing or changing the tempo—an unrelenting pounding that robbed her of her breath, her will, her ability to be anything other than what he demanded she be.
The speed and ferocity with which she responded to him were far beyond anything she had ever written, much less experienced in real life. She focused on the feel of his cock scraping her interior walls. She could not feel any twitching or thickening of his shaft, telltale signs he might be nearing his own release. There was only his ruthless stroking of her to ecstasy again and again. She tried to deny him, tried to withhold that last small inkling of herself, but he would have none of it.