He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, as if he had no plans to do anything else. Ever.
Pleasure fizzed through her like a shaken-up soda.
When he finally drew back, her lips burned and her head spun. No one had kissed her like that since…since high school when she and Danny parked his car and would kiss all night. After a second, she blinked back to reality and realized in amazement that she’d forgotten her fear for that time.
His intense gaze focused on her face. “You kiss well, sugar.”
She had a second of delight from the compliment.
He ran a finger down her cheek. And then his hand continued down her neck, her chest. His fingers slowed at the whip marks, and a flash of anger appeared in his eyes.
When he stroked along the swell of her breasts, she stiffened. Would he touch her below now? Was he planning to whip her? She couldn’t…
His fingers opened the front of her corset, tiny hook by tiny hook.
“No.” The word escaped. She’d been naked before, but he was different from the other Doms.
One eyebrow raised, and his gaze stabbed her to silence. The corset dropped onto the wood floor.
His strong hands cupped her small breasts. He rubbed her nipples with his thumbs, and she found the sensation fairly pleasant. A corner of his mouth turned up. Abandoning her breasts, he unzipped her latex miniskirt and let it slide down her legs to the wooden floor.
Naked. Totally vulnerable to him. To him. Her hands jerked as she instinctively tried to cover herself.
As the chains restraining her hands jangled, he glanced up, then stepped back. He simply stood there, waiting, until her panic slowed.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Now he’d touch her, try to bring her to—
He took a spreader bar off the wall, the widest one. Unhooking a set of cuffs from his belt, he buckled them onto her ankles and attached the bar, pulling her legs apart with firm hands.
So quiet. Unlike some Doms, he didn’t speak at all. But he never stopped assessing her—his eyes on her hands when her fingers gripped the chain too tightly, on her body when her breathing faltered, on her face when she couldn’t conceal the tiny quiver of her bottom lip.
Stepping back, he waited until… She didn’t know what he waited for.
He winched the chains until her body stretched upward, her toes touching the floor just enough to keep the strain off her shoulders. She could move nothing now. Anxiety welled inside her along with the tiniest thrill. He was totally in control.
He grunted his satisfaction and circled her, coming to a stop behind her.
She flinched when a callused finger ran down her back, ever so slowly, and she realized he was tracing a scar.
“Metal-tipped flogger?” he asked, his voice casual. His finger slid down one mark, then the other, one by one until her skin began to anticipate the next stroke.
She nodded.
His finger brushed along her side. “One-tail?” he asked, continuing to touch her shoulders, her back, her flanks. Each gliding touch was light and excruciatingly slow. His fingers grazed over her bottom, and a quiver ran through her.
“Knife?”
“Yes, Sir.” Kyler had boasted of the evenness of the cuts. All she could remember were her screams.
“How long were you with him?” he asked. Just a request for information.
The lack of emotion in his voice let her open the door to her memories a little further. “Two years.” Two years of pain that had slowly buried her sexuality until she wasn’t sure if Beth, the woman, even existed anymore.
Master Nolan touched each parallel scar. Other Doms occasionally asked a general question about the humiliating, ugly marks of Kyler’s displeasure. She now knew he had hurt her for his own pleasure, not because of her actions, yet the scars still embarrassed her as if she’d been at fault, as if she were as worthless as he’d always told her.
No one had ever looked at each one, questioned each one. She felt like the Dom had pulled her out of the shadows where she’d been hiding, and instead of revulsion, she found only mild interest.
He stroked down her thighs, her calves. He walked to her front and started at her toes. Moved up, stopping at her right shin and the knotted scars there, the uneven bone beneath the skin. “What did this?” he asked, his voice a whisper.
“Cast-iron skillet, Sir.”
Did he growl? He worked his way up, his stroke so light she barely felt it, and yet her skin grew so sensitive she was aware of the heat from his fingers before he even touched her.
His touch found the scars on her hip, the burns on her breasts, the healed gashes on her chin and cheekbones, the bump on her nose from the fist that broke it.
“Sugar, you’re a mess,” he murmured. His voice didn’t ooze sympathy, just stated a fact. He took her lips again. Harder this time, deeper, but just as slow and careful. Velvet and iron. His tongue took complete possession before enticing hers in turn. Her breath quickened as a slow burn started low in her belly. She could go nowhere, refuse nothing. Could only submit. And enjoy. Slowly he pulled back, stopping to nibble on her now-swollen lips. He drew her breath into his lungs, gave her his, the exchange more intimate than sex with someone else might be.
His hands cupped her breasts again as he’d done before.
An unexpected tingle ran through her. She jerked when his abrasive thumbs rubbed her nipples. He tugged at one peak gently, rolling it between his fingers, his intent gaze on her face, her mouth, her eyes.
Incrementally, the pressure increased with each pinch, each roll of his fingers until an electric current sparked to life, flowing between her breast and her clit. Until her breath huffed in.
He kissed her again, his mouth demanding. One hand cupped her head to hold her in place, as the other stroked her breast. His kiss distracted her, and a sharp pinch to her nipple made her jump, hiss in surprise. He continued, drugging her with sensuous kisses, shocking her with pinches until her insides started to melt and a glorious feeling of arousal rushed through her.
She leaned into his kiss as his hands slid down her body, lower and lower, until he touched the curls of her pussy. He drew back and showed her his hand, his fingers glistening.
Her mouth dropped in disbelief. She was wet. How long had it been?
He licked his fingers, and his firm lips curved into a smile. The line of a crease in his cheek softened his face slightly.
“I like your taste.” His blunt words eased the worry inside and warmed her. There were actually things he liked about her. And unlike the other Doms, he didn’t appear frustrated or unhappy with her.
After glancing around, he walked to the wall and brought back a low stool, seating himself in front of her. His face was level with her crotch. For a minute…then another…for what seemed like an eternity, he just looked at the V between her legs where she gaped open from the leg spreader. His gaze burned into her, and she felt her labia, her clit, warm and awaken. When he finally touched her, she jolted and sucked in an uncontrolled breath.
His gaze rose, and he watched her face with those unreadable eyes as he moved his finger through her slick, wet folds. His finger, just one, slid slowly from her mound, down beside her clit, down almost to her anus, and then back ever so slowly. Again and again, he traced that route, as if he had nothing better to do, no plans to do anything else. Each unhurried stroke wakened more nerves until her lower body pulsed with urgency, until her hands fisted around the chains with the need to push against his hand.
He changed and moved his finger to her clit, circling but never making contact, the deliberately slow swirls making her restless in anticipation. Frustration. She could feel her clit harden, enlarge, then throb painfully when nothing, nothing touched it. She dampened further, aching for release, but he didn’t seem to notice, this Dom who didn’t appear to miss any little nuance of her movements. Another piece of her control began to slip away.
“Sir,” she whispered. She hadn’t been this close in so, so long. “Sir…”
His gaze darkened, and his mouth tightened to a severe slash. “You do not have permission to speak.” And his finger never slowed. A circle, another, her clit on fire, her world narrowing to just his touch.
When he removed his hand and stopped touching her entirely, she whimpered.
In silence, he removed the spreader bar. Her legs closed over her engorged clit and swollen labia. Over her own wetness. Her body ached, needing more.
He unbuckled her ankle cuffs and removed them, reattaching them to his belt. When he rose, she stiffened, preparing herself, mentally and physically for the invasion of his cock. Fear and anticipation mingled together as her need died down to a simmer.
He held his wet fingers in front of her face. She could smell her arousal. “You will smell like that next time, sub,” he said. “And possibly I will take you further.”
Next time? Not now?
He released her chains. She would have fallen except for the strong arms that steadied her.
“Easy, sugar,” he murmured in a deep growl. He drew her closer and cupped her bare bottom with his hands, pulling her up against his rock-hard body. A thick erection pressed against her stomach.
So he did want her. The knowledge sent desire surging through her, followed by anxiety. He wanted her; why didn’t he take her? She looked up at him in confusion, met his unreadable black eyes, and watched those eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.