“I want you more…than I want that.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. Something violent passed through him, something that almost lifted the hair on her neck, instinctive self-preservation. But when he spoke in that savage rumble, his tone was even. “Prove you can obey me. If you can’t do that, I give you nothing.”
He meant it, she could see he did. Once again she had to concede a battle for the hope of winning the war. Closing her eyes again so he wouldn’t see the tears of frustration, she relented. “Please, sir. You come first. Let me serve you.”
Just like that, he released her hair, put his hand back on her nape so she was forced to look at the floor. When he started thrusting again, she began to come within three strokes.
She couldn’t resist him, the internal muscles in her pussy and ass clenching down so hard, the one on empty space, the other on the massive size of him. It was indescribable, how it felt to have him there. The toys she used, they’d been rigid, unyielding, no matter how lifelike. He was living, pulsing, heated flesh, and it galvanized her reaction to a level she’d never experienced before. A long, never-ending wail tore out of her throat. She couldn’t bite it back, even if she’d wanted to do so, her vocal cords pushed to the max, the same way he was pushing all of her body. She convulsed against him, completely lost.
Still massaging her clit, he slid two of his fingers into her pussy. It shot her over another edge. He thrust into her ass, then slid almost all the way out. Back in, each pass ripping another sound from her throat, another wave of her climax. She clamped down on him, working for her Master, wanting to give him pleasure. She was forming words among the screams, single words that meant so much to her. “Master…fuck…yours…God…”
Then words weren’t possible. With an expulsion of harsh breath, a primal grunt, he began to release. His hips were slamming against her abused ass, driving her forehead harder into the mat, his other hand now clamped around her boxed forearms to keep from putting additional duress on her neck, an amazing awareness of her even when he was obviously letting go, pushing them both to their limits. She reveled in his groan of pleasure, the way his fingers convulsed on her, the heat that she knew had to be his seed. The flood of his semen was enough to make her cry out anew, and he muttered a savage, gasping oath, responding to her.
He kept going for quite awhile, long past his completion, as if he was savoring the clench of her muscles over his still-hard cock, prolonging and underscoring her surrender to him. For her, time slowed to a dreamy haze. Her climax spiraled down to intense aftershocks, but her body kept jerking from his thrusts. He didn’t pull out until long after all those aftershocks had faded to a low tide of pleasurable ripples through her stomach. When he did finally withdraw, a soft noise of discomfort broke from her lips, that tight ring of muscles contracting, burning. Suddenly she was aware of just how sore she was. Inside and out. It almost made her smile, but she was too exhausted.
He didn’t lie down with her, but he did lift her back onto the massage table, laying her on her stomach. One palm settled on her buttock, holding her in place. She heard Rachel’s quiet voice at the door a moment later, and his touch slipped away. He was leaving her aftercare to Jon’s wife. She’d called him Master again, and he was punishing her for that.
“You promised,” she whispered.
“What?” Ben squatted near her head, his hand gentle on her hair, thumb stroking her temple. His other hand rested on the edge of the table and she let hers creep up, cover two of his fingers. His glance went to the touch, then back to her face. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the corner of her eye, and she realized he was kissing away the track of a tear. She trembled beneath his mouth, but when he drew back, those eyes still so close, she swallowed, spoke.
“The club. You said you’d take me.”
“I said I’d think about it,” he corrected, giving her that sexy stern schoolmaster look.
“How much longer are you going to think about it?”
His gaze narrowed, but her stomach eased, seeing a flicker of humor. She lifted her hand, traced the serious mouth. Too serious. Too stern. “You don’t smile as much as you used to.”
She knew she was floating, but that was the way it was after something like that. At least she’d read it was this way, overheard discussions about it. Savannah, Rachel, Dana and Cass, having their monthly tea parties on the back deck, underneath her bedroom window. It had been easy enough to crack the window that tiny amount needed and sit below the sill to listen. It became an irresistible regular habit, particularly when she finally heard the words that told her what her feelings were. Submissive cravings. They had access to a whole candy shop outside her reach, but at least she’d been able to press her nose to the glass, learn what was waiting for her there. She’d dreamed of the day she could join them.
“I have a lot more annoyances than I used to have.” He tugged on a lock of her hair.
“No, that’s not it. Your heart…it’s all closed up. But it’s okay. I’m here. When are you taking me to the club?”
His glance shifted, as if her comments had elicited some type of reaction from Rachel, but then he was back to studying her face. His thumb traced over that tear track. “We’ll talk about it later. Rachel is going to take care of you now. You rest. That’s an order. You’re not going to work tomorrow.”
“Hmm.” She had another contract to finish. She didn’t want him to have to cover her work. Plus, there was something else she owed him. But he was too good at reading her.
“You want me to mentor you, from this moment on, you obey my orders. Got it? No work tomorrow. Say it.”
She bit her lip in frustration, but he had that look on his face, and she knew she couldn’t refuse it. “No work tomorrow, sir.”
He made a point of looking toward her hands, making sure nothing was crossed, and it almost made her smile. Of course, he didn’t look toward her toes.
Disentangling his fingers, he gave hers a quick squeeze before nodding to Rachel. “Take care of her.”
Ben cleaned up in the bathroom. He wanted to go back in to see her, but he didn’t, just glanced in to confirm Rachel was still working over her. She had an herbal wash that would soothe the tissues he’d stretched so cruelly, make that afterburn hurt way less. He’d liked cosseting her, taking care of the welts on her ass, hearing her sexy little whimpers. He wouldn’t mind being the one to put her in the tub, rinse out that tight passage, make her comfortable again.
But he wouldn’t. It was too personal, too intimate. He had to question his sanity, though, cutting out before Rachel gave her a full-body massage. Under different circumstances, he could probably talk Jon into ordering his wife to strip so they could have the pleasure of both women naked during the massage. With warming oil involved on lots of silken skin. Marcie’s skin.
Jesus, he had to get out of here.
As he walked into the main room, Jon looked up. He was stretched out on the couch, a cup of tea in hand, reading a massive book about the wisdom of ancient civilizations or some bullshit like that. He looked entirely too calm. Ben shook his head, lifting a hand before he could speak. “Thanks. I’ll be back for her tomorrow. I owe Rachel a yoga mat.”
“Ben—”
“Not now.” He stopped at the door, looked back at the man. “Thanks for your help, yours and Rachel’s. I just don’t want to talk it out right now, all right?”
Jon nodded. “I’ll call if she needs anything we can’t provide.”
“Okay.”
He slid out the door, relieved to breathe the open air. Though the limo was waiting, he would have preferred his own car, so he could open it up on the quiet rural roads around Jon’s house, feel the blast of wind and cathartic roar that came with pushing it, feeling the lift over the few hills as if the car was about to take off like a plane.
He told the driver to drop him off in the French Quarter. This time of night, Bourbon Street was revving up, but he bypassed the traffic and noise, getting out at Royal Street to head for the place where the night sky was close and there was full dark.
The St. Louis cemetery, the oldest one. His childhood haunting ground.
Fortunately it seemed pretty quiet tonight. A homeless person or two were probably settled into the shadows, which was fine. He slipped along the maze of vaults, the various sizes that housed whole families. As a kid, he’d come through here plenty times. Hiding from other predators, the cops, or just to be by himself. Out of habit, he traced one of the many trios of sideways crosses etched on Marie LaVeau’s tomb. Didn’t really know why he did it; just always had. Sometimes he left a few pennies there, because the shrewd voodoo queen liked copper. Never hurt to network and make friends where you could.
When he reached the Italian Society vault, he glanced around, verifying he was alone and unobserved. Taking off his shoes, he held the laces in his teeth, then used handholds on the sealed drawers to climb to the top, take a seat amid the tufts of grass that grew untended there. Putting his back against the cross that crowned the area, he looked out over the acres of the dead and gone.
He wished he had a bottle of whiskey or a six-pack of Guinness, but then again he didn’t. He knew he shouldn’t drink in this kind of mood, but lately it hadn’t stopped him. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the cross. Mistake. Marcie was beneath him again, all that pale cream skin, her hair brushing her shoulders. She was biting her lips, tears in her eyes as she concentrated on taking him inside of her, managing the pain, her cheeks flushed with arousal. Her pussy had been soaked, sucking eagerly on his fingers. When she took his dick in her mouth, she took him like an experienced hooker. How the hell had she learned to do that? When? With who?
He recalled again the letters about her losing her virginity. She’d liked the boy, but with her penchant for strategic planning, it was kind of a “to-do”—getting it out of the way. At the time it had bugged him, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. It was the way most guys were about it, after all. Get it done, the sooner the better. But maybe that was why it bugged him. Marcie wasn’t a guy.