He had a selection of racquets. Choosing an oversized Prince, she tested the strings to make sure it would perform up to her standards. It surprised her, his decision to do this instead of taking her to some dungeon he had hidden on his sprawling estate and spending the day at the same intensity level as last night. She wasn't ungrateful, since her system appeared to be working on overload now.
The sports bra was white, as was the skirt. Being a tennis skirt, it just made it past the cheeks of her ass. Maybe he thought it would distract her. He was in for a surprise.
When it came to winning, her focus was absolute.
When she stepped out of the room into the hallway, she found Sarah waiting for her. His house staff person looked in her fifties, with remarkably blonde hair tied back from her shoulders. She had hazel eyes and small interlocking silver heart earrings dangling from her lobes. A wedding band with a modest setting and a diamond anniversary band rested on a finger that, like the rest of her knuckles, displayed the swellings of early arthritis. Wearing a comfortable cotton blouse that rested at the swell of her hips over a neat pair of jeans, she appeared prepared to clean and cook, or step in as an appropriately casual hostess. The blouse was hand-embroidered with a floral design on the tips of the collar.
"Ma'am, Mr. Winterman asked me to show you the way to the tennis courts. He apologizes. He received a phone call in his office and had to take it." Which explained the surprise of his sudden absence, when he hadn't given her room to breathe since she'd arrived. "Tell him to take as long as he likes." Then, on a sudden impulse, she asked, "May I see his room?" When the woman hesitated, Marguerite put out a hand, summoning her most practiced proprietress smile. "With you, of course. The house is so beautifully decorated, I just want to see the pieces he's placed in his own space. And since I have a few moments before he can join me..."
"Of course. I'm sure that would be fine." Reassured, the housekeeper changed direction, took her down the hall and across the landing. Outside the windows the sun was sparkling on the Gulf, the live oaks on the lawn framing it with imbalanced perfection, their gnarled branches shadowing a garden bench, a hammock. Marguerite glanced off the other side of the landing, toward the front entranceway, and saw a ficus tree adorned with fairy lights she hadn't noticed coming in the night before. There appeared to be a glittering of glass ornaments on it.
"Did...Tyler do that?"
"No, of course not." Sarah chuckled. "Everyone wonders about that because it doesn't really match the rest of the house decor, does it? That was done by my grandchildren. Mr. Winterman let them come out for the day when they visited on Christmas break this year. They wanted to decorate it with some cheap little crystal ornaments we found in one of the storage sheds and a string or two of Christmas lights.
I was going to take it down after they left, for I certainly didn't think it matched all these pieces Mr. Winterman has so carefully chosen but he told me to leave it. That he liked it. And then informed me that he'd recently read in a Woman's Day article that such things were very fashionable, particularly when concerned with 'decorating on a dime'."
Marguerite was amused at the woman's impression of Tyler's masculine voice. "So do you ever get the urge to slap him?"
"Constantly. Almost as much as I get the urge to mother him. I suppose they go hand in hand." Sarah beamed. "Sometimes I come upon him here first thing in the morning. He'll have his coffee and be sitting on the landing in his pajamas, his feet between the railings dangling down like a little boy's while he watches the sun come up. Of course, once you get above those feet nothing else reminds you of a little boy." She gave Marguerite a mischievous glance that made Marguerite bite her lips against a smile. 'Good morning, Sarah,' he'll say with a smile, as if it's the most normal thing in the world for him to be sitting there. Then again it'd be almost a sin to have that view in the morning and not take time to pay tribute to it."
"You're obviously fond of him."
"He's a gentleman, in a world where they're hard to come by. Both meanings, you know. Gentleman and gentle man. Like my Robert." Sarah pushed open a door. "This is his room, Miss Perruquet. I'm sorry but I do feel like I should stay."
"I enjoy your company," Marguerite reassured her, stepping in and appreciating the woman's sense of responsibility, her protectiveness. It was a rare commodity and one of the many reasons she valued Chloe and Gen so much.
Yes. This was his room. It was not just the simple, mission style bed of polished dark wood and matching armoire that looked as if it contained an entertainment center behind its doors. It was the more personal items her sharp eyes caught here that she'd missed in the other room. Several scripts piled on the bureau for review. Receipts from his wallet. A photograph showing a ballerina bent over in a graceful pose, accepting a bouquet of roses from the orchestra maestro while she was on stage.
"Who is the dancer?"
"Mr. Winterman's wife."
Marguerite turned from the photograph, startled, and the housekeeper blanched, realizing the source of her consternation. "Oh, no, not his current wife. She's his ex-wife. Somewhat. Oh, dear, I'm not sure if that's the right description."
"Somewhat?" Then Marguerite saw a small heart-shaped box next to the picture.
Through the crystal top, she could see three rings, the man's lying diagonally on top of the woman's wedding set, linking them.
"I shouldn't have brought you in here. I'm so sorry, Miss Perruquet. I..."
"You haven't abused his trust," Marguerite said firmly, facing her. "I won't abuse the knowledge, but if you don't feel it would jeopardize your position I would like to know what 'somewhat' means."
Sarah pursed her lips, apparently mulling it over, and Marguerite gave her the time to do so with the patience that many a sub had both cursed and blessed her for.
At last, she spoke. "All right. I'll tell you. For the same reason I agreed to bring you here in the first place. Mr. Winterman gave us very specific instructions on Friday morning. He told me, 'Anything she asks for, other than to leave - '" a smile touched her lips, "'she's to have.' He's different about you." Marguerite tried to appear unaffected by that knowledge. "I'm sure Tyler often offers his hospitality to women."
"His hospitality, but not that. Not an open door." She shook her head. "I've raised my children, I have a husband. No matter the things that go on in this house, certain things remain the same. I know when a man is trying especially hard to make an impression on a woman. And I know enough about Mr. Winterman to know if he's trying so hard for you, then you must be extraordinary."
"Now that I don't think he'd appreciate you telling me."
"Perhaps not." Sarah nodded. "But he's got so much charm, I thought you might appreciate having an edge on him."
It startled a wave of amusement out of Marguerite. "I appreciate every weapon I can get," she agreed. "His wife?"
"Oh." The light went out of the housekeeper's eyes and she looked toward the picture. A frown marred her brow and she stepped past Marguerite to straighten the runner on the dresser that Tyler had apparently knocked off kilter when he laid the stack of scripts there. "Mr. Winterman's wife was a dancer, an extraordinary one.
European. Very...fragile. Temperamental. All the things you've heard about prima ballerinas - with her, they were true. But she loved him so much, depended on him so much. He..." She paused, as if reconsidering her decision to speak.
"He..." Marguerite prompted. She knew she was prying, encouraging the woman when she shouldn't, but in the past twelve hours Tyler had spun her on her axis. It seemed she'd been in retreat mode the whole time. She wanted to know more about him. While she knew the hazards of that desire, she was too far into the danger zone now to back away from a little additional knowledge. And while she could rationalize and tell herself it was to increase her arsenal of defenses, she wanted to know him.
Those shadows in his eyes at breakfast had bothered her.
Sarah folded her hands before her. "He wasn't always in the career field he's in now. He worked for the government. He left active duty some time ago, though I think he still does some work for them occasionally, mostly out of Washington. When he worked for them full time, he was assigned to Panama during that terrible time with Noriega. He was also involved in the Gulf War. When he came back from those conflicts, something had happened. You could tell from his eyes he saw things the rest of us didn't ever want to see. I thank God for men and women like him who are willing to see it and take care of it so the rest of us don't have to do so. But a part of him was shattered. He needed...he needed a woman's understanding and love, because he was in a very bad place in his heart. And she had always depended on him emotionally." The housekeeper's glance shifted away briefly. "They had the type of relationship you often see in this house."
A submissive. Of course. So Tyler's Dominant side had been a part of him so long it had even been part of his marriage.
"She didn't know how to help him, couldn't even understand it." Sarah shook her head. "It broke my heart to watch them. She thought that he should just be able to be home, watch her dance and that would make his heart happy again. Two years later she left him, confused. He let her go, too heartsick to help her find him again because he couldn't find himself. As I said, she was a fragile creature. It took him about eighteen months after that, after she went back to Europe, but he straightened things out for himself and went after her."
"They never..."
"No." Sarah stroked a hand over the bed, as if she touched the man who slept there, her hazel eyes sad, loving. "He never divorced her, you see. And she never asked for one. But before he could reconcile with her, she killed herself. Right after a stunning performance of Swan Lake where the troupe was called back for five curtain calls. They said it was the most poignant dancing she'd ever done. When her Odette died, there wasn't a dry eye in the entire theater."
"Dear Goddess." The words were spoken before Marguerite could think to hold them back. "Tyler... What did he do?"
"He buried her, mourned her and picked up the pieces. I thought for a while he'd never reach out to a woman again. But after about three years he started having lady guests."
"Like Leila."
The housekeeper didn't look surprised that she knew about Leila. But if Tyler held D/s parties here regularly, there probably wasn't much about Tyler's current or past relationships that startled her. Yet she had called Tyler a gentleman and meant it.
Which meant Sarah was an extraordinary housekeeper. Or she worked for an extraordinary man, a sly whisper from her subconscious that Marguerite chose to ignore.
"Miss Leila was a good thing for his heart. She laughs so easily and enjoys the types of things Mr. Winterman enjoys." Again that tactful wording. "She was a strong woman. I guess..." a faint blush tinged her cheeks. "I thought all women who did that type of thing were like Mrs. Winterman. Somewhat dependent, needy. I realized then that it was just a part of Mrs. Winterman.
"We all have our ghosts that haunt us." Her gaze went to another photograph, this one on the wall. It was a photo from what Marguerite now guessed was Panama. A soldier surrounded by children, reaching up for candy. "Sometimes when I come in and see him sitting on that landing, I know he's been sitting there half the night, watching the water, waiting for the sun come up. He's managed to heal himself, but it was a near thing. He put the pieces back together by himself. And most people couldn't have done that."
After a moment of silence between the two women, Marguerite spoke. "No, they couldn't. Thank you, Sarah. I appreciate your honesty. And I promise, regardless of what Tyler and I inflict on each other, I'll try not to use the things you've told me to hurt him."
Sarah gestured, letting Marguerite precede her from the room. As she closed the door, she paused with her hand on the knob. "Miss Perruquet, regardless of the instructions Mr. Winterman left me, I didn't plan to tell you such personal things about him."
"So why did you?"
"I'm not sure." The housekeeper considered Marguerite. Marguerite was thankful she kept her eyes on her face, not on the rather revealing outfit. "I just felt it was the right thing to do."
After that surprising statement Sarah led Marguerite out of the room, down the stairs and back through the kitchen. "The tennis courts are out this entrance. Just follow the path through the gardens and you'll see them below the pool house. Mr. Winterman also told me to give you this note to take with you." She handed Marguerite a folded piece of heavy, cream-colored stationery from the kitchen table. "He said to read it when you reached the orchid area. You'll recognize it. There's a small greenhouse for the more exotic ones. He has the hardier species planted in a bed just beside it. You'll also find a statue of Aphrodite there and a fountain pool with koi fish. Now, you and Mr. Winterman be sure to come back in for lunch soon. I'm making up chocolate chip cookies for dessert and snacks. You'll know they're ready because you can smell them all the way into the gardens. It usually brings Robert in, no matter how far afield he's wandered."
Marguerite nodded, not sure whether to be amused or disturbed at the dichotomy, a motherly admonishment offered as she stepped out in a tennis outfit that hardly covered her bare ass.
The gardens were Southern landscaping at its finest, foliage arranged in artful wild clusters of white and deep fuchsia azaleas, oleanders, ginger plants with salmon-colored, pink and yellow fragrant blossoms. Everything carefully planted and arranged to look natural and yet not cluttered. And throughout the garden was one of the most amazing collections of bronze statuary she'd ever seen. A lone soldier. A dog lying down, asleep. Dancers. So many dancers, slender bodies reaching, stretching, appearing as if they danced for the joy of the sun-drenched day and the flowers around them.
The care lavished on his property, not as an absent landlord throwing around money but as a man who enjoyed living here, who desired and perhaps needed a sanctuary more than most, was obvious. She pictured him sitting on the bench she sank down on now, a book in hand, studying his orchids, opening up the top of the greenhouse to sift their soil in his hands or bending to examine the ones in the outdoor bed. It would all seem like a Cary Grant cliche except she'd already seen the shift of the waters, the flashes of temperament, wells of sorrow, glints of humor sparkling.
The bench was in the shadow of a life-sized bronze statue of Aphrodite as Sarah had noted, ruling in queenly serenity over a pool sprinkled with floating lilies and containing gold and silver koi. After a moment of study, Marguerite opened her note.
He'd scented the paper with orange peel fragrance and done the script in calligraphy.
The note had been sealed with a brown wax like chocolate. Lifting it to her nose, she confirmed that it smelled like chocolate. The stem of a tiny lavender wildflower had been captured in the wax, a flower from breakfast. She shook her head, thinking a man this practiced in seduction should be labeled a dangerous weapon to protect any woman within twenty yards of him.
I can see you from my office. Put your hand beneath your skirt and play with your pussy for me. Distract me enough and you may have half a chance of scoring one game on me.
She glanced toward the house and saw that the gardenias to her right shielded her from the house's first-level windows. So Tyler was on the second level. From the sun's angle, she couldn't see him. The light reflected against the glass, making them into mirrors.
One game? She was going to trounce him in straight sets, let punishing him on the courts be her outlet for the tension of the whole past week. A tension that strangely felt not so near at hand as she sat within his carefully cultivated gardens. His native orchids were graceful ladies within ten feet of her. With petals of so many shapes and colors, yellow, pink, purple, white, as delicate as thin paper, they fluttered from the wind stirred by the fountain of water that emerged from the platform under Aphrodite's bare feet.
Putting her tennis racquet to the side, she tentatively opened her legs. She'd run her hands over her body before to titillate a sub and done some things for herself at home.
Just not...this.
Concentrating, she summoned an image. Tyler, standing in the kitchen in the loose cotton pants, low on his hips. The firm mouth, which she'd felt taking control of her clit before she'd been lost to dreams. His long-fingered hand lying next to his plate, his gold watch against his tanned skin.
Her fingers crept between her legs, stroked. Her clit responded eagerly, startling her. She widened her legs farther, just a bit. Even so, the short pleated skirt would now give a clear view to anyone approaching her.
Tyler at The Zone, his lips beneath her ear. His hands on her breasts, tugging the nipple chain ruthlessly. Her fingers played among petals of flesh that were getting slick with dew. She unfolded, straightening out on the bench, her head resting on the back as she imagined welcoming Tyler in between her thighs. Wrapping her legs around his muscular hips, clutching his neck, biting into his shoulder as he thrust into her. Just imagining it made her pussy ripple, weep and spasm for what she could not have. What she was denying herself. Her other hand moved up her stomach, over the tight fit of the sports bra to her right nipple. Found it aching for the pinch of her fingertips. She remembered his words about a woman's breasts and thought he might be right. She was wanton, drunk on sun and the smell of flowers, her body dancing like the bronze statues, celebrating the feeling of life and desire surging through her.
Her position had moved her forward so the skirt was rucked up, her bare ass on the bench's smooth surface. Feeling the hardness, she thought it was like the unyielding line of his jaw, his tough body as he demanded things from her she was terrified to give.
When she opened her eyes he was standing there, wearing just the shorts. A muscular god, as bronze and perfect as any of the artwork. But alive, so charged with energy that the electric static of it buzzed off her skin.
He'll take me down to the ground now, she thought, looking at his aroused features.
Fuck me whether I want him to or not. He won't give a damn about the rules. And she would let him, because her body would go where her heart could not. And it would shatter her.
She scrambled up, pulling the skirt down, her cheeks flushed. All of her flushed.
"Did I say stop?" He lifted a brow. She shook her head but didn't move. "You asked to see my room," he commented after a moment of silence.
"I did. I wanted..." She didn't want Sarah in trouble, so she made herself say it. "I wanted to know more about who you are, Tyler." He seemed to consider that, inclined his head. "Then I'm flattered."
"Your room. You don't usually sleep with your subs."
"No."
"Why?" And why me?
His attention moved briefly to the fountain, again that odd evasion. "Last night was different. I usually don't sleep easy, angel. It's more courteous to let the lady in question have a good night's sleep. How about you?"
She shook her head. "I don't sleep with anyone." Until you. For she'd wanted him there last night, clutched to her in her dreams as she'd been unable to do with her restrained arms.
His gaze lowered. "Lift the front of your skirt." As she obeyed, he walked toward her, taking his time, appraising her. When he reached her, he put one hand at her bare waist, his other moving between her legs. Her free hand caught onto his shoulder as a ripple of reaction unbalanced her, her lips parting in surprise at how strong the instant surge of arousal was. Already somewhat slippery just from the act of having his hand on her hip, knowing she was bare beneath the clothes, his touch brought forth enough liquid heat that he made a guttural noise of approval. No matter what the terms of this weekend, at the moment, she felt like she belonged to Tyler Winterman. Underneath his much too knowledgeable attention, his sure fingers, the sense of powerful sexual male was too all-encompassing to deny. Her instincts overwhelmed rationality. And with the sun warming her back, his hands caressing between her legs, she couldn't find it in her to panic or rebel.
"I don't mind you looking in my room. But I didn't tell you to stop touching yourself. You should have waited for my permission."
"I'm sorry." But she wasn't.
Taking his hand away, he guided her to the edge of the garden, ducking under the waterfall of blossoms of a weeping cherry, a curtain of white touched with pink. "Put your hands on the trunk, your back facing me." At her hesitation, he reached out, touched her cheek. "I'm going to spank you. Just as a reminder of whose Will you obey.
With my hand. I will never use anything else to strike you, and your beautiful ass will be the only place I do so."
"I didn't ask for that restriction."
"No, you didn't. But pain isn't my way of Mastery over women." His gaze coursed over her, the sternness in his voice modulated by a devastating tenderness. "And just the suggestion of it has you trembling."
"I am not." Her voice broke.
He took her arm, turned her toward the tree. "Palms on the trunk, angel. Let's check off another box on that sheet of yours." She obeyed at that, reluctantly, her breath catching in her throat, caught on something there she couldn't swallow past. Her fingers dug into the rough bark. He was subjecting her to the easiest type of punishment to take. He could have taunted her for being apprehensive about something that was nowhere near as severe as what she'd doled out to her own subs, but he didn't. Partly because they both knew it wasn't about pain. He knew the very act was pushing enough of her panic buttons.
His hands slid down her back, pushing her forward. His other palm on her stomach beneath the skirt brought her out so her arms had to stretch to keep her palms flat on the tree as he directed.
"Lift on your toes, Marguerite. High as you can get." She did and felt air as he lifted the back panel of the skirt. He tucked the edge in her waistband, getting it out of the way. Moving his palm on her belly so his two fingers were low enough that they rested on her clit, he massaged her there as she quivered on her toes, her legs spread open. Her body was beginning to ripple with overwhelming desire even as the coldness in the pit of her belly dug its claws into her vital organs.
The flat of his hand struck the bare curve of her buttock, the most fleshy part so it wobbled, sending frissons of sensation across the whole area. It didn't really hurt but of course that wasn't what she had feared about it. He did it again and changed sides, striking her across both buttocks.
The icy ball dissipated under the clever manipulation of his fingers on her clit as he did his spanking. The strain on her back tendons increased as she tried to stay up on her toes for him. Urgent arousal unsated from this morning was grasping her, a need to come all over those fingers that somehow knew her body. She wanted to take the hand striking her, suck and bite at the flesh that was creating a stinging sensation across hers.
He hadn't given her time to get too panic-stricken over it, springing it on her as he did, but he'd also taken the time to explain and reassure her in an odd way. And now, what she never would have expected, the stinging slaps were arousing a reaction of genuine, strong lust with the most shameless desire to lift her hips up further to his touch. It happened to her subs of course but she'd not expected it in herself. The bark bit into her fingers as she curled into it.
He stopped, rubbed his hand in slow circles, kneading her buttock, his fingers tracing her wet labia and clit. "Don't come, angel. You don't have permission to come."
"What if I do anyway..." A breath rasped out of her as he pinched her gently. "By accident?"
"I'll just have to tie you back down on the bed like I did last night and tease you for hours, not letting you come until you're screaming for it. Do you want to come for me?" She could not answer such a question. She couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't a game or just a weekend, that the control of a lifetime was slipping away before her eyes. Before his eyes.
His fingers sank deep into her and she moaned. "You'll answer me, Marguerite." His thumb passed over her clit and she couldn't help it. The shudders started coming from deep within her, a place she couldn't control.
"I'm sorry...I can't..." Her voice rose in desperation.
"Come for me. Now." One of his other fingers pressed against the rim of her anus, penetrated, just the tip.
She held on to the tree, her fingers scrabbling for purchase as her hips wantonly rocked against the pumping of his fingers, the working of her clit. It wasn't enough. She wanted him inside her. Her nipples ached for his mouth against the restriction of the sports bra. The pleated edges of the skirt whispered against her thighs in front as he kept it pushed up her back, exposing her to him.
Her legs were quivering at the exertion of staying on her toes. When the hardest wave hit, her balance went, the ankle weakened from the mugger's attack giving way.
In an instant he had her around the waist, his body hard against hers, his hand still insinuated between them to draw out her climax. She writhed and cried out, feeling the heat of his body, the massive size of his cock against her ass and wanted it. Just wanted it. She bit her tongue to keep from saying so and tasted blood in her mouth.
When the reaction finally ebbed to the point some sanity returned, he had her leaning full against the tree, his body pressed against hers, holding her up. Guiding her, he moved her back to the bench, eased her to a sitting position. It was then she raised her disoriented gaze to Aphrodite and noticed an important detail she'd missed.
The beautifully sculpted goddess was wearing a collar, connected with delicately wrought chains sculpted in the metal to manacles around her wrists. Her fingers twined in the strands of her hair and played over her sex. Not hiding it as Marguerite had assumed at first glance, but stimulating herself.
What she'd thought at a distance was simply a reproduction of Greek statuary was an original interpretation. Her mouth was open as if gasping her pleasure, her lips in a pleased smile. Marguerite recognized the style.
"The artist for The Zone must be a personal friend," she said, trying to regain some sense of herself.
"He is. And can you imagine anything more explosive to a man's fantasies than to have the honor of mastering a Goddess, bringing her pleasure, bringing her ecstasy after ecstasy until she might willingly become yours forever?"
"I think you better watch out for lightning strikes. You might make that particular Goddess angry."
He went on to one knee by her, pushing her legs apart and putting his hands on her waist, drawing her to the edge of the bench so her throbbing center pressed against his hard abdomen. "Put your arms around my shoulders." He tightened his hold so she had no option but the one that offered itself, to lay her head on his shoulder as he held her in the close embrace that shattered her, made tears rise in her throat. He kissed the side of her head, his lips gentle on her hair. "I worship this particular Goddess. There's nothing she could ask that I wouldn't do for her. I'd be devoted to her forever, never worshipping any other."
"Tyler - " She squeezed her eyes shut and gripped him more fiercely with her arms, though she told herself not to do so. There was the urge to do the same with her legs, hold on to him with both the fervency of a lover and the neediness of a child. "Please don't do this to me. You know this is just the false intimacy of sex, the way it makes you believe things you shouldn't."
"But it's never affected you that way before, has it?" He rubbed his cheek against her. Sitting back on his heels, he rose, drawing her to her feet. Backed her into the tree again and kept her close enough that she was still leaning into him, so she wasn't completely bereft of his presence. "You smell like... What is that?"
"Tea tree," she managed. "Scented with - "
"Jasmine. Just the faintest whiff, like the call of the Grail to a knight's heart." Wooing a woman with poetry should have lost its effectiveness with the jaded cynicism that had infused the latter half of the twentieth century. But here in his garden with the willingly bound and pleasured Aphrodite looking over them, it was as if that time of bards had never left, the modern world merely a stray bit of garbage that had been pushed away to reveal the world Tyler had created for her.
His hand came to her face and she smelled the scent of her climax on his skin.
"Take my fingers into your mouth, Marguerite. Suck on them."
She did, tasting herself now, feeling him grow impossibly thicker and harder against her.
When he withdrew, she struggled to get some type of a grip on the situation. "You really are insufferable. You must know that."
His eyes coursed over her hard nipples appreciatively, pressing against the thin stretch fabric of the sports bra. With the flat of his hand against her lower back, he lifted her so her clit was pressed against his arousal. She uttered a cry of pleasure as a hard aftershock tightened her body against him and he sandwiched her against the tree.
"You've got plenty more of me to suffer before Sunday, angel. Tell me you want me to fuck you. I want to hear it from those beautiful lips, those lips that have sucked my cock but not given me one free kiss. Let me inside you." It would be so easy. She could claim it was just part of the weekend but he'd know it wasn't. It was a line she just couldn't cross. As long as kissing on the mouth and sex were not part of it, she could keep this in perspective, make it work. But all those rationales were drowned by the scream of her body for his.
"No." She turned her head away, pressing into his shoulder. "No." He put his forehead against her temple, let out a sigh that passed warm air over her cheek. "All right, then," he said at last, quietly. She felt the tension of his body, a mirror of the conflict in her own. "Then we'll just have to do something else." He eased back from her, put her tennis racquet in her hand. "Since I'm going to whip your ass in tennis, I guess I'll give you a chance to beat me to the court. And before you say I have the advantage in a foot race because you just had an orgasm, let me note my handicap is significantly larger." He glanced down at himself, pointedly.
Marguerite told herself there was no way he could take her from intense passion to humor in the blink of an eye.
"That doesn't look like much of a hardship to me," she scoffed.
Putting both of her hands on his shoulders, she shoved, knocking him off balance with the unexpected move. Springing away from the tree, she dashed down the path, headed for the tennis courts.
"You little - " She was less than ten feet away when he recovered. She snorted, lengthened her strides.
Fun. Had she ever had fun with a lover? For that matter, had she ever had a lover?
Someone who flirted with her, listened to her, talked to her about himself, took her out to dinner, went driving with her? Went to a movie?
She redoubled her efforts, running from the desire as much as from him. Gauging the hedge before her, she leaped, rather than zigzagging to stay on the path as she was sure he expected. It was a smooth hurdler's jump, a shortcut, one which she hoped wouldn't encounter any prize flowerbeds. She was determined to win at least one competition with him. Two, because she was going to trounce him at tennis.
The ankle held up, which pleased her after the strain at the oak tree. But a glance to the right showed her he was closing the distance, taking an opposite path, for he knew some of the cut-throughs she didn't. He ran like a tiger in truth. Full out, fast, telling her that he'd be a tough opponent on the court if he could match skill with speed. It made her look forward to the match. It also made it hard to tear her gaze from the movement of the muscles of his upper body, bared by her request.
They burst out of the garden about twenty feet apart, her slightly ahead. She lengthened her stride, calling on high school track team experience and her daily exercise regimen. She was discovering that Tyler kept himself in shape. In a moment he had her by a length. She fought and got it back, but she couldn't get ahead of him matching leg to longer leg. They hit the chain link fence surrounding the court together, both breathing hard, his eyes dancing. From his pleased reaction she suspected she had a matching expression.
"Come here." He put his arm around her waist and drew her to him, brushing his lips over hers. Just a quick meeting of mouths, almost chaste, except the very light quality of the touch made heat pool in her lower body. She suspected her insides were starting to resemble the hot springs of an underground cavern.
"You're not supposed to do that," she complained but she didn't move back. Her hands had somehow settled on his chest and his heart hammering beneath her touch.
Her finger was so close to a flat nipple she itched to tease it. Pinch, scrape her nails across it.
He kept his hands on her hips and laughed. She thought that there were few sounds quite as sexy as a man's laughter infused with such sensual promise. He drew two Velcro straps from his pocket, making her tense but then he surprised her by using them to pull her hair up in a ponytail, double wrapping it firmly.
"I have other uses planned for those but I don't want you claiming your hair got in your way." His fingers drifted down over the scallops of her ears, rested on the sides of her neck. He held her that way, his expression becoming serious as he studied her for several moments.
"You would look beautiful in my collar, Marguerite. Naked except for that." She raised a brow, trying not to show how his hands resting there unsettled her, though all her senses had gone on high alert. "Maybe you would, too."
"You'd have to get it on me, angel." His gaze lowered to her throat. "A double helix of seed pearls, every third or fourth set of pearls interrupted by a silver icicle. The main pendant would be stylized, the impression of an angel's head and wings, the wings serrated delicately like the icicles. When you turn your head, the icicles would make tiny pricks into your delicate skin, sensitizing it and keeping it aware of my claim when you moved."
She brought her gaze deliberately to his throat, determined not to appear ruffled by the detailed description, the intent heat of his eyes. The paralyzing sensation of his touch. Though she just had to hope he'd think her voice was breathless from the run only.
"For you, I'm seeing one of those chokers with long sharp prongs on the inside. The kind the pet stores sell for overenthusiastic Labradors." His eyes sparkled, appreciating her. "Just so long as it's not one of those pink vinyl collars with rhinestones for poodles. Ready to get your ass kicked?"
"The only way you're winning this match is if you make it a command. Master." She added it sweetly.
Grinning, he held open the gate and she preceded him onto the court. "Bullshit.
You wouldn't obey me anyway." He inserted the edge of the tennis racquet under her skirt, flipping it up as she propped up her tennis shoe on the bench to tighten the laces.
Narrowing her eyes at him, she adjusted her hips so she was out of range from where he leaned negligently on the fence. "Of course, if I did order you to lose and then let you win, I could punish you for disobeying. Then we'd both win." He shifted closer, let his racquet drift up her calf, turned it so it got caught between her thighs when she tried to move.
"That gorgeous ass of yours was lifting to meet my hand when I stopped, Marguerite." His voice was soft, his eyes drifting over the pulse in her throat, reminding her too clearly of what his hand had felt like there.
"Distraction is not going to work," she said, trying for a haughty tone. She held out her hand. "Balls."
She winced at his burst of laughter. "And why do you get the serve advantage?" he demanded.
"Because I'm a guest and according to your housekeeper you're a gentleman.
Though I've seen no proof of it."
With a wicked look, he laid the tennis balls in her hand. "Warm up?" she asked.
"Sure. Let's take about five minutes."
Though Tyler was certain he was warmer than he'd ever been, every organ and muscle of his body revved for action. And she was making it far, far worse. Having brought her to climax several times now, he saw no sign that her response was in any way sated. It was as if her body was starved for sexual fulfillment, while his cock was staying in a state of painful rigidity. He had worked it down during their banter but the Florida heat and their impromptu race had already dampened the skin beneath the sports bra. He could see her nipples peaking hard and aroused against the stretch fabric. And when they started volleying for the warm-up, each spin on her toe or jog to return a ball gave him a flash of bare pussy or ass that was going to have him calling paramedics.
No, doctor, I'm not on Viagra, but I've had a nonstop hard-on for forty-eight hours, thanks to my angel.
His angel. It wasn't just the scars on her back, so obviously designed to mock one.
Her profile as she looked over her shoulder, her white spill of hair. Her elegant bearing.
It made it so obvious, the likeness to myth, art and imagination.
The night the mugger had attacked her, he'd seen her fight with all the fury of an avenging warrior. Then there had been her forgiveness, offered along with the money and the advice that likely wouldn't be heeded, because that was the kind of world they lived in.
She was so many things, always surprising him, like now. Definitely an athlete, she didn't play like a girl. Her return strokes were powerful, controlled, the lean muscles of her upper body showing that Marguerite Perruquet took care of herself very well. He wondered where she worked out and had a very disturbing image of her doing bench and shoulder presses. It made him miss a relatively easy cross court. Thank God it was only a warm-up.
"You ready?" she called out. Her color was up and there was a light, challenging curve on those lips that never did seem comfortable with a full smile. As he suspected, the simple physical exertion without the emotional pummeling that seemed to go hand in hand with sexual expression for her was doing her good. It would make her more relaxed for what he had planned for her later.
"Ready," he responded.
"First set, first game, first point, love-love." She threw the ball up and her body poised, frozen in a split second of motion, arm pointed up toward the ball, racquet back, back arched, the line of her throat perfect. If he could have frozen the moment, she would have been Athena with her bow and arrows, her sleek hunting hounds clustered around her bare calves. He was beginning to wonder if she had any moment, any movement, that wasn't sheer aesthetic perfection.
Once at his dentist's office, there'd been a woman sharing the waiting room with him. She'd been fascinated by the Siamese fighting fish gliding lazily in an aquarium there.
"You seem very interested in him," he'd said.
"Because he's always beautiful," the woman had responded instantly. "The way he moves, sudden charging bursts or gliding like this. And all the marvelous colors of his body. He knows he's beautiful. He's so comfortable with it, he's as near perfection as one of God's creatures can be."
That woman had been Leila, the first time he'd met her. Her words now filled his mind as Marguerite's presence filled his eyes and heart, giving him a strangely tranquil moment where he realized he could easily spend eternity just watching her.
When the ball sizzled just inside the center line, he didn't even make it to the balls of his feet.
Marguerite gave him a look of pure feline satisfaction and moved to the left side.
"Fifteen-love. This is going to be too easy."
He bared his teeth at her, took a ready stance. "That's what you think, angel. Just building your confidence."
Her eyes gleamed in response as she served the second point.
The sun climbed into the sky as they worked their way through the first set. She had great ball placement control and strength behind her strokes. So did he. He could knock her back with lobs but quickly realized she was deadly at the net, never flinching to throw herself out to return a ball and drop it over. She was faster on her feet but he had more power. As a result, the intention of two of three best sets diminished for them both as they fought for every point of the first set, never holding more than a one game lead until they were up 6-5, with him leading. Then she won the game point, taking them to a tie-breaker.
It was marvelously arousing, Marguerite thought. She'd never experienced a demand on her senses from two such equally strong compulsions. Determined to win, she was nevertheless undeniably affected by the way his body moved, the thigh muscles bunching, stretching as he pivoted and charged. His bare chest glistening with heat and the ripple - and ripple was exactly right term for it - of shoulder, oblique and biceps muscles when he drove a shot down the line.
While their focus was absolute when the ball was in play, they baited each other verbally between points, the sexual tension never abating. She started making a habit of bending to pick up a ball rather than using the side of her foot and racquet to pull it up into the air. It wasn't exactly to distract him, because she liked the idea that she was holding her own against his best game. But she did want to see if she could distract him.
She wanted him to ache the way she was aching, seeing his body move, sweat, stretch.
At one point, while he was retrieving one of her balls, she bent to flex her calf, to stretch out her hamstrings, something often done during a tough game, only this time she did it with slow deliberation, at a very slight angle to Tyler, so he had an unimpeded view of her ass and pussy. Then she straightened, strolled to the sidelines and got a drink of water from the cooler. When she glanced at him, she found he was leaning on the back fence in the shade of the screen cloth, his gaze as predatory as a hawk's. His body still, waiting. Feeling inexplicably wicked, wanting to taunt, she pulled the sports bra up, exposing her breasts and poured the remainder of the icy water over them, cooling her down with gasping pleasure in the humidity. She slicked the water over the curves, her nipples now puckered from the cold. When she lowered the band back below her breasts, the fabric stuck, transparent, the dark areolas clearly visible.
He still hadn't moved. She sauntered slowly back to the line, bent one more time, this time to retie her shoe. The flexibility she'd earned from yoga served her now as she brought her chest practically to her kneecap, suggesting the sexual possibilities. This time she heard a muttered oath, coupled with a chuckle.
She'd never indulged or enjoyed the art of flirting but her blood was high from the competition, everything charged up and ready to do battle on this more playful field. It was obvious from the fit of those wonderful shorts that he was aroused. And yet he just watched from that fence. Letting her display herself to him as if he'd commanded it rather than her choosing to tease him.
The startling thought sobered her. She straightened, taking the line. Cleared her voice. "First point of the tie breaker."
He nodded, came to his line. "Marguerite?"
"Yes?"
"Every time you go after a ball from here forward, you'll bend to pick it up and do it as you just did so I can see your cunt fully. You understand me?"
"I don't intend to be chasing any balls on this side." He showed his teeth. "Serve."
She sent a serve down the outside line to his forearm. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he delivered a cross court back that skimmed just over the net at a tight angle impossible to reach in time. "My serve. Let me have the balls, angel."
"I have two." When she started to bounce them across, he shook his head.
"I want that one in the corner," he explained. "You'll spread your legs wide when you go down for it. Then bring them all up here to the net and hand them to me." His gaze was unreadable. As she turned she felt moisture trickle down her thigh.
And unless she wanted to lie to herself, she knew it wasn't perspiration making her thighs slick.
She got to the ball in the corner, bent all the way down, spreading her feet apart as he required, displaying herself for him, feeling his gaze like a lick of heat in her pussy.
Rising, she turned and approached the net, trying to make her strides matter-of-fact.
She had a difficult time meeting his eyes, for the first time not because of her habitual avoidance of it but because his intensity was overwhelming her.
"Marguerite, you know the rules. Look at me."
She brought her chin up, dragged her gaze to his face. Setting his racquet down, he propped it against the netting. He put both hands to her neckline, ignoring the balls she carried in both hands. She realized he was holding something in his other hand. "Don't move," he warned.
It was a small pocketknife, precisely sharp. As she stood there, motionless at his command, he etched a cut in the fabric of the sports bra. All the way around one nipple, then back to the other and under, so that an oblong piece of fabric fell loose. The garment still supported her but now the compressed inside curves of her breasts and her jutting nipples were visible.
"The next two points are mine, I believe." He took the balls and brushed the soft plush of them over her exposed breasts. Marguerite bit her lip, holding back a breath of reaction but his sharp eyes caught it. He made the pass again, even more slowly, so that she swayed into the touch.
"The next two serves are yours," she managed. "Not necessarily the next two points."
His gaze went down. "Trust me, angel. Those two points are all mine." She sniffed, despite the flush of heat that spread over her skin beneath his gaze.
"Juvenile. I'm not intimidated by you. You shouldn't be able to play tennis worth a damn at this point." She shifted her gaze deliberately to the shorts. "Men don't multitask."
"Angel, men can multitask. When it's important." He smiled that infuriating smile and she pivoted on her foot, went back to the line, her flesh wobbling erotically as she moved into position, turned. When he served, she knew her nipples, her breasts, would be on display for him. As all of her was, as was appropriate for sub training, which she'd somehow forgotten all about for the past hour or so. The cuff of her sock was getting damp from the flow of arousal down her leg.
He served, hard. She went after it, just tipped it over the net, out of necessity rather than a plan. He put on a burst of speed, scooped it up, lobbed high as she was trying to come to the net. She backpeddled to the back line, got to it, swung, brought it back to him at the net, trying to get it past him, but she hadn't had enough time to position it.
He slammed it down the sideline on the opposite side of the court from her.
Even aroused, she was sure she could focus as well as he could. But despite that he won point after point, making it up to 6-0 so he was serving for match point. She was breathing heavily, not so much from physical exertion, though there was that. Her thoughts were whirling. His gaze locked with hers between every point, the heat building, so that with each volley the air seemed to get thicker between them. As if with each point he was somehow backing her into a corner. He single faulted on each of the tie-breaking point serves so she had to go and bend for the ball as he had commanded.
But he hadn't single faulted once during any other game he'd served during the set.
And, emphasizing that the strategy was deliberate, he delivered a sizzling second serve each time.
He wasn't going to win this match. All she had to do was get eight consecutive points. He had managed six, why couldn't she manage seven? She rolled on the balls of her feet, bounced to keep herself ready, knowing it would also create a highly distracting effect for his focus. Or spur him further toward a direction she could feel coming like an impending storm. Perspiration rolled between her breasts. She moistened her lips. Watching. Waiting.
Tyler threw the ball up high. It came down and he served. The ball hit with a hard plock.
She never moved. Never had the opportunity to move. It aced her perfectly, landed in the outside corner of the serve area and banged against the gate with a resounding clang.
He dropped his racquet. "Point, set, match. Come here, Marguerite." She wasn't afraid of him. She was afraid of herself. She bolted, dropping her own racquet, not even sure where she was headed. She knew she wasn't leaving, just delaying the inevitable, what her own body was screaming - no, begging - for.
He caught her in the garden. Just like the tennis match at the end, this time there was no equally matched contest. He had the strength, speed and intent of a predator and she was the prey, thoughts jumbled by panic. The moment he touched her, seized her around the waist and brought her to the ground, her body reacted, screamed one word. Yes.
They tumbled. When they stopped, she was on her back and he was lying on top of her, that long, hard body interposed between her thighs, his intent pressed firmly against her.
"No..." It was a bare whisper.
"You've lost the right to no, Marguerite," he growled. His fingers curved into her scalp, holding her head still and making her stare up into the truth.
"One word from you, relaxing the rules of the weekend and I'd have taken you in a heartbeat. You couldn't do that, so you cheated. You know that political correctness means nothing to a Master like me. I take my cues from your actions, not your lips, listening for an entirely different set of signals, like this." His hand dropped, probing the wetness between her legs. "It'll be the last time you force my hand so you don't have to go through the formality of submitting. No more cheating."
"No." She tried to fight him but he had her firmly pinned and the movements just dragged her hard nipples across his hair-roughened chest, arousing her and inflaming him further.
His hand moved around and cupped her ass under the skirt, her sweat-dampened buttocks. It felt so good she couldn't stop herself from arching her back, offering herself up in an invitation he wasn't requesting. He was taking, just as he had said. His mouth came down on her nipple, suckling urgently. She cried out, she who always chose to take her pleasure in silence. Her whole body was screaming, out of control, so why not her voice? His other fingers dipped back into her pussy, found it wet and moved to find the track down her thigh where her arousal had run again and again during their match. Then his lubricated finger entered her backside, making her twist and moan as he suckled, pressed himself firmly against her. It was rough, frightening. She didn't know if she was enjoying it or being shattered into fragments. She didn't allow herself this type of pleasure, but he hadn't asked for her permission. And her body trembled, her mind shying from the realization that she hadn't wanted him to.
"When was the last time a man fucked you?" He demanded the answer in a whisper against her ear. "Fucked your ass and that sweet pussy with his cock?" His fingers teased both openings so that she could barely get out a word of response.
"Not...in a...oh, God. In...a...long time. Please don't. I can't take this." Her hands were up at her face, covering it, her fingers in claws. Tyler felt her quaking, fighting. Catching her wrists, he brought them down, loosened the Velcro straps from her hair and used them to strap one wrist to each of her thighs, holding her arms immobile at her sides. He'd intended to use them later in one of his shade gardens. Have her lie on a blanket bound this way while he sprinkled rose petals on her naked body, kissed her, read a book, just enjoying having her laid out before him, accessible to his hand and tongue. But his body had only one thing in mind now.
Possession.
"Tyler - "
"Master," he snapped. She shook her head, in denial or sensual thrashing he could not tell. Returning to the tight rim of her ass, he worked her there, sensing the release of inhibitions. Her hips were rocking up, her pussy so wet the bare smooth lips he had shaved were glistening. He took a condom out of his pocket, leaning on his hip, which put him close to her bound hand. Her fingers seized it, scraping him, crushing the package in the ball of her fist.
"No." Tears were squeezing out her eyes. "Nothing between us. Please." Her eyes closed and her body went still, waiting.
He'd been prepared for another refusal. Her words stunned him to the core.
When she'd run, the instinct of the wolf had kicked in and he'd chased, determined to run her to ground. But the tears and the sudden frozen rigidity of her body told him she was moving into the mode she'd been in at the beginning. Her body wanted this so much it was screaming for it but her mind was going to force her to endure it only, rather than embrace it. To make it easier to walk away.
Her eyes opened when he released the straps. He caught her wrists in gentle hands.
Sitting on his heels, he lifted her, brought her up so she was sitting astride him, his arms curled around her waist and hips. He stroked the long line of her spine, slick with the damp perspiration collected there. Her hands were still in nervous balls, resting uneasily on his shoulders. Pressing his face between her breasts, he kissed the valley there. Nuzzled her with his tongue, playfully brushed the pale curves with his jaw. The fists unfolded, rested on his shoulders. He unzipped the skirt, took it up her waist and over her rib cage, gathering up the hem of the tattered sports bra.
"Lift your arms, angel."
He removed all her clothes. When he worked off her shoes and socks, he made her lean against his shoulder, held her around the waist with one arm while he took them off, then returned her to the same position. Now she was clasped in his arms in simple, pure nudity. He went back to nuzzling her breasts. "Touch me, Marguerite. Touch me the way you'd like to."
It felt...different to be sitting on him this way, clasped in his arms, in his lap. He was cruising up over the curve of her breasts, his touch and his kisses so achingly tender that she was torn between a heavy wave of lust and helpless immobility that kept her almost limp in his embrace. A moment ago, she'd steeled herself for the moment she could no longer resist, but for some reason he'd withdrawn, taken her to this devastating point instead.
One of her hands moved to the side of his head, her thumb brushing his ear, the soft ends of his hair just over it. She registered bone structure, the roughness of his jaw.
Though clean-shaven, she felt the prick of the five o'clock shadow to come. Under her other hand she felt muscle, more sleek skin, damp like her own from the sweat of the match. Her head fell back as he began to work his way up her jugular. Her hips moved, a stroke of need against his hard cock. His fingers tangled in her hair, and though she felt his desire to sink his hands in, pull and hold her head back, her throat exposed to him, he didn't. His touch remained insistent but gentle as he turned every nerve ending from fear and resistance into arousal. The fear was slipping away from her, beyond where she could reach for it to shield herself.
"Are you protected from pregnancy, angel?" His voice was soft. "There are certain choices that I'll never take from you."
She wouldn't survive this, she knew. The demons that were going to be unleashed from their lovemaking would surround her, take her over. Not today, not even tomorrow, but the moment she left they would be waiting at the end of Tyler's driveway. Could she survive hell again?
"Tyler..."
Perhaps it was the way she said it, in a voice that might have been the wind itself.
Regardless, he raised his mouth from her. "Yes, angel?"
"You're right, I teased you." She swallowed, made herself meet his shrewd gaze.
"And maybe everything you just said is true...but I'm asking you." Begging you. But she couldn't say that. "I'm not ready for this. I know...it would be easy to keep going..."
I can't say no to you. I need you to say it. But she definitely wasn't going to say that out loud.
He studied her for a long minute. "Do you like the way this feels?" He indicated their position, with her so securely cradled in his arms, straddling his lap.
"Yes." She was lost in his golden brown irises.
"I like it, too." He tugged on her hair, caressing the small of her back. "You play a hell of a tennis game, by the way."
"You slaughtered me at the end." Some of her worry slipped away as the tension of the moment eased, as they pulled back from that dangerous edge.
"Only because I took away your focus. I didn't give you any points, Marguerite. I promise. There are games I'll let you win..." His gaze grew more serious. "But very few."
He shifted, came up to his knees and laid her down on her back again. Leaning over her for a moment, he stroked her hair, fanning it out on the soft grass around her. She kept her hands at his shoulders and neck, even let herself stroke a finger over his firm lips, feeling safe in the quiet moment to do so. He kissed it, took it into his mouth, nipped.
"Do you have any clue how beautiful you are?"
Tyler wondered if she knew that he meant more than the way she fixed her hair, or how she did her makeup or kept herself in shape. He meant the total appealing complexity of her. She'd played a sub's game with him at the court, though she didn't realize it. But when it came down to it, she chose honesty, trusting him to understand.
Trusting him not to push when a mere breath could have had his cock inside her. It was the first time she'd trusted him, and he'd recognized it. It had helped him overcome the roar of his own hormones and desire for Dominance to honor it as the gift it was. And now he intended to thank her in a way that would make the moment memorable.
"Marguerite." Lying down on one hip beside her, he propped his head on his palm.
"Give me your hand."
When she did, he guided it to her mound, molding her fingers over her clit. "I want you to finish what I had you start earlier. I want you to make yourself come while I watch."
He kept his hand on her wrist, anticipating her attempt to withdraw. "I've told you... I've never done that."
"You'll do it now. Just let your body guide you."
"What are you going to be doing?"
"Watching you. Getting...or rather, staying, rock-hard while the scent of your aroused cunt fills my nose and your breathing gets even more erratic. While your body begins to squirm, your ass getting grass stains as you rub it into the ground, trying to pump your fingers like you would want my cock to move in you."
"I don't - "
"Here." His fingers straightened, lying between the spaces of hers. Just like the dance at The Zone, he began to guide her, making her rub her clit in slow, dragging circles while he pressed down on the digits, adding pressure. His other fingers caressed the outside of her labia, her thighs, the spaces between.
The feel of his fingers with hers made it that much more powerful in her mind. Her hips pressed down, her back arched as he had predicted. He watched her with those intent eyes as he withdrew his touch, caressed her hip. "Keep going, Marguerite. I want to see you come. And I don't mind if you go slow." He gave her a wicked look. "Seeing you spread out here, baring yourself to pleasure at my command, there's no reason to rush. How does your pussy feel? Look at me," he reproved as she tried to look away, as she parted her lips. "You keep doing that and you'll earn yourself another punishment.
I like watching your eyes get glazed with desire as they are now. Answer the question."
"W-wet."
"Hmm. And what else?"
"It's warm." She drew in a ragged breath as her fingers feathered on her clit, learning that a light, fluttery touch could make her squirm, a rubbing stroke could make her insides turn into a whirlpool of rich molasses. The two methods applied together could whip it into a thicker, turbulent froth. "The skin there is...soft, slick."
"Keep going." He dipped a hand beneath her working fingers, brought back a finger damp with her juices, tasted it. "Open up."
She opened her mouth and he put the same finger in her mouth. She startled herself by sucking greedily, tasting herself, tasting him.
"And how do you taste?"
"It's not really describable. Like me but muskier. Thicker."
"The scent of your sex could turn any man into a rabid dog." He nodded. "I would start every day with my face in your cunt, eating you out, scraping that sweet clit with my teeth."
She gasped, her hips working harder, her head coming off the ground. Her back was curving as she shamelessly, intentionally displayed the taut points of her nipples to him. Why wouldn't he touch her?
"You'll come for me before I touch you again, Marguerite," he said, as if reading her mind. "But I expect you to ask permission before you do it. A sub never comes without her Master's express permission."
Why was she continuing to be surprised that he could do this to her? Perhaps because no man's touch ever had. She couldn't possibly ask his permission and he'd insist, but oh...her body was so hungry, so ravenous. She watched his face, the elegant, lean body, the gleaming muscle. The tight bulge at the crotch of his shorts, the columns of his thighs, one propped up in a vee to brace his body. When she'd been on his lap that scent of his, the heat of his embrace, had been the closest thing to safety she'd ever felt. Sanctuary had always meant a place for the mind and soul to be at rest, not to experience this wild spiraling.
"God, your nipples are so swollen."
"Touch them..." She wanted it to sound forceful, to compel him, but it came out like a plea even to her own ears.
"Come for me and then I'll touch them. I'll suck on your pretty tits and leave teeth marks on them, branding you as mine. You're mine, angel, you know you are. You want me to fuck your cunt, your ass, stretch your mouth, take you again and again until you can't walk, until you can't remember anything but wanting to please me with your cries when you come. Do you have something to ask me? You come without permission and you will be very, very sorry. Ask."
The words were so difficult it felt like they were ripping the lining of her throat. But there was something ripping low in her belly that needed out more than her pride.
"May I come?"
He waited a solid ten seconds, his eyes glittering upon her, his mouth set and firm.
"Please..." she gasped, feeling the orgasm start to take her.
"Come for me, Marguerite." And he laid his hand over the top of her furiously working one.
The strength of his touch, the shock of it, exploded through her. Fire surged through her blood, tightening every nerve ending so she bowed up even more. He went down, biting her right breast. Seizing her left arm before it could rise up, he held it down above her head as she bucked and screamed. The climax tore through her, destroying another barrier she thought she'd managed to put up against him. Her fingers slid deep into herself, pushed in with his. The fullness of it made her scream into a guttural groan as she worked her hips hard against the thickness. She wished it was him, wished her body was covered by his, that he'd opened her and taken away every choice. Been cruel and given her bliss, however fleeting it would be before the darkness would claim her. His lips and teeth tugged at her nipple, and long after the climax reached its crest she continued to mewl and writhe against his touch, aftershocks shuddering back and forth between their fingers and her nipple, the heat of his mouth.
He did not withdraw when even that died away, suckling her, massaging her overly sensitive clit.
When she would have shifted, he shook his head. "Be still, Marguerite." The powerful male desire in his eyes as he lifted his head held her in place as much as the command. "I want to play with your beautiful tits, your wet cunt and have you understand that it's my right to do so as long as I wish, even if you get aroused and come again."
"A fate worse than death," she said, her voice breathy. He smiled as he bent and pressed his lips against her nipple again.
"I thought you would feel that way."