Complete Submission: (The Submission Series, Books 1-8) (101 page)

I inhaled deeply and put my hands in my hair, lifting my arms out of the way. He slowly unzipped the back of my dress, touching my spine as he went.

Six months after the transplant, Jonathan had roared back like a lion. Almost overnight, he became more aggressive, more demanding, more kinky, and more dominant than he’d ever been. A year later, he got me an engagement ring of my own, a round canary diamond the circumference of a nickel. He’d gotten on one knee all over again, and I realized the reason he’d returned to sexual ferocity was because he was happy.

I unpinned my hair, leaving in the one, pencil-thin braid I’d demanded. As it fell over my back, my dress slipped off.

“You’re magnificent,” he said, twisting my hair in his fingers. We faced the mirror, him in the blue shirt and tie he’d changed into after the reception, and I bare-breasted with a white lace garter. “All day, I wanted you.”

“I am yours.”

“Apparently not,
Ms. Faulkner
.” He loosened his tie, snapping it through the collar. “Hands behind your back.” He must have seen me glance at the clock. “I have control of the time. Just do what I ask.”

“Yes, sir.” I cast my eyes down, submitting completely, and put my hands behind my back. Already a rush of fluid surged between my legs.

I would sing at Darren’s encore and help his career, but if I had to be late, I would be late. Jonathan wasn’t half as busy as me. He’d sold a bunch of assets, more than I could count, and started the Drazen Foundation for Arts Education. It took up about as much time out of his week as a typical DMV job. My co-chair duties took up a few minutes every morning, usually while I was tied to the bed.

My husband clamped my arms together hard enough to make me gasp and wrapped his tie around the elbows. “Look at yourself.” He pulled my hair back until my head faced forward. Tying my arms at the elbows had the effect of jutting my tits forward. The nipples were tight and erect. The garter had tiny blue bows at the suspenders, my “something blue” for the occasion. “What you see is mine. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t think you do.” He held me at the bicep. “Step out.”

I stepped out of my wedding gown, and he picked me up and carried me to the couch, placing me so my head was over the arm, my arms draped below, and my lower back was on the seat. He opened my legs and unsnapped the crotch of the garter. Then he stood back and observed his handiwork.

I’d really thought he was dead. When those three doctors came out, I wasn’t ready for them to say everything was fine. After what I’d been through, bottling it all up to keep enough control to kill Paulie Patalano, I lost it. They really had needed a third doctor to call security. Declan thought he’d played the funniest joke on me. Shitty hobby, as Margie said. When I had explained it to Jonathan, he bought my house from Declan and cut him out all over again. But the transplant put his father back in the good graces of the rest of the family.

With my pussy on display, tits sticking out, and my head facing the ceiling, I saw Jonathan in my peripheral vision. He picked up a cup of fast food-approved carbonated beverage. He peeled the plastic top off, straw and all, and peeked inside.

“Jesus fucking Christ. What’s the world coming to?” He shook the cup. I heard the contents swish around. Crushed ice. Bane of my husband’s existence. He put it down and picked up something off my makeup table. Then he came to the couch, pants open, dick out, and kneeled between my legs with a tube of lipstick jammed between his teeth like a cigar. He pulled it out, leaving the cap in his teeth. He spit it on the floor like a watermelon seed.

“I’m going to write something down so you remember it, goddess. I know you’re busy being a superstar, and you forget.” He put the stage-red lipstick to my left breast and dragged it across, then between them, then moved it over the right.

Carefully, he wrote on my rib cage, wearing the lipstick down to nothing. When he was done, he checked his handiwork. I glanced as far as I could to the mirror and saw what was written on me.

Jonathan crouched over me, smiling, then put a hand on the arm of the couch, leaning over me. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

“That’s
your
name.” His gaze was meaningful, harking back to old conversations about the last woman to carry that name. Jessica was serving time for a murder she’d tried to pin on Jonathan. I hadn’t wanted her name, but he’d convinced me that the name was
his
and now was
ours
.

“I’m sorry, sir.” I tilted my hips so that his erection touched my wetness. He moved slightly until the head of his dick touched my opening just enough to make me ache for it.

“Those crowds out there, they don’t own you. I do. I marked you with my name. This is who you are now.” He moved so his dick rubbed my clit ever so slightly. I jerked to feel more of him. “No, no. Don’t make me pull up the extension cords and tie you down tighter. I’m not done explaining.” He put his face to my cheek and ran his open mouth along my jaw. “That name is your bond to me. It’s your collar.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Shh. Tell me who you are.”

“Mrs. Drazen.”

His cock pushed into me, sliding in with no resistance, every surface of my body a firing bed of sensation. All the way, until his body slammed against my clit, moved, and pulled out. “Who are you?”

“Your wife.”

He went in again harder. Then again, grunting with the effort. He fucked the breath right out of me then stopped. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, Jonathan.”

“Nope. That’s
my
name.”

“Mrs. Drazen.”

He slammed into me. “I don’t think you believe it.”

“My name is—”

He fucked me for real then, putting a hand on either side of my head and taking my cunt repeatedly. He pressed his face to mine, rocking. I was close, so close he could sense it. As was his way, he slowed down, dangling me over an ocean. And I let him, because he owned me.

“Look at me.”

I did. His hips stroked me, stretching me, the friction between us a white heat. I was so close. I felt the undertow of my orgasm on my legs. I wanted to get pulled under, I wanted to drown in it, but he was holding me back, a life vest I didn’t want.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

I gasped a few times, lost in the sensation between my legs. “I forget.”

“Perfect.”

He moved once, twice, three times, and I exploded, sucked down by the undertow, pulled out to the never-ending sea. I clenched him as if my body wanted to break him and fit the whole of him inside me.

“Ah, Monica.” He came right after, growling my name then grunting as he never had before the surgery. I loved seeing him in those moments, overcome with his own pleasure, his connection to me complete and unbreakable.

“I love you,” I said.

“And I you.”

“Can you untie me?”

He reached around me and loosened the knot. “First you decide to work on our wedding night, and now you nag me to untie you.”

“You’re a horrible brute,” I said, feigning offense. “I’m staying at my mother’s.”

He leaned up, and I stood. My new name was smudged on the bottom. Jonathan helped me back into my dress. My hair was a wreck, and my makeup was worn off.

“Shit,” I grumbled.

“You look beautiful.”

“You have lipstick all over your shirt.”

He looked down at himself. “I look like I’ve been shot.”

“By the cheerleading squad.”

He laughed. “It’s dark on the plane, and I’m going to be naked and fucking most of the way to Paris anyway.”

“Really? What if I have a headache?”

“I’ll fuck it right out of you.” He buttoned his jacket, covering the lipstick stain.

There was a knock at the door. My assistant, Ned, a huge guy there more for my protection than assistance, said, “Ms. Faulkner?”

I pressed my lips between my teeth.

“Who?” asked Jonathan. “No one by that name anymore, Ned.”

“Monica?” Ned called. “You’re on, whoever you are. Three minutes.”

“Coming!” I straightened myself, rubbed mascara from under my eyes, and fingerbrushed the bird’s nest on my head as Jonathan watched. It was hopeless. I looked as if someone had just fucked the shit out of me.

“I brought this for you,” he said.

He pulled a long chain from his jacket pocket. My lariat. I hadn’t worn it because it didn’t make sense for a wedding. But as it stretched across his hands, drooping between them, the encrusted berries on either side swinging and sparkling in blue and green, I wanted it around my neck.

“Thank you.” I looked at the ceiling, exposing my throat. He reached up, looping it around me not once, but twice. When I looked at him, he pulled the jewels, snapping it tight around my neck.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yes.” I kissed him as if for the first time—his lips the symbol of vulnerability in safety, pain and pleasure, passion and contentment—until Ned banged on the door and called me by my first name.

Jonathan and I smiled as he opened the door. We walked through the cinderblock-lined hallways with Ned in the lead, another security guy in back. Strangers who didn’t expect me, techies and runners, roadies and Darren’s klatch of fans, all stopped and stared for a second. I smiled at them because they’d made me who I was, and I held my husband’s hand behind me.

Darren stood out there with his band, sweating in the spotlights, his sticks twirling in his fingers. It was hot, and I felt the lipstick inside the bodice of my gown reminding me of my name. I went out when called to sing with them.

Each breath, each note, each word, no matter the song, was about one thing only.

Jonathan.

Jonathan.

Jonathan.

-------

This ends the series....officially. But another book, called CODA is coming March 18, 2015, and I've included the first few chapters right here.....

A little taste.

A word on the below.

It’s the first few chapters of
Coda.
You can see, the first chapter is the short story,
Monica,
which is part of the
Dominance
collection.

Everything after that is my gift to you. It’s unedited, unproofed, and will probably change enough to make it worth a reread when
Coda
comes out on March 18. But I think you’ll enjoy it and I hope it inspires you to buy
Coda
 when it comes out.

chapter 1.

JONATHAN

I brushed my thumb against her nipple, bending it, then I leaned down to suck it. She wove her fingers in my hair. I tasted the water of the shower on her, the tinge of soap on my tongue. Steam still fogged the room.

“Jonathan,” she whispered. “I’ll miss the plane.”

“No you won’t.”

I drew my tongue down her belly, flat and tight, stopping at the navel bar she still wore for me, then down between her legs. I bent one of her knees and put it over my shoulder, giving my mouth access to her.

“I haven’t packed yet,” she said, but I knew I had her. I opened her lips with my thumbs and licked her clit slowly, tip to hole and back again, tasting the fresh, clean skin and clear, rushing fluids.

“Pack fast,” I said. She’d be gone for a week. I wanted her before she left.

“I have to pack the Theramin and it’s oh, God,” she moaned when I sucked her, hitching her other leg over my shoulder. “Delicate. Jesus, what is with you lately?”

I stood up and wiped my mouth with my hand. She sat spread eagled on the bathroom vanity, wet and ready. She was mine, and I loved her.

“What’s with me lately?” I was in my underwear, which I didn’t bother taking off as I pulled my dick out. “Maybe I’m bored.”

“You could work again.”

“I could.”

I slid in nice and easy.

There was a feeling, as I fucked her on the vanity, that something wasn’t quite right. Something was missing. She was wet. I was hard. Her tits bounced when I thrust and there was enough nudity between us to get my dick inside her.

But her arms. I didn’t know where they were going next. She moved in unexpected ways. I put my arms around her, holding her together and I leaned in close to kiss her, dragging my stubble on her cheek and the sensitive part of her neck. She whispered,
ouch.