Darkest Fire (25 page)
Beneath her husband’s touch, she squirmed but she didn’t move her arms. Not even when he pulled a nipple into his mouth, alternating hard suckling with tiny nips with his teeth.
The man knew exactly how to drive her crazy, and she was so thankful. But there was a problem, one that was growing more urgent with every lick and nip. Her pussy was clenching, achingly empty. Wet and hot, and when would he drive that cock into her and stroke away that throbbing need?
It seemed, as he moved to the left nipple to lavish it with the same attention he’d paid the right, that he’d turned the tables on her. Now she was hot and tight all over, trembling and gasping for breath.
“Drako,” she whispered.
He answered with a kiss on her stomach and a rough “Mmmmmm” that sent a shudder quaking up and down her spine. “You’re more delicious than any dessert.” He moved lower still, kissing her belly button, the sensitive skin of her lower stomach, her freshly shaved mound. He audibly inhaled. “And smell better than the most exquisite flower.” A fingertip slipped between her nether lips, more torment.
She arched her back, then rocked her hips forward, powerless to stop the movement, timed perfectly with the thumping of her heartbeat and the throbbing of her pussy. When he finally filled her, she was going to rocket to the stars.
“I bought something special for tonight,” he said, sounding so casual, so in control, his finger gliding toward her anus and then up to circle her clit.
“What did you buy?” Her voice was breathy and soft. She was having a hard time filling her lungs. “I just want you to fuck me. Now.”
“No, you don’t.” He sat up. “Don’t move.”
She started to clench her thighs, desperate to do something to relieve the aching between them.
“No.” He pulled her knees apart and pushed them back, exposing her to his hungry gaze. The look in his eye only made her more desperate. “Don’t move. Not even a toe.” He shook his head, moistened his lips with his tongue. “You’re so fucking beautiful and I love you so much.” He went to the nightstand, opened a drawer, and pulled something out, wrapped in plastic. He held it to her so she could see. “Do you know what this is?”
She did. She nodded.
“Have you ever used a butt plug before?”
“No.”
“I guessed as much.” He pointed to the narrow, tapered end. “This is for a beginner, but it’ll feel good. I promise.”
She believed him.
He sat beside her, a tube of lubricant in one hand, the little pink rubber toy in the other. “Trust me.”
How could she not, considering everything they’d been through? “Of course, I do.”
He squeezed some of the lube onto a fingertip and teased her pussy first, tracing a circle around the opening. He bent down and flicked his tongue over her clit a few times until she was shaking. He slipped a finger inside her vagina and she practically came. “Mmmm,” he said, smiling at her. “You’re so hot and tight and wet. I can’t wait to fuck you.”
“I can’t wait either.”
“Soon, baby. You’re not ready yet.”
She didn’t think she could get any more ready.
Evidently reading the signs her body was sending, her erect nipples, flushed skin, shallow breaths, and trembling muscles, he warned her, “Don’t come yet. Wait. You’ll be glad you did.”
Did he know what he was asking? “Are you sure this isn’t revenge for what I did to you?”
“Of course not. What you did was for me. My pleasure. My benefit. And what I’m about to do is for you.”
“Okay, I’ll try.” She didn’t sound committed. He gave her a hard look and immediately stopped what he was doing, letting her know, without any doubt, that
trying
wouldn’t be good enough. Of course, he’d made her so hot, so desperate, she’d promise the moon if she thought it would make him happy, so she amended her response. “Okay. I won’t come. But you’d better help me out a little. I’m weak.”
trying
wouldn’t be good enough. Of course, he’d made her so hot, so desperate, she’d promise the moon if she thought it would make him happy, so she amended her response. “Okay. I won’t come. But you’d better help me out a little. I’m weak.”
“I’ll help you.” As if he wished to illustrate exactly what he meant by that promise, he pushed two fingers into her pussy.
She wanted to claw his shoulders, to dig her fingernails into his skin and make him pay for that. An eye for an eye, as they say. But she knew he was far more wicked than she, much more devious. And any punishment she doled out would come back to her, only ten times worse. So, instead, she bit back a curse, clamped her jaw tight, and tried to think about something that wasn’t sexy. Naturally, the only thing that came to mind was that glorious face of his, the glitter of erotic hunger in his eyes, the way his lips curled into a naughty semismile when he looked at her.
Her brain was on his team.
Against her will, her pussy tightened around those fingers, increasing the sensation as he slowly fucked her with them.
Her pussy was on his team too.
A slick fingertip moved toward her anus, ringed around it a few times, coating her with warm lube. She squeezed her eyelids tightly, wove her fingers together, and prayed she wouldn’t come. If she lost control, he would put her through hell—a carnal hell where she’d be denied satisfaction for God only knew how long.
God, she loved this man!
As he applied the slightest pressure, her anus puckered tightly, resisting the invasion.
“Relax, baby.” He stopped tormenting her pussy and only touched her ass. That helped a little. Not much. She still couldn’t seem to relax enough so he could slide his finger inside. “Take a few slow, deep breaths.”
She did exactly as he suggested. Once, twice, a third time. Okay, now maybe she could relax. He pressed. She tightened up all over.
Maybe not.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You have to trust me. I’ll go slowly, just like I did in the dungeon. You liked what happened there, didn’t you?”
He didn’t need to hear her answer; he knew exactly how much she’d liked it. But she answered anyway, “Yesyesyes.”
“Focus.”
She concentrated and planned for his touch, anticipating it like she did the blinding light of a camera’s flash. She tightened her anus before he touched her and then, the second she felt his finger again, released the tension. The tip of his finger slipped past the ring of muscle just before it closed up again, this time around his finger.
The sensation was out of this world hot. And then he started pushing it deeper, and a blaze erupted in her pussy. She clawed at the headboard and fought to breathe through the ecstasy, fighting to cling to a thread of control so thin she didn’t know if it would snap.
She was losing the battle. A rush of heat rippled out from her center and the tingling start of an orgasm gathered between her legs. Drako’s finger slipped out at the exact moment when she was sure she was going to come.
She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Ohmygod.”
“Good?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“You’re going to enjoy what I have planned for you.”
She had no doubt.
“First, I need to help you settle down a little.”
“Thank you.”
He kissed her forehead, which felt like it was blistering hot. “On your stomach. I’m going to rub your back, help you relax.”
If she didn’t know better, she’d swear Drako was a figment of her imagination. He was too wonderful to be real, and for the briefest moment—not long enough to ruin the mood—she wondered if some other horrific secret would come up and destroy everything they’d fought for since they were married. She shoved that toxic thought aside and relaxed her arms and shoulders as he swung a knee over her and began working on a couple of hard knots at the base of her neck.
“Drako, I thought the submissive was supposed to serve the dom.”
“Actually, what I define as ‘serve’ may be different from other doms.” He placed a kiss at her nape, and she shivered. Goose bumps prickled all over her back and shoulders. “You don’t think you’re serving me?”
“Sort of. But you’re the one who’s rubbing my shoulders, not the other way around.”
“True. But I’m setting the pace. I’m controlling everything in this situation by manipulating your body. The massage is just another tool. It helps you relax your muscles, slows your heart rate and breathing. The tools of D/s don’t have to be sex toys.”
“I understand now.”
Moving lower, he worked a couple more hard knots out of her muscles, on either side of her spine. After he was finished, he dragged his hands up and down her back. She felt like a queen. A very relaxed, satisfied queen. With a hot consort who knew her body better than she did.
“Now, you’re ready.”
“For what?” she asked, having more than a good idea what the answer would be.
“For me.” He helped her up onto her hands and knees and settled behind her. He entered her slowly, filled her completely, and the muscles he’d worked so hard to soften tightened up again. But she could understand now why he’d taken the time. The change was exquisite, sending a wave of warmth rippling through her body.
He moved in and out, his intimate strokes hitting just the right spot. He kept the pace easy, building her need back to the level where it had been before gradually. She closed her eyes, tossed her head back and rocked back and forth, taking him deeply, fully appreciating every stroke as they sent bigger and bigger waves of carnal need surging through her.
This time, he’d let her come . . . she hoped. She was getting closer. Trembling, tight. She curled her fingers, clenching the sheets that smelled so sweet, like Drako, closed her eyes, and prayed he’d let her come.
He stopped. His cock slipped out of her pussy.
She whimpered.
“You’re going to thank me for this. I promise, Rin. You’ve been so good, baby. You deserve this. You’ve deserved it since the first night we fucked.” He parted her ass cheeks with his fingers, licked her anus, her pussy, her clit. “Relax, baby. I’m going to insert the plug.”
She did what she’d done earlier, clenching her ass and releasing it the moment she felt the tip of the plug pushing its way in. It slipped in, glided into place. A giant tidal wave of need practically knocked her over.
Drako pressed on her shoulders, encouraging her to drop her chest down until it rested on the mattress. His cock slid home, and Rin saw stars.
A cock filling her pussy. The plug filling her ass. It wouldn’t be long, a few strokes, maybe, and she’d lose all control.
She gasped. “Drako. Come. Please.”
“I am. Right now.” He dug his fingers into her hips. She felt his cock getting thicker as his cum surged down its length.
That tingling, buzzing sensation charged through her system. She couldn’t fight it. “Drako!”
“Come with me. Come now.”
Their voices blended as they cried out in ecstasy. Their bodies worked as one, their energies whipping between them, coursing through each other. Mind, body, and soul, they were joined, their love shattering the final barriers.
There’d never be any question, any doubt or fear. Rin belonged to Drako. Drako belonged to Rin. They would share everything for the rest of their days, pain and pleasure, hopes and fears. And above all else, love.
When the bliss of their lovemaking faded, they curled up under the covers, and Rin read the final pages of
Emma
to her husband, with her head resting on his shoulder, one of her legs draped over his.
Emma
to her husband, with her head resting on his shoulder, one of her legs draped over his.
Their own story might bear no resemblance to
Emma
, or any other classic work of fiction, but in its own way, it was timeless and beautiful and uniquely magical. And of course, despite the bumps they’d endured, Rin had known all along it would have a happy ending.
Emma
, or any other classic work of fiction, but in its own way, it was timeless and beautiful and uniquely magical. And of course, despite the bumps they’d endured, Rin had known all along it would have a happy ending.
Turn the page
for a sneak preview
of Logan Belle’s
BLUE ANGEL
for a sneak preview
of Logan Belle’s
BLUE ANGEL
Available May 2011!
1
D
uring the entire cab ride he kept telling her, it’s a surprise.
uring the entire cab ride he kept telling her, it’s a surprise.
“I don’t like surprises,” Mallory said, following him into the dark, barely marked building off of Bowery.
“It’s your birthday! What’s a birthday without a surprise?” He winked at her, and she couldn’t resist smiling back. That was the thing about Alec: no matter how much he aggravated her, she loved him too much to stay angry.
And why should she be in a bad mood? They’d finally moved in together after three years of dating long distance while she finished law school. She had a good job at a midsize firm. And yes, it was her birthday—the big twenty-five—and Alec was taking her out for a night on the town, in her new city, just the two of them.
Except . . . the dark location did not seem to be a romantic restaurant.
A woman with a clipboard greeted them inside the door. She had a butterfly tattoo on her neck and a perfect face. Behind her, a blue velvet curtain prevented Mallory from seeing into the room.
“Alec Martin and Mallory Dale. We’re on the list,” Alec said, taking Mallory’s hand.
Once inside, Mallory saw that the venue was a bar of some sort, with a seating area and a stage and . . . dwarves. Two that she counted. And a topless woman wearing a garter belt, black-seamed stockings, and red patent leather stilettos. And a man dressed for a rodeo carrying a bullwhip.
“What the hell is this?” Mallory asked.
“It’s the Blue Angel. A burlesque club,” Alec said, smiling like he’d just presented her with a diamond.
Burlesque—the topic of the article Alec was writing for
Gruff,
the pop culture magazine he worked for. And his latest excuse for constantly ogling other women.
Gruff,
the pop culture magazine he worked for. And his latest excuse for constantly ogling other women.
“We’re spending my birthday doing research for your article?”
He steered her to the table closest to the stage. The room was packed, but the table had a reserved card on it. Now she
knew
the evening was a
Gruff
magazine gig. The owner of
Gruff
was a rich kid named Billy Barton. Alec had met Billy thanks to the long tentacles of the Penn alumni network. And unlike Alec and most of their friends, who had only been in New York a few years, Billy could open any door, pull any string, and reserve any table.
knew
the evening was a
Gruff
magazine gig. The owner of
Gruff
was a rich kid named Billy Barton. Alec had met Billy thanks to the long tentacles of the Penn alumni network. And unlike Alec and most of their friends, who had only been in New York a few years, Billy could open any door, pull any string, and reserve any table.
“No,” Alec said. “We’re doing something fun and interesting on your birthday that I happen to be writing about but that I know you will enjoy. Wait here—I’m going to get our drinks.”
And he was off to the bar before she could protest.
She wished she had worn something different. Her long, houndstooth Ann Taylor skirt suddenly seemed overly prim. There was a lot of leg showing in the room—bare legs, garter-belted legs, legs in fishnets and heels. At least she was wearing a simple black turtleneck, so the overall effect wasn’t too dressed.
In the corner at the far end of the room, two women were laughing and talking to the guy in the Western getup. The one in the faux leopard coat was the first person Mallory had noticed in the room. How could she not? Aside from being model gorgeous, she had an ultrastylized look, with dramatically pale skin, full red lips, and straight black hair cut in a fabulous, razor-sharp bob. As if sensing Mallory’s stare, the woman turned and looked at her with sharp blue eyes. Startled, Mallory quickly looked away. But when she glanced back, the woman was still watching her, as if expecting that her gaze would return. Their eyes locked, and Mallory’s stomach did the oddest little flip.
“Hey,” Alec said, sitting next to her and sliding over a bottle of Stella Artois. “You’re not mad, are you?”
Mallory accepted the beer, trying to resist the urge to look back at the beautiful dark-haired woman. “What? Oh, I don’t know. A little. Come on, Alec. Admit it—you’re just killing two birds with one stone: you want to do research, but it’s my birthday and we’re going out so this is what you chose to do. It has nothing to do with how I’d actually want to celebrate.”
She hated the way she sounded, but she was worried. It wasn’t just about her birthday—it was about
them
. She didn’t want to admit it, but their relationship hadn’t felt right since she’d moved to Manhattan six months ago. Alec was consumed with the cutthroat world of New York media. She was working crazy hours at the law firm and studying to retake the bar exam. And lately, he kept bringing up the idea of their hooking up with another girl—with having a three-way. At first when he brought it up, she had thought he was just being provocative. But she finally realized he was completely serious. She didn’t quite know what to make of this, so she mentally filed it under Things I Can’t Deal With Right Now.
them
. She didn’t want to admit it, but their relationship hadn’t felt right since she’d moved to Manhattan six months ago. Alec was consumed with the cutthroat world of New York media. She was working crazy hours at the law firm and studying to retake the bar exam. And lately, he kept bringing up the idea of their hooking up with another girl—with having a three-way. At first when he brought it up, she had thought he was just being provocative. But she finally realized he was completely serious. She didn’t quite know what to make of this, so she mentally filed it under Things I Can’t Deal With Right Now.
And it wasn’t that she was appalled at the thought of being with a woman; she’d had minor girl crushes when she was younger. There was that one girl at overnight camp, Carly Klein. She wore tube socks pulled up to her knees even in ninety-degree heat, and she spiked a volleyball like she was going for the gold medal. She’d even had a sex dream about that girl and felt guilty about it for weeks. But this wasn’t overnight camp, and she didn’t have girl crushes anymore. She was an adult, and she was allegedly in an adult relationship.
Alec put his hand over hers, but before he could tell her how wrong she was or whatever he was going to say, Lady Gaga’s “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” pulsed through the room, the lights dimmed, and the thick, blue curtain on the stage slowly parted.
Rodeo guy stepped into the spotlight, and the crowd erupted in hoots and applause.
“Ladies . . . and those annoying creatures you felt compelled to bring with you tonight,” said Rodeo Guy, “Welcome to the Blue Angel!”
He cracked his whip, and Mallory jumped in her seat.
More hollering. Despite herself, Mallory felt a slight rush. The energy in the room reminded her of being at a rock concert. She didn’t want to give Alec the satisfaction of smiling—because no matter what he said, this night was just about his story—but for the first time since stepping inside the club, she was just a little excited to see what would happen. But her history with these types of places made her less than optimistic.
She had gone to a strip club in Philadelphia sophomore year of college and again, reluctantly, when she first moved to New York. She’d hated both experiences. The girls seemed miserable, and she felt like a perv for looking at them, even though there was little else to do. And giving them money had made
her
feel exposed. Both times, her friends had just had a laugh and told her to lighten up. But she’d minored in women’s studies, for God’s sake. She couldn’t just walk in the club and check her mind at the door.
her
feel exposed. Both times, her friends had just had a laugh and told her to lighten up. But she’d minored in women’s studies, for God’s sake. She couldn’t just walk in the club and check her mind at the door.
She dreaded that feeling of not knowing where to look or what to do with her hands, of feeling both sorry for the girl and embarrassed for just being in the room.
And so when the first girl came onstage, Mallory was nervous. But the crowd was raucous and exuberant, and she was aware of being the only one in the club not making some sort of noise. Alec, especially, was yelling, clapping. He looked over at her only briefly, and winked.
Mallory turned back to the stage. The song “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” played, and the stage lights bathed the dancer in fuschia. She was blond, and she wore a surprising amount of clothes: thigh-high, pink patent leather boots with a platform heel, a white corset, long white gloves, and in both hands gigantic fans made out of pink and white feathers. She waved the fans around so that sometimes they concealed her face and most of her body. Other times, she just covered her body and looked at the audience with a sly smile. When the hooting and hollering reached a peak, she tossed the fans aside, stood with her feet squarely apart, and slowly tugged off one glove. The crowd roared as if she’d just flashed her bare breasts. Did women get completely naked in these shows? Mallory didn’t know what to expect.
Little by little, the blonde peeled away her costume—first the gloves, then the boots, and then she turned her back to the audience and eased down the zipper of her corset so slowly, Mallory was shocked to realize she could not wait for the woman to get it off. And when she finally shook herself free and turned to face the audience with her hands over her breasts, Mallory found she was holding her breath.
The blonde moved her hands away, striking a pose like Madonna in her “Vogue” video. Her breasts were small, pert, and perfectly shaped, the nipples covered in red sequined flowers. When she danced around in her pasties and red thong, Mallory was simultaneously relieved and disappointed—the performer was probably not going to get totally nude, after all.
The crowd was in a frenzy, and Mallory joined in, whistling and clapping. The woman responded to the crowd, seeming to feed off of the excitement, gyrating close to the edge of the stage, where she slowly bent over, flashing her ass to the crowd, playfully squeezing both cheeks.
Once again, the cheers escalated, though Mallory did not think a higher decibel level was humanly possible.
Rodeo Guy returned to the stage.
“One more round, everyone, for Poppy LaRue,” he said, though he didn’t have to ask. The room was still wild.
“What do you think?” Alec asked, squeezing her leg.
“It’s . . . I like it,” Mallory said.
“I knew you would.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
As Rodeo Guy launched into a brief monologue, surprisingly clever, full of sly political commentary and pop culture references, Billy Barton slipped into the seat next to Alec. He wore a lavender shirt and purple suspenders. He was handsome and rich, so he could get away with dressing like Scott Disick on
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
.
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked, a little too loudly.
“I don’t know. What do you think, Mal? Did he miss anything?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the gorgeous, the glamorous, the
dangerous
. . . Bette Noir.”
dangerous
. . . Bette Noir.”
The regulars in the crowd chanted the dancer’s first name. The curtain remained down, but Marilyn Manson’s “I Put a Spell on You” began to play. As the low, pounding, eerie first beats filled the room, the curtain slid back to reveal two wooden chairs and a small table with a crystal ball. In one chair, a woman was crouched, a towering black witch hat obscuring her face.
She rose slowly, her figure shrouded in a long black dress. She swayed and looked directly at the audience, moody and defiant; Mallory saw that it was
her
—the stunning, leopard-coat woman.
her
—the stunning, leopard-coat woman.
Mallory knew the song well—had heard it long ago in a David Lynch film and loved it. It had been years since she’d heard it, but it had an unforgettable early crescendo, and when it reached that initial peak, the dancer pulled off her black dress to reveal her perfect body in only a bullet bra, black lace panties, black seamed stockings, garter belt, and six-inch, patent leather stilettos. In one hand, she held a shiny black wand. This time, when she looked at the audience, she focused on Mallory.
And then—and at first Mallory thought she was imagining this—she pointed her wand at Mallory and gestured for her to come onstage.
Mallory looked away, pretended not to see. But the crowd was cheering her on, and Mr. Rodeo appeared to assist her. Damn Billy Barton and his front row seats! She looked back at Alec, but he was laughing and waving her on.
The exact mechanics of how she got onstage were details she would never quite grasp. But somehow she found herself seated in one of the wooden chairs, in front of the crystal ball, with Bette Noir dancing around her. And then Bette sat in the chair opposite her, back to Mallory, and gestured for her to undo her bra.
Hands shaking, Mallory somehow managed the metal clasp. Her fingertips brushed the woman’s pale skin, as remarkably soft as it was fair. And when Bette turned to face her, bare breasted, Mallory felt she was an audience of one. She did not hear the crowd or the music. She did not know if she even heard Bette speaking to her—but it felt like she was. And Bette was telling her to remove her sweater. The only reason she did it was because she couldn’t be responsible for ruining this gorgeous spectacle. She hesitated for maybe twenty seconds, and then, with a rush of adrenaline, Mallory slowly pulled off her sweater.
Bette did not smile, did not even bat her fake eyelashes. She calmly took the turtleneck from Mallory, walked to the edge of the stage, and tossed it to the seat Mallory had vacated. The crowd was roaring—yes, she heard it now, like a television set that had become unmuted. Mallory, now wearing only her Ann Taylor skirt and white Victoria’s Secret bra, felt her heart pounding. She wondered how much longer she would have to be onstage, but at the same time didn’t want to leave. It was like she was hyperalive—everything felt louder, brighter, and bigger than life off the stage. It was dizzying, and to ground herself she looked out at the audience to find Alec. She could see that his gaze was riveted on her, only her. She took a deep breath and stood still as Bette worked the stage around her, wearing only a bejeweled thong and impossibly high heels and still holding the wand and dancing—all the while dancing, moving in the most deliberate and perfectly choreographed way.
And then the curtain came down.
Poppy LaRue peeked at the crowd from behind the curtain. She could not believe Bette had pulled that brunette onto the stage. Her nerves had barely settled after her own act—it was flat-out sadistic that Agnes had made her open the show on her second performance ever. She thought about telling Agnes just that, but Agnes was too busy reaming Bette for pulling one of the audience on stage.
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