Manwhore 2: The Ferro Family (3 page)

His eyes are downcast, and he’s careful not to look at me. “Yes.”

We play a few games, and I’m quickly learning that nothing pulls his mind from his past. He remains far away, the vacant look still in his eyes. I tell him not to hide it from me. I keep trying different things, kicking the pain level up as I go. We’re way past novice, and I’m getting nowhere.

I’ve lashed him, caned him, dripped hot wax down his back, but he doesn’t react. It’s as if he lost the ability to feel anything. Most tops would become harsher now, hitting harder, using clamps, and trying to reach a point where it’s evident that the bottom feels something. My gut impression says that won’t work with Sean.

I change tactics. I’m going to break the rules. He’s chained in place and until now, I haven’t touched him. I can’t do so without it being sexual. I don’t trust myself. But maybe that’s the problem. We both sense this about each other. Maybe I should follow my instincts and see where we end up.

I walk around his body, dragging the pads of my fingers over his bare hips. He inhales sharply, but says nothing. I continue to skim my fingers over him, circling around to the smooth skin and toned muscle of his back. His narrow hips curve into a sexy ass that’s tight and perfect. His legs are long and lean with enough muscle to pin a girl in place.

“Should I stop?”

Sean is tense, finally on edge. It’s the tender touches that do it. He shakes his head and swallows hard. His voice is faint. “Go on.”

I remain behind him, lingering for a moment. I follow my impulse and press my cheek to his back. I slide my hands down his sides as I listen to his heart beating fast within his chest. I lower my lashes and allow them to touch his skin. He gasps like he was hit by a truck.

What happened to make him like this? Tenderness is what sets him on edge. That can’t be right. I need to do something different and test my theory further. There’s one action that’s so personal that I want to try it.

I hesitate in front of him and stare at the floor. I shouldn’t do this. It’s crossing a line. But…

His head is still lowered, hanging between his broad shoulders. “Do whatever you’re thinking. It’s the only way to find out.”

This is wrong.

I shouldn’t be here.

I can’t be with him.

I can’t do this.

But I am.

I bend my knees and slowly lower myself in front of his waist. I’m still wearing my outfit, minus the jacket, and kneeling in front of his perfect package. Leaning in close, I close my eyes and exhale slowly, letting my hot breath wash over him. He lets out a small moan, which makes me wonder.

There’s an element missing, something I need, and I know he needs it, too. I feel it. I glance up at him and catch his eye. His hands are chained above his head, and he tries to look away quickly. It’s supposed to be like that, but not this time.

I rise slowly, and gently press my body to his as I stand. I take his face in my hands and force him to look at me. “Sean, do you like edge play?”

“Level Nine so soon?” He sounds disappointed.

“Not quite. I’m deviating from the norm. So I guess, the question is this—do you trust me?”

Edge play is when you push your partner to their limit. One of the most common forms is asphyxiation. It requires a great deal of trust because the ramifications when performed incorrectly are disastrous.

I accidentally brush his skin with my finger. His eyes focus sharply, and it’s as if my touch was painful. Sean's weakness isn’t air; it’s gentleness.

As the thought fills my mind I realize that I’ve found it—I discovered the Sean Ferro cocktail that will make him forget everything.

S
EAN’S EYES
lock on mine. My heart beats so hard I think he must hear it. He’s frozen in place, as if he knows I’ve found something. He doesn’t speak, he only nods.

“What’s your safe word? Because I won’t stop.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t stop. If you think you found something, do it. You’re the only woman in here with a Level Nine collar and that jewel. I trust you.”

I press my lips together and swallow hard. I splay both hands on his chest and touch him lightly. I trace the curves of his chest, slowly sliding my fingers over the rise and fall of his body. I trace the lines leading to his pecs and following them down to his abs. I run a finger along each muscle, tracing it softly. My mouth waters as I think about kissing him there, along his stomach, and dragging my tongue along his skin.

It’s a lover’s caress and he hates it, well part of him can’t stand it. The other part is completely erect and begging to be touched. Sean grits his teeth as I touch him, trying not to cry out. The muscles in his neck cord tightly as he fights the sensation.

I ask, “What are you feeling?”

“I can’t—” He hisses through his teeth, unable to speak. I feel like I should stop, but I’m sure I’ve found it.

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and drips onto the floor. There’s a spreader bar between his ankles to hold his legs apart and then each ankle is chained to the floor. He is beautiful. I wonder what he was like before all this happened. If he enjoyed such light touches from his wife, or if he was a tender lover. I’ll never know.

The only thing I’m certain of is that this will sharpen his senses. He’ll hone in on how to own me, how to destroy me. The challenge is all consuming, and leaves no thought for anything else. I know because I’m doing it to him now. Seeing him fight me is erotic and thinking about taking him in my mouth is such a bad idea—it’s against the club rules. It’s against our agreement. It defies everything because I’m stealing his control. His panic becomes my power. His pain becomes my composure.

As I slip down the front of his body, I think about how far I’m pushing him into places he doesn’t want to go. I control him in these few moments, body, mind, and soul.

As I kneel in front of him, my face is right in front of his beautiful, smooth, long shaft. My mouth is watering as I think about sucking on it. From the way he’s breathing, I don’t think this manwhore has face-fucked many women. Then it dawns on me--that’s not it. He doesn’t want me here, because of her, because of his wife. This was something she did.

When it’s my turn to be the bottom, oh, God—my stomach twists. He’s going to go all out. He won’t stop, but that’s what this is now. I feel calm. His fear empowers me. This isn’t edge play. It’s far past that, but I don’t care.

Leaning in, I hear him gasp as he tries to evade me. I take my hands and place them on his ass, and pull his erection toward my mouth. His muscles are corded tight, trying as hard as he can to pull away, but he can’t break the chains.

Leaning in closer, I press his shaft to my cheek and drag the tip across my face, one side and then the other. Sean is barely breathing, but he manages to say my name. It’s one cry, one plea to stop. This will break him. It’ll break me. “Paige.”

The problem is simple. I said I’d help him, and I’ve never felt like this before. I’m perfectly calm, stronger than I thought possible. I feel like my old self, but better. Why? I don’t understand it, but I know that this is a give and take. Right now I’m taking. In a moment, I’ll have to give it back to him.

He’ll break me, he’ll have to. He has to feel this clarity, this sense of control. It’s a high that feels unbreakable.

He watches me for a moment, and our eyes meet. If he felt this, he’d know it was worth it.

“Do you still trust me?” I watch him, doubting he’ll say yes. This is so wrong, so far outside the norm, even at Club Noir.

Sean nods once. It’s a jerky movement followed by a hard swallow that makes his Adam's apple move in his neck. His dark hair is tousled and damp with sweat. His body glistens in the red light.

I lunge forward and take his hard length in my mouth, sucking and sliding my tongue over his shaft as I do so. Sean yells and tries to jerk away, but he can’t. Placing my hands on his ass steadies him. His head thrashes as if he doesn’t enjoy my mouth on his cock, but it gets bigger and harder as I suck him.

Each pass of my tongue makes him groan between gritted teeth. Every time I push him over the edge makes me more powerful.

I’m greedy and don’t take it slowly. I want to taste him. I work him, pressing him with my tongue and forcing him down my throat, taking him exactly the way I want as he bucks against me, swearing as he does so. I feel it coming, too much too fast. He moans and stops fighting me. As he comes, his hips pump against my mouth, pushing deep into my throat. He thrusts between my lips, filling my mouth with come and I swallow, only to be treated to more. I drink him until there’s nothing left.

When I stand, I notice the way he’s hanging in the chains. His shoulders are slumped like he’s defeated. It’s only temporary, though, because as soon as I unchain him, he’ll find out that this high is perfect.

Before we have a chance to find out, there’s the sound of a lock beeping. The door to the hallway is thrown open, and Gabe is standing there with Claire. She squeaks. “I’m sorry, Paige. I thought you were in trouble when you didn’t show up on stage.”

Gabe looks pissed. “This is not what Club Noir is about. The owner is going to skin you.”

PRE-ORDER NOW:

MANWHORE, VOL. 3

To ensure you don’t miss H.M. Ward’s next book, text AWESOMEBOOKS (one word) to 22828 and you will get an email reminder on release day.

WANT TO READ MORE ABOUT SEAN FERRO?

Turn the page for a
FREE
excerpt of

THE ARRANGEMENT

THE ARRANGEMENT

Chapter 1

T
HE NIGHT AIR IS FRIGID
. It doesn’t help that I’m stuck wearing this little black dress in my crap car. I shiver as I try to keep the engine running at a red light. My little battered car is from two decades ago and stalls if I don’t rev the engine while I have my foot on the brake. I’m driving with two feet, in a car that’s supposed to be an automatic. The heater doesn’t work. If I try to turn it on, I’ll get my face blasted with white smoke. It’s awesome, in an utterly humbling kind of way. At least the car is mine. It gets me where I need to go, most of the time.

The light flips to green and I botch it. I don’t gas the car enough and it shudders and stalls. I grumble and grab for the can of ether. The cars behind me blare their horns.

I ignore them. They can go around me. I grab the can on the seat next to me, kick open my door, and walk around to the hood. I shake the can and spray it into the engine intake. The car will start up as soon as I turn the key now, and I can drive away in shame.

The night air is crisp and filled with exhaust. This road is always busy. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is. Angry drivers move around me. Everyone is always in a hurry. It’s part of the New York frame of mind. I’m treated to a catcall as a car full of guys blows past me. I flip them the bird and hear their laughter echo as they fade from sight.

Tonight couldn’t possibly get any worse. I put the cap on the can of ether. Then it happens. My night takes a one-eighty straight into suckage.

As I drop the hood, it slams shut, and I look through the windshield. “Seriously?” I say at the guy who jumps in my seat. He’s wearing a once-blue fluffy coat and hasn’t shaved for weeks. He turns the key and my crappy car roars to life. He gasses it and takes off, swerving around me. I stand in the lane staring after him. What a moron. Who’d steal that piece of trash?

Still, it’s my car and I need it. After the night I had, I don’t want to run after him, but I have to. I need that car. I take off at a full run. My lungs start to burn as I suck in frozen air and exhaust. I run down the shoulder, avoiding trash that’s laying in the gutter. My attention is singularly focused on my car. I push my body harder and feel my muscles protest, but I don’t hold back. He’s getting away.

I manage to run a block when a guy on a motorcycle slows next to me. “That guy stole your car.” He sounds shocked.

I can’t see his face through the black helmet. It has a tinted visor that covers his face. “No shit, Sherlock,” I huff and keep running. My purse is in the car, my only pair of work-acceptable heels, my books--awh, fuck--my books. I paid over a grand for those. They’re worth more than the car. I run faster. My dress flares around my thighs as my Chucks help me sprint forward. My body doesn’t want to do it. The stitch in my side feels like it’s going to bust open.

The guy on the bike is annoying. He rolls next to me and flips up his face shield. I glance at him, wondering what he’s doing. Biker guy looks at me like I’m crazy. “Are you trying to catch him?”

“Yes,” pointing ahead, huffing. There are three lights on this stretch of road before the ramp to get on the parkway. If he hits a red light, the car will stall and I’ll get it back. My lungs are burning and it’s not like I have time to explain this. My car has already passed the first light. “If he stops, the car will stall.”

“You want me to help?” he glances at the car and then back at me.

I stop and nearly double over. Holy hell, I’m out of shape. I nod and throw my leg over the back of his bike, flashing the cars driving past us. I so don’t care. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I hold on tight and say, “Go.”

“I was going to call the cops, but this works, too.” He sounds amused. I hold onto his trim waist and plaster myself against his back. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and I can feel his toned body through the supple material. He pulls into traffic and zips through the lanes. The wind blasts my hair and plasters my eyelashes wide open. We bob and weave, getting closer and closer to my car. My heart is racing so fast that it’s going to explode.

I see my car. It’s passing the second light. Motorcycle man punches it, and the bike flies under the second intersection just as the light changes. I manage not to shriek. My skirt flies up to my hips, but I don’t let go of the biker’s waist to push the fabric back down.

We’re nearly there when the thief catches the third light. The car in front of him stops, forcing the carjacker to stop as well. As soon as he takes his foot off the gas, my car convulses and white smoke shoots out the tailpipe. The engine ceases. The driver’s side door is kicked open and the guy runs.