Naughty Bits Part III: Bound to Please (10 page)

Just like that, every thought went away, her body’s responses taking up all her energy to laser in on the wealth of sensations he created. He was a nice, thick size that rubbed the right ways, inside and outside. As he thrust into her more firmly, his testicles pressed into her clit, sending a pleasurable little spasm through her.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Yessss.”

He did it again. Her backside was sore from his punishment, but the impact of his body against that tender flesh just added to the spiraling feelings. He held to the same pace, though from the clutch of his fingers, the rasp of his breath, she could tell he was like a bow being drawn, close to loosing the arrow. She was right with him. She couldn’t control any of it, except for lifting her hips to every thrust, trying to push back against him, inspire him to increase his pace, but he was stubborn as hell, holding on to all control, making sure the buildup was excruciating. She gasped at each stroke, then moaned, then pleaded.

“Please . . . Master . . .”

He caught a fistful of her hair, pulling her head up and back, emphasizing her bondage, the imposition of his will. She cried out as her clit and the walls inside began to spasm, a precursor to climax. With every stroke, her clit was rubbed against those smooth tacks.

“Ask me to come, Madison. You don’t come until I say so.”

“Please, Master. Please let me come. And you come, too. Please.” She wanted to feel it, wished he would tear away the condom.

“You don’t want it bad enough, Miss Fine. You aren’t really begging.” Sliding his hand beneath her, he lifted her hips, denying her the bumpy stimulation of the golden tack heads as he continued to thrust.

By the time he let them both go, she was begging in ways that creatures tormented by hellfire would. She was crying out his name, calling him Master, pleading for his permission. When at last he let her have that contact with the beam, gripped both hips anew and started thrusting hard enough he was smacking his testicles against her with every stroke, she was screaming. She couldn’t hold off any more.

“Please . . . Master . . .”

“Come now, Madison. Let me hear you.”

The sound that ripped from her throat was like the dying shriek of a civilization, long and drawn out, laden with the emotions she was releasing along with the climax. New tears bathed her face when the intense spasms started to ease, and then he set her off again by releasing at last. A paroxysm of aftershocks gripped her, goaded by his groans of male pleasure, the bruising grip of his fingers. He slammed into her, not holding back, letting her feel the sheer, rutting animal demand, his mastery unleashed fully in the ultimate act of control, fucking her into insensibility.

Every second of this would haunt her dreams. He hadn’t climaxed until she did everything he commanded, holding control over her pleasure and his own until the very end. The significance of that alone would give those dreams an erotic, liquid turn. She anticipated waking in an intense state of arousal every morning for the foreseeable future.

She bet he knew that. He’d said most Doms had a sadistic side, after all. But the real surprise was finding she was more of a masochist than she’d known. His brand of sensual cruelty only made her want one thing—more.

* * *

When he released her, there was no choice but to be carried. She was boneless. He readjusted his clothes and lifted her off the structure, then put her feet on the floor only the second needed to scoop her up in his arms. He took her to a curtained opening she’d assumed held more tools, but instead she saw it was a small office, complete with couch, flat screen and desk. He settled on the couch, holding her in his arms, keeping her warm with his body. She was perspiring, but shivering as well, as much nerves as anything, but the cooling sweat was part of it. Pulling a throw off the top of the couch, he put it around her, though she threaded her arms under his and stayed against his body so nothing interfered with her connection to his heat, the warmth she needed most of all.

He made her drink water, eat a couple of crackers. Even on top of the trembling, occasionally her body would jerk in a new set of spasms. Tears kept spilling out of her eyes, no rhyme or reason. He wiped them with tissues, even wiped her nose because she couldn’t let go of him. If he shifted, her grip only tightened. She was broken down so thoroughly she had no restraint or filter for her emotions.

He stroked his hand over her hair, cupped her skull, rocked her, spoke quietly to her. She had no idea what he was saying. His voice was the important anchor, not the content. He could have been reciting a bus schedule to her.

“Oh, God, Logan.” Those were her first three words, when some rational thought returned. Her voice was high and thin. “Is it always like that?”

“No. The first time you crack open your soul, it has to bleed out all the pus and pain. It might take a few sessions, but eventually it starts to run more clean. You reach a different kind of subspace. Just as powerful, but different.”

She turned that idea over in her head in a drifting, hazy way, then gave up any in-depth analysis tonight. She’d have as much chance of discovering a cure for cancer with peanut butter and bananas. “Okay.”

His jaw tensed against her, probably a smile. But when she tipped her head up, she found his gaze roving her face in a way that felt . . . overwhelming. He touched her mouth, tracing it, then cupped the side of her throat, his thumb sliding over her windpipe. “That was remarkable for me, too. You were extraordinary.”

“Don’t,” she said softly, feeling the first shard of fear. “Please don’t say anything more.”

He tucked her head back under his chin, increased his hold around her. “I am going to beat those fears out of you,” he promised.

She snorted on a weak, hysteria-induced chuckle. Anyone else might say such a thing as a joke, a teasing threat. Her Master meant it. Meant every word. It made her stomach flip in anticipation.

Her Master.

She told herself the same thing she’d just told him.
Don’t.

“I want you to think about something, Madison.”

“When I can think again, I’ll get right on that.”

He gave her a little admonishing shake, a nip of her ear. She squirmed half-heartedly. “What do you want me to think about?”

“The difference between falling in love and wanting to be loved.”

Her lashes lifted. When he looked at her and seemed to see things in herself she couldn’t see, that was when it was hardest to hold his gaze. She looked back down at his chest.

He didn’t say anything else for awhile. She was the one who broke the silence, changing topic when she thought she could talk. “So I guess we found out I’m not a Mistress.”

“Not with me, no. But we aren’t, any of us, just one thing. Look at your shop. You’re like a Mistress there. You take your customers’ desires, push them that last step, give them permission to be who they want to be.”

“That might be a stretch,” she demurred, but she hadn’t really thought about it that way. She traced his forearm, the layer of hair there. “I think it’s the control freak thing that sometimes makes people think . . . I always want to be in control.”

“It can be a gray line. Most Doms are control freaks.” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “Not me.”

“Of course not.”

He gave her a light pinch. “Ironically, I’ve found a lot of female subs
are
control freaks. Our society demands that women succeed at so many things. The only time you let go of that is with the right Dominant personality. Maybe that kind of sub recognizes a control freak bigger and badder than herself and, like a strong alpha female in a wolf pack, she’s willing to let him or her Dominate her.”

She didn’t have the brain function to know exactly where he was going with this, but the words resonated. Rolling her head back on his shoulder, she turned her nose to his shirt, inhaling his scent. She hoped it would imprint itself on her, just like an animal. She was in a very odd place, for sure.

He dipped his head, touched her lips with his, once, twice, then settled back a few inches. There were flecks of gold in his eyes, just like she imagined a wolf would have. “Alice said that the biggest thing you and I had in common is we never followed her relationship advice.”

“She tried to give
you
relationship advice?”

“All the time.” He grinned. “I needed it, but that didn’t mean I listened, any more than you did. The relationships I tried to have outside club sessions never worked. I had a knack for picking the wrong mix. Alice called it a case of the prophet being blind to his own humanity.”

“Sounds like her.”

In the wry twist of his lips, she saw an echo of the exasperation she’d often exhibited when her sister tried to impose her will upon her. At least that was the way it had felt at the time. She had a different perspective of it now. Alice had wanted her to be happy, and whether or not she had the right or wrong advice for that, the desire to put her on that path would have been driven by love, not a need to run Madison’s life, as she’d resentfully assumed. The thought sent a hard shot of longing through her, a couple more tears seeping out.

He kissed the tears away, held her close, started that light rocking again. “Tell me the rest?” she asked in a whisper. He nodded.

“Every time I hit that brick wall, failed again, she didn’t say ‘I told you so.’ She didn’t seem smug about it at all.”

“I know. That’s part of what made it so infuriating.”

“Yeah.” He paused, and he swallowed against her temple. “She was a true friend. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so self-assured and yet devoid of ego. She was afraid of true intimacy with a lover; that was her kryptonite. Yet she had infallible judgment when it came to enhancing that quality between others.”

He coiled his fingers in her hair, cradling her head in his palm so she met his gaze once more. “And before you even think it again, once and for all, now and forever, you are not, and never will be, a surrogate for your sister to me. What you are is my last promise to her.”

Her brow furrowed at a hitch in his voice. He gave her a quick, strained smile. “She made me swear to give being with you a try. ‘Even if it doesn’t work out, please take care of her, Logan. Watch over her. If it doesn’t work out, being lovers, promise me you’ll still be her best friend. She’s going to need one of those
.
’”

“Oh, Alice . . .” Emotions swelled back up, clogging her throat. Again Logan held her close, but this time she held him in return, the two of them comforting each other for the loss of family, of deep friendship. Of a powerful connection that had made life seem better in so many ways.

When she at last lifted her face, she saw he hadn’t cried, big, tough guy that he was, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. Sliding her fingers over his cheek and jaw, his lips, she offered more comfort. In return, he looked at her in that intent way that made everything inside of her turn to goo. Honestly, she’d never had a man like this look at her like that. It was either the most miraculous or the most terrifying thing she’d ever experienced. She coughed.

“So, at this point, where do you think you are on that? Best friends, lovers, soul mates, friends with benefits, friends with no benefits?”

“You’re trying to get me to smack you again. Friends with no benefits is already off the table, don’t you think?”

“Probably. Being your friend has definite benefits. Troy, for one thing.”

She let out a little shriek as he made an attempt to flip her in his lap, a threat of another spanking. She clung to him like a cat, protesting. “All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Sobering, she reached up to touch his face again. “You looked so sad. I wanted to make you laugh again.”

He caressed her tear-stained cheek. “Same goes, Madison. Do you want a serious answer to the question?”

“I’m not sure. But I have a feeling you’re going to be your usual tyrannical self and give me one.”

“I tend to be a selfish bastard. If there’s a potential for any of those—lover, best friend, Master”—his gaze suddenly got far more intense, washing heat over her—“I want all. What do you think?”

She pressed her lips together. Despite her worries, that heat turned into a steady warmth inside her heart. “I think that was Alice’s intent all along. She used to say the best love stories are based on friendship.”

“All right. Let’s leave it there for now.”

Grateful for that, she settled back in the span of his arm, pleased when he hummed to her, a tuneless ballad nevertheless soothing in his deep timbre. While he stroked her hip, she teased the gleaming light layer of chest hair available to her from the open neck of his shirt.

It was a lot to think about, but she wasn’t up to thinking about much of it, so mostly she just drifted. Eventually, though, a question swam up from her subconscious. “Why does it work that way? The punishment bit? Everything I was ever sorry for came to the top, every time I said the ‘bad girl’ thing.”

“For most of us, our earliest memories of forgiveness and redemption come from punishment at the hand of a parent, the first person we love and trust, whether or not they end up deserving that in the long run. For certain types of discipline, a deep part of us reverts to those feelings. Because we’re adults, sexual stimulation can take it to even higher levels. You have the capacity to crave more pain than you’d desire as a child. You connect pure cathartic release with the proper application of restraint and pain. And you trust me to apply it properly to take you to that space. The space you’re still in now, a little bit.”

“Does anyone ever call you ‘Professor’?”

He chuckled. “Sometimes they do at the club, yes.”

“You’ve been in this so long. It makes me feel like a first grader. I’m not sure I like that feeling.”

“I’m not a financial wiz like you,” he offered. “My accountant has a voodoo doll of me and sticks pins into it whenever she has to wade through my files for tax preparation.”

Madison looked at him incredulously. “How can you be so successful at running a business and not be good at accounting?”