Unsure (25 page)

Masters and mistresses. Bloody hell, who’d have thought of that? Moderators for sadists.

I’m gazing up at him and my astonished stare draws a low chuckle from him. He pulls me hard against his chest, drops a kiss onto the top of my head. My spinning, confused and absolutely bewildered head.

“I thought, well, I hadn’t expected there’d be anyone else there if we…” My voice trails away. I’m embarrassed, I don’t even know the right words to use to describe what we might do together. For now he ignores my pathetic lack of vocabulary.

“Ashley, I’ll take you clubbing if that’s what you want, but we don’t have to. If you like what Abbie has to say and you do decide to try this, then trust me, I can teach you what you need to know. And I’ll always take care of you.”

“Even when you’re hurting me?” My voice is small, apprehensive now.

“Especially when I’m hurting you, sweet little Ashley. You’ll have your safe word, remember. And I’ll be focused on you the whole time, I’ll know what’s happening for you. I’ll be so tuned in to you I’ll be able to hear your heart beating.”

“Really? Can you really do that?”

Of course he can. Didn’t I listen to his just a few minutes ago?

He confirms this, his tone low, seductive. “Mmm, pretty much. Especially if I’m anywhere near a pulse point, which I will be, you can be sure of that.”

And I believe he can.

Then another horrible thought hits me. I have to ask, need to check. “If we went to a club, would I have to go with other men apart from you? Other Doms? I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else. Definitely not.”

“Well, that’s a relief. No, love, you and me are exclusive too, as long as it lasts. I only fuck one woman at a time. And even though lots of BDSM partners don’t actually fuck each other, I do. We will. There will be a
lot
of fucking between you and me, Ashley. And we’ve already gone well beyond that point anyway. Vanilla style, more or less, with just a hint of kink. But bloody wonderful. So, no, I won’t fuck anyone else, and I don’t want you to either. Is that agreed?”

“Yes, of course.” How could he think I’d even consider, for a moment…? But then, he hardly knows me really. Not the real me. But he will, I promise myself that.

“I thought so, but it’s good to be clear. Will you need a lift home tomorrow?”

I think for a moment, startled by the sudden shift in subject. “No, I’ll go back on the quad. Then I can use it to get up onto the moors later. Unless you need it, that is?”

“No, it’s all yours. Now, have you any more questions for me just now? I need to be up early tomorrow.”

“No, not just now.”

“Tired?”

“Yes.”

I feel rather than see his gentle smile as he folds his arms around me. I sleep, draped across his chest.

* * * *

It was probably the smell of bacon. Or maybe the cheerful hum of breakfast radio that disturbed me. Whatever, I’m awake, alone, in Tom Shore’s huge oak bed. I feel wonderful. I’m aching, still a little sore in some very interesting places, but bloody wonderful. I slept well, better than I have in ages. Deep, dreamless, refreshing. And now I’m ravenous.

My clothes are still neatly folded on the sofa downstairs, in among the scattered chess pieces and empty Bud bottles, so I’ll have to make do with what I can find up here. I slide happily from the bed and grab my—correction, Tom’s—discarded shirt from the floor. Maybe I should relax my ban on doing his washing and ironing if I’m to make a habit of dirtying his clothes…

I detour into the bathroom for a quick comfort stop before making my way downstairs to the kitchen, where Tom is busy breaking eggs in a glass bowl. He looks to have been up for hours. He’s fully dressed, work boots on, dark blue denim work jeans and a heavy black cotton shirt hanging unbuttoned over a black crew-neck T-shirt. His waxed jacket is slung casually over a chair back, just where he dropped it when he came back in from—whatever farmers do in the wee small hours before dawn.

He turns as I enter the room, his quick smile of welcome the only greeting he offers as he gestures with his head for me to sit. I do, and moments later he sets a mug of steaming coffee in front of me, milk already in, the way I like it. I pick up the cup, take a sip, and lean back, my eyes closed. God, wouldn’t it be wonderful if every morning could start like this?

“Morning, beautiful. Did you sleep well? Omelets are on today’s menu. Do you want bacon in yours? Or cheese? Onion? Tomato?”

The solid practicality of the question breaks into my fanciful musings and I look at him, positioned expectantly by the stove. Waiting to feed me. Again.

Sure enough, “Ashley? What would you like to eat?”

A thought pops into my head. A dirty, wicked, completely-inappropriate-at-this-time-in-the-morning thought. I decide I’d better get on with it before I lose my nerve.

“Yes, thanks, I
did
sleep well. Very well. Have you seen to your animals?”

“For now, yes.”

“You’ve got a few minutes to spare then? Now?”

He turns to me, his expression becoming more serious. “Yes, I have some time. You know I’ll make time for you. Is there a problem?”

“Yes, there is. There’s something I need to—show you.” I stand, walk toward him.

He is silent, watchful, as I approach. He says nothing, just waiting as I stand in front of him, my head tilted back to meet his eyes. I place two of my fingers against my lips, kiss them lightly before reaching up to place the kiss softly on his mouth. He seems reassured by the gesture, and his worried expression softens. He makes to take me in his arms but I duck suddenly, out of his reach as I drop to my knees at his feet. I take hold of the buckle on the leather belt looped through his jeans and unfasten it quickly.

“Ashley, I…ah?” His question is quickly transformed into a moan as I unzip and open his jeans, reaching in to release his cock. It swells and stiffens rapidly in my hands, springing loose and proud from among the thatch of dark blond curls at its base. Despite yesterday’s intimacies this is the first time I’ve had an opportunity to really study Tom’s cock, to admire it properly. I swiftly peel his jeans right back, pushing them and his boxer shorts down his hips a little to make sure nothing hinders me.

I glance up at him, his gaze darkening as he anticipates what I’m about to do. For him. I smile, run my tongue around my lips before gently cradling his cock in my hands. I hear him suck in his breath sharply as I smooth my fingers along the hard length, intrigued by the smooth, velvety texture and solid bulk as I squeeze slightly. I wrap both my hands around the shaft, enjoying the satin softness of the skin and the solid steel beneath. I slide them slowly down to the base then back up to the tip. He groans, or perhaps it’s more of a growl as he leans back onto the worktop. I take that to mean nothing’s gone wrong so far and, encouraged, I repeat the motion. And I repeat it again. I see the drops of moisture dribbling from the tip and smooth my thumbs through the cool wetness, spreading the lubrication over the head of his cock. His breath hitches again. So far, definitely, so good.

I lean in and lick the droplets away with the tip of my tongue. Tom gasps out loud so I swirl my tongue around the head of his cock fast and firm, lapping at the deep pink, throbbing flesh.

“Christ, Ashley, that feels good.” His voice is low, the growl almost pained. I cup his balls in my left hand, squeezing gently, and use my right to grasp his thick shaft. I pump it, slow and steady at first, then more firmly as I set the rhythm which seems to work for him. His arousal is beyond any doubt as his cock twitches sharply in my hands, and his groans become more frantic, more ragged. I angle his cock forward a little, and take the head into my mouth.

Tom’s response is instantaneous. “Oh God, holy fucking hell, Ashley!” His hands are in my hair, holding my head in place but not forcing himself farther into my mouth. He continues to let me set the pace, control the angle and depth of his penetration. My confidence grows as I settle to my task. I suck hard, and feel as well as hear his appreciation. His ragged moans of pleasure are almost as big a turn-on for me as his own clever fingers and tongue were yesterday as they explored my most sensitive places.

I step up the pace, pulling him deeper into my mouth, sucking—gently at first, then with more force. I’m still cupping his sensitive balls, caressing them as I continue to stroke the shaft of his cock, firmly, insistently. Building his delight, pushing him toward release. The pressure of his fingers raking through my hair increases, every breath a rasping moan now, but still he makes no attempt to thrust or force the pace. That comes from me. It’s me who shifts to take even more of his cock into my mouth, now grazing the sensitive head of his dick with my teeth as I stretch my lips around it, the whole of the head and as much of the shaft as I can manage now deep in my mouth, nudging the back of my throat. I repress any urge to gip, and concentrate instead on drawing every last drop of response from this tender, sensitive, perfect man.

“Ashley, I’m going to come.” He tries to ease my head back, but I shake it briefly, deepening my hold and lashing my tongue fast across the tip of his penis. The salty taste hits me, slight at first, then a warm rush as he ejaculates into my mouth. The hot, pulsing stream of semen fills my mouth and throat and I swallow frantically to clear it, to breathe again. The ripples continue to flow for a few more seconds and I swallow those too, continuing to lap and suck until he starts to relax. Until his rigid fingers locked in my hair flex gently, and he caresses my neck. Until his softly whispered “Thank you” drifts down to me.

This time I let him ease out of my mouth. He straightens, rearranges his clothing, zips his jeans and buckles his belt while I continue to kneel at his feet. Now it’s done, I’m uncertain of whether I should have given in to the impulse to suck him off. Is it the sort of thing we should be doing before breakfast? He seemed to like it, but…

Tom crouches in front of me, takes my face between his hands and before I can protest about morning breath or still having come in my mouth, he kisses me. I stiffen, try to pull away, to at least have a chance to rinse my mouth, but he’s having none of that. He continues to kiss me deeply, his tongue now exploring where his cock was so recently. I know when I’m beaten and give in, my arms around his neck as he stands, taking my weight as well as his own.

After long, sensuous moments lost in each other he lifts his head, his beautiful green eyes soft with spent passion and kindling lust as he looks down at me—disheveled and looking, I’m sure, distinctly disreputable in his arms. “Good morning, Ashley,” he whispers. “It’s very, very nice to see you. Can I interest you in that omelet now?”

Chapter Seventeen

“Mmm, where did you learn to cook like this?” I wave a piece of juicy, crisp, perfectly cooked bacon at him from the end of my fork, at the same time chewing on a fluffy bite of cheese omelet. My mum was always on at me for speaking with my mouth full, but I never could keep quiet when the mood took me. And this morning I feel like chatting.

“Good cooking calls for good ingredients. Don’t forget, I grow the pigs too. You’re eating Matilda.” He chuckles at my horrified look, shakes his head. Farmers are completely without sentiment it seems, even the humane ones. As if he’d have a pig called Matilda. Still grinning, he goes on, “I didn’t learn, not really. I mean, I’ve always been able to do basic stuff, look after myself.” He leans his elbows on the table—my mum would have had something to say about that, too—as he reaches for his refilled mug of black coffee. “And my brothers. I’m the eldest of four so I usually ended up helping keep them fed.”

“What about your parents? Your mum?”

“My mum and dad are both lawyers in Edinburgh. They were great, but always busy. Everyone had to pull their weight in our house.”

“Lawyers, wow. You must have been rich!” I let the words slip out without thinking, and I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m being rude. And nosy. I shouldn’t have said that!”

Tom just laughs, shakes his head. “We were okay, yes. But my mum and dad were out at work most of the time so I tended to fend for myself a lot. We had an au pair who helped with the younger ones. But by the time Kristina came on the scene I was sixteen so she just settled for relieving me of my virginity. It was a wonderful introduction to the fine art of fucking. She handled most of the practical side of my sex education, you could say. She was very hands-on, was Kristina.”

I gape at him, wide-eyed. “Did your parents know? I mean, they couldn’t have…”

“I think they had an inkling, but I was old enough and she was only twenty. Same age as you are now. You could hardly call it exploitation. I learned a lot from Kristina. Until she went back to Germany to become a primary school teacher.”

Dumbstruck, I just stare at him. Bloody hell, to be taught the fine art of fucking by a sexy au pair called Kristina. While my initiation was down to the clumsy, drunken fumblings of one Kenny Potts, thief, dickhead and all-round loser. Still, every chance I might make up for some of that in the coming weeks. I might even get to reap the benefits of the lovely Kristina’s hands-on approach to educating Tom.

“So, what about you? Tell me about your mum.” Tom’s question is gentle enough, but probing.

I hesitate, not usually keen to talk much about myself. We’re sharing, though, so I decide to spill. A bit. “She was lovely. Really lovely. And for most of my life I never even realized, never really appreciated her.”