My grip tightens and her gaze lifts, her eyes laden with desire, those lush, beautiful lips that I’ve just fantasized about angled toward me. In a blink, hunger consumes me. She consumes me, and I can’t remember why I thought that was a problem before. I don’t want to remember. I just want her.
Twining the fingers of my free hand into the long, silky strands of her hair, I drag her mouth a breath from mine. “What are you doing to me, woman?” And then I claim her mouth.
My tongue strokes against hers, caressing, taking, drinking in the warm, sweet taste of her. She is one part willing woman, two parts challenge. I know I’ll never fully control her, and the very thing that would have made her wrong for me in the past is the very thing that makes her what I want and need now. She is freedom. She is passion. She is the safe place where I can be the man I’ve tried to deny beneath the Master persona, and failed. It’s why I failed Rebecca; it’s how I turned emotion into dangerous games. I had no idea how much I needed the freedom to simply be me.
Crystal’s fingers tighten on my cock, and it’s nearly my undoing. Tearing my mouth from hers, I promise, “I have a never-ending list of the wicked things I’m going to do to you, but right now, I just need to be inside you. Stand with your back to the footboard and your hands on top of it.”
Her swollen, deliciously kissed lips curve as she replies, “Yes, Mr. Compton.” It’s not the way a submissive would say the words. It’s a challenge, and even more, it’s a promise that she plans to use those words to taunt me in the future.
My blood thickens with the sultry words she’s turned on me, and I watch her walk to the bed, her beautiful ass a portrait finer than any of my many masterpieces. She turns to face me, her eyes colliding with mine as she presses her hands behind her onto the footboard. Her breasts are thrust high in the air, the nipples puckered in tight little balls. She’s all about challenge and seduction—and though she doesn’t know it yet, she’s going to pay for taunting me, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.
I reach for my pants and remove my wallet, retrieving the one condom there. Sex hadn’t been on my agenda tonight; my apology had. I roll the condom over the thick pulse of my shaft, then in two long strides, I’m in front of Crystal. My hand settles on her tiny waist with intentional possession. I meant what I said when I told her I wanted to own her, and not just her body.
My other hand goes beside hers on the footboard, and I lean into her, binding her without a device, my chest hair cradling the stiff peaks of her nipples. An easy shift of my body, and I settle my cock between her thighs, denying us both by avoiding that sweet, warm spot in the V of her body. A Master worth his salt knows how to build tension and work the passion to explosive, absolute pleasure.
“Do you really think you can taunt me and get away with it?” I demand, my voice soft but lethal.
Her chin lifts, defiance in the depths of her eyes. “Who said I wanted to get away with it?”
“So you wanted me to make you pay?”
“I just wanted you to hurry up and fuck me. It didn’t work. You still aren’t fucking me.”
I press my other hand to the footboard, trapping her with my body, my cheek pressed to hers. “Consider this a warning,” I say, inhaling her sweet, floral scent. “There’s a price for taunting me. A punishment.”
“What do you mean, punishment?”
“I have a very creative imagination. Nipple clamping, flogging, or just a good spanking.”
“No,” she whispers, panic in her voice as she jerks her upper body, unable to move away. “No, I won’t—”
“But I will,” I promise. “And you’ll want me to, I promise—or I won’t do it.”
“Can’t we just—”
“No. We can’t just.” I dip my fingers into the dripping wet heat of her sex. “Your body says you like the idea of me punishing you.”
“Your hard cock is between my legs. Of course I’m aroused.”
“Me punishing you is me arousing you.” I dip two fingers inside her.
She moans, her lashes fluttering. “No.”
I pull out of her, moving my hand to her hip. “No?”
“I mean yes. Or—” I arch a brow and she lets out a rush of air. “I don’t want you to spank me, flog me, or whatever else you dream up. So please just fuck me already, Mr. Compton.”
I slide my hand up her back and arch her into me. “There’s no such thing as ‘just’ fucking.” My lips caress hers. “Not with me. Not with you.”
“I think you might want too much,” she says, sounding breathless.
“Not too much. Just what I said before: more than you thought you had to give. But you can. You will.” I press my cock to the lips of her sex, then drive deep into her, my hands cupping her backside. “But one day, you’ll know my hand on your gorgeous ass and you’ll wish you’d known it sooner.” I thrust into her hard and fast, one time, two—
“My arms,” she pleads. “Mark, I’m can’t hold myself—”
I wrap an arm around her, anchoring her. “Let go,” I order.
“No. I’ll fall.”
Her words blast me with a dark emotion that aches and burns in my chest and belly. I don’t just want this woman’s trust. I want to deserve it. “You won’t fall,” I promise, my words rough, vehement. “I won’t let you.”
She blinks up at me, her expression softening as she whispers, “I believe you.” She lifts her arms, wrapping them around my neck before repeating, “I believe you.”
Her promise eases that ache inside me, delivering a sense of purpose and rightness that I haven’t felt in too long to remember. I slant my mouth over hers, kissing her, claiming her, taking every drop of the passion I feel in her and demanding more. And she gives it to me, meeting every lick, every touch with one of her own.
Lifting her, I carry her to the side of the bed, laying her on her back and coming down on top of her, drowning in the collision of our eyes. The connection I feel, which I didn’t know I could feel after all of these years, shakes me to the core. And in this moment, I admit what I’ve only suspected before. I have been lost, and in some way, this woman has found me.
I kiss her, tasting her in a way I have never let myself taste, rocking into her body, her soft moans and the way she arches into me thickening my cock. I feel every thrust up and down my spine, every touch of her hands in every part of me, in ways I’m not sure I’ve ever allowed myself to experience. She touches me eagerly, without restraint, and it drives me over the edge. I drive into her, wild with need. Burying my face in her neck, I pump against her as she arches upward, meeting every thrust of my hips with her own. There is only this frenzied need between us . . . until her fingers dig into my shoulders, and she stiffens. Her body spasms around my cock and I am one part relief, one part regret as she drags me with her, and my release is on me, shaking me with the impact, as she shudders beneath me.
Finally, we collapse into sated exhaustion, me on top of her, not wanting to let her go. It’s as if there’s a floor beneath me with a gaping hole, and a cyclone pulling me through to the other side, and she is the calmness that keeps me from falling through.
Finally I lift up on my arms, and my eyes meet Crystal’s.
“Mmmm . . . hi,” she says.
I laugh. God, when’s the last time I laughed while I was inside a woman? Never. “Hi?” I ask in disbelief. “What kind of—”
“My kind,” she says, smiling. “If you’re getting up to throw out the condom, go and come back. I’m not letting a Master off with one orgasm.”
“I’m not letting a submissive—”
“But I’m not your submissive. Now go, before you get punished,” she teases.
I pull out of her, feeling the moment like a shock wave, and the way she bites her bottom lip tells me she’s feeling it, too. I am in so much trouble, yet I can’t seem to care. Tearing my gaze from hers, I walk into the bathroom and toss the condom in the toilet, intending to return to the bedroom. But when I turn, I see the tub
filled with bubbles and inhale the sweet scent of the flowers that’s always on Crystal’s skin.
My mind flashes with an image of Rebecca sitting on the edge of my bathtub back home in San Francisco, spreading her favorite rose-scented lotion on her body. No. It had been our bathtub. She’d lived with me, though I know she never really felt she belonged there. Everything had still been about the contract. The fact that it had an end date and that I’d insisted she keep her apartment was always there between us. I wanted to take care of her, and I wanted her in my life. What I hadn’t wanted was to fall in love, and so I didn’t.
I scrub a hand over the tension in the back of my neck. I was too shut off emotionally. I thought if I didn’t love her, neither of us could get hurt.
“Damn it,” I murmur, glancing up to find Crystal standing in the doorway, a deliciously naked distraction that I need right now.
“Either you have a vibrator in your pants, or your phone is on silent and ringing,” she announces. “If it’s a vibrator, I can do that myself.” She turns and leaves me with a view of the perfect backside that I’m definitely going to spank sooner rather than later.
“A vibrator or my phone,” I repeat, and I actually smile again.
Going into the empty bedroom, I catch a glimpse of her exiting into the living room area. I assume she’s going after her robe, which, considering I don’t have another condom, is probably a damn good idea. I grab my pants off the floor, dig out my phone, and find a text from Jacob. Headed to room for some shuteye. Kara Walker is on duty. 212-555-7789.
She must be Blake’s wife, hell-bent on stopping me from acting on my claim of vengeance. I clamp down on my anger. Though I can never right my past wrongs, I can do the right thing now. That means avenging Rebecca and making sure no one else gets hurt. As long as Ava is out there somewhere, I can’t be sure either of those two things will happen. And I won’t allow anyone to get in my way.
Ten
Mark . . .
Seeking out Crystal, I pass through her modern art deco–style living area, with white furniture and red and white abstract paintings by a famous artist whose work I’d never have on my walls. While brilliantly talented, he’s an absolute prick. Following the sound of music and singing, I head to an open archway. Stepping inside I find a compact, square kitchen of rich navy blues and grays. Behind the cooktop on one end of the stainless steel island is Crystal, wearing her pink silk robe as expected. She’s holding a spatula, completely focused on whatever’s in the skillet while singing “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC.
I lean on the door frame, entertained by the adorable expressions she’s making while absolutely rocking out. Seconds tick by and still she doesn’t look up. “You’re cooking at this hour?”
She jumps and looks at me, holding her fist to her chest for a moment. “You scared me.” She laughs, and the smile that follows is genuine and infectious, much like my mother’s. Picking up her phone, she punches a button to turn off the music. “I guess it was a little louder than I realized. I didn’t even hear you come in. And yes, I’m cooking. Apparently threats of spankings make me hungry.”
“Especially if you do it all night long,” I tease, mimicking the lyrics, intrigued by her willingness to be so direct about a topic that makes her uncomfortable.
Her cheeks flush a rosy color. “If the lyrics were ‘you took me in four minutes,’ I’d have been humming even if I was alone.”
“I think I should be the one to hum to that.” I walk to the seat across the counter from her and sit down. “Pancakes?”
“Really good pancakes with chocolate chips. You do like chocolate, right?”
“I do. Some might even say I have a sweet tooth.”
“I’m not asking what that means.”
“Really,” I say. “I have a sweet tooth. Candy, cake, you name it. I force myself to savor it only on the holidays.”
“I have one, too, but I’m not that controlled about it,” she says. “I treat myself once a week, and lately that’s been a box of my favorite cereal on Saturday night about midnight. I don’t have time to cook.”
“Because you’re obviously a workaholic,” I say, wondering if being adopted makes her feel she always has to prove her worth. I’m not adopted and I feel that pressure.
“But I always cook on the holidays for my family. It’s a tradition now. I grew up in a house full of men with busy schedules. If I didn’t cook, no one did, so everyone is used to me making certain things.”
“You were adopted into a family of all men?”
“That’s right.” She fills two plates with two pancakes each and sets one of them in front of me, one in front of the empty seat next to me. “Angela Smith was killed in a car accident the week before my adoption was final.” She turns to the fridge behind her.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“It seems impossible, doesn’t it?” She sets two cans of Diet Sprite on the counter. “Sorry, that’s all I have in the house. I haven’t been home much.”
“This is fine,” I say, popping the top and getting back on topic. “So Smith was grieving and in shock, and still went ahead with your adoption?”
She rounds the island and sits down next to me. “Yes. Looking back as an adult I know how amazing that is, but Angela had been a foster child like I was—only she was never adopted. They’d been poor when they had my brothers, and now wanted to help someone in need. And to them, that meant rescuing an older child who had limited chances to get adopted.” Her voice tightens. “I think . . . I think going ahead with the adoption was my father’s way of keeping Angela alive. I think he sees her in me.”
“Now I really want to meet your father.”
She smiles. “He’s a good man. An arrogant pain in the ass sometimes, who’s overprotective, but still a good man. I think you’d either get along very well with him, or the two of you would want to throttle each other.”
“I’m not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.”
“Simply stating the facts,” she says, handing me a bottle of syrup.
I set the syrup down. “How old were you when he adopted you?”
“I was fourteen. I’d been in foster homes for five years,” she responds, taking the liberty to pour the syrup for me, which for reasons I can’t explain makes me want to pull her close and rip the robe off her. I refrain only because I want to hear the rest of her story, and we have no condom.
“How did you end up in a foster home at nine?”
“My mother died, and my father wasn’t a fit parent,” she says quickly and without looking at me, attending to the syrup lid with a little too much focus. “But it ended well.” She glances up at me. “I was raised by a powerful, controlling father, who bred my older brothers into clones, who now worry about me as much as he does.”
“So your father never remarried?”
“He did, but not until we were all out of the house.” She motions to the pancakes. “Try them. It’s a recipe I love; they taste like chocolate chip cookies.”
I’m still focused on her. “How do you like your stepmother?”
“She’s very loving to my father, and good to all of us.”
“But?”
“There really isn’t a but. She’s a good person and passionate about charity work.”
“But you don’t see her as a mother,” I say, starting to see how she’s bonded with my mother, who always wanted a daughter but couldn’t have more kids.
She jabs a piece of pancake with her fork. “She and I are night and day.”
“Translate that to a real answer.”
“She’s very submissive to my father.”
One side of my mouth quirks up. “I’m suddenly seeing the irony of this conversation.”
“You started it, not me.”
“Yes. Maybe I should shut up and eat.” I take a bite of the pancake. “You’re right. Chocolate chip cookies, and good ones, at that. You can run a company and cook. What else is up your sl
eeve?”
“I can sing.”
“I’m not sure I’d agree with that one,” I tease.
She smirks. “I think you should shut up and eat again.” She pops the lid to her drink and turns somber. “Anything else happen with Dana after I left?”
I inhale at the memory of my mother’s withdrawal during our conversation, then let it out. “No. Like I said, she fell asleep. I went outside into the hallway and paced. My father found me and gave me a pep talk, then proceeded to ask if I was fucking you, and that was it.”
She sets her fork down and gapes. “Your father asked if we were—”
“Fucking. Yes. He’s worried you’ll break my heart.”
She shakes her head. “He did not say that.”
“No. I made that part up.”
“What did you tell him about us?”
“That, as of earlier tonight, I wouldn’t dare to stand close to sharp objects when you were around.”
She presses her hand to her forehead. “Oh God. What did he say?”
“He told me to apologize to you.”
“For what?”
“He didn’t care what I did. He just said to apologize. He claims that’s how he’s stayed married all these years. Then he went back inside the apartment.”
“Does your mother know?”
“No. But after I told her I own a BDSM club tonight, she’d probably say I’m not good enough for you.”
“That’s not true. She loves you, Mark. Her reaction to what you shared tonight was about how helpless she feels—not about you. She’s always better when you’re here.”
“Her reaction didn’t say ‘trust.’ ”
“She’s fighting cancer, and she just heard you own a BDSM club. It was overwhelming.”