Her orgasm was like a flood of heat and need, her hips jerking. She cried out against his hand, her throat going raw as her cries turned into a scream. And still he thrust into her, his fingers milking her for every last drop of pleasure.
She was soaking wet, gasping for air, shivering all over. And she was lost in the intensity on his face, the way he looked at her, at the pleasure she saw there.
For you, Mick . . . always for you.
His hand slid away from her mouth, and she drew in a deep breath. His fingers still moved inside her in a slow, circular motion, and pleasure built once more, hot and unbelievably fast, yet they moved so slowly it kept her suspended again, moment by moment, hanging on the edge.
“Do you need to come again? You can answer me.”
“Yes. Please, yes.”
A smile crooked one corner of his lush mouth as he pulled his fingers from her pussy and dragged them up over her belly, leaving a trail of her own juices. “I know you do, baby. But we’ll save that one for later.”
She almost cried out in frustration, but she bit it back just in time.
For him.
Her body was buzzing, a mind-blowing combination of pleasure spent, need unmet, and that sense of being taken over completely. She watched as he turned his back to her, one hand on her stomach so that he never lost contact with her as he picked something up from a chair he’d pulled close to the hanging bed. When he turned back, she saw he held a small, wiry canelike instrument in his hand.
“Have you seen one of these before, Allie? You can answer by nodding if you have.”
She shook her head.
“Good girl. This is called an evil stick, or misery stick. I’ll leave you to guess why. It’s made from a very narrow rod of carbon fiber, making it strong and flexible. The handle is woven leather, just to make it easy for me to hang on to. This one is only about six inches long, but it can cause some sensation, I promise you that. It stings like hell, and it’ll mark you faster than almost anything. But then, I’m guessing you’re a girl who loves her marks, am I right?”
She nodded, trying to keep her gaze on his and not on what she was sure would be a wicked little toy. One she couldn’t wait to feel the bite of.
“Then let’s give you a taste, baby girl.”
Baby girl.
Oh, she loved those southern endearments, had missed it so much. No man she’d ever been with could make her melt with a few words the way Mick could.
He stood over her, held the tiny rod by the handle over her stomach, used his other hand to bend the tip up—then let it go. It slapped down onto her skin, the sudden, sharp pain making her yelp.
Mick laughed. “I told you it was evil, baby.”
He did it again, and again and again in such rapid succession she didn’t have a chance to catch her breath. But she loved the overload as pain spread through her body, from the skin on her stomach to her limbs, leaving a wake of pleasure behind. Endorphins, those lovely natural opiates the brain produced in response to pain, built just as quickly as his merciless onslaught of sensation, until it all became a blur. Pain and pleasure as she struggled against her bonds, not really wanting to escape, but simply unable to hold still.
Her throat was tight and growing sore from holding back the yell that needed to escape. Her breath was a sharp pant, like fire in her lungs. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more without screaming, he stopped and smoothed his palm over the hurting welts on her stomach. She almost purred, it felt so good. Felt proud that she managed to hold it back, that she’d managed the pain without screaming.
“You mark beautifully,” he said, studying her stomach, his gaze focused, his brows drawn. “Lovely little welts on your skin. They almost look like scratches.” He scraped his nails over her flesh, and she gasped. He went back to caressing her, murmuring, “Skin like a baby. Just as soft as ever. I always did love the feel of your skin.”
He went quiet for several long moments and she lay still, enjoying his lingering touch, the power of his attention being so acutely focused on her.
He was more present than any man she’d ever met, any Dom she’d ever played with. She didn’t know if it was their dynamic or if that was simply him. But she understood how powerful an aphrodisiac it was for her. She was wet and ready for more already. Still.
Always.
He bent over her until his cheek was right next to hers and whispered, “Time for some more rope, baby girl,” and kissed her cheek softly.
She turned her face, wanting him to kiss her, needing him to, but he straightened up and began to untie her ankles. She almost wanted to cry. She bit her lip instead, holding the emotion back.
Just be in the moment.
She waited while he got more rope, taking a few cleansing breaths, trying to calm herself.
He pulled her red silk panties down, slipping them off, then took her right leg and bent it at the knee, brought it up to her chest.
“Hold it right here,” he instructed.
She did, and he began to wrap the rope around her bent leg, binding her calf to her thigh. He looped the rope around and around, and she concentrated on the lovely slip and slide of the rope, on the way he used his hands, touching her now and then as he tested the tightness of the ropes, as he smoothed them against her skin. He tied his knots, then moved to the other side of the table and did the same thing, then slid his hand under her to pull a new length of rope under her body, over her stomach, then again, and again before he knotted it. He used one more piece of rope to anchor her leg ties to the rope around her waist, holding her legs in place. And as he worked she felt a sense of utterly vulnerable openness in this position, with her knees pulled up high, exposing her. Yet at the same time she felt safe in the ropes, in his ropes. Cradled. Cared for.
* * *
MICK TOOK A moment to step back and simply look at her. She was pure sex to him. She always had been, but right now, bound in his ropes, with her sleek little pussy peeking out from between her thighs . . . hell, if he’d had any less self-control he’d be coming in his jeans right now.
He ground his jaw tight.
Keep it together.
He could do it. He always had.
Except for that night all those years ago when he’d taken her. When he’d done things to her that should only ever be done after negotiations. But he hadn’t known about all that back then—the kink community. The rules that kept everyone safe.
Stop kicking yourself.
And she was waiting for him. And Lord knew he couldn’t stand to wait one more second for her.
He pressed against his raging hard-on and cleared his throat. His own needs would have to wait. It was his responsibility to do what she needed, damn it.
He smoothed a hand over her calf, stroking slowly over the ropes all the way down to her painted toes, enjoying the length of her gorgeous leg, the graceful arch of her foot, the beauty of her bound like this. He stroked up, swept his hand down to her inner thigh, felt the muscle there clench. His groin tightened in answer.
Better to use the toys. Keep a little distance without losing the necessary connection in rope play.
He drew the evil stick from his pocket and flicked it against the back of one thigh, smiling when she moaned. He did it again, harder this time, watched the pink welt come up on her skin.
“Hurts more in some places than others, doesn’t it? Marks more easily, too. But I love that as much as you do. I love to see the pink come up on your skin, to feel the rise of the welts. They’ll last a week if I do it hard enough. Like this.”
He snapped the evil stick hard against the outside of her thigh, and she pulled in a gasping breath. She could take a lot without yelling, screaming, crying out. He admired that about her. But he couldn’t help but take it as a personal challenge, too.