by T. K. Leigh
Or maybe I do.
I check my watch as I hurry down the street, the address Lincoln…Professor Moore requested I meet him at coming into view. I thought I’d be practical and take a cab instead of the subway or bus. I was wrong. I’m convinced the cab driver intentionally took the route he knew would be most congested to pad his fare. The drive, which should have only taken twenty-five minutes, took close to forty.
Frantically pulling open the door to the boutique, Georgian-style hotel, I burst down the short flight of stairs to the lobby. I scan the area for any sign of Lincoln, then remember his instruction that I give my name at the front desk.
I run my hands over my dress to calm my frazzled appearance, my heels clicking on the tile as I continue toward the registration desk. If I weren’t in such a hurry, I’d take a minute to appreciate the beauty surrounding me. Brick walls. Wood accents throughout. Crown molding. Flecks of gold. All elements I never would have thought to marry together, but it works here. The charming, yet sophisticated space fits in with the style of Greenwich Village.
“How can I help you, miss?” a blonde with a congenial smile asks.
“My name is Chloe Davenport. I—”
“Yes, Miss Davenport.” She retrieves a keycard from the desk area and hands it to me. “Elevators are around the corner and to the left.” She gestures in the general vacinity. “Enjoy your stay.”
I offer her my thanks, then head in the direction she pointed, skirting past a family of tourists as they step off the elevator. I sneak on, glance at the room number, then hit the button for the sixteenth floor. Once the doors close and I’m alone, I rock on my heels, jittery, unsure what awaits me. But if the buildup is any indication, I have a feeling it will be better than any fantasy.
Once the elevator stops, I step off, padding down the short, quiet hallway to the correct room. I insert the key into the slot and turn the knob, stepping hesitantly onto the hardwood of the foyer, praying the woman at the front desk gave me the correct key and I’m not about to walk into some crazy swingers’ party.
But if there were a party going on, there wouldn’t be this striking silence, the only noise that of the air conditioning unit and the faint, ambient city sounds I barely notice now that I’ve lived in Manhattan this long.
I round the corner from the foyer and my feet meet plush carpet, the bedroom coming into view. I halt in my tracks at the sight of Lincoln sitting in a wingback chair, a view of Greenwich Village and beyond visible behind him. A leg rests on a thigh, today’s edition of the Times spread in front of him.
My heart skips a beat as my eyes feast on him. So casual. So smooth. So sophisticated. The way he looks in a crisp, three-piece suit, coupled with his dark-framed glasses and designer tie, has my libido going into overdrive. I’m pretty sure the ol’ girl is stretching in preparation for what she hopes to be a killer workout.
Finally, Lincoln’s eyes lift to mine. Slow. Deliberate. Calculated. The heat in his stare sends a delicious shiver through me, ending between my legs, my core clenching.
“Miss Davenport.” His voice is even, unaffected, as he folds the newspaper, placing it on the small table beside him.
“Professor Moore.”
He raises his arm, using a single finger to beckon me to him, the severe expression he wears not allowing any room for argument. My eyes remain locked on his, ash gray to vibrant green. The closer I get, the more I’m attuned to the raw masculinity and sexuality coming off him.
I stop when I’m mere inches away. Closer than would be considered socially acceptable, but still far enough away that I’m not right in front of him. Not yet anyway. He places both feet on the floor, resting a hand on either thigh, but makes no move to get up, a king holding court over his subject. And I am more than willing to be his subject.
“You’re late. You’re aware I have a very strict policy when it comes to tardiness.”
“My cab driver gave me a nice tour of Fifth Avenue, instead of taking a less congested route. Otherwise, I would have been on time.” My voice is little more than a squeak, a complete shift from my normally assured tone.
“You also know how I feel about excuses, do you not?” He glares at me through condescending eyes.
“I do.”
He grips my hips, yanking me between his legs in one swift move, his hands going to my ass, squeezing. I gasp, my pulse skyrocketing, as if this is new. I guess it is in a way.
Leaning toward me, his nose grazes against my waist before he dips lower, inhaling when he reaches the apex of my thighs. He squeezes tighter, a visible shiver rolling over him before he pulls away, his eyes on fire. It sears a hole straight through me. Or at least through my panties.
He releases his grasp on me, sliding a hand along my hipbone, my muscles clenching. I have to remind myself to breathe as his touch leisurely travels down my thigh, pushing back the slit of my skirt.
“Perhaps I should teach you a lesson so you won’t let it happen again.” He shifts his eyes to mine, his voice becoming gruff, unable to hide his own need for me. The heat of his finger looms torturously close to my center, but still too far. He may as well be in Jersey City. “Would you like that?”
“God, yes,” I exhale.
“I had a feeling you would.” Abruptly pulling away, he stands, his sudden shift forcing me to step back.
With purposeful strides, he moves past me, turning to face me once he reaches the bed. Eyes narrowed, he beckons me with that same finger. I could find a better use for that finger, but damn if this entire scenario doesn’t have me running hotter than any previous sexual encounter…including all the other times I’ve been with Lincoln.
I keep my expression even as I walk toward him, my chest rising and falling in a quicker rhythm. When I’m within reach, he spins me around, yanking my body hard and fast against his, my back to his front. He runs a desperate hand along my stomach, over my breasts, up to my mouth, never staying in one spot too long.
“Tell me, Miss Davenport. What do you think an appropriate punishment is for your tardiness?” He finds my nipple through the fabric of my dress. When he pinches, I moan, my body pulsing with need. My libido has checked the laces on her sneakers and is officially ready for that starting pistol. But I know Lincoln. He has no intention of firing it anytime soon. His self-control is excruciating.
“Whatever you think is best…” I swallow hard. “Sir.”
With a hungered growl, he grips my hair, forcing my head to the side, exposing my flesh for his pleasure. He clamps his teeth down on that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and my legs turn into jelly.
An arm wraps around my waist and tugs me even harder against him, supporting me. He knows how much his mouth on this spot drives me insane. And today is no different, but something about this game we’re playing has my body more alert, more needy, more desperate for him.
Too soon, he releases his hold on me, forcing me around to face him. “Strip,” he orders.
I feign shock and a hint of innocence. “But, Professor Moore, I—”
“Don’t play the virtuous card with me. You’ve been fantasizing about this as much as I have.” He curves toward me, his delicious scent consuming me. “You can’t stand here and tell me you haven’t. I know the truth.”
His hand goes to my chin, tilting my head up, his mouth a whisper from mine. All it would take is the slightest movement and I’d taste his lips. And I want to. God, I want to. But just like the night we first connected, I want this even more. The chase. The hunt. Then the kill.
“And what’s that?”
His finger draws a line down my throat, through the valley of my breasts, then circles my belly button before disappearing into the slit of my skirt. “That you can’t stop thinking about me every time you touch this delicious pussy of yours.” His thumb brushes against me, teasing.
“You are so wet for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes…,” I pant, my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
“Yes what?”<
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I swallow hard, licking my lips, my chest heaving. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
He removes his hand from me, and I snap my eyes open, watching as he steps back. His demeanor is nothing short of collected and assured, as always. This is simply a game, an opportunity to pretend to be two different people for a minute, but I doubt I could remain as composed as he. I’m already on the verge of losing what little control I have left.
“Strip.”
“Yes, sir.” I reach behind myself and lower the zipper of my navy blue sheath dress, the sleeves off the shoulders. I take my time as I shrug it off, addicted to the heat building in Lincoln’s eyes as he watches my every move.
“No bra?”
“Benefit of having nearly non-existent boobs,” I answer shyly. “You can get away without a bra instead of having to wear a strapless that digs into your skin.”
Lincoln’s demeanor changes as he closes the distance between us, pressing my body to his. His mouth finds mine and I sigh into his tender kiss, a break in character. He cups my breast, his touch reverent, yet still filled with so much passion.
“You’re perfect, Chloe,” he whispers against my mouth. “Everything about you is perfect. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”
Before I have a chance to respond, he steps back. With the flip of an internal switch, he turns into Professor Moore, stance wide, expression severe. He nods slightly, and I continue pushing my dress down my body, over my hips, allowing it to pool at my feet. I step out of it, about to kick off my heels when his voice rings out.
“No. The shoes stay on.”
My libido gives me a high five. Apparently, she was hoping he’d say that. So was I.
“Yes, sir.”
“But your panties do not.”
“Yes, sir.” Smirking, I hook my fingers in the waist of my panties, ridding myself of my last article of clothing while Lincoln remains fully dressed. I’m about to toss them on top of my discarded dress when he extends his hand toward me.
“I’ll take those.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I murmur in a sly voice, placing them into his palm.
He clutches my bicep, spinning me around, binding my body against his. “You’re already in trouble, Miss Davenport. Shall I increase your penalty?” He slides a leisurely hand down my stomach, which only serves to heighten the pressure building inside me, growing more excruciating with the passing of each second.
When his finger slides beyond my hipbone, I discreetly part my legs. “And what penalty is that?”
“Maybe I won’t let you come,” he warns, his teeth skimming against my neck, a dull ache from where he’d marked me. “That should serve as sufficient motivation to follow my rules.”
“No,” I beg, desperate. “Not that. Anything but that.”
“Anything?” he repeats, amused.
“Anything.” The idea of being left in this state for the next several hours is enough to drive me mad. I need to get off. And soon.
He turns me around, his grin mischievous. “I do have something else in mind. Something I’ve been thinking about for quite some time now.”
“And what’s that?”
“You’ll see.” He brings my panties up to his nose and makes a show of inhaling, shivering dramatically before shoving them into the pocket of his pants. “Have you ever used a safe word?”
“I have.”
“And have you ever been spanked?”
“I have.”
He nods, seemingly unaffected by my response, as if I’d just told him I’ve been to Florida, not that I’ve been tied up, spanked, or blindfolded.
“I won’t be too harsh. Not today anyway. We’ll start slow, since we’ve never really explored much of this together. If you’re not ready, that’s okay, too,” he adds quickly, cupping my face, my sweet, compassionate Lincoln returning. “I would never force you into doing something you’re not ready for. It won’t make me want to be with you any less. Okay?”
I simply stare at him, my expression even, not giving anything away. Then I rid myself of his hold, stepping past him.
“Chloe, I—”
When I glance over my shoulder with a sly smile and wink, he snaps his mouth shut, his eyes filling with wanton lust as he watches me crawl onto the mattress, my ass exposed to him.
As I wait in anticipation, the room becomes eerily silent, apart from my labored breathing, and I stare at the black-and-white print of the Brooklyn Bridge hanging over the headboard.
When I feel Lincoln’s finger draw a line down my spine, I peek back at him standing to the side of the bed, his jacket and vest discarded.
“You’re sure?”
I nod subtly.
“I need you to say it, Chloe. I need more than a nod.”
“I’m sure. I want this.”
His mouth quirks into a smile as he pulls away, loosening his tie. But just as soon as it appeared, the light expression vanishes.
“Face forward.”
Like a trained pet, I oblige, jerking my eyes forward, the snap of his tie ripping from his neck as formidable as the crack of leather against skin. He brings the silk-like material up to me, using it to shroud my world in darkness. Without the sense of sight, everything else is heightened. Smell. Sound. Touch. Feel.
The shiver from his finger tracing a line from my nape down my spine nearly unhinges me. Such an innocent touch, barely there. But the depth of it hits places on my body I never knew existed.
The bed dips and my breathing increases, my heavy pants echoing in my ears. The heat of him prickles my skin as he leans over me, his teeth lightly pulling on my earlobe.
“If it’s too much, say…panties.”
“Panties?”
“Fitting, don’t you think?”
I smile, a break in the charged atmosphere. “I couldn’t think of a more appropriate word.”
He turns my head toward his, covering my mouth, treating me to a taste of him, before he pulls away, resuming the role he’s here to play.
The sound of a belt buckle loosening finds its way to my ears, followed by his zipper. I hold my breath, bracing myself for whatever’s to come. But nothing does, the room still.
One second. Then another. And another. When I’m about to remove the blindfold, a hard slap lands across my ass, the shock of it causing me to scream and bury my head in the pillow. Not out of pain, but in unbridled ecstasy, my body craving more of his brutal touch, his stinging hand, his punishing caress.
I don’t even notice how much I’m shaking until Lincoln grips my hips, steadying me. He covers my frame with his, his hands gliding down my arms, his fingers linking with mine.
“Are you okay?” His breathing is hard, labored.
“Yes.”
“Good girl.” He leaves a jarring kiss on my neck before pushing himself up, his touch gone.
I take several deep breaths, moaning when he lands another blow to my other cheek, harder this time. But it makes me burn for him even more. He brings his hand back to me, massaging my ass, then sliding a few fingers between my legs, pushing inside, stretching and massaging.
“Does spanking turn you on?”
“Yes.” I move against his fingers, on the brink of shattering. I’m unprepared for him to withdraw and slap my ass once more.
“Yes what?” he growls.
“Yes, sir,” I yell, gripping the sheets, my muscles tight.
“Better.” He slides a finger back inside me and I move against him, my mind a haze.
“Don’t come,” he whispers in a gruff voice. “Not yet. I want to feel your pussy clench around my cock, not my hand.”
“Then you’d better hurry because I’m ready to fall apart.”
His chest hair tickles my back, his breath hot against my flesh. “Condom or no condom?”
“No condom.”
“Good girl,” he says again, removing his fingers.
He lifts his arousal up to me and runs his tip around my slickness,
but doesn’t slide inside, torturing me even more.
“Lincoln…,” I moan.
He fists my hair, yanking my head back. “What did you call me?”
“I mean… Professor Moore,” I stammer.
“Better. I shouldn’t let you come from that little slip-up,” he muses, pulling his erection away.
“No!”
He bites my neck. “Then beg for me,” he orders, his mouth never leaving my skin, jarring and bruising.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my entire body stiffening as I breathe through the ache. “Please, Li… Professor Moore.”
“Please what?” His bite becomes even more harsh, but still makes me hunger for him. I fear the second he pushes into me, I’ll implode into a thousand tiny pieces. “Tell me what you want.”
“Please fuck me.” My voice is even, but still laced with desperation.
“Good girl.” He loosens his grip, his tongue tracing gentle circles where his teeth just dug into my skin. “Or perhaps I should say bad girl.”
“You know what they say, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” he asks, amused.
“Good girls go to heaven. But bad girls—”
“Bad girls make you feel like you’re in heaven,” he finishes as he thrusts into me. “And this is most certainly heaven.” He kisses my shoulder blade, not moving as he fills me to the hilt. “You are my heaven.”
He slowly retreats before pushing back into me, going even deeper. This torturous rhythm continues as he plunges into me in a punishing drive, stills for several agonizing moments before withdrawing, almost like he knows I’m close to losing my mind and is prolonging my pleasure.
His hand massages my ass, making me moan. Then he lands a hard blow at the same time as he pushes into me. The combination of the agony and ecstasy has my heart racing. If there weren’t a blindfold obscuring my vision, I’d be blind from sensation.
The pattern continues, bringing me to the edge, only to slow down, waiting until I’ve recovered before thrusting and slapping again. Each thrust, each slap is more punishing, more enthralling, more addicting, making me cry out louder, my legs to shake more violently.
“Harder,” I beg, so close to unraveling.
