Break So Soft (Break So Soft Duet Book 2)

by Stasia Black

  He leads me to a dining room full of windows and a skylight so that the room is doused with natural light. One window boasts a view of a tree-lined lot and the other, an inner garden courtyard. An antique mahogany table and otherwise simple furnishings make the room elegant without being ostentatious.

  Jackson surrounds himself with beauty. I don’t know why the realization startles me. I’ve known since I first met him that he has an appreciation for the finer things. But watching him move around in his home reveals a new layer to him.

  Oh yes, I’m going to bring this man to his knees all right. And I’m going to start by doing so literally. He moves to take a seat beside the head of the table, where he gestures for me to sit.

  But I shake my head at him. I snap my fingers loudly and point at the floor by my feet. I stare him down and continue pointing at my feet. The message couldn’t be more clear. There’s a spark of rebellion in his eyes. It’s as if I can hear his thoughts: This is my house. I’m not going to be reduced to sitting on the floor like a lapdog in my own house.

  But he doesn’t voice any of that out loud. Other than a tick in his jaw, he gives nothing else away. Instead, he comes over to stand by my chair and bows his head. Then he gracefully drops to his knees before settling back on his haunches, head still bowed.

  The thrill I felt earlier races even more forcefully up and down my spine. Oh God, I knew this would be a rush, but I didn’t anticipate feeling this much. And so quickly. We’ve barely started. All he’s done is sit at my feet and God… I shift in my seat and feel the beginning signs of moisture between my legs.

  I can’t help from reaching out a hand and stroking it through his hair. It’s soft and springy to the touch. There is no gunk or product in it. Like everything else about him today, it’s all natural.

  Jackson’s stripped himself down. For me. All for me. He leans into my touch, going so far as to lay his cheek on my knee. My heart rate speeds up again as I continue running my hands through his hair, caressing down to massage his scalp. I don’t stop even when a low groan comes from his throat.

  I’m only jerked away from our intense little revelry when I hear a polite cough and then look up to see that a middle-aged woman with a tray of two steaming bowls of soup has entered the room. She’s petite with mostly gray hair even though she doesn’t seem to be older than her late forties.

  “Excuse me.” She hurries into the room, puts the tray on the table, and then arranges the soup on the table where two places have been set. Like the chauffeur, she doesn’t look directly at us. I feel a little Downton Abbey with them serving us like this but at the same time, in this moment it’s not like I want a lot of attention from outsiders.

  Jackson doesn’t seem fazed by her even though he’s on his knees at my feet, so I decide not to be either. I can make friends at a more appropriate time. You know, when I’m not wearing a barely-there corset dress with my lover on the floor like an animal begging for scraps.

  The thought makes me want to laugh but I only permit myself a smile. Jackson’s doing very good and keeping his eyes to the floor, so he doesn’t see. I lean over and place a kiss on the top of his head. “Go get your soup and bring it here.”

  He moves swiftly to do as I ask.

  He sets his bowl beside mine and I see his eyes dart toward his chair. Like he wonders if he should bring it as well. I snap and point to the floor at my feet again. I’ll make this very clear for him. His shoulders tense briefly like he wants to argue but he masters himself just in time and sinks back to his knees.

  “Do you have something to say about this arrangement, slave?”

  The tense of muscles at the back of his neck is the only response for a long moment. “No, Mistress,” comes his eventual response.

  I stare down at the top of his head, a ridiculous smile of gratification taking over my face. Every moment of this is going to be a fight against his natural inclination. Why does that fact exhilarate me? I don’t know but I’m too into the moment to think about it right now.

  I dip the large, round soup spoon into the thick potato soup and then lift it to his lips.

  “Sip,” I order, my other hand going underneath his chin in case any spills. He immediately obeys, his wide mouth opening and taking in the entire spoonful. His gaze meets mine as he slowly releases the clean spoon with a sensuous pop.

  I can’t help staring at his lips, the way his top one is ever so slightly fuller than the bottom. He smirks after a second and my brows narrow. Oh, the big bastard thinks he can gain even the slightest bit of power back over me? I’ve learned my lesson about being topped from the bottom.

  With the same spoon I used to feed him, I get another spoonful of soup and feed it to myself. I close my eyes and moan in enjoyment at the smooth buttery flavor of the soup as it slides down my throat. I turn the spoon over and lick it clean, opening my eyes so I’m watching Jackson all the while my tongue plays suggestively over the metal implement.

  His pupils dilate and he shifts on his knees like he’s trying to adjust himself. Well now. That’s better. I’m the only one with power here. I give the spoon one last lick and then give him another spoonful. He takes his time doing his own tongue acrobatics with the spoon, his eyes continuing to smolder. Holy shit, who knew that some soup and a fucking spoon could be such hot foreplay?

  I’m not even sure who’s winning the battle for dominance at this point. All I know is that I’m turned on as fuck and I don’t want it to end. We continue back and forth, me feeding him a spoonful and then myself until his bowl is finished and we’re halfway through mine. Then the cook/serving woman comes in with the entrée.

  Again I see Jackson shift uncomfortably on his knees. The woman doesn’t look overtly in our direction but I don’t miss the way her eyebrows go up before she schools her expression when she notices where Jackson is still seated. She obviously sees us out of her periphery. The idea only makes me smile wider and I make sure to feed Jackson another spoonful before she leaves the room. Jackson takes it but scowls at me. I smile beatifically back.

  “Something to say?” I arch an eyebrow at him.

  He averts his eyes back to the floor and shakes his head. I look over the main course. Shrimp pasta with a light cream sauce. Yummy. When I reach over the table to Jackson’s setting, my breasts all but smother Jackson’s face. He inhales sharply but doesn’t say anything. My panties moisten even more at his obvious reaction to me.

  Still, as much as I want to push everything off the table and order him to lay down so I can mount him, I know I have to exhibit the discipline that I want from him. I can’t just play at being a Domme. If I’m doing this, I’m fully committing.

  I withdraw as I lift his plate and bring it over close to my own. Jackson lets out an involuntary little-frustrated groan when I do.

  Excellent, I smile to myself. Right on track. I pick up my fork and use the wide soup spoon to start rolling the pasta. I stab a piece of shrimp on the end for good measure and then put it up to Jackson’s mouth. “Open,” I say cheerfully.

  He does as I ask but again, it’s as if I can see the wheels turning in his brain. How much longer of this? How much more will I subject him to? I roll another bite, this time for myself and let out a little moan of my own. It really tastes fantastic. Better than anything I have had at a restaurant in a long time. Granted, I haven’t been to very many fancy restaurants in my life. Nor can I imagine the kind of lifestyle where you have a cook who comes to your house.

  I feed Jackson another bite and some of the pasta falls out of his mouth. His eyes widen in embarrassment and he tries to turn away, lifting a hand to no doubt pushed the rest of the pasta in. I slap his hand out of the way right before he reaches his mouth. He tries to slurp the rest of the fettuccini using just his mouth and I pinch him on his nipple.

  He winces right as I swoop down, kissing him and eating the extra pasta off his lip. I nip his bottom lip with my teeth for extra measure. His eyes are so wide when I pull back that I feel anothe
r pulse of slickness coating my underwear.

  Enough. After the soup, even a few bites of the plate of the pasta was filling. Even if it wasn’t, I’m too turned on to bother anymore with it. I grab my ice water and drink half of it, then lift the rest to Jackson’s lips. He drinks eagerly, but his eyes stay clasped on mine the entire time.

  I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he chugs the water. God, why is that part of a man so sexy? Then again, I tend to think that about every inch of Jackson. It just depends on what feature I happen to be zeroing in on at the moment. My eyes slide languidly down his chest to his wine-colored nipples in the light tuft of dark hair that circles each one. His muscular biceps. The vein that traces down his forearm and over the top of his hand. Those strong, blunt fingers.

  “Mistress?” There’s a growl in his low voice. “How may I serve you?”

  My cheeks flush. It’s probably not very Mistress-ly of me but I can’t help it. I’m too fucking excited about what comes next. “We haven’t discussed your hard and soft limits.” See, told you I did my research. “Tell me now what you are and aren’t comfortable with.”

  “I’m open to almost everything.” Jackson’s voice is calm and sure. “Obviously no play with implements you haven’t been trained on yet. Though I guess I do have a couple hard limits beyond that. No knife play or,” he swallows and looks down, “fisting.” He says it so quietly that at first I’m not sure I heard him. Then I replay it in my head. Fisting. No fisting. Holy shit. The thought never entered my mind, but now that I think about the implications, my thoughts go there. While fisting is out of the picture, the door is still open for all kinds of other naughty activities. I bite my lip and a rush of adrenaline floods my chest.

  “Got it. What’s your safe word?”

  He meets my eyes. “Red… or stiletto.”

  Oh, wicked boy. “Anything else I need to know before we begin?”

  “I’m all yours.”

  My heartbeat pounds so hard I can hear the blood racing in my ears. “Good. Do you have a room to play or just your bedroom?”

  “I have a room.”

  The woman who’s been serving us all evening comes in with dessert cups full of some kind of chocolate mousse.

  “She’s done for the evening,” I keep my voice low so that only Jackson can hear. “Send her on her way. I don’t want anyone in the house except you and me.”

  “Thank you, Marie. The dinner was delicious,” Jackson’s eyes stay on me the whole time he’s talking to her. “You can leave for the night.”

  Marie looks over, startled. “But I need to clean up and—”

  “You can do it tomorrow. Thank you again.”

  Marie looks like she wants to argue, but then seems to realize the awkwardness of the situation and maybe to pick up on why he might be asking her to leave without cleaning up. Redness rises to her cheeks and she averts her eyes. “Of course, Mr. Vale. Thank you.” She turns and ducks out of the room.

  A smile blooms on my lips and I drape my arms around Jackson’s neck. “I don’t think we’re being very subtle.”

  “It’s my house. Fuck subtle.” He leans forward to try to capture my lips in a kiss and I’m this close to giving in. Jackson so rarely curses and it means one of two things when he does: either he’s pissed or turned the fuck on. So goddammed hot.

  Still, I pull back and wave my finger in front of his face just before his lips make contact.

  “Ah ah ah, just because you’re the boss at work, don’t forget who’s running the show here.” I withdraw my arms from his neck and stand. “Now show me to this playroom, slave.” I smirk with emphasis on the last word and see his back straighten. Which makes me laugh out loud. Oh dear, tonight is going to be fun, isn’t it? That’s only what, the twentieth time I’ve thought that?

  I grab the two cups of chocolate mousse and follow him out of the dining room and through his labyrinthine house. Without him guiding the way, I think I’d get lost in here. I prefer more open-space concept houses than this older style involving a network of rooms, but I can’t deny the luxury.

  There’s still lot of light throughout and I realize that the rooms on the ground floor basically create a circle around the inner courtyard. We head up a flight of stairs and down the hallway. Jackson pauses at the second door on the right and pulls a key out of his pocket.

  When he pushes the door open, I smile, realizing I chose my outfit exactly right. It’s like stepping back into the nineteenth century. If, you know, parlors in the nineteenth century had floggers, paddles, and nipple clamps hanging on the walls. The floor is covered with an ornate, Victorian-era styled rug.

  A huge, antique wooden four-postered bed with an intricate lace and organza canopy dominates the room. All the other furniture looks antique as well, though some of it must be contemporary and just fashioned to look antique. The leather spanking bench, for example. Or hell, maybe the Victorians were into kink, but I doubt it would’ve survived in such gleaming condition. I walk over to it and run my fingers over the soft leather and down to the ankle restraints. Also leather.

  I look up to Jackson. “Fancy.”

  He inclines his head. His posture is slightly stiffer than normal and I wonder if he’s nervous. He’s probably used all of this equipment with other people, but he’s always been on the giving end. Never receiving.

  For a moment, I frown. I don’t like the idea of Jackson here with women before me. How many? Was he serious about them? When was his last relationship? Why did it end?

  Then I give my head a rough shake. The fuck? I don’t care about any of that. That’s not what this is anyway. Besides, no matter who’s been here before me, this is the first time he’s ever let someone else take the reins. The first time he’s ever submitted. The thought fills me with intense satisfaction and I feel at least a foot or two taller when I turn to examine the rest of the room. I walk over to a leather-padded table that’s about seven feet long and as wide as a twin bed. Ankle and wrist restraints hang on their respective corners.

  A smile curls my lips. Oh yes. This will do nicely.

  “Slave,” I say sharply. “Clothes off. Then up on this table.” I snap and point at the table in front of me. “Cock up.”

  I see just a second’s hesitation but then he’s doing as I ask. He drops his jeans and I see that he’s going commando. A small gasp escapes when I notice that he’s also already sporting a semi.

  Under my perusal, he hardens more even as he walks toward me. Straight toward me, like he’s going to try to brush up against me before getting on the table.

  I shoot him a warning glare and move to the other side of the table. “Don’t get yourself in trouble. Slaves who don’t obey the rules get punished.”

  His eyes narrow on me. I see the challenge even if he doesn’t verbalize it. He’s wondering exactly how I think I can punish him.

  I lift an eyebrow. “Oh darling,” I sneer. “Please. Just try me.” I might not have been studying up on this Domme business for very long, but everything I read pointed to one basic truth: men are guided by their dicks. Get control of that and control of the man will soon follow.

  Granted, Jackson Vale is certainly one of the most intimidating men I’ve ever met in my life but that makes mastering him even more of a triumph. He’s not some wimpy boy who will bow at my beck and call to lick my boots. No. He’s head-to-toe alpha. Can I tame the lion?

  Tonight will tell.

  He pauses, his hot stare on me with the table between us. I flick my eyes down to the leather surface in silent command. We continue standing for another five seconds. He’s told me that he’ll submit, but inside, everything in him rebels against it—it’s obvious in each inch of his body. I stand taller and make my voice like ice. “On the table, slave.” I make sure to over-articulate every word.

  His nostrils flare but he finally does as ordered. He turns, hefts himself up, and lays flat on the table. His cock points almost straight up, an arrow to the ceiling.

 
I smile down at him. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Then I glance again at his cock. “On the other hand…” I give him one quick stroke up and down. His dick is hot and hard, and his whole body jolts with the touch, torso lurching up off the table. Another one of those thrills zings through me, but I immediately let go of him.

  “We can’t have that, now can we?” I quickly move to the head of the table and draw his left arm up over his head. I feel the flex of his muscle as I set his wrist into the padded leather cuff. I smile as I slide the wide buckle into place and secure it. He’s not getting out of these babies. There’s even more tension in his other arm as I fasten it in place.

  As soon as his arms are secured, I grin so wide I’m afraid my face is going to split. Oh my God. Yes, his legs are free, but already, Jackson Vale is so much at my mercy. Helpless before me.

  I stroke my hands down his body, starting at his inner forearms, down his arms to his chest, then his stomach. I continue to his hips and skim down to his thighs, completely bypassing his cock.

  He lets out a stunted groan of frustration and my smile grows impossibly wider. When I come to his ankle, I grasp it firmly and secure the buckle. Then, before he can pause or overthink it too much, I move to the other side and lock his last limb in.

  I look down at my work and the flare of heat that surges in my core is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. This isn’t just any man laid out before me, handcuffed to a table, naked and at my mercy. This is Jackson Vale. Holy fuck. Never in my wildest dreams… I mean, I didn’t even know to dream for this.

  I move up his body, slowly trailing my fingers along his shins, then to his inner thighs. He sucks in a breath as I tease, moving closer and closer up to where I know he longs for me to grasp him.

  But I don’t. He hisses out his disappointment when instead I start to massage his inner thigh, right below his balls.

  I’m fascinated as his cock grows and grows, surging up toward his stomach. The rush of power I feel is insane. I continue massaging, working my way down to his kneecaps and then back up. I can see on his face what he’s hoping for every time I inch close to the prize. After all, I gave him a tug once. When am I going to do it again?