by Brandi Evans
What’s Inside
After giving me another kiss, Max pushed to his full height and cradled my head between his hands. He pressed his rapidly hardening cock against my cheek, sending shivers dancing along my spine. As if my body had developed a mind of its own, I opened my mouth and nipped at his rigid length, already desperate for more of him, for the feel of him against my tongue.
"Let me suck you," I breathed.
Max demanded pleasure from me as freely and as wholly as he gave it; he made me eager to satisfy him because I knew he'd return the favor one hundred-fold.
"Not so fast, little sub. I have a game for us to play first. Close your eyes."
I complied, and he rewarded my submission by rocking his hips and stroking his erection along my lower lip.
My lips parted, and I waited.
"Imagine we're not alone. The club's packed. Several Doms take notice of you, all tied open and gorgeous in the middle of everything, naked, save for the cuffs around your wrists. The ones I gave you."
Another shiver played over me, and my breathing turned raspy. This wasn't the type of game I'd suspected—less physical but a complete mind fuck.
"Another Dom touches your cheek and tells you to open your mouth wide, and you obey him without hesitation. Meanwhile, I'm sitting nearby. Watching. Waiting. Wanting."
I swallowed.
Max unzipped his slacks and tugged his erection free. He fisted his cock in his hand and stroked until he drew an iridescent drop of precum to his tip. Instinctually, I licked my lips, ready to take him as deeply as I could physically manage.
"He tells you to be completely still, and as you obey, he paints your bottom lip with his precum." He continued, acting out every word as he spoke them aloud. "He teases you, never fully giving you his cock. He lets you lick his tip—only his tip—until you're squirming."
I was squirming, only I hadn't realized it until he'd said the words.
I dug in with my toes and pushed forward as much as my shoes and position allowed. Without words, I begged for his cock. I wanted the heady feel, the taste of him on my tongue, but he stepped to my side, taking his glorious cock with him.
A frustrated sigh escaped my lips—lips still wet with his precum.
"While the Dom continues to tease you with his cock, another Dom palms your breast while another slaps you hard on the ass."
With his left hand, he squeezed one of my breasts until it teetered on the edge of pain, and then, he slapped my ass, once, twice, three times.
"Sir!" The word sprang from my mouth, breathy and drenched in need.
He slapped my ass yet again, harder than before, and I gasped. Pain and pleasure mingled, and I couldn't keep my legs still. They pumped and flexed as I squirmed on the sawhorse, but when Max began inching my skirt up and over the area he'd just struck, I feared I might go mad.
"Sir," I whimpered.
He yanked my underwear down and spanked me again, this time flesh to flesh.
"Sir. Sir!"
A Hot Mess
Red Light Fantasies, Book Two
Brandi Evans
Published by Blushing Books
An Imprint of
ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.
A Virginia Corporation
977 Seminole Trail #233
Charlottesville, VA 22901
©2019
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Brandi Evans
A Hot Mess
EBook ISBN: 978-1-64563-100-2
v1
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Brandi Evans
Blushing Books
Blushing Books Newsletter
Chapter 1
The Trinity River to my left, the downtown Dallas skyline to my right, both quintessential landmarks of the city I called home, but neither held my attention. Nothing could when he was around.
Fighting the urge to sigh like a lovesick puppy, I forced myself to look away from Max before I threw myself at him. If I looked directly at my lover too long, crazy things always happened to my sanity.
Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and topping six-feet tall, Maxwell Penn had shared my bed for nearly four months. Being with him was like riding a sunbeam—ethereal, spellbinding, a dream I never wanted to wake from—and yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew our relationship couldn't possibly last. If I kept flying this close to the sun, I would get burned. Max and I didn't live in the same worlds. He was platinum, and I was, at best, silver-plated. I wasn't being self-deprecating, simply painfully realistic.
I, Breanne Jennings, was head-over-heels in love with a man who had the power to break my heart in ways that scared me, but for the time being, I was okay with that.
We slowed as we neared Whitecliff Park, Max's downtown Dallas hotel and site of this year's Boudoir Fashion Week—an exclusive event showcasing the most daring and innovative intimate fashions. The six-day happening usually took place in New York, but thanks to Max's pull, he'd helped relocate it here, and I was thrilled. I'd never attended the event before, but I was having a blast. Purchasing new lingerie lines for Red Light Lingerie, Max's sexy downtown boutique, was his job; I just ran the store, managed inventory, took care of payroll—pretty much every-fucking-thing else. When our relationship had shifted from professional to fucking-like-bunnies, however, I'd assumed a more liberal role in the store's management, not that I was complaining. Not in the slightest. I'd enjoyed managing Red Light long before Max and I had become an item, but now, I freaking loved it.
"Ms. Jennings?" Max's words harbored a smidgen of irritation, but I doubted anyone else noticed. I, on the other hand, was fluent in Max-ese. When what I'd affectionately coined his "Americanized" British accent tightened, it was a warning sign.
Time to pay attention.
I turned to Max; he was staring at me and waiting for me to answer some question I'd obviously missed. He wasn't the only one watching me, either; the seven-person group, five men and two women, who'd accompanied us from the restaurant, were also looking at me.
I sent a silent plea to Max. What'd I miss?
"Which designers have been your favorites so far?" Max asked, offering a lifeline.
Thank you, Max!
"Two designers have really stood out to me so far," I began. "Patrick Irwin's edgy take on classic bedroom wear is simply breathtaking. I especially loved the deep purple, mesh-and-lace, two-piece, keyhole crop top number. The side-tie shorts he'd chosen to pair with it…" To emphasize my sentiment, I over-exaggerated a shiver. "I wanted to buy that piece on the spot!"
Max nodded, lips flattening in an expression I knew well; my lover was trying to keep from smiling. "I, um…" He cleared his throat. "You and I must discuss that topic at length. Very soon."
"Of course, sir," I said, fighting my own smile.
By "discuss it," Max, no doubt, intended to buy said piece so I could model it for him.
"My other favorite designer has to be
Giselle Dubois." I'd no doubt butchered her name. I sucked at French. "I love her colors and fabric choices. Some of the pieces were so provocative and beautiful that I could imagine people wearing them to clubs and not just in the bedroom."
Max wrinkled his nose and shook his head, two actions that didn't match his next words. "Giselle's work is very nice, yes."
Max glanced away, breaking eye contact. Instant red flag. When Max was uncomfortable with a topic, for whatever reason, he turned distant. The defense mechanism wasn't something I'd seen him do in the boardroom; it was something he did in the bedroom. When things got personal, he shut down. It was a reaction I'd identified in him but still didn't know the root cause.
Yet.
I wanted to take his hand and let him know I was there for him, that he wasn't alone in his pain, and I would have if we hadn't agreed to keep our relationship secret.
After a rough start, we'd both decided, for our relationship to solidify into something permanent, we needed to slow things down and keep us out of the limelight until we were ready. Well, at least out of the tabloids. Given the complexity of the emotional shit we still had to sort through, Max especially, staying out of the public seemed like a no-brainer. We'd go public when our relationship was on solid ground—at least, that was what I kept telling myself.
Max was hiding things from me. I'd figured that much out, but I was hiding things from him, too. Of course, the things I was hiding weren't personal. Not really. Mine were secrets I was required by law to keep; I doubted he could say the same. I'd spent most of my life paying for a sin that was never mine.
Since I needed to get Max alone, I made a show of checking my Apple Watch. "Mr. Penn, it's nearly seven. You asked me to remind you of that phone call you needed to make."
"Right, yes. Thank you, Ms. Jennings. I shall take care of it now."
I had to give the man props; even upset, he didn't miss a beat.
After making our goodbyes to the group, Max and I headed to his temporary office in the back of Whitecliff Park. We walked as close as possible as we traversed the crowd. Occasionally, when the throngs of people were at their thickest, Max would brush a hand along the small of my back the way he did when ushering me into his bedroom or, better yet, into what he called his indoor garden oasis.
Max's indoor garden oasis sat smack in the center of his house; he'd built the space to remind him of the English countryside where he'd grown up. Since we'd become lovers, the room had taken on a deeper significance, to both of us, but the newfound importance had nothing to do with the room's stunning aesthetics. It had nothing to do with the indoor waterfall or the wildflowers or any of the features that brought the outdoors indoors and everything to do with Max and what he liked to do to me in that room.
Max wasn't just a billionaire business mogul.
He wasn't just my boss and my boyfriend.
Maxwell Penn was my Dom.
In that room, he'd introduced me to his BDSM world—in glorious fashion. Crops, floggers, canes, he'd used them all to work my body into frenzies that never ceased to amaze me. He'd brought me to realms of pleasure that left me limp, lifeless, and begging for more—when I wasn't rendered speechless, that was.
A familiar tingle sparked between my legs, and wasn't that damn great? We had to be back in Business Room A in ten minutes for the weeks' last round of fashion shows, something I'd been looking forward to until I'd mentioned Giselle Dubois' name, and Max had gone all stoic. Giselle was one of the night's featured designers. Five seconds ago, I'd been excited to experience more of her unique brand of fashion, but now, I just wanted to know why that look had crossed Max's face at the mention of her name.
When we stepped into the foyer of Max's temporary office suite, his long-time administrative assistant looked up from his seat behind a sleek, modern desk. Beautiful in its simplicity, the room looked as if it could have been lifted right from the interior of Whitecliff International's main headquarters and dropped here. Max helmed a global empire stretching from investments to real estate to green energy production and everything in between, so he couldn't simply take the week off to focus solely on one of his side businesses. He'd set up a temporary workspace here so he could tend to Whitecliff International business while indulging in the best intimate fashions from around the world.
As he pushed to his feet, Todd grabbed the stack of four-by-four memo cards from his desk and held them out to Max. Todd was about my age, mostly fit, and several inches shorter than Max. He'd be the definition of "average" if it weren't for his red, curly hair and freckled complexion; they elevated him up several rungs on the Attractiveness Ladder. He was cute, no two ways about it, but he was no Maxwell Penn.
"Good evening, Mr. Penn," Todd began. "You have three new messages. The first one's from Mrs. Bishop of Bishop Innovations. She called regarding the upcoming merger. The second message is from Mr. Washington. He didn't say what his call was regarding but requested that you call him back at your earliest convenience. The last message, the one on top there, is urgent. At least, that's what the designer keeps saying. She dropped by, at least, five times while you were at dinner."
She.
Designer.
I didn't need to be able to see Max's muscles under his designer suit to know Todd's words had made my lover go rigid.
"She?" questioned Max.
"Giselle Dubois," answered Todd.
Little pulses along Max's jaw were the only outward appearances that relayed how much the news angered him. Most people probably would have missed the reaction, but after what we'd been through, I wasn't "most people.”
Max took the messages. "Thank you, Todd. Ms. Jennings and I will be in conference for the next ten minutes. No interruptions. No exceptions. Is that understood?"
"Of course, sir." Todd tossed a fleeting glance my way.
Although I didn't know for sure, I suspected Todd knew the true nature of my and Max's not-merely-professional relationship, but like a consummate professional, he acted as if nothing was amiss.
Max's office sat on the ground floor, and we had an unobstructed view of the courtyard and pool. The swimming area was what one would expect at a luxury hotel: crystal blue water, flowing waterfalls, precisely spaced lounge chairs, and with fashion designers in town, stunning supermodels sporting sexy fashions while showing off spectacular bods—because I didn't feel demure enough in the presence of supermodels.
Max shut the door and hit the magnetic lock as well as the switch that frosted over the back wall of glass. From one second to the next, Max had completely insulated us from the outside world.
Privacy.
Finally!
But not for long. The final round of fashion shows started soon. If I was gonna ask about Giselle, I had to act fast.
I turned to my lover. "Okay, Max. We only have a few minutes, so talk fast. What's the deal with Giselle Dubois? Why does the mention of her name make you—"
Max cut me off with the kind of kiss meant to command my complete, unconditional surrender, and despite myself, my traitorous body was all too willing to wave the white flag. With the first graze of his lips against mine, my bones went liquid, and I had to throw my arms around Max's strong shoulders to keep from hitting the deck. Goddamn it. I needed to find some sort of immunity to this man.
The moment my arms closed around him, Max lifted me, turned on legs that were too damn steady, considering how unsteady I felt, and deposited me unceremoniously on his desk. He forced me backward until my back hit the oak surface, and he wedged himself between my legs. He grabbed me around the wrists, wrenched my arms up and over my head, and held me there, pinned as thoroughly as if he'd restrained me to his bed—or one of the many other places he'd "pinned" me over the months.
He kissed his way along my jaw to my ear. "I'm not sure how much longer I can stand all this secrecy. Being next to you without being able to touch you drives me mad. Every time I get a whiff of your peach lotion, I get hard. Just wham."
I hated
all the secrecy, too. I did. Part of me wanted to shout our relationship from the rooftops, but the other half—the more cautious half—lived in a world grounded in anxiety. Being in the tabloids terrified me, especially given my past. When I'd been a child, my family had been at the center of a scandal that had rocked Wall Street, and I never wanted to find myself at the center of that kind of scrutiny again. If anyone learned Max and I were together, in the limelight was precisely where I'd find myself. I had no doubt about that. The tabloids loved Max, and they were always speculating when one of the world's sexiest bachelors would go back off the market.
Even as I knew we needed to pull the brakes on this little moment, I wrapped my legs around his waist and fit his hard cock more securely against my sex. "As much as I want you right now, tonight's final show starts in, what, seven minutes?"
"I don't care about the damn show. I need to be inside you. Now."
I knew he meant it, too. When Max got that animalistic timbre in his voice, it meant one thing. I was about to be thoroughly and exhaustingly ravished. Usually, that was a grand thing to experience, but not here. Not now. We couldn't be late for the final show.
"Max, we can't."
"Yes, my sweet, we most certainly can, and we most certainly will."
I hugged him tighter. I loved when he called me that. My sweet. When we'd first gotten together, he'd shuffled through several pet names for me, sweetheart, love, things like that. But when he'd fallen on my sweet, it had stuck—except for when we were in the bedroom. He had a special name for me there, too, and it never failed to make me shiver.
"Max—"
