by L. DuBois
It hurt. It felt good.
“I think I’m going to come again,” she stammered.
“Yes. Come again,” he commanded. And for the first time she understood those women who came when ordered to. She understood how that command, the auditory stimulation of being given an order by your Master, could be as powerful as a touch.
Rosa clenched her teeth, squeezed the handles so hard her fingers ached, and came. Every muscle in her body drew tight, her ass aching as he continued to fuck her. The tempo of his thrusts became erratic, and then his hips ground against her abused ass, lacing the last moment of her orgasm with sweet pain.
Liam collapsed over her, his forehead touching the spot between her shoulder blades, his labored breathing a counterpoint to her own.
Fourteen
He untied her, letting her rest on the spanking bench without the restraints while he dashed to the bathroom, cleaning himself up. His hands were shaking.
When he went back to her, the splotchy redness on her ass looked painful. He liked it. Liked seeing his marks on her.
That was new, different. He was different.
Maybe it would be enough.
He helped her stand, letting her cuddle against his chest. With one arm around her waist and her head on his shoulder, Liam led her out of the playroom. It wasn’t a long way from there to their room off the Sub Rosa Court, but it took them nearly ten minutes to get there.
It wasn’t just exhaustion that made him walk slowly. That last scene had been so explosive, so intense, that it felt like a finale. He’d take care of her, but once the aftercare was done, it would be time to leave.
Back in the room he took her straight through to the massive bathroom. This room, though it looked like a bedroom, was a playroom, and there were tie points in the shower that proved that. He looked at them as he reached in and set the digital temperature on the shower, but knew they were done.
What exactly “done” meant was left to be seen. Rosa stood with her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes closed. His stomach knotted.
Once the water was up to temperature, he stripped and pulled her into the shower with him.
She tipped her head back, letting the water hit her face. He poured shampoo into his hands and worked it into her hair. She was placid and obedient under him, lifting her arms in turn, spreading her legs when he told her to so he could carefully wash her pussy and ass.
He couldn’t stop himself from gently fingering her ass as he cleaned her. It had felt so good to fuck her there. She didn’t move away; she stayed where she was, her abused asshole yielding under the tip of his finger.
When she was clean, he stepped out and started filling the tub, adding several pots of rock-salt looking stuff to the water. Fragrant steam rose. Once it was full, he pulled her out of the shower, guiding her to the tub.
She sank into water now cloudy with scented salt. She twisted her hair into a bun and lay her head back, eyes closed.
She had her legs pressed together, her knees tipped to the right. His Dom growled within him. He tried to ignore it, reminding himself this was aftercare.
Aftercare, but they were still at Las Palmas. She was still his.
He dipped his hand into the water, gently grasped one knee, and spread her legs.
She opened her eyes and looked at him.
He reached down and cupped her pussy possessively, holding eye contact.
Her lids lowered for a fraction of a second, and then she looked up, a slight smile touching the corners of her lips.
The ball of anxiety in his stomach released.
“When we’re at Las Palmas, you are mine. You keep your legs spread.” He used two fingers to part her labia too.
Just because he could.
Because she was his.
“Yes, Sir.”
He ran his hands over her body, ostensibly washing her, but it was really to remind her who she belonged to. It was intimate, but not arousing. Or maybe they were both so spent that touches that might otherwise have led to sex were just intimate.
When he was done and the water cooling, he helped her out and wrapped her wet body in a robe. He didn’t bother to cover up, but took her to the bed, where he lay her down and then settled in behind her. He regretted not getting a robe, but the moment was about taking care of her, not his own comfort. When her breathing evened out into a familiar pattern of sleep, he tugged at the covers, managed to get one side of it pulled up and over himself, then he too went to sleep.
He woke when she slid off the bed. He turned to watch her pad into the bathroom. Dim light spilled in through the window, and for a moment he thought he’d slept through to dawn. Then he stretched and his internal clock told him they’d only slept a few hours. It was dusk, not dawn.
When she came out of the bathroom she avoided his gaze, and he slipped past her.
When he emerged, she was gone.
Liam pressed his hands to his eye sockets and fought down the anguish that rose like stomach acid behind his breastbone.
He sat down on the side of the bed, then mechanically pulled on pants and went to the door.
Rosa was waiting in the courtyard. She was dressed in her street clothes—a pair of trendy jeans, a tight T-shirt with an obscure video game reference, and a lightweight green khaki jacket. The fading sunlight made her hair dark gold, and cast her face in shadow.
She had her bag slung over one shoulder, her keys in her hand.
She was ready to go.
Liam ducked back into the room, throwing on a shirt and filling his pockets with wallet, phone, and keys. Then he joined her in the courtyard.
Together, and in silence, they walked through Las Palmas to the large double doors. He opened one of them for her.
The front parking lot was deserted except for two cars, his smoke gray luxury sedan, and her compact leaf-green electric car.
He stopped on the large landing outside the doors and turned to face her. Not for the first time he wished he could read her mind. Had this been a memorable goodbye? Was that the last time he would ever sleep beside her?
That thought made him sick. Part of him wanted to kiss her cheek and then walk away. If she wanted to leave, he wouldn’t fight it, wouldn’t make it harder than it had to be.
Wouldn’t leave himself open to more heartbreak than he’d already endured.
But now there was someone else, as odd as it was to think of his Dom as an entirely separate person who just happened to share his body.
Master Liam wasn’t willing to give up without a fight.
“Next weekend.” His voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “You’ll be here next weekend.”
Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she sighed in obvious relief.
She’d been waiting for him to say something. “Yes, Sir.”
They walked down the front steps, perfectly in sync with each other. Once they hit the gravel of the parking area, she turned to look at him.
“We’re out of Las Palmas,” she said. “Well, at least we’re not in the building.”
He nodded. He understood what she was saying. They’d worked out their sex issues—or more precisely he had, by coming to terms with and accepting his dominant side.
But that was only one part of their relationship.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
He looked out, towards the horizon where the last of the sun’s light hovered on the horizon, above the vast Pacific. “You left and I want to respect—”
“You left first,” she broke in.
“I had to work.”
“Had to?”
That struck home and he winced. He could have canceled the trip. Could have stayed.
It had been easier to leave.
“You were gone when I got back.”
“What choice did I have?”
“You could have stayed.”
She looked like she was going to protest, but then stopped. Nodded.
There was silence and then she
asked, “Why aren’t we married?”
He hadn’t been expecting that. “You know why. We spent the money for the wedding on—”
She waved a hand in the air cutting him off. “You never proposed.”
He stepped into her personal space, cupped her face in his hands. “Do you think I don’t want to marry you?”
She shrugged, but the tears gathered on her lower lashes made it clear she wasn’t as nonchalant as the shrug indicated.
“I’ve wanted to, a hundred times. But the timing…it was never right.”
“A lot of our timing hasn’t been right,” she said sadly.
He gently squeezed her cheeks. “I love you, Rosalicia.”
Her eyes closed, tears sliding down her cheeks. “It’s been a long time since I heard you say that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I love you, too.”
“It’s been a long time since you said it either.”
“It would be easier if we said goodbye.”
His heart clenched. “We don’t do easy.”
She laughed. “No. We don’t.” She leaned in, breaking his hold, and wiped her wet cheeks on his shoulder. “What do we do now?” she asked again.
A complicated question, with a million answers.
“We go home.”
That night they had quiet sex. Vanilla sex—two bodies pressed together in the dark, no kink, no toys. It was intimate and sweet, the feel of the other’s body familiar and comforting.
Afterwards they lay together, Liam’s hand possessively on her bare breast. That then, was different than in the past.
She was on the verge of sleep when he rolled out of bed. She too needed to pee, but not badly enough to make her rise from the smooth, cool sheets. Bare feet were nearly silent on the carpet, and she smiled into the pillow, anticipating the weight of his body coming down beside her.
The bedside light clicked on, warm in the dark. She frowned and half rolled, the sheets sliding against her nipples.
Liam was on one knee by the side of the bed. He’d pulled on a rumpled pair of dress slacks and a white undershirt. His hair was disheveled, and his glasses were slightly crooked.
He held a small wooden box in one hand. There was a second smaller, generic velvet box on the bedside table.
Rosalicia sat up, holding the sheet over her chest.
He looked nervous, his lips almost disappearing behind his beard as he pressed them together. His chest rose and fell with one heavy breath. Then he spoke.
“Rosalicia Sousa, will you marry me?”
As a thank you for reading, here is a link to download your totally free copy of “Wildly Inappropriate” which previously was only available via Kindle Unlimited. If you’re a fan of BDSM Checklist, Trinity Masters, or Mari Carr’s Wild Irish, you’ll love this book.
BookHip.com/SHVXRH
A character from BDSM Checklist walks into the bar from Wild Irish and runs into the characters from Trinity Masters...because Mari and Lila drink too much.
For more sexy BDSM goodness, read on. In Undone Rebel, a rockabilly rebel agrees to model for a BDSM 101 book, and meets the Dom of her dreams.
Undone Rebel
There was nothing Addie Sanchez couldn’t fix with either needle and thread or WD- 40. For more complex problems, rebel-red lipstick was her second line of defense.
Addie slid needle through fabric with the care and precision the vintage satin-and- lace evening gown deserved, squinting at her stitches as she sat on the floor, too engrossed to adjust the lamp. The black-and-taupe dress hugged the mannequin’s form, tight but tailored, unlike modern clothes that relied on elastic.
“Hola, chica.”
She tied off the thread, smoothed the fabric and stuck her needle with its dangling taupe strand in the pincushion strapped to her wrist. Addie looked up from the hemline. Her friend and boss, though neither woman ever used the second term, stood in the door separating the back room from the retail floor of the shop.
“Pretty in pink.” Addie stood and examined her friend’s dress with its sweetheart neck and full skirt. The dress was bubble-gum pink with white piping along the breasts and half-cup pockets. Lulu had paired it with leopard-print peep-toes and a matching leopard barrette in her flaming-red hair. “Those shoes are killer. They make the outfit.”
Lulu kicked up her heel to examine her foot. “They are cute, aren’t they? But the best part of this outfit is the dress—it’s an Addie original.”
Addie smiled and slipped on the canvas-and-cork wedges she’d kicked off to sit on the floor. “That pattern looks good on everyone, especially someone with perky boobs like yours.”
Lulu simpered and petted her cleavage. “They are pretty girls, aren’t they? And what are you wearing? Is this new?”
“Finished the top last night, what do you think?”
Lulu twirled her finger and Addie cocked her hip and swung around so her friend could see the modified halter top she’d designed. The studded faux leather straps crossed in the back to show off her shoulders. Glossy black buttons ran down the front and complemented the black-and-white Dia de los Muertos print. Today she was rocking it with tight, high-waisted jeans cuffed wide at midcalf.
“It’s seriously cute, but then everything you make is. Got a name for it?”
“Maybe the Muertos Mary Top? I haven’t figured out if it’s worth it to try making some to sell. The straps are a bitch and the hidden side zipper takes forever.”
“If you can I know it’ll fly off the shelves.” Lulu’s voice was both earnest and encouraging and the retro application of eyeliner made her eyes seem as big and round as doll eyes.
Addie’s shoulders hunched. Lulu’s conviction that Addie would make it as some big- deal clothing designer was wonderful, but probably unrealistic. Mornings like since, spent in the cramped back room, were hard on a girl’s dreams.
One wall was obscured by boxes of stock, while the other had a small sewing table, two dressmaker’s dummies positioned in front of it, one of which wore the beige dress. The corner where Addie both repaired vintage clothes and designed and sewed original
pieces was usually one of her favorite places in the world. An early morning phone call from her family, which had included a million questions about how she was doing, what she was doing, and how her big plans were going, had left her feeling more than a little defeated.
The front doorbell chimed. It was 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, early for any of L.A.’s laid- back rockabilly crew, most of whom were probably still recovering from a night spent dancing, cruising or partying. It was not, however, too early for the tourists who made up most of the store’s business.
Addie slid the elastic band of the pincushion off her wrist as Lulu ducked into the office—a tiny hole of a room, biting a piece out of the sewing and stock room. With a quick check of her lipstick in the small mirror they’d hung specifically for that purpose, Addie hurried into the store.
As expected, a trio of tourists—middle-America parents plus teenager—had wandered in and were staring around in awe. Addie slipped behind the counter, propping one elbow on the glass, ass in the air. Pin-up girl pose.
Lulu L’amore was one of a string of posh white-fronted stores on Melrose in Hollywood. Their neighbors were a designer men’s shoe store on one side and a dog café and “barkery” on the other, both of which had modern, sparse aesthetics designed to highlight every piece of merchandise, as if it was a museum.
But walking into Lulu’s was like walking from an ultramodern loft into the Mexican barrio in 1940s L.A. The walls were concrete gray and spray-painted with street-art-style depictions of pinup girls, flowers, palm trees and cars. The floor was wood, tossed with leopard-and zebra-print rugs, the display tables built from shiny chrome car parts mounted with glass. Racks of dresses, skirts and shirts lined three of the walls. There was a small selection of guys’ items in the back, most of which were shirts, hats and wallet chains.
Addie knew she was as much a part of
the decoration as anything on the walls. The teenage boy tourist’s eyes got wide when he caught sight of her. She shifted her weight to her other foot, making sure her ass rocked in her tight pants.
He broke away from his parents, making a beeline for the counter. Picking up a cigarette holder studded with crystals in a cherry-bunch pattern, he pretended to look at it while ogling her breasts.
“Welcome to Lulu’s,” Addie purred. “You like it old school?”
“Old school? Oh yea, I’m totally old school. Like Tupac.”
Addie laughed. “Sugar baby, that’s not old school. I’m talking about rock when that’s what rebels knew.” She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “I’m talking about Glen Glenn, Big Sandy and the Fly Right Boys. The kind of music that you can dance to.” Addie put her finger on the cigarette case, which the boy had been nervously twirling. “When there’s a little jive in the air, a man holds out his hand.” Addie took the cigarette case from him and, with the barest touch to his forefinger, turned his hand palm up. “A girl puts hers in it and lets him take her away.”
Two hats, a wallet chain, three CDs and a clutch for mom later, the tourists walked out happy and Addie slipped the four-hundred-dollar credit card receipt into the drawer.
Lulu emerged from the back office carrying a stack of mail and a cordless phone, heels clicking on the wood before being muted by carpet.
“I sold a few hats to a little boy who thought Tupac was old school.” Addie ducked down to grab the glass cleaner and a cloth, then circled to the front side of the counter wiping away the smudges left by the boy’s elbows. When her friend didn’t respond she looked up, concerned.
Lulu was standing there with a wild grin on her face. Her cream skin made her blue eyes sparkle, her upswept and curled hair picking up the sunlight that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the shop.
“What is it?”
“I got a call on the business line for you—about you.”
