* * *
Another burning point blazed up on her ass to the sound of the whip’s sharp crack. Alex clenched her teeth, suppressing her yowl of pain into a strangled grunt.
Adrenaline flooded her, a reaction to the pain, the fear inherent in being the target of a whip breaking the sound barrier. Why in the hell did I think this was a good idea?
Silence. The click of boot heels as he moved around. She strained her ears, trying to figure out what he was doing. The boots came closer. Something about that measured sound, about the memory of Frank in jeans and those glorious boots—and nothing else— made arousal bloom through Alex like a rose. That chest, all that sculpted power . . . Oh, yeah, that’s why I thought this was a good idea.
Alex desperately wanted to lift her head and look at him, but the straps held her head still in the face cradle. She tensed, wondering what he intended to do . . .
Fingers stroked the length of her pussy in seductive promise. Spreading her vaginal lips, Frank dropped to her knees and began to feast on her again. Arousal that had begun to simmer at his approach went to a full boil.
This time Frank gave her clit his full attention, first lapping, then suckling, then lapping again, shooting her up the sweet climb to orgasm like a rocket. Licking swirls met the hot sting of the stripes, the pain making the pleasure more intense, the climb tighter, sharper. She gathered her breath to scream out her climax . . .
“Not yet.” The order came in that rich, dark velvet voice of his. “You don’t come until I say you can come.”
Alex wanted to yowl like SIG out of sheer frustration. She also knew he was right. Denying orgasm made it even sharper when it came—assuming you didn’t squelch it altogether.
Frank gave her another set of maddening licks before wrapping something around her hips and thighs. Cool plastic touched wet flesh, nestled between vaginal lips. What the. . .
The thing began to hum, accompanied by deliciously intense vibrations that ran from her clit to her anus. She cried out at the sweet thrumming against her erogenous zones. How the hell does he expect me not to come?
Boots headed for the other side of the room. Paused. She tensed, waiting for another of those searing cracks . . .
The boots came back. Something blunt and cool and slick touched her anal pucker, then pushed inside, stretching sensitive inner flesh. She worked on relaxing those muscles, letting him seat the plug in her ass.
He stepped back. Alex groaned as the thing in her butt began to hum, sending a second wave of vibrations to compete with the ones from the butterfly vibrator he’d placed against her pussy.
The climax she could feel brewing gathered tight, intensifying.
“Ahhh! Frank, let me—”
“No.” A cool, growled command.
“But—”
“Are you my sub, or aren’t you?”
“I—” She had to stop, panting as she fought the sensation. “Yes, I’m your sub!” The next word slipped out. “Master!”
“You don’t sound sure about that.” Click. Click. Boots moving away. Click. Click.
CRACK!
“Ahhhhh!”
CRACK! But now the sharp pain seemed an ally in her quest to prove her obedience, helping her keep the orgasm at bay.
CRACK! The pleasure from the vibrators and the pain from the whip met, battled for control of her battered nervous system.
“Call it!”
“Green!”
CRACK! “God, you’re so fucking hot, lying there like that, all spread and wet and shivering. Submissive.” CRACK! “My hot little slave.” CRACK!
The praise added tinder to the blaze of pleasure, now burning so fiercely even the pain of the whip only stoked it higher. But it was getting hard to remember why she shouldn’t give herself over to it, in the face of that flood of blinding sensation.
CRACK!
* * *
“Call it!” Frank paused, trying to retain some shred of control over himself in the face of her lush, straining nudity, her effort to keep the climax at bay in obedience to what he wanted.
She didn’t answer.
He stopped. “Call it!” This time he put some drill sergeant bark into his voice. Maybe she was just flying, he told himself.
Silence.
Or maybe he needed to cut her the hell out of her restraints and make sure she was . . .
“Gr-green . . .” Her voice sounded slurred, dreamlike.
Relief loosened his muscles. She wasn’t hurt, just deep in subspace. He hadn’t intended to fly her, but evidently she was a lot easier to put in an altered state than he’d expected. He tossed the whip on the table with a mental note to clean it later, then unzipped himself and grabbed a condom. Sheathing took too long to suit his eager cock, but finally he strode over to her, shoved aside the thin vibrator that he’d snugged between her lips, and thrust to the balls.
She groaned in pleasure, a woozy, barely aware sound, and he began to fuck her, riding hard, thrusting deep.
Her cry as she tipped into orgasm seemed to light the fuse on his own climax. Stiffening, he came with a roar as his pulsing cock filled the condom. The pleasure was blinding, a flood of burning delight that lit up every nerve in his body.
* * *
All Frank really wanted in the aftermath of that draining orgasm was to find a bed and go to sleep. But he prided himself on being a good Dom, and good Doms took care of their subs first.
Straightening, he peeled off the condom and stuffed it into a trash bag before taking off the belts that held the vibrators on and in Alex’s body. He piled them on the table with the whip and the flogger, making a mental note to clean everything.
“Ooooh,” Alex groaned, sounding delightfully sated.
“Yeah, you can say that again.” He unbuckled her from the bench, lifted her in his arms, and carried her up the stairs to the great room. It was a mark of just how stoned she was that her only reaction to this was to loop her arms around his neck with a happy purr.
Frank was damned near purring himself. Usually, he carried her as part of a scene as a means to reinforce his strength and dominance. This time he did it simply because she needed to be carried. He was surprised at how good it felt, the sweet and simple pleasure of Alex in his arms.
After depositing her on the great room couch, he wrapped her in a crocheted throw his mother had made him for Christmas. “Are you going to be okay while I get you something to eat?”
She mumbled something that might have been a woozy “green.” Deciding she’d be okay for the moment, Frank headed for the kitchen for a bottle of water and a granola bar. Alex needed calories, and all the panting during a scene tended to dry you out.
Come to think of it, he was feeling a little thirsty himself.
So he got a bottle of water for each of them, along with a couple of energy bars, the ones with fruit, honey, and cashews that should take care of any low blood sugar. Returning to the couch, he opened one of the bottles and pulled her into his lap. “You think you can manage to drink this?”
“Yes,” she said and accepted it. Or at least tried to; she promptly spilled some, so he took it back and tilted it up for her. Evidently discovering she was thirsty, Alex gulped down several swallows.
“Slower. I don’t want you to get sick to your stomach.”
She obeyed the command in his voice and sipped the rest, then curled against him, still happily flying through subspace. Frank put the bottle aside, then broke the trail bar into pieces and fed it to her a bite at a time.
By the time she finished it, Alex looked a lot more alert. “My ass hurts.”
Frank laughed. “I’m not surprised. Your butt’s probably got more spots than a leopard’s from all the little round whip bruises.” He’d been careful to hit her with only the popper, avoiding cutting lash blows, so the marks didn’t look too bad.
She fell silent for a moment, probably enjoying the buzz. “I’ve never done that before.”
“What, a bullwhip scene?”
> “No, I’ve never flown before. Gary tried, but no matter how hard he beat my ass, he could never get me into subspace.”
Probably because it took trust to fly. Which, judging from what Frank had heard about Gary, was an indicator of good sense on her part.
Though he supposed true good sense would have been to avoid the bastard to begin with . . .
“I guess that’s because I never trusted him.”
He looked down at her and gave her a half smile. She was definitely looking more alert. “I was just thinking that.” Frank paused to stroke a hand over the copper silk of her hair. “I’m honored that you do trust me.”
“You know what you’re doing. Gary never put in the kind of time to become as skilled as you are. Not just with the bullwhip, but with anything. Dominance is about more than being able to swing a whip or a crop.” She grimaced. “It’s sure as hell about more than swinging your fist.”
“I’m glad you kicked his ass.”
“Yeah. Should have done it sooner, though. I guess I was no different than most abused women. I wanted somebody to love me a little too much. And I believed all the bullshit he fed me about asking for what I got.” She fell silent and just lay against him. Stroking her hair, he elected to respect her need for silence.
Frank knew what she meant. He’d held on to his relationship with Sherry long after he should have kicked the cheating little bitch to the curb.
He’d wanted to be needed. The galling truth was that all he’d been was used. Sherry had never really loved him—and he’d never loved her either. When he’d caught her with that Marine, Frank had been angrier at himself than he’d been at her, because he’d let it happen. Sherry had enjoyed being the lover of a Navy SEAL, both for the bragging rights and the access to base housing. But no matter how many times she called him “Lord Frank,” and “Master,” no matter how many times she’d sucked him off, it had never really meant anything. When he’d finally thrown her out, she’d been more pissed off about the loss of that check than the loss of their relationship.
Alex was nothing like that. She never called him “Master” to flatter or manipulate—hell, she actively fought using the word at all. As for faking submission, she didn’t. Ever.
Frank grinned, remembering how she’d given him hell over his handling of Charlotte Shepherd. “Servile” was definitely not the word that came to mind where Alex was concerned. She might submit, but she always made him work for it.
Which was probably why he enjoyed her submission so much when she did give it.
The question is, am I enjoying it too much? His grin faded. Does it mean too much to me? And what, exactly, does it mean to her?
* * *
Alex sat, curled up in the great room armchair with SIG in her lap. The cat was purring furiously, having been fed and watered. SIG was a creature of simple needs.
So, it seemed, was Alex. She’d had a shower with Frank, which of course had led to shower sex, surely one of the true pleasures of being in a relationship.
So she was surprised when Frank emerged from the bedroom, his expression surprisingly grim for a man who had just enjoyed not one, but two thoroughly delicious orgasms. At least, judging by his full-throated roars.
“I have something to attend to,” he told her, looking tall and deliciously broad in jeans, running shoes, and a vivid blue tee that brought out the blue in his gray eyes. Both the tee and the jeans bore smears of paint, oddly enough. “I need to go see my mother. I usually visit her before work three or four times a week, but I haven’t managed to get by at all this week.” He met her gaze, his eyes steady. “And I’d like you to come with me.”
This is the same mother who tried to cut your throat? But she didn’t say it. Looking into his eyes, she realized this was a test. Love me, love my mother? Well, perhaps not literally love . . .
Alex considered making a joke about him being a mama’s boy, but she had a feeling that his mother was not a topic Frank would find funny. At all. But then she wasn’t exactly an awesome ball o’ laughs when it came to her parents either.
Besides, she supposed she owed him for that disastrous dinner at Casa Coach. “I’d be happy to go with you,” she lied. “I’d love to meet your mother.”
He smiled at her, but there was a stinging degree of skepticism in his eyes.
* * *
On some level, Alex had no idea what she’d expected of a residence for Frank’s bipolar mother. Perhaps some grim and foreboding institution. Instead Barbara Murphy lived in a neat two-story house with white siding and black shutters. Brick steps led up to a porch with white wooden columns and a door inset with leaded glass etched with daffodils.
At Frank’s knock, a round motherly person came to the door, opened it a crack, then flung it wide, beaming a smile. “Frank!” The woman sounded just as delighted as she looked. She was dressed in cherry red slacks and a yellow top that looked almost fluorescent against her dark skin. “Your mother’ll be pleased. I realize you’ve called every night, but she’s still been worried, what with that sniper taking shots at cops.” She didn’t appear to know Frank was one of those who’d been targeted; he probably hadn’t told his mother.
“Hi, Lena. Lena Larkin, this is my shift partner, Alex Rogers.” Turning to Alex, he explained, “Lena’s Mom’s nurse and therapist. Plus cook and whatever else needs doing.”
“Hi, Alex. Speaking of cooking, I’ve got a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove I’d better get back to. You’ll be staying for dinner, I hope?”
He looked down at Alex and lifted a dark brow. At Alex’s nod, he smiled, approval in his eyes. “Of course. Where’s Mom?”
“In the garden, painting.”
“So we’re having a good day?”
“Oh yes. Barbara never gives me any trouble.” Lena stopped and sniffed. “I have got to stir that sauce, or it’s going to be tomato-flavored glue!” She hurried off.
“Live-in caregiver? That must be expensive.”
“Not live-in—Mom doesn’t need that, at least not now. Lena’s usually here through lunch and dinner. I could probably dispense with a caregiver altogether, but Lena needs the money and Mom enjoys the company. Besides, I like making sure she takes her meds.”
Sometimes the mentally ill stopped taking their medication out of a refusal to believe they really needed it. That could lead to their brain chemistry going dangerously awry, which in turn could lead to incidents like the one Charlotte Shepherd had been involved in.
“I floated the idea of moving her in with me, but she won’t hear of it.” He pitched his voice high in evident imitation of his mother. “‘We tried that, and it didn’t end well.’ Yeah, when I was sixteen. Things are, thank God, different now. She’s a lot healthier, and I’m . . . well, not sixteen.”
Alex gave him a leer designed to break the gathered tension. “That’s for damned sure.”
Laughing, Frank led the way down a short hall into the den.
“Nice house,” she commented, looking around with interest. Redolent with the scent of garlic and tomatoes from Lena’s sauce, it was a cozy place. The den was furnished in comfortable overstuffed furniture, its cream upholstery dotted with a fine pattern of roses and daffodils.
Paintings hung on every wall, originals by the look of them—here a woman in a burqa led her child along a dune against the vivid blaze of a desert sunset. There, a close-up of a camel, longed necked and a little goofy, its bridle festooned in colorful tassels. In another piece, an American soldier and his bomb-sniffing dog walked along surrounded by a dancing bevy of young children.
And over the couch hung a portrait of Frank in full SEAL body armor, the set of his mouth grim as he held his rifle propped on one braced thigh.
“Gorgeous work.” Alex stepped closer to check out the brush strokes. Definitely originals. “Your mom again?”
Frank beamed like a proud son. “Yep. She sells her paintings in galleries around the country.”
“The paintings of the SEALs are based on
your photos?” Including, she remembered, the one of him and his best friend, Randy Carson, the SEAL who’d died in the line of duty.
“Yeah.” His expression grew distant. Neither of them spoke, remembering dead comrades. Finally Frank shook off the memories and said, “Well, let’s go see Mom.”
They found her standing beside a lovely water feature, studying the dance of water falling from the head-high rocks into a pool surrounded by brown and cream stone. The bright orange shapes of koi slid lazily through the water.
Barbara, clad in jeans and a Led Zeppelin tee, both liberally smeared with paint, plied her brush delicately as she worked to capture the colors of the fish, a pair of gold-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Frank!” A delighted grin spread across her face as she dropped her brush into a mason jar of turpentine and gave her son a smacking kiss on the cheek. “No, don’t hug me—you’ll get paint all over your clothes.”
“This is the same shirt you got paint on the last time.” He pulled her into his arms for a warm squeeze. Drawing back, he put a hand on Alex’s shoulder and steered her close. “And this is my shift partner, Alex Rogers.”
Barbara’s gunmetal gray eyes lit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alex. I’ve heard so much about you. I’d offer to shake hands, but . . .” She spread her long fingers, displaying yellow, orange, and green paint, blended in places until it looked like thick brown mud. Her resemblance to Frank was obvious in the shape of her generous mouth, angle of the brows, and the eyes, though her facial bones were more delicate than his broad-jawed masculinity. She wore her gray-shot dark hair in a ponytail, probably to keep it out of the paint that smeared one high cheekbone with streaks of umber and orange.
“Mrs. Murphy, I’m delighted. I love your work!” Alex smiled. “Particularly the gorgeous son you raised.”
Without Restraint Page 26
