My One

by January Rowe

  Love knows no limits...

  Briony considers herself easy to please. All she wants is a Dominant who’s wickedly creative and completely devoted to conquering her—and only her—with joy. She has everything she wants until her Dom takes on another girl. Bri delights in fantasy role play, inventive toys and bondage at Hell Mary’s BDSM club, but she doesn’t do poly.

  Now she’s on the hunt for a new play partner who’ll give her exactly what she needs. A little flirtation with Hell Mary’s Dungeon Monitor is just the thing to ease her back into circulation—except the hardass wrapped in khaki treats her like she needs protection.

  Behind his imperturbable DM mask, Chris has eyes only for Bri. It’s his job to make sure things don’t get out of control at the club. Despite her bravado, Bri’s broken heart is like a target painted on her back. She needs to learn some things on her own, but when a private scene goes too far, he can’t wait any longer to step in—and show her she doesn’t need fancy trappings.

  His body is more than enough.

  Warning: this title features kink and imaginative sex in a variety of forms—scalding hot, kinda lukewarm, and juuuust right. Reminders to breathe are clearly marked. Ignore them at your peril.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  My One

  Copyright © 2010 by January Rowe

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-903-8

  Edited by Deborah Nemeth

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: February 2010

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  My One

  January Rowe

  Dedication

  To the collarme community, with affection and appreciation.

  Chapter One

  My man moved down the slopes with his usual acrobatic grace. I sped after him. We were nearly alone on the mountain. I was exhilarated, drunk with acceleration. Somewhere on the run, I lost sight of him. I stopped to catch my breath at the lip of a snowy valley, pausing to admire the crowding Rockies and the stretch of smooth snow below me. The Durango Mountain Ski Resort was magnificent. Even so, I wasn’t sure why Ridge wanted to come here instead of the better known Vail or Aspen. Purgatory was at least a six-hour drive from Denver, and a long way from Northern California.

  A blur sped by me, sending a cold slurry of snow into my face and chest. I heard Ridge’s laughter.

  “You jerk.” I launched down the hill after him.

  But he didn’t let me get close. I followed him into ever more isolated runs. Finally he stopped next to a grove of mixed evergreen and aspen trees. Panting, I slid to a stop too.

  Hopping over to me on his board, Ridge kissed me long and hard and deep. He held my head immobile, his fist wound tight in my hair. Our upper bodies twisted together, and I worried about my skis getting tangled up with his board.

  Our tongues danced madly. I relaxed into him, taking in his sexy scent of leather and musk. Savoring the feel of his tongue, his teeth, his lips, prickles of heat shooting through me, I moaned into his mouth. Profound and wickedly erotic, his kiss told me he owned me.

  My man broke the kiss and released me. Utterly teased and steaming, I was surprised the snow didn’t melt where I stood.

  His blue-gray eyes sparkled as he slowly unzipped the front of my snowsuit to the waist.

  “Briony.” He sent me a leisurely, lusty look that made my pelvis throb, and then slipped his gloved hand over my bare breast.

  I gasped—the leather was chilly against my bare skin.

  He pinched my nipple. I shivered with excitement and cold.

  “Mmmm, what I could do with these puckered beauties.” He pinched my other nipple.

  “I’m not getting them pierced.”

  I’d been refusing for thirteen months. Ridge was a jewelry artist. A famous one. He wanted one of his creations dangling from every part of my body. Most especially the intimate parts.

  But I had the one piece of jewelry I needed from him. I wore his collar around my neck. He’d designed it just for me. Crafted of polished silver, studded with semi-precious gems in gold and green hues, the choker was a symbol of our love and trust. A sign of his ownership and my devotion. I never took it off.

  He squeezed my nipple harder, and a spasm of pain and pleasure shook me.

  “You’re too plain,” he said.

  “And you’re too fancy.”

  As if to underscore the difference between us, the early Rocky Mountain sun suddenly reflected off his silver flesh tunnels.

  My Ridge was a work of art, both natural and manmade. Tattoos of dragons and other fantastical creatures flowed over his perfectly proportioned body, now hidden by bulky snow gear. His eyes were the color of a stormy sky, his features beautiful, firm and unforgiving.

  And even though my man wanted more from me than I could ever give him, he still loved me. Grasping my entire breast with his gloved hand, he drew me toward him and kissed me again. My body drank in the feel of his parka-buffered body, the hungry strokes of his tongue, the pressure of his grip on my boob.

  He pulled back and gazed at me, his smoky blue eyes flashing with desire. His expression stopped time for me. He’d chosen this place, this moment for play. My heart lurched with anticipation.

  Stepping out of his snowboard, he planted it upright in the snow. He strolled around the little grove, pausing every once in a while to examine a specific tree. Finally satisfied, he grasped a sturdy evergreen trunk. One side was nearly bare of branches.

  “Take off your skis and get over here, Bri.”

  I did as he asked, excitement roiling inside. Nudging me against the tree trunk, he studied us both. The tree was on an incline, so he stood slightly below me. I couldn’t wait to find out what he would do.

  He took off his ski gloves and shrugged off his parka. The black under-armor hugged his upper body, showing off every cut and bulge. My breath came faster as he grasped the sides of my face with his strong fingers.

  His stormy eyes now scoured mine, looking for confirmation. His silent question—and my answer—was the first step in our intimate protocol. It was his way of making sure I was prepared to offer up my body to him. This was our private acknowledgement of the SSC: safe, sane and consensual.

  He waited for my reply. I usually responded with a smile or sigh, sometimes even a delicious shudder. I delayed answering, prolonging his sweet touch, his attention, his love. A cord of awareness stretched between us, drawing us closer. And closer still. Soon we would reach the point of no return.

  I moaned, signaling my surrender.

  My heart thudded against my breast as he leaned in to slip a belt out of the loops in my snowsuit. He’d made the belt for me. It was a bronze masterpiece, a chain link of stylized aspen leaves.

  He jerked the sleeves of my snowsuit, pulling down the one-piece garment to puddle at my calves. My naked body was now exposed to the clear mountain air—and to my man. I shuddered with the sudden cold, my nerves dancing with anticipation. He smiled up at me, pleased with my distress. He was in a sadistic mood. If he continued that frame of mind, I might be
treated to hours and hours of sexual teasing later. I’d already seen him examining the ceiling plant hooks at the condo.

  He brought me back to the here and now when he kicked my ski-boot-clad feet apart roughly. He fondled the bronze belt, his gorgeous eyes narrowing, his mouth in a tight line.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Today he’d indulge my masochistic side. I’d been begging and begging for a punishment scene for months. He’d refused. He said he hated to hurt me.

  He stroked the belt, our gazes locked. Fire spread from my clit outward and inward. Then he smirked.

  He was teasing me. He wouldn’t use his art for impact play.

  He snaked the whimsical belt around my body and tree. My arms and waist were held immobile against the wood by the cold metal. Ridge carefully positioned an aspen leaf to dangle near my crotch.

  I loved bondage. I adored the release of control, of worry, of responsibility, and the powerful orgasms it brought. I appreciated the way my restrictions symbolized what was best about our D/s relationship. And of course I enjoyed the immediate sensations, too—how the belt bit into my flesh, the way the cold mountain air slid over my skin, how Ridge’s eyes darkened with desire at my wanton exposure.

  I’d never been bound to a tree before, and the pine aroma was heavenly. I took a long, happy breath.

  Ridge watched me silently, his arms crossed. He always allowed me the time to savor my submission.

  He stripped a small branch from my tree. Pine needles spiked the end. He drew the branch over my lips, down my neck.

  Sensual tension coiled around us.

  His eyes never leaving my face, he flicked the spikes over my collarbone. He then stroked my breasts, in ever smaller circles. Would he use the spiky branch for impact play? My heart lurched with anticipation. Arching my back against the chains at my waist, I offered him more to play with.

  “Are you a woman or a forest sprite?” he asked, drawing the branch down my stomach.

  “Woman, of course.”

  He inserted the branch into the metal at my waist, making the binding even tighter.

  “Then why are you part of this tree?”

  “Because you put me here.”

  His hot eyes roved every part of my body, finally settling on my breasts. He loved my breasts. Reaching into a pocket of his board pants, he pulled out two bronze nipple clamps. They were beautiful, fashioned in the shape of a tiny pine cone clusters.

  He fixed the clamps to my nipples. The sting and arousal collided, forcing me to shut my eyes.

  “Look at yourself, wood sprite,” he demanded.

  Torment and heat thundering through me, I opened my eyes and looked down at my breasts. The cone clusters made my nipples look huge. Just the way Ridge liked them. I knew without a doubt I was beautiful. I embraced the pain.

  But my man tightened the nipple clamps even more, making me cry out and soak my thighs. I bit my lower lip, embarrassed, quieting the tide of passion. I didn’t want to ruin Ridge’s fun by having an orgasm before he barely got started.

  “Do you like the cold?” he asked with fake tenderness.

  “No.”

  “Forest sprites love the cold.”

  He pressed the dangling aspen leaf from the belt into my clit. I writhed with the delectable cold pressure.

  “I knew it,” he smirked, still pushing the flat metal into my tender spot. “You do respond to cold.”

  “No. I respond to you.”

  He let go of the jewelry and walked over to his parka. He came back holding a thick icicle.

  “Oh, God,” I murmured, suddenly afraid. I shrank back against my tree.

  “I found this little beauty hanging off my condo roof. Impressive, don’t you think, little sprite?”

  Swallowing nervously, I couldn’t believe the icicle had actually made it to the tree grove in one piece. What was he going to do with it?

  He stroked the translucent icicle with his long, strong fingers. “See how hard the ice is? Strong and thick? See the way it glistens? It’s wet.”

  At the word “wet”, I thrust my hips toward him and the icicle. My desire was primal, animal, completely without volition. I moaned at my irrational heat; I had become a wood sprite. I desperately wanted that hard, thick icicle inside me before it grew slender and brittle.

  “Oh, please,” I gasped, rocking my hips.

  Ridge forced my hips against the tree with his forearm. I felt the bark scrape my buttocks.

  “Patience, little sprite.” His eyes sparked with pleasure at my deprivation. “I don’t want to cut you.”

  “I hate you!”

  He laughed at me. Holding me immobile with his body and the chains, he stroked my inner thighs with the icicle. I convulsed. Then he eased the wet ice over my clit. The chill bit into my tenderest part, and I whimpered with pain and delight.

  Sensations bombarded me: waist gripped by cruel chains, stinging nipples, burning pelvis, the fierce cold at my slit. Spasms wracked my body. He stroked until my clit was numb. I couldn’t bear it anymore.

  He leaned into me, bending down to lick my nub with hot strokes of his tongue. I screamed. I was engulfed in an orgasmic avalanche that seemed to last forever.

  But my man was far from finished with me. He managed to tighten the chains even more. He freed his penis and launched into me. His hot poker filled me, splitting me wide open. I bucked against him, ready, eager for more.

  He grabbed my hips to still them. “Stop.”

  Panting, barely sane, inhaling the intoxicating scent of male dominance and musk, I obeyed him.

  My thrusts, my orgasms, my very body were his to control.

  He lifted a hand to mold my shoulder. “Good girl.” Drawing a forefinger across my breastbone, he inserted it into my collar, and jerked me closer to him.

  “Are you my wood sprite?” he asked.

  His love fisted around my heart. “I’m yours.”

  And then he thrust into me with seething violence. Stroke after stroke, his relentless power sent me into the peaceful endorphin oblivion some call subspace, and I call the River.

  When I felt myself back on solid ground again, he’d already pulled out of me and was zipping up his bulky board pants.

  My clit throbbed with fire and ice. I felt like a ravished snow fairy. Raking me with smoldering, possessive eyes, Ridge gently flicked the cones at my nipples. He was an artist in every way. His scenes were a measure of his skill and imagination. And even more important, they were a measure of his devotion.

  “I’m thinking about keeping you bound here, my little tree sprite. Waiting for me and my hot touch.”

  I sighed. At that moment I would have done anything for him. Including dying of exposure.

  “But some other man might see you bound and take advantage of you, so I suppose I’ll have to let you go.” He removed the clamps. The relief from pain sent me into another group of convulsions. He released me from the tree.

  He administered aftercare, the final touch of our intimate protocol. Shifting my nude body this way and that, he inspected every inch. Petting, smoothing, kissing my wounded parts, he made sure I wasn’t truly injured. His aftercare took a fabulous eternity, making me feel thoroughly loved.

  His attentions also reignited my desire. But he was immune to my pleadings and moans. He ignored my lascivious displays.

  I would get no more fucks out of him.

  Perhaps tonight he’d relent, and entertain me for hours and hours with the three T’s: Torment. Tease. Tantric sex.

  Satisfied with the condition of my body, he tenderly dressed me, zipping up the snowsuit and reinserting the chain belt.

  “You’re spectacular, Bri.”

  His praise made me melt.

  Putting on our gear, we headed back down the mountain. I followed after him, deliciously depleted, my nipples still stinging, my clit humming.

  The snow turned to mashed potato slush as we moved down the slopes—a consequence of spring skiing. The wet snow slowed me down, but
not Ridge. I finally caught up to him at the base of the hill. He held his board and looked upset.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “My board’s acting screwy. I need to get it checked out at the repair shop. If I have to, I’ll just rent a board. Meet up with you at the Powderhouse for lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  “About one o’clock?”

  I nodded. With a sigh, I watched him head toward Purgatory Village with his board.

  Around noon, after taking a few slow solo runs, I returned to the base and the slush. My face burned. The sweat had washed off my sunscreen. I could buy sunscreen in the village, but it would cost too much. Besides, I had sunscreen at the condo.

  After taking off my skis and poles and sticking them upright into the snow, I plodded back to the condo in my ski boots. I slid my cardkey into the lock and walked in.

  Catching a whiff of Ridge’s scent, I recalled the feel of his hot tongue against my…

  I thought the moan was mine.

  And then I heard it again.

  Fear surged through me. There was somebody in the condo. As delicately as I could manage in my bulky ski boots, I stepped farther into the room, heart hammering.

  The moan rose in pitch.

  And then I saw her.

  A busty girl quivered in front of the moss-rock fireplace, her head thrown back in rapture. Wearing only panties, bra and leather cuffs, her wrists were bound to my plant hook in the ceiling. Ridge knelt in front of her, slicing off her panties with a kitchen knife.

  His betrayal fully registered when I saw the girl’s feet bound up in a makeshift spreader bar—his snowboard. Screwy my ass.

  Anger caught me by the throat.

  That girl was why he’d wanted to come to this obscure resort in the middle of nowhere. He was going to put those pretty cones on her, too.

  “You cheating bastard,” I hissed.

  He turned around to look at me. His expression was surprised but not guilty. The girl snapped her head up to stare at me, too. Her momentary look of shock morphed into a smirk. A smirk!