by Joey W. Hill
Fucking God above, her mouth was as sweet as it ever could be, heated and moist, sucking him, tasting him. She’d said it was a fleeting fantasy. He hoped she was telling the truth, because when her nails dug into his upper thighs—his fierce queen—his control broke.
He snapped the chains with a jerk, bent and lifted her by the waist. Moving them over to the table, he cleared the surface of maps and battle markers with one sweep of his arm and laid her down. No seduction this time. She’d already done that part of things. Untying the robe, he yanked it off her shoulders, gripping it at her elbows to restrict her arms and give him an anchor point as he sheathed himself in her cunt in one strong thrust.
She cried out at the force, her body arching. Her reaching hands caught a couple sheets of parchment that had been left at the table’s edge and crumpled them. He locked his gaze on her face, taking in the needy parting of her lips, the victorious light of her eyes, the way the climax built in her expression, in the wild movements of her body. She reached up, clutched his forearms to bring him down to her further. That wasn’t close enough. Her hands found his ass, pulling him closer, deeper, with desperate but relentless strength. His queen wanted what she wanted.
One day they’d be too old to do this, multiple climaxes in one night, having sex on a table, but it wouldn’t matter. He’d enjoy her at every age, in whatever manner the gods allowed, even if it was just gazing at her in her rocking chair and loving the silver in her hair and the lines on her face that time had earned. As long as they were together, it wouldn’t matter.
But right now, he’d fucking fully enjoy the benefits that being strong, flexible and young enough gave them. He was ready to release, as if even her brief interlude of considering him her captive required his Dominant nature to reassert itself in the most primitive way possible. And she accepted that, thrived on it, his lovely submissive. She clutched him tighter, and her voice broke over the request.
“Please…Master…”
“You can come for me.”
She did, clutching him with the muscles he’d praised earlier. Her hold took him along on the same ride, the two of them rocking the table as she cried out her pleasure and he groaned through his release, thrusting even deeper. As they moved together, he released his hold on her arms so she could let the robe slide free and lift herself up from the table. As she put her mouth to his throat, he banded his arm around her waist, his palm on her hip and buttock, while her legs were clamped over his hips. It gave them a new angle, and their groans and cries reflected the pleasure of the new peak.
It seemed both forever and too soon before they slowed to a halt, hearts pounding together. He pressed a kiss into her hair and closed his eyes. She ran her hands down his back, a light caress, over and over. He could have said something like he would have slave girls bathe him more often, if it resulted in this reaction, but he knew a far better way to say that.
“I love you,” he said.
“Endlessly and foolishly,” she whispered against his chest. “Thank God.” She paused, and he felt her lips curve against him. “It’s like a board room table, isn’t it?”
He glanced down at the oaken oblong circle. He smiled. “Yeah. A bit smaller than ours, but it can serve the same purpose.”
Lifting her from it, he carried her back to the bed and laid them both down. “You’ve carried me a lot tonight,” she observed.
“I like carrying you. Ever since the first time, when I carried you down the stairs.”
It had been at her father’s funeral, but he didn’t want to take her down that road. Instead, he curled up behind her, wrapping his arms around her chest and waist as he spooned his larger body around her, cloaking her protectively. It was how they slept together almost every night. She slept best if he held her like this.
If he had to travel on business, she could sleep, though she did it cocooned in his scent in the bed linens and whichever of his shirts she decided to wear to bed.
He was glad she liked him to sleep coiled around her, because he needed to hold her when he slept. Maybe even more than she needed to be held.
He told her that now, and she pressed her cheek to his forearm, pillowed beneath her head. “I’m glad. I would be worried if you thought I was overly needy, Matt Kensington.”
He chuckled. “Needy is the last thing you are, Savannah Kensington.” Then his arms tightened over her. “But no matter how much you think you need me, I can promise you – I need you more.”
She turned her head to look up at him. His words had struck a chord in her, because as she reached out and trailed her fingers along his jaw, it was as if she were touching him for the first time, or reaching out from a dream. He didn’t like that sense of distance, so he clasped her hand, giving her heat. It brought her back to him. Her words were soft.
“Do you know, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and curl myself around you as tightly as possible, because I remember the person I was before, how cold and lonely her bed was… It makes me want to weep for that woman's loneliness, that she didn't see what a gift you were offering to her.”
His hand tightened on hers. “I should have been like a conqueror in truth,” he said, with sudden resolve. “Taken you from your father the first time I saw you, Savannah. Taken you to my house in Texas, kept you there like a captive falcon until you learned to trust my hand…"
Breaking off, he blinked, registering her slight smile.
The fantasy wouldn’t have persisted so strongly for her if she didn’t see elements of it in you every day.
“I suspect only the thinnest veneer of civility kept you from that very course,” she said lightly. “But I’m glad you went with a different plan. Else you might have gone to prison before I realized I love you."
He chuckled, shaking his head at himself, but then he brushed his lips over hers. After he did, she looked at him, all her heart in her eyes. "I wouldn't have understood or known that I was ready until the night you did confront me with your feelings and my own. I know that. You know it. Because we both know the value of timing. Putting aside instant gratification for the long win. A promise of forever was worth years of loneliness, Matt."
He touched her face. "I believe you, but thinking of you lonely breaks my heart. Even in the past. I’d do anything to prevent that. Even face prison.”
He heard the smile and the love in her voice. “We can face prison together. After we find the right spot to bury Ben’s body.”
“That’s a lot of work. Why don’t we just have Lucas figure out the numbers and let Peter do the grunt work?”
“Works for me.” She nestled her face against his arm. “Jon wouldn’t be involved?”
“Naw. He’s into that whole ‘all life is sacred’ crap.”
She chuckled and was silent for a few more minutes. Matt released her, but only for the time it took to press the button of the control box, mounted on a post discreetly placed behind the mattress. It notified the staff the session was over and they were released from their duties. He’d reserved the tent for the night, so they wouldn’t be disturbed until late morning, when one of the regular Resort staff would bring in breakfast. He thought about a midnight walk on the nearby ocean shore with his gorgeous wife. Or making love to her again. Or both.
“I love you,” she said quietly. “More and more.”
He wound both arms around her again and held her close. “I can’t think of anything better on earth or in Heaven than hearing that. So, you liked your fantasy?”
“Always.” She smiled against his arm, pressed her face more deeply against his biceps, her hands coming up to circle and caress his forearm, his hand. “Every day.”
Girls’ Day Out
“It’s not the money. It’s that they’re making me shop with them,” Ben said mournfully. “That’s the punishment. Every two steps: ‘Ooh, look at this.’ ‘Oh my God, look at that.’ ‘Isn’t this gorgeous?’ ‘Isn’t that the cutest thing? Go try that on.’ It’s sheer and utter hell.”
<
br /> “Anyone else unsettled by how well he did that feminine squeal?” Peter asked.
They were outside behind Lucas and Cass’s plantation house, hanging out on the new outdoor living space the couple had created. The wide brick patio had a fire pit at one corner, encircled by a circular low wall of stone. The opposite corner housed a gleaming monster grill. The area in between had wicker furnishings cushioned in cream, brown and black tones. A stone wall perimeter on two sides doubled as additional bench seating. However, right now the men were all standing, drinking beer and clustered around the grill. They were preparing for an afternoon of football, meat and beer. All except Ben.
“Laugh it up,” he said darkly. “But when they decide to go lingerie shopping and want me to personally evaluate their choices, you’ll be sorry.”
“They better not be anywhere near a lingerie shop unless you’re modeling a teddy for them,” Matt advised.
“In which case, we want video, so we can share and snicker,” Jon added.
“What happens on the Ben-guided-tour-shopping-trip stays on it,” Ben said airily. “You don’t go, I’m not responsible for where we end up. There’s Hot Toddy, the sex toy store off of Jackson Square. I like that place. We may have to hit that one up.”
“And while you do that,” Peter pointed out, “we’ll be here, watching the game, drinking beer and maybe taking a croc tour in the swamp.”
“Definitely hitting lingerie and sex toy stores,” Ben decided. “You know, your girl Dana will try on anything I tell her. She’s blind, so she won’t know it’s see-through. And she’s always excited about trying a new vibrator, particularly one with a bigger dick than the live one she’s got. Plus…”
He countered Peter’s lunge, but the big bastard anticipated him. Ben could have broken the head lock, but not without doing damage. With women nearby, they had to be on their best behavior. Plus, Ben wasn’t getting blood on his shirt. Then he cursed as Peter hefted him off his feet, obviously intending to throw him into the bushes edging the perimeter of the patio.
“This shirt is worth your life, asshole,” he protested. Peter scoffed and prepared to toss.
“Hey, hey, hey. Put him down and don’t break him. At least not until we’ve emptied his wallet,” Cassandra said. “Plus, he’ll mangle my rose bushes.”
The women had emerged from the sunroom adjacent to the patio. Cass’s admonition was enough to have Peter change his plan. He dropped Ben onto the black wicker framed sectional sofa, amid a cluster of throw pillows. For form’s sake, Ben managed to plant a side punch into the behemoth’s side on the way down. Peter brushed it off as if a fly had landed on his black National Guard T-shirt. After he helped Ben to his feet and brushed him off with exaggerated movements that had Cass’s lips twitching.
As distractions from blood mayhem went, there were none better than their cherished group of females. Savannah, Cassandra, Dana and Rachel brought a wave of appealing scents and colors with them. Each woman possessed a tempting figure, clad in the way she preferred. Everything from elegant silks to stressed denim, enhanced with the accessories that underscored her unique beauty and confidence.
An elegant, flowing turquoise blouse for Savannah, over a black knit skirt. It was accented with a decorative wide belt that fell diagonally across her hips. As CEO of Tennyson Industries, Matt’s wife was more comfortable with formal styles, even for a shopping expedition. Ben had only seen her in jeans once to date, because she chose slacks when she was going to wear pants, but since the skirts showed off her excellent legs, he had no complaints.
He did have fond memories of those jeans, though. She’d worn them when they’d all volunteered to spend a weekend helping with the spring cleanup of the water areas around New Orleans. All the men had noted she looked damn fine in denim, something Matt took with good grace and only mildly raised hackles.
Dana was in well-fitted black jeans and a spring leaf green sleeveless shirt that showed off her toned arms and fit, compact body. Like her husband, she was a workout freak. However, where Peter was regularly compared to the Hulk, thanks to his physique and presence, his wife was the most petite of all the women, a slim and elegant black woman barely five feet tall.
Her appearance was deceptive. A former Army sergeant, her military career had been ended by an explosion in Iraq that took her sight and initially her hearing, until Peter made sure she had top-of-the-line cochlear implants that improved it exponentially. She now worked as a minister at a church in one of New Orleans’ toughest neighborhoods.
Rachel stood next to her. While the women were all close friends, there was a special bond between Rachel and Dana. Jon’s wife had a lush hourglass figure blessed by a cream-colored cotton shirt with the logo of her yoga studio and flowing teal-colored pants over beaded sandals. Rachel’s golden locks were twisted up on her head in a loose style that had tendrils curling around her lovely face.
Cassandra wore dress jeans with glittering rhinestone and embroidery accents on the front pocket edges. She’d paired them with a pale blue knit shirt that clung to her shapely breasts. Apparently at least four of their number had a thing for blondes. Her thick white-gold hair was clipped back in a tail, a style which showed off her topaz earrings.
Though Ben noted how good she looked, same as the rest of them, when her eyes met his, he also noted the trace of coolness, and how she held his gaze an extra second. A reminder that she had her eye on him and it wasn’t to admire his manly form. It was the current MO for the two of them, a reminder he was still only one bare step off her shit list.
This shopping trip was an unspoken form of reparation, one self-imposed. The rest of the women had gracefully accepted his invitation without drawing direct attention to the reason he felt the desire to do it; however, he was well aware Cassandra didn’t give two shits about his apologies or the gestures to support them. She needed proof of a full behavioral shift.
Because it was her sister he’d treated badly, in an emotional and physical shitstorm he should have been able to control. No matter what the damn therapist he was forcing himself to see said about triggers and resolving past crap.
He didn’t disagree with Cassandra. If anything, sometimes he wondered why she hadn’t already shot him with her Beretta. If he’d been in her designer shoes, he would have, without a second thought.
But she hadn’t, and here he was. He didn’t know if he could give Cassandra proof that he was headed in the right direction, that he could ever be good enough to deserve Marcie, but he’d damn well prove he was trying.
He had to, because Marcie had made her choice, and didn’t give a damn whether he or Cassandra thought it was a good idea or not. And plus…he’d realized he couldn’t walk away from Marcie.
On that thought, he shifted his attention to the final woman in the group, the fourth blonde. The woman who, amid this gorgeous garden of female beauty, caught his attention in a way no other woman ever had. The person who, crazy as it sounded, made him draw a deeper, cleaner and freer breath than he’d known in a really long time. Even as his gaze had passed over the women he’d be escorting on their New Orleans shopping spree, his attention had been on its way to one specific destination. When it found her, he didn’t need to look at anything else.
Marcie wore dark blue jeans with a scoop-necked black shirt that had a sparkling design of a tiger on the front, her Big Cat Rescue shirt. She’d bought it on a recent trip to Florida with him. It had been a business trip, but he’d taken her so they could enjoy his membership at The Zone, a top notch BDSM club. While there, she’d also wanted to visit the big cat rehab facility she’d last visited when she was a teenager, on a trip with Cass and her siblings. So they’d taken a day tour there.
After the over-the-top night at the club, it had been kind of surreal, walking hand-in-hand with her, listening to the guide tell them about the rescued and now forever-protected big cats.
Just one of a whole welcome montage of images from that trip. Including other, far more adult on
es.
At The Zone, they had a holographic room where different scenarios could be brought to life. If a sub liked to be watched while under her Master’s control, but the Master himself didn’t want staring eyes upon her, there was a program where it looked as if people were standing and watching, in a circle around where the Dom had the sub strapped down. Or maybe she liked to dance, and wanted to be surrounded by other couples. Couples who demonstrated moves that made Dirty Dancing look like Mr. Clean had visited the set with his Magic Eraser.
His girl liked to dance, so Marcie had been enchanted with that one. And even more delighted by the version of it that had ballroom dancers swirling around them in long flowing skirts and neat tuxes.
He liked dancing, too, but with her especially. He liked doing pretty much anything with her. Such that he’d spent the first half hour in a $500/hour room testing out all the controls with her, like a couple kids at a game console. And then the next forty-five minutes dancing on the wood floor, until they were both breathing heavy from the exertion. Her brown eyes had shone like stars, and her laughter alone had made him hard as he twirled her around.
They had eventually gotten to the mind-blowing sex, restraints and pain part of the evening, but what had stuck in his head since then wasn’t that. It was her jumping up and running into the middle of the ballroom dancers, putting out her arms and twirling, her hair streaming out around her.
The move had brought her teen years back to him, and the reminder of how ridiculously close she still was to that age. As if she sensed his shift into the wrong kind of waters, she’d asked him to switch it to the erotic dancers and morphed into his siren, his temptress. When the music had kicked in with Bruno Mars’ “That’s What I Like,” her hips fit the rhythm in a way that worked the hell out of her short skirt. Her arms lifted and the rest of her body moved in a way that would have kept his attention even if a marching band had blasted into “Flight of the Bumblebee” behind him. Her gaze fastened upon him, her lips parting.
