Hide: Downunder Ink Book 2

by Bronwyn Stuart

  I frown but then he smiles and lowers his head to mine. His lips are warm and soft but the kiss is hard and urgent. As his tongue sweeps into my mouth, he slides a finger deep within me. He swallows the sound I make and I try to push into his hand but he’s holding me too tight.

  He breaks the kiss and turns me further from his face. He pulls his finger almost all the way out and says, “Eleven months and nineteen days. Did you touch yourself I wonder? In all those long months?”

  I nod. Of course I play with myself. I’m broken but I’m not that broken.

  “It’s never enough though is it, Jen?” He slides back into me but it’s too slow. I need more pressure, harder, faster.

  “I have toys,” I tell him, frustrated and growly as I try to wriggle into him.

  “I bet you do,” he says with a laugh.

  “I hate to look a gift horse and all that but…” I cry out again when he touches my clit. So soft yet exactly the right spot.

  The water splashes as he finger bangs me into oblivion. Finally. I’m close, so close. My insides tense. I tense. But then he stops. Squeezes my arse cheek. Loosens his arm.

  “The fuck?” I wail and I get another slap. I wriggle free and hop along the tiled pool floor to the four steps. I collapse onto the top step and glare at him. “What are you playing at?”

  His gaze is beyond intense as he closes the distance between us. “You don’t like it?”

  “I don’t know what it is!”

  “Do you know what a slow burn is, Jen?”

  “Yeah but I don’t need a slow burn. I need a hard fuck. One will do.”

  He smiles and one eyebrow lifts. “Just one?”

  “I’m not playing these games with you. Did you bring me here to fuck me or not?”

  He shakes his head. “I told you, I don’t do that. Not on the first date. Not on the third.”

  I narrow my gaze. “You have a number?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ben

  I have a number. I respect women. Even if they don’t always necessarily respect themselves.

  “I’m so fucking confused,” Jen says, splashing the water around her with her fists. “Do you like me or not?”

  “I like you, Jen.”

  “Then what’s the problem? You said you’re not churchy. Not a virgin. I don’t get it.”

  I shrug. I’m not sure she’ll understand. “I’m into self-control.”

  Her eyebrows bunch right up. “What? Is that some kind of sexual thing?”

  I nod. “Sort of.”

  “You’re a dom?”

  “No, not quite. I do like to be in charge though if and when I can. It’s more about prolonging satisfaction. Instant gratification is too easy, weak…almost.”

  Her gaze drops to my crotch and back to my face, she’s still wearing a confused frown. “Can you explain it to me like I’m the dumbest person on the planet?”

  I move closer, put my hands on her shoulders and tip her back slightly. I trail my fingertips down her soft, warm, smooth skin until I reach her bikini bottoms. I loop my thumbs into the waistband and pull them down. She doesn’t move to stop me at all. Just watches with interest.

  I unhook them from her ankle and put them on the tiled edge of the pool. Her expression is hungry, heated, urgent. I press on the insides of her knees until she opens for me. No ink here.

  “The point of self-control is…” I stroke her. “…to prolong the release.” Watching my fingers dip into her pussy is nearly my own undoing. I’ve never been this close to the edge this quick and my dick is hard, pressing against my shorts, each tiny movement gently chafes. “So that when it does finally come, when you finally come, it’s all the sweeter.”

  Jen’s head tilts back and her groan is music to my ears. I pull back and then press in, pull back, press in, again and again until her muscles begin to contract around my fingers. Until she’s only one press on the clit away from an orgasm. Then I step away.

  Her wail makes me chuckle. What she does next doesn’t.

  “You’re a fucking tease,” she accuses me but then she lifts up a step, out of the pool, her own hands sliding down her body, her own finger dipping into her pussy.

  “You’re cheating,” I tell her and catch her hand at the wrist to stop her. I don’t actually want her to stop. But if she keeps going, I’m going to have a hard time holding back and she will not be the one to make me break.

  She wrenches free from my loose grip and uses both hands, one fingertip on her clit, rubbing, another sliding back in again, fast and hard. “I need this,” she pants. “If you won’t do it, I will.”

  A growl rises up from my chest and I lunge for her, pushing her arms away and diving between her legs. She tastes like sex and chlorine as I feast. I wrap my arms around her hips to hold her down as she pushes up against my mouth. I add teeth and nip her clit as I suck hard. When she pulls my hair the pain is exquisite and my groan must vibrate through her. I like that. A little pain with my pleasure.

  This time when her inner muscles contract around my finger, I don’t relent. I use my teeth, tongue and nose all at once. Her thighs are tight around my cheeks and jaw and still I give her everything she wants until she bucks once, twice, cries out, grabs her own tits beneath her bikini top and squeezes, pinches her nipples and undulates against my tongue, her legs heavy against my back as she tenses everything all at once.

  She’s a firecracker.

  She’s dangerous.

  I ease her legs down off my shoulders and watch her face carefully as she comes back to herself, the biggest smile on her lips. She’s magnificent, lying there like a queen who got herself some.

  I turn my back to squeeze the base of my dick, to think of anything but her as I metaphorically back away from the edge of coming in my shorts like a kid having a wet dream. I bite my lip and think of my parents. That helps. My mother’s disapproving glare, my father’s disappointed stare as I walk out of their home, a packed bag my only luggage as I leave them to make my own way in the world.

  Jen’s voice comes back to me. “Are you okay?”

  “Just give me a sec.”

  The rustle and splashing doesn’t help. I imagine she’s putting her bikini bottoms back on behind me and all I want to do is pull my shorts down, bend her over and fuck her like she wants to be fucked.

  But that would be too easy. Weak. Ian called me weak. Quite often. “You’re their lapdog, Bro. Come out with me. Have some fun. Blow off some steam.”

  “I can’t. I have school tomorrow. So do you.”

  “Such a fucking pansy. So you’ll have a hangover in math. Who the fuck cares?”

  I watched my brother in a world of instant gratification, with drugs, with girls. It killed him in the end. I like to work hard. I like the discipline and order. I like to know anything life gives me, I earned it.

  That includes sex. Jen. I want to get to know her. To know that when I do sink into her the first time, it’s because she likes me, trusts me, wants me. Right now I know she just wants a fuck. She doesn’t even really care who gives it to her.

  I want her to want me.

  “Can I help you with that?” she asks.

  “Not today,” I tell her even though I’d like nothing more than to let her wrap her little fingers around me and pump like there’s no tomorrow.

  “Do you do this often? Deprive yourself?”

  “It’s more about the mental focus than deprivation. I don’t need the release, not like this.”

  She whistles long and then grins. “You’re missing out.”

  I take her in, the warmth on her cheeks, the tiny bikini, the rainbows of colour on her skin. Her pussy was so tight and wet and hot. I do wonder what it would be like to ease into her, to cause a little pain with all that pleasure. Would she welcome it? “Tell me something? Did you like it when I slapped you?”

  Her cheeks glow red hot and she bites the fleshy part of her bottom lip. She also nods.

  “Has anyone done that to you bef
ore?”

  “Not like that,” she murmurs.

  “You like it a bit rough though?”

  “I’m open to it,” she says back but then adds, “Not too rough. No hot wax. No beatings. Nothing with a fist.”

  My dick gets hard again and I incline my head. “I’m not going to beat you, Jen.”

  “No. You’re fucking not.”

  “What about punishment?” I ask her.

  “What do you mean?”

  I stand her up in the water and turn her around, bend her over. “How about every time you say fuck in front of me, I’ll punish you.” I slap her softly this time. Not hard.

  “If you bend me over like this, I get the wrong idea.”

  I slap her again. Just slightly harder.

  “Fuck,” she whispers, almost like she’s testing me.

  Another slap.

  “You might have to give me a timeline here because playing is fun, but not if the payoff never comes. You can come, can’t you? I’ve heard of guys who can’t-”

  I slap her again. Her arse is red. Round. Delectable. “I can come.”

  “If you say so,” she says with a heap of sass and a giggle.

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  She looks at me over her shoulder, an expression of fake innocence mingled with humour. “What am I doing?”

  I can’t stop staring at her. Wondering what it would be like to fuck her. Would she stop talking then? Teasing? Flirting? “I’m not fucking you today.”

  She sighs and straightens, the grin still there. “It was worth a shot. What are we talking here? A week? A month?”

  I shrug because there is no actual number and I have a feeling with her, it won’t be as long as it should be.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jen

  There’s a reason hot-blooded people need sex. There’s a reason I need it too. It’s not about proving to myself that I can. It never was. It’s about being so in the moment that I forget what I’ve lost and just be. I want him in the moment too. Not thinking about accidentally hurting me or being grossed out by my stump.

  Not that I find it gross but I can imagine some guys would. Narrow-minded, immature guys.

  Ben doesn’t find me gross. I thought he hated my tattoos but he doesn’t. I never did get to find out what his actual problem with my work is and the twinge between my legs as I roll out of bed two days later is telling me not to care about the details. I know we’ve got issues but he ate me out like a starving man and I orgasmed hard enough I’ve got a bruise on my spine to match the one on my hip.

  I had an orgasm I didn’t have to give myself because it’s not the same. I don’t know why but the satisfaction is more intense when it’s someone else. God, was it intense.

  He’s intense. Who would have guessed that under that prim and proper exterior, with the polo shirts and shorts, that there’s some kind of deviate there? I’ve been with guys and occasionally they slap you in the arse because they think you’ll like it. He did it like an expert. Not clumsy, not painful in the way that makes you want to turn around and punch him in the face. He says he’s not a dom but it sure felt like it to me.

  I shower quickly because I have to get to the studio and I’m already running late. I can’t stop thinking about the way he handled me. I’m a feminist at heart but I liked it. I liked everything he did, the way he snatched my control and took over. I just don’t really understand it. When he dropped me off, he said he’d be in touch but when? I think about texting him but I’m not that desperate. Not like that.

  I probably should do some research too. So I’m not surprised when he throws a curve ball my way. Or a set of restraints. I shudder because I’m into this to a certain extent, but not that far. I should have told him that. A full day has passed and no calls or texts. A quiet day in. Like usual for me.

  I get to the studio by nine thirty but it means I have fuck all time to get set up for my ten o’clock. Jack gives me her classic disappointed, get-your-shit-together look and I flip her the bird. She comes over to my cubicle anyway.

  “Good weekend?” she asks.

  “Yeah, it was all right.”

  “I came past your place on Saturday but you weren’t home.”

  “I went out.”

  Her eyes open wide. “Out with someone? Did you get back on Tinder?”

  “Something like that,” I say with a nod and turn away from her.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “You mean anyone you’ve fucked before? I hope not.”

  Her wide-eyed curiosity turns to wariness. “I take it, it didn’t go so well?”

  She’s worried and I wish she wouldn’t. I turn back to her, smile, wink. “Let’s just say, in the art of giving head, he’d get an a-plus. A double a-plus.”

  “So you didn’t bang? He just went down on you? Are you seeing him again?”

  “I think we’re hooking up again.”

  “Why didn’t you fuck? Did you go down on him?”

  “What’s with the twenty questions, Jack? We didn’t fuck. Just had fun fooling around. It was nice.”

  “Sure,” she says. “It’s just not like you.”

  Not like the old me? I want to ask. “Look, I want to get back on the bike, I do, but to be honest, it’s daunting. It’s been a while and I’m not sure I want to rush in with a random.”

  Fucking pity. It’s there in her eyes though she tries to hide it. I don’t call her on it because I’m lying in a way that’s not natural to me. I only lie about my pain to my sisters, nothing else. Until now. And I have zero guilts about it. I’ve done nothing but whine about Ben and his attitude for months. If I tell Jack we started…something, I’ll never hear the end of the warnings to be careful, play it safe, don’t go there. We’re adults. Doing adult things. Together. At least, we did one adult thing together. My cheeks heat and Jack stops talking mid-sentence.

  “You like him? Could he be more than a fuck-buddy? Are we talking boyfriend material?”

  “We’re not talking anything. It’s new. I’m still riding a post-orgasm bliss but you’re starting to kill the buzz, sis. Let it go. I’ll talk about it when I want to.”

  “Okay but you know I’m here if you need anything.”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  I’m uncomfortable talking about it. I’m even uncomfortable thinking about it but only because I get all hot and bothered and give myself away. I do some research in the quiet corner booth at a café where I choke down my chicken, lettuce and mayo sandwich and scare Google into spitting out information on delaying gratification. Rough sex. Dominance and why men get off on it even though Ben said he’s not into that. It seems to be about discipline. About an orderly life and success, and I can see that about him. I just don’t know why and maybe there isn’t a why. I figure as long as I’m getting what I want, he can have it how he wants. I do think, in the vein of fifty shades, that we should set some ground rules if we’re going to do this.

  My phone pings with a text. It’s Ben. A low weight settles in my abdomen.

  Ben: I want to take you out to dinner but I want you to wear a dress. Just the dress.

  Me: u know I can’t do that. Unless it’s dinner at urs?

  Ben: There’s no fun in that. I want to know you’re sitting next to me at dinner, in public, without your granny panties, commando and wet, waiting for me to touch you under the table.

  Me: Sorry, nope, not going 2 happen.

  An image file takes a second to load on the screen. It’s a woman wearing knee high boots, a very short skirt and a suggestive smile.

  Me: It’s a 1000 degrees!

  Ben: Do you own boots like that?

  Me: The heel wld make it hard.

  Ben: So buy a pair with no heel. Live a little, Jen. I’ll make it worth your while.

  The heat sizzles inside me and I want to know how he’d make it up to me.

  Me: i’ll c what I can do.

  Ben: I’ll make a reservation. Pick you up at eight. No excuses.


  I should tell him to take a hike. Plenty of guys on Tinder who don’t want me to jump through their hoops. But it’s exciting. I’ve been out without my underwear in my younger days. If you wanted to wear the tightest dress, you’d have to leave everything else off. I remember that thrill. I liked that thrill.

  Me: c u at 8.

  It isn’t hard to find knee high boots on the strip. Plenty of shoe stores. What’s hard is finding a pair that are loose enough for my immovable prosthetic. I have to size up but my foot is small so it’s not impossible. They’re going to be hot as hell but I have a feeling I’ll be combustible with or without so I pay the hundred bucks and carry the bag back to the studio. I get in the door without being seen since it’s only Connor around, working through lunch, head down with music playing. I stash the bag and get back to work but I’m distracted through the afternoon. I do good work because I’m good at what I do but I keep looking at the clock wondering when the day will end. I’m late getting out and it’s almost seven by the time I get through the door of my apartment, shoes in hand.

  I go straight to the bedroom and throw open the his and hers wardrobes I managed to fill all by myself. I never threw out my clothes from before the accident. Only added the dozen pairs of wide leg jeans to the mix. The waists are high enough to cover most of the scars on my abdomen. My raunchy, low, revealing tops distract from everything else.

  I pull out five dresses I think might suit and then discard the three tightest ones. In the end, I opt for a little black number with a flouncy skirt. It has a deep V neckline and cap sleeves. It’s the perfect cross between sexy and conservative without being slutty or verging on night club wear. Knowing Ben (not that I really do), he’s going to take me to some classy restaurant where everyone will stare at me and wonder if I’m the date or the escort.

  He’s on time which doesn’t surprise me at all and he’s wearing confidence and a smart tailored suit in Navy. If I didn’t already know he’s an OT I’d think him one of those romance novel billionaires. If a guy my age wore it, I’d think he was going to prom or his used-car sales job.